I stand up a little taller. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him you eat little boys like him for breakfast.” He laughs as he straightens his tie. He nods to the left. “And Little Robbie Gentry is looking for a mama for his little boy since his wife walked out.” Growing up, everyone had called Robbie Gentry Little Robbie because his dad was Big Robbie. Now the name stuck, for nostalgia’s sake. He wasn’t too fond of it, which made people like Grady and Junior use it all the time.
“We both know I would be a terrible mother.”
Grady’s brow furrows. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t even like kids, Grady.” I blow out a heavy breath. “And God knows they don’t like me.”
He harrumphs. “I’ve seen you with Junior and Bee-Cee’s kids. They adore you.”
“They’re different.”
He looks down his nose at me. “How so?”
“They just are. They like to get dirty and they like to ride bikes. They don’t make me play tea party or dollies. They let me play their board games and they let me take them to the park without complaining the whole time. They’re just different.”
He barks out a laugh. “Junior and Bee-Cee would be overjoyed to hear you say that. They take a lot of pride in raising kids who break all the social norms, I think.”
“There’s no such thin
g as a social norm,” I inform him. “There are just antiquated rules that Barbara-Claire and Junior are smart enough to steer clear of.”
One of the ushers comes to the back door, which signals that the service is about to start. We missed Sunday school this morning, since Grandma didn’t want to have to sit next to Nellie Rose for an hour and listen to her gripe about her gout. If she’d just quit eating all those red hot dogs, she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Milton Thompson walks over to us very casually and sticks out his arm. “Can I escort you to your seat?” he asks me, his face filled with hope.
“Well, I…” I begin. But I can’t think of an adequate excuse and I’m about to take his elbow when Grady grabs my hand and threads it through his arm. “What are you—” But Grady shushes me with a finger poked into my ribs.
“Actually, Milton,” he says, “I promised Evie’s grandma I’d deliver her to the right pew.” He leans toward Milton like he wants to tell him a secret, with his free hand cupped around his mouth. “She has a tendency to get lost. Don’t tell anybody I told you so.”
Grady tugs me forward, which forces me to walk with him. As he walks by Milton, he claps him on the shoulder and says, “Next time, Milton. Next time.”
Milton nods. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something to me, but Grady starts to talk to me instead. Milton gives up and walks away. Grady snorts out a laugh. “He was about to ask you out after the service. You can thank me later.”
“He was not.”
“He was.”
“Was not.”
“Was.”
“Would you two cut it out?” Barbara-Claire says from behind us. “You’re in church, for Christ’s sake.” She slides into the pew behind Grandma and I go to the one in front. I slip past Grandma and sit down next to her.
The third row is a coveted row. It’s for those who aren’t quite sinners in need of the first row, but also not people who want to hide in the back row so they can sneak out early. It’s also outside the preacher’s spitting distance. If he gets really riled up, he sometimes spits all over the first two rows.
Grady has followed me, and now he’s bumping my knee with his.
“Scoot over,” he says. He bumps me again. I try to figure out what he’s doing. “Make some room,” he says. I slide over and he sits down next to me, squarely between me and Grandma. This row is always pretty full, so Grady is pushed up against my side. He lifts his arm and puts it behind me. “I should have thought through this a little better,” he says close to my ear.
“You think?” I reply as I try to slide a little to the left, but Mrs. Rose–Allen is on that side and she likes to throw her hands around when she gets excited. Nobody wants to sit next to Mrs. Rose–Allen, even though she is a distant cousin of Grandma’s by marriage. Grandma once said you have to admire Mrs. Rose–Allen’s dedication to God, while you also hate that she feels the need to do calisthenics while seated on a pew within smacking distance of others. She’ll give you a black eye if you get too close. I’ve seen it happen. I look back at Grady’s arm, which is draped behind me. “Why is your arm around me?”
He grins at me. “It’s not around you, Clifford. No idea what you’re talking about.” I feel his fingertips tickle my opposite shoulder, the shoulder close to Mrs. Rose–Allen.
“Stop touching me,” I hiss.
“I’m not touching you,” he whispers close to my ear, with a little lilt to his voice. His fingertips dance across my shoulder.