“Mama would be pissed.”
She learned pissed from me. Must do better.
“Coach Smith is not your usual coach,” she adds.
“Oh? You’ve talked to him?”
“He’s my World History teacher.”
Mr. Smith was on her course list. I give myself a facepalm. School’s been in session for only two weeks, and we haven’t had an open house yet, but . . . “How did I miss that? You didn’t think to tell me he was the football coach?”
“Why would I? Everyone knows.”
Right. She assumes that if she knows it, then I should.
“We almost won state last year. We would have, but Huddersfield took the title. Football is the most exciting thing in Blue Belle.”
“Yet I missed him being the coach.”
“You stare off into space a lot,” she says.
“I’m working on that.”
“In eighth grade, when I took US History, Coach Mitchell sat at his desk and told us to read the chapter and answer the questions at the end. It was tedious and pointless. I don’t think my classmates learned anything about our country. Coach Smith talks to us; he explains.” She pauses. “Did you find a job today?”
The preschool in town is fully staffed, Piggly Wiggly doesn’t need cashiers, Randy’s Roadhouse has enough waitstaff, and the Mini Mart said I was overqualified. That fear skates down my spine again, and I swallow as I tighten my messy bun and feign confidence. Sabine has sensory issues, elastic in her clothing is a big no-no, and social interactions can baffle her, but she’s more intuitive than all the books I’ve read would suggest. Maybe it’s because she’s my sister. Maybe her diagnosis gives her a special psychic superpower. Whatever it is, she senses when I’m worried no matter the brave face I wear. “It could have been better, but it will work out,” I say.
I pull the keys to the Cadillac out of my joggers. “I’m in the mood for ice cream. How about me and you head to Dairy Queen?” We limit her sugar, but their menu has options. “There’s a car behind us, but we’re Mighty Morgan Girls, and nothing keeps us from a Blizzard.”
“Can we do the drive from the Dairy Queen to the Pig?”
Ah, the old cruising loop in Blue Belle. “You want to see who’s out and about?”
She ticks off her fingers. “I am a teenager. I do have social interests. It is Saturday night. Toby has a car. I might see him.”
“Toby?”
“He’s a football player. Quarterback.” She smirks. “I asked him if he liked me, and he said yes. Then he touched my hair and twirled it around his finger.”
No. Jesus. I’m going to kill him.
“Of course he’s an athlete,” I mutter under my breath.
“We sit together in study hall. He’s very hot. Great ass.”
A long sigh comes from me. “Oh, Sabine. You remind me of . . . me.”
“Am I old enough to date?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.” I was allowed to date at fifteen, but what’s the norm now? I want to protect her, but I’m not sure how . . .
“Mama gave me an anatomy book when I turned fourteen, but it didn’t go into detail about sexual intercourse. I read the entire thing. It was four hundred and sixty pages long with pictures. Not the dirty kind, just diagrams. It was skimpy about orgasms. It’s harder for women to have them, and I have questions.”
“And I want to answer them, but can we discuss this later?”
“When is later?”
“Let me think on it, okay?”
“When will you be finished thinking on it?” She’s very exact.
“Give me a week.”
She nods. “One week, starting now.”
We stand up and pile into Mama’s car. She straps herself in, then reminds me to do mine.
Using the mirrors and her help, I back up as far as I can get without dinging the car blocking us, then pull forward and turn the wheel into the yard. Being easy on the accelerator, we ease forward to the porch and skirt around a big holly bush.
“Thelma and Louise!” I call out as I drive through the yard and over the sidewalk, hit the curb, and then plop down on the street.
“Who are they?”
“Female road trip movie. Excellent. Sadly, we don’t have Brad Pitt with us—oh, and don’t worry, we won’t drive off a cliff.”
“Joke. Funny.” She rolls down her window and looks up at the stars. “I woke up this morning and forgot Mama was gone. I thought everything was the same; then I remembered it wasn’t. Can we sing Dolly in the morning like she used to do when I had breakfast? Her singing—” Her voice stops, and I reach out and take her hand.
I swallow thickly. “You bet.”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re just happy Grandpa isn’t your guardian.”
“He smells like peppermint and farts a lot.”
“And he lives in Phoenix,” I add.