Hate You Not

“Is that what you’ve heard about me?” I pretend to be offended.

“Well, Miss June’s not happy.”

“Miss June?”

“That’s what our mama used to call her,” she says, somewhat wistfully. “Miss June. She was that little girl who put on all of Mama’s necklaces and painted her own fingernails when she was…well, about three. You should have seen those red hands. Looked like something from a horror movie.” She smiles and nods at the small arena, where a man in jeans, boots, a white button-up, and a black cowboy hat walks almost to the middle and then gives a bow.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the twenty-seventh annual HEAT. SPRINGS. WINTER. RODEO!”

The crowd cheers like he just announced the end of world hunger.

“We’re so happy you came out,” he drawls, “and we want you to know, ten percent of tonight’s proceeds will go to the fundraiser for little Lacy Hammond and her family.”

Another round of applause goes up.

“That’s a little girl with cancer,” Mary Helen murmurs behind her program, telling me as if she believes I need and want to know.

“The events will proceed according to the program, but first, we’ll kick this off with a lovely rendition of ‘God Bless America,’ from our very own Bobbi Seymour.”

“Oh Lord, she’s awful,” Mary Helen tells me. She leans back a little, and for the first time I get a good look at her face. She has different eyes than June’s—gray-blue, and more cat-like, where June’s are more round—but they share a similar bone structure and the same lips. She leans back a little, nodding at the kids beside her. “These are two of my three—Charleigh and Jack. Other one’s home sick.”

A few minutes after what is indeed a terrible rendition of “God Bless America,” the rodeo events start with a few rounds of calf roping.

I finish my beer, and Shawn offers another one. I’m not sure if I have to drive the kids back to June’s house, but I can tell you don’t say “no” to Shawn Lawler when he offers you beer, so I take it and just hold it. All around me, everyone is talking, cheering for whoever’s riding. Strangers keep stopping by to introduce themselves to the kids and me, as if they’ve been wanting to meet us—all of us, even me—for years.

During a brief break between the calf roping and whatever is next, I get up to get more peanuts—for the kids, of course—and look for promised popcorn. I’m in line behind two teenage girls. They both have braces on their teeth and something shiny that looks like Christmas tinsel braided into their hair. They’re wearing jean skirts, fringed boots, and button-up plaid shirts, and the taller one is wearing a white cowgirl hat. The line is long, and like usual, my cell phone’s service isn’t good, so I listen to them to pass the time.

“You are so weird,” one laughs, shaking her head.

“I’m telling you, the dark matter is something important. It’s the way everything is tied together. Or it’s God or something. I don’t know. I have a sense about it, though,” says the girl with the hat.

“Oh I believe you, chica. You’re the one that’s got the scholarship to Duke.”

“And you’re the one going to Georgia Southwestern. With my boyfriend.” The girl wearing the hat sighs, and then they’re up to order.

I look both of them over—discreetly, of course. To me, they look about twelve years old, but I guess they’ve got to be somewhat older.

Then the girl behind the counter says, “Junior punch card?”

They whip something out, and I realize that must mean they’re in eleventh grade.

I chew on that as the kid behind the counter gets my order together. Both of those girls already have colleges picked out. They’re planning to go.

“Here you are, sir.”

I take my debit card back, and as I make my way back to my seat, I think of what went down between June and me when I picked the kids up. She said, “Don’t go anywhere you shouldn’t. Such as north and toward that airport. I’ve got all the paperwork, and you will not win.”

I told her “Good luck,” and she said, “Yeah, I bet you hope I break a leg or two.”

She leaned against my rented car and kissed her finger, pressed her fingertip to the window by Margot, and then sashayed back inside.

“She looks beautiful,” Oliver said to me as I started down the driveway. And she really had. She had on a white, flowing sort of shirt, suede-looking riding pants, and a pair of shiny, dark brown leather cowgirl boots. Her hair was curled in ringlets that flowed down past her shoulders.

When I get back from the concession stand and see Shawn standing at the rail in front of the bleachers with Margot and Oliver beside him, my stomach ties itself into a tight knot. Mary Helen stands up, too, and waves me over. “Look, that’s June!” She points. “She’s over on the dark horse.”