The next morning, early, I rang Buddy’s doorbell, checking over my shoulder every once in a while.
Did Tommie watch me?
The door opened and Buddy’s momma (it had to be—she looked like a female version of him, only older . . . and meaner) stood there, hand on the knob.
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me. And waited. It was a long, cold minute.
“Ummm,” I said.
She tilted her head.
“I . . .”
“Let me guess,” Buddy’s momma said. “You come for Justin Lee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s awful early, isn’t it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Six a.m.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A breath of air swept down the street, damp as a wet washcloth. Storm clouds billowed out over the ocean. This sure was a wet fall.
“Lots of girls come looking for him.”
“Oh.” It was too humid out here. I wanted to adjust my clothing. Take off my bra and sling it back toward the house. Smooth my hair. Run, even. But I didn’t. I stood there, muscles twitching.
“He’s not here,” she said. Her voice was low. Behind Mrs. McKay, in the massive foyer, I could see a painting of the family. There was Mrs. McKay, Mr. McKay (I supposed), and six boys, all of them different ages that looked like Buddy at different stages of life.
Buddy came down the hall then. For a moment it appeared he wore the massive chandelier as a crown. Then he saw me and headed toward the door, a huge smile on his face. He wore pajamas.
“Mom,” he said, peering over the top of her head into my eyes.
She loosed the knob. Gave me one last stare.
“You can’t do this anymore.” Buddy towered over his momma. “She doesn’t like that I date,” he said, grinning.
I cleared my throat. Twice.
Mrs. McKay edged back to the staircase that ran like a cake decoration up to the second floor. She watched us until Buddy closed the door behind himself and me, with a click.
I let three minutes of used oxygen from my lungs.
“Wow,” I said. “That was intense.”
A redbird cried out and a mockingbird answered as Buddy grabbed my hand in his. “Not as bad as your aunt Odie.” He grinned so big his eyes disappeared in their own squintiness. “Nice to see you, Evie.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, and shook free. “Not here.”
Who knew who was watching on either side of the street? Could be a ghost. Or an unhappy mother.
Buddy looked down at me.
“Five brothers?” I asked.
“Six,” he said. “That portrait is old.” He leaned toward me.
I wanted to touch his arm. Smooth his hair.
But the living and the dead watched. (I could see his momma peering out the glass now. Staring at us. She wagged her finger at me.)
I pulled away. “I need a ride,” I said. “Can you help me?”
Buddy nodded. “Sure. Let me change my clothes.”