Jude

Gladys! A name for somebody who made doilies and took her teeth out at night.

But the way she said it—shouted it practically—you could tell she loved her name. She loved her whole life, anybody could see it. She was so...

He didn’t know the word. Confident, maybe. Sure of herself. Look how she dressed! What was that scarf about? She didn’t care what people thought. She was the size of a third grader but she talked like she was in high school.

All that stuff she said about the dog? Like he felt the same way. Like he agreed it was some really special dog.

True.

Jude shook his head.

He couldn’t believe the dog didn’t even have water.

• • •

That night, Mom kept teasing him about the big-eyed girl crushing on him.

“I don’t even know her!”

“I saw the way she looked at you, mister.”

Jude made a puke noise.

“Just remember,” Mom said. “You’re grounded. I catch you making a jailbreak and...”

“Mom! No way I care about that girl!”

His mother laughed. It was her real laugh, the one that reminded Jude of how a breeze can blow through a tree so the leaves lift and show their softer, secret side.

“Keep protesting, mister. Go on!”

She messed up his hair, said he’d done a good job getting the paint stuff. Tomorrow he could start preparing the walls. She wanted to get a new shower curtain and bath mat. Maybe some towels, if she could find nice ones on sale. She walked around humming, smoothing out the doilies.

When Mom was happy like this, all Jude wanted was to make it last. Last and last.