My best friend is homeless. Actually, it’s worse than that. My best friend and her sisters are staying at Melissa’s house.
“It’s just temporary,” Mrs. Townsend told the girls when everyone was still at our house. By this time, some of the neighbors had come out to see what happened. Including Mrs. Gold.
Mr. and Mrs. Townsend decided to stay in their house so they could work on it. But Lottie, Hannah, Ashley, and Tootsie needed somewhere to stay.
Momma offered right away for them to stay with us, but Mrs. Gold rushed in with her offer, making it sound better. “We have all that room and it’s just going to waste. You come,” she said, nodding. “We want you to stay with us.”
I bet they did. I could just imagine Melissa giving Lottie daily movie-star lessons.
Mrs. Townsend’s eyes welled up. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much of a burden.”
“I’m looking forward to a house full of kids. I’m home all day. You can do what you need to do and I’ll watch the kids.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she stopped and waited.
I waited too. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Momma couldn’t top that offer—she had to work.
Mrs. Townsend bit her lip. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about clothes. Everything in there is soaked.”
Mrs. Gold waved her hands and shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll shove everything they need into plastic bags. I’ll run the wash when we get home.”
After that, there was nothing left to say. The two of them went over, filled the bags with clothes, and came back for the girls.
I hug Lottie hard when they leave. “I’m going to miss you,” I say, tears streaming down my face.
She’s crying too. “I’ll miss you, too, Violet.” She wipes her eyes and laughs. “But I’ll just be down the street. We’ll still see each other.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t believe it. Melissa will guard Lottie like a bulldog. There’s something else I got to say. It’s hard, but if I don’t say it, it’ll crush me—it’s that heavy. “I’m sorry I made you bake those pies.”
Lottie’s eyes fill. “It wasn’t the oven,” she says. She leans closer and whispers, “It was the antenna. The firemen said so.” She widens her eyes and leans back. “They said it was like a lightning rod.”
“Oh, my Lord,” I say. That old TV antenna of theirs sticks way up. My heart feels good and terrible at the same time—good ’cause it wasn’t my fault, and terrible for feeling good.
It’s nighttime when they leave. Momma and me wave till we don’t see them no more, then Momma slips her arm around my shoulders and we step into the empty house. In my mind, I replay the lightning and the screaming and 9-1-1 and the taillights of the car I just watched disappear down the road. My breath comes in ragged, and my lips pull back tight. I clench my eyes shut. I turn into Momma’s side and push my face into her. For the third time tonight, I’m bawling like a baby.