Me and Lottie are sitting on her steps with a real-life reporter from the newspaper.
He called this morning after Momma left for work. “Mrs. Raines, please?” he’d said.
“She ain’t here.” I didn’t offer to take a message, ’cause some people just talk and talk and do they think I’m a secretary? I can’t write that fast.
“Is this Violet Raines?”
Never identify yourself over the phone. Then I jerk my head—I wasn’t supposed to say Momma wasn’t home either.
“Actually,” I said, “Mrs. Raines is here, but she’s taking a shower.”
Then he said his name and that he was a reporter from the newspaper and how he got this letter about a tragic incident, that’s what he called it, and he wanted to come talk with everyone involved. Today.
“Today?” I shouted. I got that man’s number, called Momma at work, and now here we sit, me and Lottie, the ones involved in the tragic incident.
Except I must admit I don’t feel tragic at all. Momma’s here, Lottie’s whole family’s here, and everyone’s happy. Even Melissa being here with her momma don’t spoil it for me.
First off, he asks each of us to describe in our own words what happened. We interrupt each other a lot, adding details and parts the other one forgot. He laughs. “You girls are like sisters, the way you finish each other’s sentences.”
We look at each other and giggle. At the same time, I say, “We practically are!” and Lottie says, “Violet practically lives at our house!” and then we laugh some more.
I like how he writes down every little thing we say, like it’s so important. The photographer comes over and takes a few pictures of us. Melissa’s watching from the side. She wants to be in the picture so bad, I just know it. Well, this is just for those who were involved in the tragic incident, and that is not her.
“Oh, I just want to get one thing right,” the reporter says. He looks at Lottie. “Your name, ‘Lottie’—is that with an ‘i’ or a ‘y’ at the end?”
“Actually, it’s—” I start to correct him, but Lottie talks over me.
“Actually, I have a question,” she says. “If something’s in the paper, does that mean it’s the truth? Like that’s the way things really are?”
The reporter nods. “We’d get in big trouble if we didn’t get things right.”
“Okay, then.” She takes a big breath. “My name is Char.”
I turn so quick I almost snap my neck. “Char? Where’d you get that from?”
Lottie’s face gets pink, but she keeps her eyes on the reporter. “It’s short for Charlotte,” she tells him. “C-h-a-r.”
Char. It’s so pretty. Only one thing: “Did Melissa make that up for you?”
“No.” She jerks her head at me. “I came up with it myself.”
In that case, “I love it,” I say.
“Me too!” Melissa says from the steps. “It sounds like a celebrity name.” She waves her hand as if Lottie’s new name was on a marquee. “Char!”
“Short for ‘Charlotte,’ ” Lottie says again.
The reporter writes it down. Then he smiles at Melissa. “Okay, Melissa, let’s get your story.”
I leap up. “She wasn’t even there!”
“Violet!” Lottie says as if I’m acting foolish. Melissa swings around the banister and sits on the other side of her. That girl moves just like a cat.
The reporter says, “We want folks to know about the good neighbors around here.”
“Thank you,” Melissa purrs.
I sit back down ’cause I got to hear what she says. It’s all true, how Lottie’s family is staying over there, but oh, my Lord, she makes herself out to be an angel, and she really doesn’t have anything to do with this. The more I listen, the more my lips pout and my eyes become slits.
Flash! The photographer takes our picture. “One more,” he says. I’m so mad at Melissa horning in on mine and Lottie’s tragic incident, I don’t even make my fake-happy face. I let the real me show through.