Free Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen Page B

breaks my heart. The way that place smells of barbecue and how the houses are hugged together so close that you can hear when somebody is mad at somebody or when they’re giving each other a little sugar. All the little children running around with their nappy hair and dusty toes. And that music. That low-down music.
    But . . .
    Grampa was clear on the subject, and if he finds out I was over there, he won’t call me Gibby girl for a week. He’ll call me Gibson, and only if he has to tell me to do something of an emergency nature. The hell with him! —the creeping thoughts are nudging— Go! You love Browntown. And you might could come across an awfully good story. Yes. It’d be worth getting into trouble for an awfully good story. That’s exactly what I need right about now. This Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee article is feeling a mite stale.
    â€œGib?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI’d be a good mama,” Clever says, real wretched.
    â€œI know, I know you would.” She has always been good with the little ones. Gives them free cookie cones, which is one of the reasons she’s always in Dutch with her boss.
    â€œKnock knock,” I say, ’cause besides offering her a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup straight out of the can, or five dollars, it’s the only other way I know to cheer her up.
    â€œWho’s ttthere?” she says, struggling.
    â€œButch.” That’s her nickname for me. It’s from our special movie.
    â€œBbbutch who?”
    â€œButch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The both of ’em. Right there. On your doorstep. Wouldn’t that beat all?”
    She fans her hand out on the screen. I do the same. Her heart is pounding in her thumb.
    â€œCome with me,” she says, snorting up the sad.
    Even though she’s pretending she wants to go to Browntown to get some hooch off Cooter, that’s not what she really wants. Even though Clever’s been busy with Willard for months, when the going gets rough, she’ll run to Cooter lickety split. The two of them’ve been running hot and cold for forever. And if she can’t locate him , she’ll settle for a different kinda lovin’ from Miss Florida, who’s been a second mother to her.
    â€œWell?” Clever says, snotty now ’cause she’d prefer having her eyes pecked outta her head by hungry crows than say please . “I ain’t got all night.”
    (You gotta admit. She’s irresistible.)
    â€œOh, all right, Kid.” That’s my nickname for her . I set my blue spiral back under my pillow, lower the lantern wick, and slip on my sneakers. Keeper and me are extra careful with the porch screen door, praying nature noise will cover up its squeak.
    Once out on the lawn, I call softly into the dark, “Where are ya?”
    â€œDown here,” Clever calls back. “At the pier.”
    When I join up with her, she reaches for my hand and holds it firm across her belly. I cannot believe I haven’t noticed how round and hard it’s become! Have my powers of perception taken a vacation? Then again, she has been wearing a lot of these flowing-type outfits instead of her usual short-shorts and T-shirts. Something strong ripples under my palm. “For crissakes, what the hell did you have to eat tonight?” I ask, taking my hand away quick. “It’s really comin’ back on ya.”
    â€œThat’s not supper, that’s the baby movin’ around. It squirms like that day and night. Don’t ya know one thing about how this all works?”
    While certainly not an expert, I did see that filly getting born just a couple of weeks ago. “I know some .”
    Clever looks awful disappointed. She counts on this investigative reporter to keep her up on current events. “Well, knowin’ some is knowin’ more’n me,” she admits. “The only thing I know is one of these nights I’m gonna