Free Sweet Jiminy by Kristin Gore Page B

Jiminy onto his lap.
    â€œHow was the pool?” he asked as he twisted a piece of her hair around his finger. “Besides being shaped like a human organ.”
    Jiminy shrugged.
    â€œOkay, I guess. You know what it’s like.”
    But Bo was shaking his head.
    â€œNope. Never been there.”
    Jiminy didn’t believe him.
    â€œSeriously,” he insisted.
    â€œYou’re kidding me. Not even once?”
    â€œI’ve driven by. But I’ve never actually gone in.”
    â€œWhy not?” Jiminy asked. “The slide looks fun if you’re ten years old with a death wish. You were ten once. Didn’t you want to go?”
    Bo thought about it. He could remember being ten years old. Could remember how hot the sun felt on his head and shoulders in July in the yard where he’d set up his toy soldiers in the dirt. He’d never gone to the pool, but he’d gone to the river once. He’d been scared of it, but he’d overcome his hesitation and jumped off a big rock into the surprisingly frigid water. He remembered how his lungs had frozen up, how his blood had suddenly felt like ice water in his veins. And how a cloud had blocked the sun just when he’d climbed out on the bank, causing him to shiver on a hot July day.
    Jiminy suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth.
    â€œOh my God, were you not allowed in the pool?” she asked. “Because people . . . because of . . .”
    Bo snapped back to the present, away from his river memory.
    â€œIt wasn’t anything official,” he answered. “I didn’t care much about going anyway, but I doubt it’s changed. Did you see any black kids there?”
    Jiminy shook her head. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?
    â€œWell, when I was driving home today, I saw some Mexican kids on a Slip ’n Slide,” Bo said. “So we slum it a little, but there are ways around the system.”
    Loud, canned laughter sounded from the television, but both of them had lost track of the story line. Bo wanted Jiminy to take her pitying eyes someplace else. He didn’t want that emotion introduced into their relationship.
    â€œYou know what? I should probably get some more studying done,” he said suddenly, shifting her off his lap and standing up.
    â€œReally?” Jiminy asked. “I thought we were doing something.”
    â€œMaybe later. Let’s talk later.”
    Jiminy nodded slowly, clearly confused. She stood and began to leave the trailer, then paused and turned back.
    â€œDid you know your aunt Lyn worked for the Brayers at one point?” she asked.
    Bo stared at her a moment.
    â€œNo, I didn’t. She can’t stand the Brayers.”
    â€œReally?” Jiminy asked. “Why not?”
    â€œShe never said,” Bo answered. “It’s just something I always knew. We used to take the long way home from school just to avoid going by their place.”
    Jiminy nodded thoughtfully, her face full of further questions. Bo studied her and internally debated whether he could reverse course and invite her to stay. But now she was walking away, across the grass, toward Willa’s Buick. She started to turn back again, but stopped herself and climbed into the car. Above her, the sky was bruised with another dying day.

Chapter 7
    B y the time Juan Gonzales bought the building that would become Tortillas, it had stood empty for nearly thirty years. In its basement, he found furniture that he assumed was from the abandoned movie theater next door: an old ticket-taking booth, a broken counter, and five wooden chairs. The chairs didn’t look like actual theater chairs to Juan, but he hadn’t examined them too closely. When his wife saw them, she decided they’d look nice arranged on the front patio of the restaurant, and she commissioned him to clean them up. Juan personally didn’t consider it worth the effort, but he enjoyed the perks that came with