That chicken smelled like deep-fried crack. MizB was a sorceress! One the heroine and plucky sidekick must resist!
As much as Jo liked the food, she hated the way Thaddie gulped it down, like he knew he was only getting gas station chow until the next basket. Made her feel like shit.
So what was Jo going to do when they ditched this town? Who’d babysit Thaddie? Who’d feed them every day?
“You might be doing okay,” MizB said. “But you’d do better with me and Mr. B.” Her husband was a ruddy-faced dude whose laugh sounded like it came out of a barrel. He picked his wife up from the library and dropped her off every day, walking her to the door as if she were precious cargo. He clearly didn’t like her working in one of the worst hoods in Texas.
When the two of them thought no one was looking, they linked pinkies. ’Cause they were tools. MizB smelled like cinnamon and sun, Mr. B. like motor oil and sun.
Jo had no urges to do lasting violence to them—her highest measure of approval.
MizB continued, “But we can’t adopt you two unless you get back into the system.”
With no sign of parents, Jo and Thaddie were adoptable. The Braydens were okayed for adoption.
Jo didn’t trust the system. “And what happens if you and Mr. B. don’t get us? Did I ever tell you about my first foster ‘father’? Night one, dickwad shoved his hand down my pants—before the freaking Late Show came on.”
“Digwad!” Thad echoed.
MizB pursed her lips. “That man is the exception to the rule. And you should’ve reported him. Other children might get sent to him.”
“No. No chance of that.” Jo had set dickwad’s house on fire, using the silver Zippo she’d already stolen from him—before the freaking evening news had come on.
The look on his face as he watched his place burn still made her chuckle. From their spot in the bushes, Thaddie had clapped his little hands. Fires were free fun. Just ask that gang lord . . .
“Do I even want to know?” MizB asked.
“Nope.” There’d be no system for them. If the Braydens didn’t land the Doe siblings, Jo and Thaddie would be separated.
Docs had diagnosed her with scary-sounding disorders and disabilities; Thaddie was in the ninety-ninth percentile of everything good.
Her eyes and skin were jaundiced. Thaddie was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed. Every time she pulled down her hoodie, more of her hair would fall out. His was curling down.
Inside and out, she was as bad and defective as Thad was good and perfect. The only thing the siblings had in common was the color of their eyes—hazel irises with blue flecks.
“If you come to our house, it would be for good.” MizB looked fiercer than Jo had ever seen her. “We’d never let anyone take the two of you from us. We’d be a family.”
Jo’s opinion of the woman rose a notch. Still she said, “Are we done yet? For fuck’s sake, woman, feed us.”
MizB glared, but she did unpack the basket. “You need to be in school.”
“It didn’t take.” Jo couldn’t read. Kids caught on. Her awkward attempts to make friends had turned into scrapping, a pastime she preferred to do outside of a structured environment.
Jo had Thaddie; nothing else mattered.
In a kiddie bowl, MizB mixed pieces of chicken with mashed potatoes. Thaddie grew still, eyes locked on the grub. His stomach growled; Jo’s chin jutted. Mental note: Steal more gas station chow between baskets.
Wait . . . When they left for the Keys, there’d be no more baskets.
He was clambering for the high chair before the woman had even sprinkled cornbread crumbles on top of the chicken mash. She wouldn’t hand it over till he’d accepted a kiddie spoon from her.
“Like we taught you, Thaddeus.”
“We?” Jo snorted. “Two hands, ten fingers. What’s he need a spoon for?”
Once Thaddie was shoveling food into his piehole, MizB started back up again. “Mr. B. and I lie awake at night worrying about you two out here.” She and her hubby lived in the burbs. Ginormous yard. The woman had shown Jo on a map, then withheld barbecue until Jo could recite the address.
If MizB knew a fraction of what went on in these streets . . .
But Jo saw all.
The local gang lord was the worst. The street people called him the Wall because of his steroidal build, but also because he liked to screw his prostitutes from behind; in other words, your back was always up against him. Jo nicknamed him Wally.
He hung with a pair of brothers named TJ and JT. Because cleverness. The hookers named the older brother Knuckle behind his back since his dick was the length of a finger from knuckle to knuckle. The younger brother didn’t even merit a body-part nickname. The fourth crony was called Nobody. In other words: “Who did it?” “Nobody.”
Girls went into Wally’s crib one way, and after screams sounded, they stumbled out different. Whatever those four were doing in that house took the fight out of girls. Which was unforgivable.
Jo worshipped fighting. She dreamed about being a comic-book superheroine—just so she’d have an excuse to mess people up. With no superpowers on the horizon, she’d launched a one-girl guerrilla war, kicking the ant mound and running.
She’d started out small. Stick of butter underneath the door handle of Wally’s car. A little breaking and entering to slather his toilet seat with superglue. Then sand in the Monte Carlo’s gas tank.
She could stomach the risks, but she had a kid to think about. So why couldn’t she stop herself? It was as if some instinct was forcing her to target prey, stalk it, then hurt it.