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There are people walking all around once we get up to where all the buildings are. There’s a park. A white church steeple poking out above the rooftops. In the distance, there’s a chain link fence wrapped around a football field and, in the back, what looks like a school.
Shiloh reminds me a lot of home, especially the further into town we get. There’s a man mowin’ his lawn. A lady watering flowers. A group of kids play basketball in a driveway, and a couple others run through puddles on the sidewalk…
Some look our way, but no one waves like back home. People were always saying hi and waving at Dad and I when we’d walk through our town, that or coming up to shake his hand real hard. He seemed to know everybody. And everybody seemed to know him right back.
Not here though.
And Momma’s a lot shyer than dad. She’s not waving or smiling either. Maybe if she made an effort, these people would say hi. At least, that’s what Dad would sometimes say when we were out and Momma got all quiet around his friends.
Momma leads me across the street to a red and silver aluminum building, up a couple steps, and through a glass door that has a bell ringing out when we walk through.
A blast of cold air carrying the scent of cheeseburgers and a man belting on about a wayward sun through the speakers rush over me, and my eyes widen, jaw hanging as I take everything in. All over the walls, there’s posters of rock bands and CDs and big black discs Mom told me are records, which were the CDs she listened to when she was younger.
And in the corner, next to the counter and coat racks?
A big red jukebox.
I feel my mouth lifting into a big scrunchy-eyed grin just as drums and guitar kick off, and I twist around, throwing my head back to look up at Momma who’s already smiling down at me, her brown eyes twinkling. “Cool, right?”
I nod real fast. “Who is this?” I whisper in awe.
She opens her mouth to tell me, but never gets a chance.
“Sherry!”
Momma’s head snaps up, and she releases my hand, and then she’s rushing toward a short, curvy woman with long black hair heading toward us past all the empty red booths lining the windows. They throw their arms around each other at the same time, hugging tight.
I tilt my head, biting my lip, wondering who the lady is. Momma said Shiloh is where her and Dad grew up before they had me. I already knew this story though. Dad told me. Said how they moved to get a fresh start in life ’cuz her parents—my grandparents—kicked Momma out. Something about babies and wedlock. Not sure what that meant.
So they did something called loping and got a house of their own and then had me.
Momma’s busy talking to the lady, so I creep past them, trailing my finger over the backs of the empty barstools. Except for a couple old ladies sitting in the back corner booth, and a guy boppin’ his head and chewing gum looking over a newspaper behind the counter, it’s empty.
I mouth along to the song, catching the words, trying to memorize them. I need paper. Markers.
I glance around the counter covered in paper placemats, and rolled up silverware, and then I see it, right next to the register—a cup of pens.
I scramble up onto my knees on the nearest stool, and grab one, and then flip the paper placemat over just like I would do in the diners back home Dad would take me to.
Nodding, I sing quietly along, and start carefully spelling out the words. I’m not very good at it yet—writing, spelling… though I can read pretty good. Swaying side to side, I’m in the middle of spelling C-A-R-R-Y O-N, when a gruff voice says, “Whatcha doin’, kid?”
I whirl my head around, and my jaw drops, eyes bulging.
Holy crap, it’s Wolverine!
His furry brown brows the same color as his beard dip low over equally dark eyes. I can’t see his mouth, but there’s a sort of shine to his eyes that makes me think he might be smiling, or at least trying not to.
“Um,” I say, curling back, and hunching my shoulders. He’s even bigger than Dad! I chew the corner of my lip, and turn to look back at my scribbles over the paper. “Momma’s busy talking to the lady, and I need to know the song so she can put it on a CD for me later.”
He grunts. “That so?”
I nod, feeling my face grow all hot.
“May I?” he says, holding his hand out. I look at his nails, his knuckles…
No claws.
I blow out a slow breath, nod, and hand him the pen.
