JoBeth was about to reply when the police radio squawked. She held up a finger and mouthed, Hang on. Deputy Lamar asked her to check some license plate numbers, which she did before turning her attention back to me.
“There was a young lady in here earlier,” she said. “Saw her yesterday, too. She fiddled with the computer for a while, then asked where she could get a mocha latte. I’m pretty sure that’s fancy coffee, so I sent her over to Ham’s.”
I stuffed my reading material into my satchel and darted across the street to the diner.
A bell jangled overhead as I entered. Scree Hopkins sat with her tenth-grade boyfriend on the pill-shaped stools at the counter. She gave me a Hey-Genuine-look-at-me-with-my-tenth-grade-boyfriend! kind of look, which I answered with my own That’s-great-I’ll-see-you-in-homeroom-like-everybody-else-anyway smile. Aside from them two, and someone in one of the booths, the place was empty.
“Genuine Sweet!” Ham, a pink-cheeked feller with a crewcut, slapped the counter. “I see you came for one of my fine apple fritters!”
Don’t tell no one, but I sometimes thought of Ham as my almost-pa. He looked out for me. Plus, he’d known my ma real well. Whenever he found me feeling chewed up or sad, he’d sit me down and tell me some peart tale about the good woman Cristabel Sweet had been.
“That does sound tasty, Ham. Maybe some other time,” I said. Of course, what I truly meant was, “Aw, Ham, you know I’m so poor I can’t even pay attention,” but a girl’s got to have some pride.
The person in the booth turned to look my way. It was Jura. A frothy coffee sat before her.
“I’ll just join my friend over there, if that’s all right,” I told Ham.
“Sittin’s free,” he replied, swatting my shoulder with his dishrag.
I walked to the booth and slid in across from Jura.
“Hi, Genuine.” She practically shone in her fine city clothes.
“I’m late for school, so I can’t stay, but I brought you something,” I said, reaching into my bag.
“What is it?” Jura leaned forward in her seat, trying to sneak a peek.
“It’s a wish biscuit.” I offered Jura the biscuit bundled in a handkerchief. Before I left home that morning, I’d whispered to it that Jura’s ma needed a job in Sass. “Don’t let the waitress see. She might not appreciate us bringin’ non-tippable food in here.”
Jura opened the cloth. Her eyes grew wide. “Ohh!” She drew a long breath over the biscuit. “Just the smell of it! I love homemade! My granny used to make these!”
“Shh!” I hushed her, dipping my head toward the counter. “Your granny’s weren’t quite like this one, I reckon. Now, promise you’ll eat the whole thing, all right?”
“I wouldn’t waste a crumb! Thanks, Genuine.” She pulled a piece off and popped it in her mouth before tucking it into her bag.
Scree screeched a giggle. I spun around in a panic, thinking I’d been overheard, but she was only laughing at something her beau had said. Maybe I was getting jumpy after Gram’s talk about not stirring folks up with my wish fetching.
“That biscuit is really good,” Jura told me. “You should sell those or something.”
Then she reached across the table and grasped my hand. “Thanks for doing this for me and my mom. It means a lot.”
I swallowed hard. She truly meant it. I may not have known Jura well, but even I could see this wish would take a real load off her shoulders. When you can help folks in a way that fills them with such sincere appreciation, why would you want to keep that secret?
“Ain’t nothin’ but a thing.” I waved a hand like I was clearing the air. “But you’ve got to know I haven’t even conjured so much as a sunrise at dawn yet.”
“But you will,” she insisted. “You’re going to be really good at this. I know it.”
Go figure. There was somebody right in my very own Sass, Georgia, who believed in me. Besides Gram, I mean.
“Well, if you’re gonna live here, you’ll be needing this.” I reached into my satchel and pulled out the newspaper. “Can’t call yourself Sassy unless you read the Settee.”
“Better news than nothing.” She laughed. “I can’t take any more Channel Two Fo Sho Cajun Cooking!”
“Don’t you talk trash about Boudreaux Thibodeaux in my town, cher,” I teased.
“Gen’wine, you a wish fetcher fo’ sho’!” Jura spun the worst Cajun accent I’d ever heard. “Go take care of your bizness, cher, den let’s get on with saving the world, aw-rite?”
I couldn’t help laughing, but I confess, a part of me sat back real still and serious, thinking things over. Sure, I could keep my wish fetching quiet. Because it was true: you never did know how some folks might respond. But keeping quiet might also keep me hungry in a world that didn’t see fit to feed a person just because she had a mouth. Whether a body dies at the hands of the mob with pitchforks or dies of starvation and lack of heat—they both amount to the same thing. The end of all breathing.
I’d have to wait and see if Jura’s wish biscuit came to anything. But if it did, well, maybe my new friend was right. Maybe it was time to stir the pot.
4
Supply and Demand
IN MY GRADE, THE SEVENTH GRADE, THERE WERE SIX kids, including me. There were four in eighth, five in the ninth, and a whopping nine people in tenth. The eleventh and twelfth grades were so small—three people put together—that they met in the same room. The younger ones—we called ’em ankle biters—all had classes in our school, too, a big-ish building made of the same red brick they used to build the city hall/police department/library.