Keeping her head down, but letting her eyes slip from side to side, Annie doesn’t answer when Caroline asks if Annie thinks it too-that Jacob will do the filling in. The something in the air, the spark, the crackle, has followed Annie all the way to this café, and she knows a thing is coming before it has come, or maybe she hears a familiar voice, and that is what warns her. Either way, it’s coming.
“Annie?”
It’s Lizzy Morris. Lizzy Morris with a shiny yellow ponytail tied off at the top of her head. Lizzy Morris wearing a pink dress because she isn’t a head taller than every other girl but the exact height a girl should be, so pink looks perfectly lovely on her and not ridiculous as it would on a girl Annie’s height. Not ridiculous as it would on Annie. And Lizzy has small hands and little feet and is wearing rose-colored lipstick because she had her day of ascension almost a year ago, though Annie knows she is still waiting for that first kiss from Ryce Fulkerson.
“Why, Annie, it is you.”
Like Caroline so often does, Lizzy smells sweet, as if every inch of her body has been massaged with lavender-scented lotions and oils, and smelling that smell on Lizzy Morris makes Annie want to grab a handful of that glistening yellow ponytail and yank it from her head. That lavender, no matter if it’s oil or lotion or a witch hazel spray, came from the Hollerans’ lavender farm.
Caroline smiles at Lizzy, but instead of visiting the way she might usually do, she rolls her chair around, putting her back to Lizzy and her friends so she can watch the hole a half a block away. Though Annie didn’t say it, Caroline is right. Sheriff Fulkerson probably will send Jacob Riddle to do the filling. During the school year, Ryce does it, but he’ll be in the field today and every other day this summer.
“We heard, Annie,” Lizzy Morris says. “Ryce told us.”
With those few words, the memory of Annie’s embarrassment, of Ryce’s eyes looking where they ought not have looked, is once again as potent as the living of it. Maybe more so. Time hasn’t healed a thing. Lizzy Morris knows and all her friends too. Annie listens hard but hears nothing of Ryce Fulkerson among the voices rattling around her. Even if she doesn’t see Ryce again until school starts, it’ll be too soon.
“We heard about the well,” Lizzy says. “About who you saw.”
Annie holds her breath so she won’t exhale and nods at Lizzy and the two other girls. Ryce didn’t tell. He didn’t tell about Annie and her rain-soaked shirt. It’s the well. Lizzy is talking about the well. Annie lets herself exhale and draws in another breath. The one thing she cannot do, will not do, is cry, not even tears of relief. Instead she forces a smile.
“It’s foolishness, Lizzy,” she says, lifting the glass of milk and pressing it to her lips but not taking a sip. The milk is cool and fresh, but if she were to take a mouthful, she might spit it all over Lizzy Morris.
Sitting here on this stool, Caroline on one side of her and Lizzy Morris on the other, Annie realizes how alike they are. They both have freshly brushed hair no matter how windy or rainy the day. Both have clear skin. No freckles, no peeling nose from too much sun. Their skirts don’t sag at the waist, and their shirts don’t hang over flat chests. The trouble with realizing such a thing is that if they’re altogether alike in those ways, they’re likely the same in other ways too. Either Lizzy is good like Caroline, or Caroline is nasty like Lizzy.
“It’s not foolishness.” Lizzy looks at the girls standing behind her. They must be Lizzy’s cousins visiting for summer break because Annie doesn’t recognize them from school. “Not foolishness at all. I think Jacob Riddle is perfect. And here he is, back in town. Ryce told us. Told us Jacob is back for good.”
Waiting for an answer or a comment of some kind, Lizzy tips her head this way and that as she stares into Annie’s black eyes. She looks from one eye to the other and back again.
“You saw Jacob, right?” Lizzy says. “Jacob Riddle?”
Annie waits for Caroline to do something, waits for her to correct Lizzy or shout at Annie or stand up and claim Jacob Riddle for herself. But she does nothing. She doesn’t roll her stool around, doesn’t move her head or lift her fork. Annie too could be the one to make it right. She could tell Lizzy she was mistaken and that Caroline is the one who saw Jacob Riddle. Annie could admit to having seen no one, or even make up another sort of fellow, but she doesn’t because she’s too selfish. Or maybe she’s too prideful. Or maybe, most likely, her will is too weak.
One of the girls with Lizzy leans up and whispers in her ear. Lizzy nods. The two girls at Lizzy’s side lower their eyes to the floor, look left of Annie, right of Annie. They don’t look her in the eyes again. But Lizzy continues to stare. She’s looking for something magical in Annie’s black eyes, something like whatever Aunt Juna must have had. Something that frightens most folks and has certainly frightened the other two girls. Or maybe it’s not Annie’s eyes Lizzy is looking at. Maybe she’s looking at Annie’s blouse and trying to see what Ryce Fulkerson saw. Maybe he did tell what happened out there in that tobacco field. He told and they all laughed. After a long moment, Lizzy straightens and shakes her head.
“Jacob Riddle is so much older,” Lizzy says when the other girls turn to go. “You’ll probably be married long before the rest of us. And then won’t you have stories to tell.”
Caroline doesn’t move, not even after the café door opens and closes behind Lizzy Morris and her friends. As she waits for Caroline to do something, anything, Annie picks at her roll, the powdered sugar icing sticking to her fingers. She unwinds the roll until it no longer looks like a cinnamon roll should look but more like a shriveled strip of bark lying across her plate. When Mrs. May asks if something is wrong with the rolls, Annie says no ma’am and tries not to look Mrs. May in the eyes because it makes folks nervous.
Daddy is all the time saying folks most regret the things they don’t do. Mama is quick to disagree because once a thing is done, it can’t be undone, and she warns against forgetting that simple truth. Maybe both are right, but in this moment, staring down on the remnants of her cinnamon roll, Annie is regretting the thing she did not do. Most likely, Caroline loves Jacob Riddle. Not in a childish sort of way, but in the sort of way that will lead them to spend the rest of their lives having children together, making a home, one burying the other when the time comes. Annie ought not have used Jacob in the way she did.
Twenty minutes later, after the milk has warmed to room temperature and both rolls have turned cold and hard, Mama’s car rolls up outside, and she gives a short honk. Caroline stands first and walks from the café without once looking back at Annie.
Normally, Caroline would ride in the backseat since she got to ride next to Mama during the drive into town, but instead she walks to the front of the car. And normally, Annie would argue and insist she get her turn, but not today. Without giving Caroline a nasty look or making a fuss of any kind, Annie walks across the front of the car to sit behind Mama, and as she passes, she waves at Mama through the windshield, being more pleasant than she’d normally be because she’s trying to cover up Caroline’s sulking so Mama won’t ask what happened. But Mama doesn’t smile back, and she barely returns the wave. Annie steps up to the back door, grabs hold of the handle, and from this side of the car, she sees him. She sees the reason Mama didn’t smile and barely gave a wave.
“You really are as evil as everyone says you are,” Caroline whispers across the top of the car. “I’m glad you’re not my real sister.” Then she opens the door and climbs inside.