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“Morning,” I called. “Sure didn't mean to scare you.”

“Junior Bledsoe! You stole my squirrel.” Ann Fay was
hopping mad. So mad she looked like she might cry.

But why should I feel sorry for her? Didn't she have a daddy to help her get the next one?

I headed toward them but waved my hand in the direction of the squirrel. “Skin it and you can have it, Ann Fay.” I figured that would stop her in her tracks. Although if she took me up on it, Leroy would probably teach her how to do it.

Leroy shook his head. “It's yours, Junior. Didn't know you were over here.”

I nodded. “Momma wants to make squirrel pie. So I got up before the chickens.”

Leroy ruffled Ann Fay's hair. “Sleepyhead here had trouble waking up.”

Ann Fay was blinking back tears. Maybe I shouldn't have shot the squirrel, knowing she was after it. But then again, if she wanted to run around in the woods like a man, she might have to take disappointment like a man too.

But I didn't tell her that. “There's lots of squirrels in these woods, Ann Fay. I bet you'll bring down the next one you see. I'll leave and give you some peace and quiet. That way I won't get hit with that .22 you got there.”

I was trying to make a joke, but she didn't laugh. Leroy didn't either. “Don't you worry,” he said. “This girl is learning to aim real good.”

“I bet so.” I waved goodbye and went after my
squirrel. If Leroy had anything to say about it, that girl would learn to hunt or drive or do whatever she set her mind to. It didn't used to bother me how close the two of them were, but now that Pop was gone, sometimes it just felt like a slap in my face.

October 1941

We'd been riding to church with the Honeycutts ever since Leroy came home with that truck. Momma squeezed in up front with Myrtle, Leroy, and baby Bobby. Ann Fay and I sat in the back holding the twins between our knees to keep them from bouncing around in the truck.

Usually we'd sing silly songs. But today, Ann Fay was not in a Sunday-morning mood. We were barely on the highway when she let me know it. “You stole my squirrel, Junior Bledsoe.”

“Shoot, Ann Fay! I was in the woods first.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Because. I got up before daylight. And I was all ready to shoot that squirrel when, all of a sudden, I heard you talking.”

“See? You knew I was there. You could've been bighearted and left it for me.”

“And let you scare it off? I reckon you think it's all hunky-dory for you and your daddy to go squirrel hunting together. But don't forget, you're a girl. I'm the
man at my house now and we needed some meat.”

After that, the two of us stopped talking and Ida started begging me for a song. “Okay, okay.” I said. It wasn't raining, but I just sang what popped in my head.
“It's raining, it's pouring. The old man is snoring. He went to bed and he bumped his head and didn't wake up in the morning.”

The girls giggled and made snoring noises the rest of the way to church. It was a silly song, but if you stopped and thought about it, there wasn't anything funny about the words.

At church Leroy parked beside Ralph Settlemyre's truck. I used to ride in the back of that truck when me and Pop went night-fishing with Ralph and Calvin. That seemed like a really long time ago. I tried to catch up with Calvin on the way to Sunday school, but by the time I got there he was talking to the other fellows about turkey hunting with his daddy.

It seemed like I couldn't turn around without somebody rubbing my nose in the fact that I didn't have a father anymore. I knew it wasn't what they intended. It's just the way it was.

At least when Pop was alive we could go out together and make it look like we were a regular family. Some days we just gussied up and went to church, pretending.

After Sunday school we all filed into church and sat with our families. Reverend Price announced that Lottie Scronce's second son had just been drafted into the army.
He prayed for the Scronce boys to be safe and for all the people who were called to serve.

“Each of us must be prepared to defend freedom however we're needed,” said the reverend. He started in on how bad the world was these days with Hitler slaughtering millions of people. Italy was right there helping him, and Japan was every bit as greedy as Germany, the way they were trying to take over China and all the other Orientals.

I could almost hear Pop grumbling over Sunday dinner. “Another doomsday sermon,” he'd say—if only he were still here. That's what he called it whenever Reverend Price preached about the world coming to an end.

While the reverend preached, I spotted a rubber band on the floor under the pew in front of me. I reached down and picked it up. It gave me something to fiddle with. During the closing prayer, when most people had their eyes closed, I looked at Ann Fay sitting two rows ahead of me. She had her head against her daddy's shoulder.

I remembered the scratchy feel of Pop's wool coat sleeve against my cheek. Every once in a while he'd give me something to play with during preaching—his watch on a chain, his pocketknife, or a pen and paper. But then I turned eleven and he started shrugging me off. It was like my birthday came and he walked away from me.

What would it be like to be ten again? With me leaning on Pop's arm?

I could see the back of Ann Fay's neck where her hair had separated. I don't know why I wanted to send that rubber band whizzing for that white spot. I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about whether it was a good idea. I just made my hand into a gun shape and wrapped the rubber band between my thumb and trigger finger. Then I aimed and let it fly.

Zing!
I hit her smack dab on that spot of flesh. And boy did she yelp! Baby Bobby, who'd been snoozing on Myrtle's shoulder, woke up screaming. Just like that, the reverend stopped praying.

I closed my eyes real fast.

But I could hear Myrtle shushing the baby. I imagined Leroy pulling Ann Fay close and looking at the spot on her neck. I sure hoped my face wasn't as red as I thought it was. Someone giggled. Reverend Price went back to his prayer and finished up, and the choir sang a final song—
“Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war …”

I tried to leave real quick. But when I got to the end of the pew, Peggy Sue was there waiting on me. “Junior Bledsoe, how could you do such a thing?”

“What?” I tried to sound innocent.

“You know what I'm talking about. I saw you shoot Ann Fay with that rubber band.”

“Good grief! What are you, a German spy? It was an accident, Peggy Sue. And anyway, you're supposed to have your eyes shut when the preacher is praying.”

“Huh! Practice what you preach, Junior Bledsoe.”

People were going past us, but Leroy and Ann Fay were standing right in front of me. Leroy had his hand on her neck, and I could see his thumb making soft circles on that spot where the rubber band hit her. He reached his other hand to me, and there, wrapped around his fingers, was that rubber band. “Did you lose something, Junior?”

“Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it.” That sounded just stupid and I knew it, but still, I tried to explain. “I don't know what came over me. I didn't plan it. It just happened.”

Leroy nodded. “See that it doesn't happen again.” His voice was cold as an icebox.

Momma spoke up then. “I'm sorry, Leroy. Junior won't get by with this.” She jabbed my arm. “Tell Ann Fay you're sorry.”

From the look in Ann Fay's eye, I was sure she didn't want to hear
sorry
coming out of my mouth. She'd rather be mad at me. That girl sure had some fight in her. But I took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry, Ann Fay. I didn't mean it. Honest, I didn't.”

Ann Fay folded her arms across her chest and gave me a look that would take the pelt right off a squirrel. “I guess you think I believe that, Junior Bledsoe? Well, I don't.”

“I will see that Junior gets his just desserts,” said Momma.

Sometimes Momma had a strange way of putting things. Dessert today was the sweet potato pie she'd
made for Sunday dinner. But she wasn't talking about that, because I couldn't have any. In fact, she made me miss dinner altogether.

“You're spending the afternoon in your bedroom, but first I expect you to go outside and gather up your blankets and pillow. No more sleeping on the porch for you.”

“Momma! That's not fair. Me shooting that rubber band doesn't have anything to do with Granddaddy. He's mean as a rattlesnake and I can't share a room with him.”

“You can and you will,” said Momma. “I won't have you catching your death by sleeping outside.” She threw open the back door and stood there with one hand on her hip and the other pointing to the corner of the porch where I'd been sleeping.

“I'm not going.”

Momma didn't argue. Instead she went outside and came back loaded down with bedding. She stopped not two feet away and looked me dead in the eye. “Your pillow is still out there. Get it. I've lost one man to stupidity, and I do not intend to lose another for acting the fool.” Her chin started wobbling, and for some reason my determination did too.

By the time I came inside with my pillow she was shoving bedroom furniture back to where it belonged because Granddaddy had taken over the whole room. Now he looked like he was fixing to raise Cain.

“Don't you say a word, Hammer Bledsoe,” said
Momma. “I'm of half a mind to move Junior in and you out. So if you want a roof over your head and food in your belly, I suggest you move that radio back to your side of the room and be quiet.”

Granddaddy shut his mouth. He didn't say a word, not even to me, when Momma went to the cedar chest for clean sheets.

When my bed on the floor was made up and she was gone, I flopped down and pulled the pillow over my head. I was not in the mood for listening to the Melody Boys singing gospel hymns on the radio. I thought about Ann Fay. She must wonder what she'd done to deserve the way I'd treated her lately.

Nothing, I thought. I mean, nothing except being a girl and a chatterbox too. But ever since Pop died, just the sight of her and Leroy together made me want to smack something with my fist. I knew it wasn't her fault Pop was gone. He had sort of been gone ever since my eleventh birthday.

Even with the pillow over my head I could still hear the radio. Now someone was talking about Japan being mad at the United States for cutting off oil supplies. Some politician was of the opinion that Japan was likely to start a war with us.

Granddaddy kept changing the stations. It was like he was carrying on his own private war, listening to one station praising peace negotiations with Japan and another one saying the Japanese would not stop until
they owned all the islands of the Pacific Ocean, including the ones that America laid claim to.

“Look for an attack from the Japanese,” said Granddaddy. “Them Japs are sneaky. Our president had better hit them before they hit us.”

Sometime during the afternoon I fell asleep. I dreamed that Japanese soldiers were sneaking around in our yard. They had me and Momma trapped in the house and Pop locked up in the shed. I could hear him out there calling for us. Momma was trying to get out the front door and I was at the back, but the doorknob was stuck. And I kept yelling for Pop to come fix that doorknob so I could go out to him.

It didn't make sense, but that's how dreams are. When I woke up, Granddaddy was singing along with the radio.
“There'll be peace in the valley for me
…”

Nothing made sense in real life either.

That afternoon, the Yankees won the fourth game in the World Series. DiMaggio got a hit. He'd broken his streak back in July, about a week after Pop died. But he was still golden in my book because, for a little while during each game, he got Granddaddy shouting about something besides America going to war.

October 1941

Miss Pauline was explaining dangling participles. If you asked me, she wasn't doing a good job of it, because I wasn't catching on. But all of a sudden, I heard my name. “Junior, can you give us an example?”

“Uh—no, Miss Pauline. I don't think so.”

I heard Dudley snort and everyone else start to laugh, and that's when I realized I had just called her Miss Pauline.

“I'm sorry. I meant to say ‘Miss Hinkle.' I really did.”

Miss Hinkle squinted her eyes real narrow and pressed her lips together and stared. She waited until everyone in the class stopped snickering, and then she finally spoke. “Mr. Bledsoe, I want you to write three paragraphs on the importance of respect. You may do this while the others are eating lunch.”

“Yes, Miss Hinkle.” I heard Dudley making snickering noises again.

“Dudley, since you find this so amusing, you may join him.”

The rest of the class went to eat and we sat in the room, writing. Or trying to, anyway. I stared at my paper. Time was passing and my belly was growling and I'd only written three sentences. I tapped the page with my pencil, as if
that
would make some words come out of it.

Respect. If I was to write what I really thought about that word, I'd say it was something other people had and I wanted. I'd write that respectable people seemed to look down on the rest of us but maybe that was because they didn't know what we were going through. And that if certain people knew how Momma had stood by Pop, maybe they'd respect her more. If there was anybody in the world who deserved some respect, it was Bessie Bledsoe.

But I didn't write any of that. First of all, Miss Hinkle probably knew most of it already, and second, she wasn't talking about that kind of respect. She wanted me to say something about how we weren't just neighbors anymore. How she was my teacher and I should remember to treat her as such. I should say
Yes, ma'am
and
No, ma'am
and
Please
and
Thank you
and
Excuse me
, at all the right times. I should sit up straight and not write my name on my desk or make tapping sounds with my toe when other people were trying to think.