Ace Jones

by Stephanie McAfee

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A Novella of Bugtussle, Mississippi

Back in Bugtussle, Mississippi, after her relationship with her ex-fiancé has fallen apart, Ace Jones is naturally depressed. What’s worse is that every time she leaves the house, she winds up in some kind of altercation. She can’t help but wonder if she’s an idiot magnet, or if she’s the smart-mouth stirring things up. Hoping for a little peace of mind, Ace gives in to the advice of her best friend and goes to see a therapist. But she quickly discovers that the road to nirvana isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. And as Ace goes from one therapeutic misadventure to another, the plus-sized spitfire becomes more determined than ever to find enlightenment—even if it means bending herself into a pretzel to do it.

Includes excerpts from Diary of a Mad Fat Girl, Happily Ever Madder, and Down and Out in Bugtussle.

Release date: June 4, 2013

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 80

Sample

ACE JONES

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

To Mary MacLean

1

“All rise!”

I stand up, knees shaking and nerves shot to hell. The Honorable Benjamin Wren comes in and takes his place behind the giant wooden desk or podium or bench or whatever it’s called. Without looking up, he instructs us all to be seated. I sit down on top of my purse and, in trying to discreetly pull it out from under my rump, I drop my file folder and watch in horror as my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers fan out on the floor. The Honorable Benjamin Wren calls someone’s name. Thank God it’s not mine. I scramble to get the papers back together. Arrest report, statement of probable cause, court-appointment information sheet. Judge Wren calls another name and then another. Everyone who’s been called so far has an attorney. Great.

I glance at the jury box where three men are seated. They’re all wearing orange. One has his hands cuffed behind him and a fancy array of neck tattoos. Wonderful.

“Graciela Jones,” the judge says. When I stand up, I feel like I might pass out. Heart thumping and cheeks burning, I put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing at the double-wide podium where I saw everyone before me go.

“Do you have counsel, Ms. Jones?”

“No, sir.” My mind spins visions of the worst, horrid thoughts of what my life will be like behind bars. I can’t stop thinking about The Shawshank Redemption. Ninety days. That’s what one of my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers indicated was the maximum penalty should I be found guilty of my alleged crimes against civilization.

“You’re representing yourself?” The Honorable Benjamin Wren raises an eyebrow at me. Someone could weave an afghan rug with the hair above his eyeballs.

“I guess I am, your honor.” I knew better than to punch that lady in face. I knew better than that. Walmart has video cameras everywhere, which means there’s no way I’m getting out of this. I’m going to jail. I’ll have to join one of those gangs for protection.

“You guess you are representing yourself?” His tone is not friendly. I nod. I’m going to jail. I know I am. “Hmmph,” he says. I hear sniggering and glance over to see the fellows in orange laughing at me. At me! They have BUGTUSSLE COUNTY DOC stamped across their shirts, but they are laughing at me. I catch the eye of the fellow with the neck tattoos and give him my dirtiest dirty look. He winks at me and I want to vomit. I look back at the judge, who is shuffling papers. He scans the courtroom, no doubt looking for my accuser. I want to turn around and scan the crowd, but I’m afraid to move. I didn’t see her before court was called into session. I got here an hour early this morning hoping that when she showed up, I could hide behind something, get her attention, and then smack my fist against the palm of my hand and point to her. That was my only plan today. Run the bitch off. That was it. Well, that and picking up a forty ounce bottle of cheap beer on the way over. I wanted a Corona, but a girl scraping change from the glove box, cup holder, and ashtray has only so many options.

“Patricia Desmond,” the judge says. He’s looking around. The bailiff is looking around. The court reporter is looking around. Even the guys in the jury box are craning their necks. Assholes.

I should’ve just followed Patricia Desmond to her house and socked her in the nose there, but from the looks of her, she probably has a meth lab in her garage that’s guarded by rabid pit bulls who would’ve surely eaten me alive. Maybe it’s better that I punched her at Walmart, where it’s safe. I got a round of applause when security escorted me out of the store, and some other folks booed the police who arrested me just before I got to my car, which told me that my fellow shoppers were as tired of listening to that old hag run her mouth as I was. You could hear her all over the store. Kids and little old women shouldn’t have to listen to crap like that. And neither should I. Nobody needs to hear a bunch of idiotic foul language in a place where we’re all trying to save money and live better. She deserved to be punched in the face. I should be here to receive a ribbon of commendation for shutting her up because that was an act of community service in and of itself.

Patricia Desmond does not come forward. Maybe her meth lab exploded and she’s busy with that.

“Patricia Desmond,” the judge says again. He looks at the court reporter. “Let the record show that the plaintiff failed to appear.” The Honorable Benjamin Wren turns his attention and his eyebrows to me. He frowns and says, “Case dismissed.”

“Oh thank you, Jesus,” I mumble and pick up my folder. When I walk past my brothers in orange, I throw up a victory sign and whisper, “Peace out, homies.” Outside the courtroom, I toss my folder full of Very Important and Embarrassing Papers into the first trash can I see. I can’t wait to start forgetting this ever happened. I drive home where my super chiweenie, Buster Loo, is waiting for me in the kitchen.

“Not guilty!” I tell Buster Loo, who sits up on his rump and waves his paws. “I knew you’d be proud!” I settle into my sofa, thankful the “incident” is over, and pick up the phone to call Pier Six Pizza. Buster Loo brings me his favorite little-dog toy and we celebrate with a few rounds of Victory Fetch. Now all I have to worry about is how to pay Lilly Lane back for posting my bail.

•   •   •

The phone rings and it’s my friend Chloe. “J.J. wants to know how it went today.”

“Case dismissed,” I tell her.

“I’m so sorry we were out of town when that happened,” Chloe says. “I’m sure J.J. could’ve done something.” Chloe and Sheriff J. J. Jackson had gone to Gatlinburg for a long weekend in January and while they were away, I found myself locked up in the Lee County Jail. By the time they got back, the paperwork was already in the system and there was nothing J.J. could do to help me. But that was fine. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t even going to tell Chloe about it, but Lilly’s boyfriend, Deputy Dax Dorsett, told J.J. as soon as he got to work that next Tuesday. Then J.J. went home and said something to Chloe and she called me all freaked out. I told her not to worry about it, that I got myself into it and I could get myself out of it. Or so I thought. As it turns out, I was an idiot because when I made that dreaded “first appearance” and they issued me another Very Important and Embarrassing Paper, this one with an actual court date on it, I became quite concerned. Then I happened across a little paragraph that stated the maximum penalty for my crime was ninety days in jail. That got me a helluva lot more worried. But it was too late because it was happening, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. At that moment, I realized that I needed a lawyer worse than I ever have, but the only lawyer I know is Mason McKenzie, my ex-fiancé. And I couldn’t exactly call him, now, could I? Okay, honestly, I did think about calling him but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Which is fine because it’s all over now and I’m ready to stop talking about it but my friend Chloe obviously isn’t.

“All’s well that ends well, my friend,” I tell her. I hope no one told Mason about my legal predicament, but I’m sure they did. Small-town gossip spreads like herpes in a whorehouse, and the fact that Mason lives four hundred miles away in Pelican Cove, Florida, means absolutely nothing. Someone called him. I know they did. Probably his stupid-ass mama who I heard was positively thrilled about our breakup. Bitch.