Backseat Saints

by Joshilyn Jackson

Genres: Women's Fiction; Family Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Rose Mae Lolley is a fierce and dirty girl, long-suppressed under flowery skirts and bow-trimmed ballet flats. As "Mrs. Ro Grandee" she's trapped in a marriage that's thick with love and sick with abuse. Her true self has been bound in the chains of marital bliss in rural Texas, letting "Ro" make eggs, iron shirts, and take her punches. She seems doomed to spend the rest of her life battered outside by her husband and inside by her former self, until fate throws her in the path of an airport gypsy---one who shares her past and knows her future. The tarot cards foretell that Rose's beautiful, abusive husband is going to kill her. Unless she kills him first.

Hot-blooded Rose Mae escapes from under Ro's perky compliance and emerges with a gun and a plan to beat the hand she's been dealt. Following messages that her long-missing mother has left hidden for her in graffiti and behind paintings, Rose and her dog Gretel set out from Amarillo, TX back to her hometown of Fruiton, AL, and then on to California, unearthing a host of family secrets as she goes. Running for her life, she realizes that she must face her past in order to overcome her fate---death by marriage---and become a girl who is strong enough to save herself from the one who loves her best.

BACKSEAT SAINTS will dazzle listeners with a fresh and heartwrenching portrayal of the lengths a mother will go to right the wrongs she's created, and how far a daughter will go to escape the demands of forgiveness. With the seed of a minor character from her popular best-seller, GODS IN ALABAMA, Jackson has built a whole new story full of her trademark sly wit, endearingly off-kilter characters, and utterly riveting plot twists.

Release date: May 20, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

“[A] cleverly twisted mix of comedy, mystery, and new Southern Gothic… practically dares you to stop reading from the very first sentence.”

—Atlanta Magazine

“The work of Joshilyn Jackson is genius and she proves it again with BACKSEAT SAINTS… she uses the finely honed sense of irony and the absurd that characterize the best Southern novelists to not only give faces to a very important issue, but to do it in a most entertaining way… Although not reading Jackson’s earlier works would in no way diminish a reading of BACKSEAT SAINTS, it’s something I heartily recommend.”

—Las Vegas Review Journal

“[It] soars… magical… the work of a first-rate writer.”

—BookPage

“Builds to a nail-biting ‘Who’s at the door?!’ climax.”

—Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Jackson wraps these frequently examined themes in quirky humor and refreshing twists. Flannery O’Connor meets Dave Barry.”

—Newark Star-Ledger

“A book full of her trademark sly wit, endearingly off-kilter characters, and utterly riveting plot twists.”

—Sacramento Bee

“Witty, moving… a ‘Hot Read.’”

—New Orleans Times-Picayune

“Entertaining despite the chilling theme of the book… The main characters are fully developed, intense, and multifaceted women.”

—New York Journal of Books

“Jackson reels you in with the opening sentence… [Ro’s] ultimate resilience makes the journey worthwhile.”

—Miami Herald

“Powerful… an ultra-realistic domestic drama… the author is an expert at manipulating intricacies of plot.”

—Washington Post Book World

“A riveting novel by one of the South’s most promising novelists.”

—Charlotte Observer

“Jackson spins her spellbinding magic in a riveting tale… a story rich with sly wit and captivating plot twists.”

—Southern Seasons Magazine

“Grounded in the dirt of the Deep South… It channels a bit of Flannery O’Connor with its sense of Southern Gothic and backdrop of old-school Catholicism. Yet it’s fast-paced and darkly funny enough to throw in your tote for a beach weekend.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Like reading a fired bullet… BACKSEAT SAINTS sizzles with guns, beatings, an escape, and steamy sex… a book that grabs you up, yanks you into a fast car, and peels out onto the highway with the radio blasting and maybe a gun in the glove compartment… desperado-style, heart-thumping joyriding at its best.”

—Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“An ideal summer read from a great contemporary Southern storyteller.”

—Memphis Commercial Appeal

“Another winner that teeters between laugh-out-loud funny and bittersweet tragedy.”

—Monroe News-Star (LA)

“Jackson’s sprightly prose and charismatic characters offer readers a rollicking good time.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Will pull you in and won’t let you out until the last page. Raw, tangy, and funny, it is an enthralling peek into the secret sorority of mistreated women. Follow the journey of one courageous, witty woman who decides, ‘I’m not going to take this anymore.’”

—Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help

“Though Jackson retains the same light touch, her wit, and her highly polished prose as evidenced in her prior books, here she breaks through into more serious territory with a powerful novel about violence and control.”

—Waterbury Sunday Republican (CT)

“A gripping, poignant, and funny novel… made my list of books I just couldn’t put down… perfect for a hot, humid Southern summer afternoon… a heck of a ride.”

—Burlington Times-News (NC)

“Joshilyn Jackson dives into darker, deeper water in BACKSEAT SAINTS—with all her readers firmly in tow. As always, a riveting read.”

—Lee Smith, author of The Last Girls and Mrs. Darcy and the Blue-Eyed Stranger

“Quirky characters, snappy dialogue, and touches of humor combine to make Jackson’s latest a compelling story about abuse, sacrifice, love, and redemption.”

—Bookreporter.com

“The arrival of a Joshilyn Jackson novel feels like the first perfect day in a favorite season and BACKSEAT SAINTS is no exception.”

—Laura Lippman, author of Life Sentences

“Jackson writes real, raw, and emotional stories about flawed women and the powers of faith. The strength of her characters lie in their ability to overcome obstacles, rise above difficulties and hardship, and stay true to themselves. Her novels are riveting, emotional, and passionate and this one is not to be missed.”

—BookFinds.com

“Absorbing and rewarding… Jackson peels back Rose’s hard edges and resignation to reveal a smart, earnest, brave, and surprisingly hopeful young woman who yearns to make a better life for herself.”

—Booklist (starred review)

“An unputdownable story about love, survival, and shedding the past. Rose Mae Lolly is tough, passionate, funny, and fierce, one hell of a heroine to guide us through one hell of an adventure. Any time Joshilyn Jackson is in the driver’s seat, I’m along for the ride.”

—Michelle Richmond, author of The Year of Fog and No One You Know

“A riveting read. Rose Mae is strong and determined and you will cheer for her until the dramatic conclusion. This is Jackson at her best.”

—BookLoons.com

“Readers everywhere will rejoice to be back in the land of gods in Alabama. BACKSEAT SAINTS is a heart-thrilling, can’t-stop-reading book about the unique and unforgettable Rose Mae Lolley. Loved this novel.”

—Michael Lee West, author of Mermaids in the Basement

“Inspiring… A wonderfully written story and a great read… The book left me breathless. I actually realized I was holding my breath because I was so addicted and involved in Ro’s journey.”

—ReaderViews.com

“Heart-wrenching… both poignant and riveting… Perfectly captured in the author’s enveloping wit and spirit, BACKSEAT SAINTS is a tale of an enduring heroine with dauntless courage and unstoppable resolve.”

—Milwaukee Shepherd Express

“Has a lot of humor and heart. Fans of Southern fiction will love this one.”

—mlive.com

“Seldom has Southern Gothic been so rollicking or so often riotously funny.”

—StarNewsOnLine.com (Wilmington, NC)

I’m so ridiculously over-blessed.

This is my fourth book with Caryn Karmatz Rudy, and she is like editorial heroin. I’m addicted to her keen insight and insatiable love of getting the words right, and so she is hereby forbidden from moving to France to be a perfumier and/or running in front of a taxi. Jacques de Spoelberch has been my agent and good friend ever since I pulled his name out of a book and he pulled my letter out of his slush pile. I cannot do without either of them.

I’m privileged to have a mighty army of friends and advocates at my publishing house who fight with flaming swords to help my work find its readership: Jamie Raab, Martha Otis, Karen Torres, Chris Barba, Emily Griffin, Amanda Englander, Harvey-Jane Kowal, Evan Boorstyn, Elly Weisenberg, Miriam Parker, Nancy Wiese, Nicole Bond, Peggy Boelke, Anne Twomey, Liz Connor, Thom Whatley, Toni Marotta, Les Pockell, and Cheryl Rozier.

The above list hardly covers it. I have endless thanks for everyone at Grand Central Publishing; they gave me my dream job. And thanks to the host of righteous handsellers in bookstores of every stripe who have allowed me to keep it. I am hugely indebted to all of them, from Jake Reiss and the Alabama Booksmith Gang who were kind enough to read my first book in MS form, to the bookseller halfway across the country that I have never met who just put a copy of Backseat Saints in the hands of a reader and said, “Oh, you have to try this one!”

I misplace modifiers as if they were my keys, and sometimes I think I am on a mission to let no comma pass unspliced. It is terrifying to think I once taught English to America’s youth. God bless copyeditors in general and Sona Vogel in particular. STET!

Big thanks and night whispers to the community of writers and readers and friends who give me their time, support, patience, and martini recipes: Lydia Netzer, Karen Potsie Abbott, Sara Fonzie Gruen (Wait, did I just by the process of elimination make myself Ralph Malph?), Anna Schachner, Julie Oestreich, Mir Kamin, my Best Beloveds at Faster Than Kudzu, and the crew of foul reprobates who WoW around with me in BoB. Lok’tar Ogar!

Jill James put me up for weeks so I could learn firsthand how a small-town southern girl would see the gorgeous, eclectic, and endlessly fascinating Bay Area, and she went with me to have our cards read and our auras cleansed. (They were filthy.) Tarot maven Deb Richardson read for Rose.

Boundless thanks to the quiet heroes of Building Futures with Women and Children (especially Dr. Liz Nickels) in San Leandro, California. They are working tirelessly to end violence against women, and their input was invaluable.

My family (Scott, Sam, Maisy Jane, Bob, Betty, Bobby, Julie, Daniel, Erin Virginia, Jane, Allison) and my extended family (Macland Presbyterian Church, especially the very Slanted Sidewalk-ers and smallgroup) are my living home. Thanks for reminding me daily that Love wins.

Most of all, I thank you for reading.



IT WAS AN AIRPORT gypsy who told me that I had to kill my husband. She may have been the first to say the words out loud, but she was only giving voice to a thing I’d been trying not to know for a long, long time. When she said that it was him or me, the words rang out like church bells, shuddering through my bones. For two days, they sat in the pit of my belly, making me sick. I had no reason to trust her, and I’d as soon take life advice from a Chinese take-out fortune cookie as believe in tarot cards, but I’d lived with Thom Grandee long enough to recognize the truth, no matter how it came to me.

So on Thursday morning, I got my Pawpy’s old gun, and I lay for my husband near Wildcat Bluff. Thom liked to run a trail out there. It was too far from the picnic grounds to attract most day-trippers, and he got his miles in early, when he could trust it would be his alone. That day he had me for secret company.

Not two hours ago, I’d gotten up before the sun to make him real biscuits. I’d cut Crisco into flour until it felt soft, like powdered velvet. I’d mixed the dough and rolled it and pressed out circles with the top of a juice glass. I’d fried bacon and then cooked two eggs sunny-side up in the grease. I had loaded his grits with salt and cheese and put thick pats of butter to melt on everything that looked like it could hold butter. There must have been a thousand calories in fat alone floating on that plate.

I’d often made him devil-breakfasts like this after fights, so I hadn’t thought of it as a last meal. It was more of an absurd apology. Like me saying, “Baby, I’m scared I might blow holes in you later, but look, I made you the naughty eggs.” Last night I’d made sex for him, too, in the same way, buttery slick and fat with all the things he liked best.

An hour before the sex, he’d held my head sideways in his big hand, my other cheek pressed into the cool plaster of the wall. I’d been pinned, limbs flailing helpless sideways, while he ran four fast punches down one side of my back. Then he’d let me go and I’d slid down the wall into a heap and he’d said, “Lord, Ro, why do you push me like that?”

I didn’t say a word. He knew the answer. We both knew; I was a good wife most times, but I was made like nesting dolls. I had something bad, some other girl, buried way down in the meat of me. That inside girl was the thing that needed to be hit, that deserved it, and I called it to her. Last night, I’d lay coiled on the floor at Thom’s feet, wondering why a big man like him couldn’t hit through, could never hit me hard enough to reach her.

On Tuesday morning, I’d driven my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Fancy, to the airport. She’d come over the week before with a plate of her hot cheese cornbread and asked me if I would drive her. She was on a fixed income, and I knew four days of airport parking would be a trial for her, so I’d lied and said I’d love to spend a solid hour fighting highway traffic. I owed her more than a ride to the airport, as good as she had been to me.

“We can take my Honda,” Mrs. Fancy had said, smiling her thanks at me with her brown eyes squirrel bright. “You’re saving me the parking, Ro. At least let me save you the gas.”

Since my ancient Buick got about twelve miles a gallon with the wind behind me, I was happy enough to take her in the Civic. That would have been the end of it, if I hadn’t helped Mrs. Fancy tote in all her luggage. The gypsy was standing near the airport’s little coffee shop like she’d been waiting for me. Like she’d known that I was coming.

That gypsy looked at me and knew me. She saw me whole, inside and out, as if my skin was made of glass. She laid her tarot cards for me, and that reading… it was like she took my life and ran it through a Cuisinart. She told me it was Thom or me, and God help me, I believed her. As I drove home after, I was shaking so hard I like to run off the road. I pulled onto the shoulder and sat, trying to remember how to make my lungs work right. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight, the knuckles had gone bloodless. As I looked at them, a chill, small voice rose up inside of me, not shaking at all. It said, clear and cold, What we got here is an almost anonymous car for three days. That could be right useful.

So instead of taking the Honda back to Mrs. Fancy’s garage, I’d parked it on a busy street a few blocks over. The hours until Mrs. Fancy’s return began ticking backwards in my head, like a countdown. I was set to pick her up come Friday, so this muggy Thursday morning was my last chance. As I’d made Thom’s final, butter-logged breakfast, my eat-in kitchen had looked as fake as a movie set, the sunflowers nodding cheerful on the wallpaper, the mellow old linoleum gleaming under its fresh coat of Mop & Glo. I’d whisked about, wiping down the countertop and washing the cook pans like I was an alive cartoon, hand drawn into a sunshiny kitchen.

“You trying to kill me, woman?” Thom had said when I’d set the plate in front of him. My mouth had gone slack, and he’d grinned up at me. He’d tucked into the bacon, eyes closing as he chewed. “I can feel my arteries hardening, but my tongue don’t much care.” I’d managed to get my lips to close before drool fell out. He’d broken the yolk with one of the biscuits and said, “You’re gonna get me as fat as your damn dog.”

Gretel had thumped her tail on the floor in honor of the word dog, or maybe the word fat. She knew both words meant her. Gretel was mine. She was a khaki-colored mutt, mostly hound dog, but Thom always said at least one of her ancestors must have been a piece of carpet, as much time as she spent sprawled out snoozing on the floor. I’d listened to the real sound of her tail on the linoleum and thought to myself, This is how to kill a man. I keep myself believing I won’t, but I keep going, until I am there and already doing it.

It was a trick I was playing on myself, and it worked even though I knew I was playing it.

Thom left early. Before his run, he had to drop Fat Gretel off to get her shots, then go by his daddy’s main store and put an antique Winchester in the safe. He practically had to drag poor Gretel; she knew a car ride alone with Thom meant the vet. Thirty seconds after the front door shut, I was butt-up under the kitchen sink, digging my Pawpy’s old .45 revolver out from the stack of rags behind my cleaning products. We had another .45 and a .38 at the house, both automatics, but they were registered. Not even Thom knew I had Pawpy’s. A gun this old and unused was off the books even before I stole it out of a shoebox in my daddy’s closet and carted it halfway across America. It’s the kind of gun a certain type of cop would like to have on hand. A “drop weapon,” they call it, because they can lay it down by the body of a bad man and say that he pulled first.

The pin had broken off years ago, and since revolvers don’t have safeties, I took the barrel out to travel it. Until I put the barrel back in and latched it, it was only two lumps of inert metal. I dropped both pieces in a Target bag. Then I ran back to our room to grab a handful of bullets out of the gun safe. While I was there, I changed into baggy, dark jeans and a floppy T-shirt, tucking my long dark hair under a baseball cap. Short as I was, in these clothes I looked like a kid. No neighbor, catching a glimpse of me trit-trotting down the street near school bus time, could possibly think of pretty, feminine Ro Grandee.

I jogged to Mrs. Fancy’s car and got in. I shoved my gun under the passenger seat, then I started up the car and headed out to Wildcat Bluff. On the flat land behind me, Amarillo stuck up like an ugly thumb, and I was glad when the rare hills near the bluff began to hide it. I parked in a pull-in lot that bellied up to the woods, a mile and change past the lot Thom favored.

Counting the time it would take for him to finish his errands, I was a good half hour ahead of him, but I found myself running down the trail like he was fast after me. The Target bag banged against my leg, the loose bullets jangling. I made myself slow to a measured jog and breathe deep, scanning the woods for the right spot every time the trail took a sharp turn. Ready, Teddy, hands rock steady, as Daddy used to say when he was teaching me to shoot. He’d started me on .22s when I was so small that the knock back from a .38 would have pitched me over.

At a hairpin curve near the middle of Thom’s route, my gaze caught on an underdark beneath the waxy leaves of a thicket of ground ivy. I paused. Peering down, I could just make out the lip of a long ditch, running like a crossbar to the point of the trail, about a yard past the first row of trees. Perfect.

I slid myself into the woods, easing between the questing offshoots of a honeysuckle vine. I curved my spine to limbo under branches. I slipped each foot between the high fronds of ground fern to the dirt underneath, precise, like I was stepping into strappy shoes. Once off the trail, I looked back the way I came and saw every leaf unbent, every twig unbroken. Even Davy Crockett wouldn’t think so much as a rabbit had passed. Some days it’s good to be slight.

Some days it’s not; I could feel the bruises running in a chain down my back, left of my spine, four in a vertical row. The purple black bloom in the center of each was the size of Thom Grandee’s fist, and the yellow and pale green mottling was different around each, like the off-sparks from a firework caught in a picture on my skin. They ached me something fierce as I squatted to check the trail’s visibility through the green haze of leaves.

Down in the ditch, I’d have a clear view up the slope. I would see him coming. He’d be at the top of the gentle hill, the rising sun’s light in his face. I’d wait to shoot till I could see the whites of his eyes. Better yet, I’d watch his Roman profile pass, his short forehead leading directly into his long, straight nose, his wide mouth set in a line as he pushed himself. His blond hair would be darkened down by sweat. I knew every line of his face; I loved them all. The beauty of my laying at the hairpin was that I would see him going, too. His familiar face might stay my wifely hand as he passed, but I could bury two bullets in the anonymous back of his head.

As I lowered myself down into the ditch, motion caught my eye. At the other end, perched on a branch, a long-legged burrowing owl was swiveling his head around in a perfect half circle to face me. He’d been sitting still, and his mottled feathers blended with the shadows, so that he’d been invisible until he moved. He was perched on a root, head poked up over the lip. He was unconcerned, sure that he was not what I was hunting. Still, his round eyes, gold and blank, looked mildly affronted by my intrusion.

“Leave if you don’t like it. I have business here,” I told him, but I didn’t sound like myself. The words came out pure Alabama, neglected consonants, long vowels.

If the owl had had shoulders, he would have shrugged. He was a witness, not a judge. I kneeled down in my half of the ditch, and he stayed in his.

I said, “Lord, I am talking to owls. I might well be crazy enough to shoot my husband.” Now I could hear the sharp, small twang Texas had given me. Half a dozen years here, and my voice had grown corners.

The owl fluffed himself. He didn’t like me breaking the quiet morning. I shouldn’t be making noise anyway.

I scrabbled in the Target bag, finding the loose barrel by feel and then picking out six bullets. I palmed five and slotted the last one into an empty chamber. It made a snicking sound, then the whispery rub of metal on metal as it slid home. And there I stuck, one bullet loaded, as if I were undecided.

“Nothin’ left to decide,” I whispered. Pure Alabama again. I didn’t sound like Mrs. Ro Grandee, Thom’s cool-mouthed wife whose tongue would not melt butter. I sounded like Rose Mae Lolley, a girl I’d buried years ago, when I was eight, the year my mother disappeared. She left her rosary and took her flowered shoes, the ones she seldom wore because the toes were stuffed with money.

Thom knew Rose Mae was there, though. He’d known she was in me from the very night we met. Sometimes I wondered if that bad girl hidden in the deeps of me was the thing he really loved.

Seven years ago, at three A.M. on a warm spring morning, he’d come into the diner where Rose Mae Lolley was working. She was wearing the mask—warm smile, light step—of the fake girl she’d grown over herself. Rose Mae had worn that face over hers all the time, every waking minute for almost two years now, since the moment she’d figured she’d taken enough beatings for her long-gone mother and lit out from her daddy’s house. She’d waitressed her way west down the coast, every few months trading one small town with a bad job and a worse boyfriend for another, much the same.

She’d yet to find a town or job or man that made her feel safe enough to take that face off. At work, her sweet exterior upped her tips, and her most recent home was a cheap furnished room with kitchen privileges and no privacy. Her landlady, Kim, claimed to be a lesbian, but Rose guessed she had given up women in favor of Captain Morgan. Kim would barrel into Rose’s room at all hours, demanding to know where the salt had gotten to or asking if Rose had taken any messages. She never knocked or apologized, even the time she burst in on a freshly showered Rose wearing nothing but a sheer white bra.

“You ain’t got drugs in here, do ya?” Kim’d said that time.

“Of course not,” said Rose in her best pep-squad girl voice, picking up her towel. She was trying not to glance at her bed. A pair of red fuzzy dice was lying beside Rose’s uniform. The dice were Kim’s, and Rose had stolen them out of the coat closet. She planned to take them to work and sneak to hang them in the short-order cook’s car. He seemed like he was a single pair of fuzzy dice away from lighting out for Vegas, and since he couldn’t keep his hands off her ass, Rose Mae wanted to give him a nudge.

Kim didn’t notice the dice. She didn’t seem to notice Rose’s state of undress, either, even though Rose Mae Lolley laid bare was worth seeing: long waist, tightly curved hips, creamy skin. Kim turned laboriously and began her drunken shuffle out. Some lesbian, thought Rose, tossing the towel over the dice in case Kim looked back.

“I don’t do drugs,” Rose called after her, still working the perky, and Kim grunted in a way that could have meant satisfied or disappointed.

With no safe space, Rose kept her smiling shell on all the time, but some days it felt as thin as the candy pink cotton of her retro fifties waitress uniform. The uniform had a white Peter Pan collar and a miniature apron. It was cut to fit and the skirt was short, and when Thom Grandee came in on a double date that first evening, his girl didn’t like that uniform one bit.

The sign by the door said, “Seat Yourself,” so Thom did, sliding into one side of a four-top booth. His date followed, and the other couple sat down across. Rose was the only waitress on at this hour. She could tell by looking they were from the A&M Kingsville campus. She’d pegged them as sports boys, taking their dates for eggs after the victory party.

And it had been a victory. Rose Mae could smell it on the boys as she came around the counter bringing the coffeepot and four plastic-coated menus, a mix of pheromones and beer and fresh male sweat. The smell of win.

They were both good-looking boys, but her eye went right to Thom. He was six feet tall with a thick, meaty build that said football to her, and she liked the Roman nose. She also liked the way he eyed her as she swayed toward them. To the other couple she was a vague pink waitress shape, bringing menus. Thom looked.

Thom’s date had a high ponytail that was beginning to unravel into fronds onto her pretty neck. She had a mound of bangs, flat on the back side, teased into a rigid foam of curls that humped over her forehead. This late, her Breck was beginning to fail her, and the bang puff was listing to starboard.

When Thom spent too long looking at Rose’s face before the inevitable stealthy eye slide down her body, Rose could feel the girl bristle up. Rose was only twenty-one, but this girl looked young even to her. A freshman with a glamour shot fake ID. The girl narrowed her eyes, venomous, telling Rose plain that she wasn’t used to chapped-lipped waitrons with no tan stealing her male gazes. She’d no doubt been the prettiest girl in her high school, but Rose was willing to bet that it had been a small school.

“Good morning!” Rose gave them her best three A.M. cheerful, passing out the menus. “Welcome to Duff’s. I’m Ro. I’ll be taking care of you this morning.”

They all had flipped their mugs right-side up, so Rose leaned across to pour coffee, first for the dark-haired boy, then for his date.

“Morning,” Thom said back.

He was the only one who spoke to her. She turned to pour his coffee. And then, because he was looking at her face again, not her tits and not his date, looking at her like she was a person, she found herself saying, “So, what position do you play?”

“Outfield,” he said. “Sometimes third base.”

She shook her head. “I asked what position you played, mister. I didn’t ask what you did in spring to stay in shape.”

He grinned then, giving her an assessing nod, like he was adding smart and sly to the pretty. “Strong-side safety.”

“Oh. Fast boy,” she said, and started filling his date’s cup.

“What the hell are you doing?” his date demanded, bangs atremble.

Rose stopped and tipped the pot upright, smile fading. “I’m sorry?”

“Did I order coffee?” Bangs asked.

Rose said, “I’m sorry. You turned your cup over.”

“Yeah. Because I want hot cocoa.”

“Sure thing,” said Rose. “I’ll get that while y’all look over the menu.”

“What can I get for you today?” the girl said to her friend across the table. “What would you like to drink? Would you care for a beverage? You’d think you’d get those lines on, like, the very first day of waitress school.”

Rose felt the fever of a blush rising in her cheeks, and she knew it was painfully visible on her pale skin. Dropping her eyelids, she focused on her feet so that none of them could see the furious deeps in her eyes. She held her hand very still to keep from pouring scalding coffee over that bang puff. She could practically smell the ashy scent the girl’s hair products would release, could hear her surprised cry as the hot liquid seared her scalp and ran down to blister that smug face. While the girl was screaming and clawing at herself, Rose would say, calmly, “You turn your cup over in a diner, it means you want coffee.” Then she’d call an ambulance.

“I apologize,” Rose said. Her voice was trembling with the effort that it took to stay her hand. She picked up the cup with the small splash of black liquid in the bottom. Made herself pivot. Forced herself to walk away.

Duff’s was quiet. She heard her every footfall on the floor. There were the two obligatory old drunk guys silently nursing coffee at the counter, yellow-skinned because they had maybe half a working liver left between them. They hadn’t asked out loud for their coffee, just flipped their mugs over and waited to be served. A couple in the back had cuddled up on the same side of their booth, whispering to each other. No one was feeding the juke. She could hear Bangs saying something low and giggly. She caught the word Casper.

Her blush was traveling, flushing the backs of her pale, bare legs. The girl’s friend was laughing with her now in a high-pitched trill that sounded to Rose like a mean pig squealing.

Back behind the counter, Rose dumped a packet of Swiss Miss with minimallows into a clean mug. That girl, Bangs, was wearing a sundress, crisp green and new. She had a sheer white sweater thrown around her shoulders. It was a frivolous sweater, the kind a doting mother would buy along with new bedding and a tiny dorm refrigerator. Rose would bet her week’s tips that that same mother kept Bangs’s girlhood room intact, waiting for Christmas and spring break.

And meanwhile here was Rose, prettier and smarter and nicer in publi