Heroine(34)

“Who is it?” Edith asks from the chair. She digs the remote out from under her hip, awake enough now to care again what’s on TV.

“Luther and Derrick.”

“That’s fine, hon,” Edith says. “But nobody else. There’s enough cars in the driveway as it is. And tell them there’s no meat loaf left.”

“Okay,” Josie says, clicking out a response on her phone.

Edith flips through a few channels, then seems to reconsider. “I can make more though, if they want to stop and get some ground beef.”

“I think they’re good, Grandma,” Josie says.

“Actually, tell them if they want to come they need to stop and get prune juice,” Edith says.

“No, hey—” I begin.

Edith waves away my complaint. “Prune juice.”

“Done,” Josie says.

I find my sweatshirt in a ball at the end of the couch and pull it over my head. “I’m out,” I tell them.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Edith says. “You’re not driving anywhere. I don’t want your death on my conscience . . . or a police record.”

“I’m fine.” I’m digging in the hoodie pocket for my keys when Josie stops me.

“You’re not fine,” she says, hand on my arm. “And you’ll like Luther and Derrick.”

That’s not the issue, and I don’t know how to explain it to Josie. I’m sure I will like them well enough. But I won’t have anything to say, and I’ll just stand in the middle of the room, an awkward girl as big as they are. They won’t quite know how to handle my silence, or worse—if I open my mouth and say something stupid. But Josie has delayed me long enough, because a few minutes later headlights sweep the front of the house, the back door opens, and Luther Drake walks in.

Athletes in small towns know each other—or at least, we know of each other. Even though Luther goes to Baylor Springs—a much nicer school than mine—and plays basketball—not my sport—I could still tell you his highest scoring game, just like I’m pretty sure he probably knows my batting average.

“Mickey Catalan, what the hell?” Luther says, fist raised for a bump.

“You know each other?” Josie raises an eyebrow.

“All-County athletes three years in a row,” Luther says, fist still out. I bump it, both stricken and flattered. “Heard you got tore up pretty bad.”

“Car accident,” I say. “You ripped your ACL, right?”

“Last year. In half,” Luther says, with a perverse sort of pride in his injury.

“My leg popped out of its socket,” I say, aware that we’re competing.

“My muscle rolled up like a window shade,” he comes back.

“I’ve got three screws in my hip.”

“I screw with my third leg.”

I laugh, loud and easy, a sound that doesn’t usually come out anywhere other than the dugout or at home.

“Um, who’s this for?” Luther’s friend, Derrick, holds up a jug of prune juice.

“Mickey,” Josie says. “She can’t shit.”

“Nice, thanks,” I tell her.

“You got the Oxy-can’ts?” Derrick asks.

“Go a few days without,” Luther says to me, pulling his jacket off. “Then go for a run. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, weirdly comforted even though we’re still talking about poop, and mine specifically.

Luther is a true athlete, someone whose movements are suffused with grace at all times. Everyday things, like him taking off his jacket, or moving a pillow on the couch, become fascinating to watch, large muscles flowing in small gestures.

Josie elbows me. “You’re staring.”

“What’s up, Edith?” Derrick asks. “That reunion happen yet?”

“Reunion?” I ask, hoping Luther didn’t catch Josie giving me a hard time. “What’s that about?”

“Fiftieth class reunion, down in West Virginia,” she says, turning off the TV. “I don’t know what I’m going to wear.”

“I’ll take you shopping,” Josie volunteers, but Derrick cuts her off.

“What’s going on over here?” he asks, spotting the line Josie had made.

“Josie wants us to show her how to snort,” Luther says. “Check your texts.”

“It’s easy,” Derrick says, leaning over the table. “You just—”

It’s gone in a second and Josie smacks him between the shoulder blades. “Asshole! That was mine.”

“There’s more where that came from. No fighting,” Edith says. “And I’ve got a closet full of clothes, Josie. I don’t need to go shopping.”

“I’ll help you pick something out then,” Josie says, still sulking about her lost line, and cradling the hand she hit Derrick with. He’s swaying on his feet now, and she tips him over onto the couch, where Luther slides over, effortlessly, making room as Derrick falls.

“Fashion show,” Derrick says, clapping his hands together. “Fashion show. Fashion show.”

I don’t know Derrick. He must not be in any sports, or if he is he doesn’t get a lot of playing time. The first impression I have of him is of a little kid, clapping his hands and bouncing on a couch, incredibly small next to Luther. I like him. I like him enough to start clapping too, and yelling for a fashion show, even though I don’t think I’ve ever said that phrase in my life, and I really don’t care at all what we do for the rest of the night.