Page 111 of The Best Shot

“Morning Songbird.”

Her smile.

We painted all afternoon. I rolled, she cut in, and by evening the whole place smelled like fresh paint and cut grass, the coop a loud, aggressive yellow screaming across the field. “You think we should have gone Buttercup Dreams?” I asked.

She leaned into me, paint smeared on her arms, a streak on her cheek.

“No,” she said. “Dolores is going to love it.”

I knew more than a little about chickens. I was learning I didn’t know much about women who talked to them.

I was figuring it out, just not fast enough apparently. Because what in the hell had I done?

I picked up my phone.

Me: Did Yasmine say anything about me?

Annie: This isn’t fourth period. We’re not passing notes

I scrubbed a hand over my face.

Me: Funny. So did she?

Annie: Duh

Me: What did I do?

Annie: Ask her

Me: Give me a hint.

Annie: Leave me alone.

Me: I’ll give you the Chevelle for a week.

Annie: Of my choosing?

Me: Yeah

Annie: Deal.

Me: So?

Annie: starts with an M ends with you being dumb

Me: That narrows it down less than you think.

Annie: Monae.

Me: What about her?

Annie: Figure it out.

I thought it through.

Friday at the farmers market.

Yasmine in overalls and that straw hat, like she was two seconds from churning butter. I’d called her Farmer Brown.