Chapter 7

chapter

seven

ADDIE

"Thank you so much for your patience as we resolved this matter," the customer service representative grinds out.

She's anything but appreciative after our hour-long debate over dance costumes.

"And thank you for being so helpful, Janice." I force a smile as if she can see me and end the call while I trudge up the path toward my house.

On top of executing the last few months' worth of planning for homecoming, along with the reunion, I'm also a volunteer at the local dance studio. Since her niece was unavailable, Iris, the aging owner, called me to stop by the studio on my way home from freshmen float to discuss the new costumes.

They arrived for the holiday recital this winter, but they're the wrong color. I spent the last hour on the phone with customer service explaining the difference between Christmas red and murder-y red.

We obviously want the former, but the costumes were of the latter.

Janice's cooperation wasn't immediate, but I never give up until I secure what I want.

I'm about to call Iris to inform her of the good news when something catches my attention. I pause on my porch, my stomach rolling and gurgling like a sick kitten as a familiar smell wafts over me. Among the sweet aroma from the rose bushes behind me is the distinct smell of fried, greasy heaven.

But it could very well be my mind and stomach playing tricks on me.

I forgot to eat dinner for probably the third time this week.

On top of my ungodly list of to-dos, I'm actually trying to enjoy this week's festivities.

Homecoming holds some of my best memories from high school. It's one of the rare times in the past when my mother would put aside her quirky—and often unreasonable—beliefs to enjoy an organized sport. She'd meet me at the football game on Friday night, and then we'd walk arm in arm to the cafeteria for the chili dinner, where we'd see how small we could crush our crackers before letting the pieces rain into our Styrofoam bowls of chili.

When the chili would cool down enough, we'd enjoy the food with the rest of the students and their parents.

We were always an average mother and daughter at homecoming.

My buzzing phone jars me from my quick visit to the past. Sable, the vice principal, is calling, and I almost drop my phone in my haste to answer it.

"Addie! What parade updates do you have for me?" She cuts to the chase, which I appreciate. In that regard, we're very similar.

I take a seat on the porch chair next to my front door, my tote in my lap, and I fish out my notebook. "I secured enough officers from the police department to kick off the parade tomorrow, so check . Principal Weathers will ride in a golf cart with DeDe and Birdie— check ." I snap my fingers. "Oh, and I went by Daphne's earlier this week, and she is generously donating a gift basket for our chili dinner raffle. With that added to the list, we have plenty to give away—so check and check ."

The evening breeze picks up into a gust, and I cover my free ear, straining to listen to Sable.

This is my favorite part.

"Well done, Addie. Thanks so much for all your hard work. We would honestly be lost without you," she praises.

And my heart blossoms like each word of affirmation pumps it full of oxygen. Being complimented is an adrenaline rush.

Each check is music to my ears.

Every job well done is another point in my favor for that future promotion.

With a deep, steadying breath, I say, "Thank you."

"You are going to make an excellent administrator someday."

I suck back a breath—that's the dream.

"Enjoy the rest of your night. Get some rest, because this weekend is going to be absolute chaos."

My lips sink into a frown. "I'll surely enjoy some of this night," I grumble.

But background noise from her end of the phone crackles through, and it's clear she doesn't hear me. "I need to go. My dog knocked over my?—"

I pull the phone back and note she's ended the call. No matter. I got the metaphorical pat on the back for my important role in organizing the parade.

Our local police department is rather small, so some schedules needed to shift in order to spare a few officers and their cars for the afternoon tomorrow. Easy peasy .

Also easy was convincing our school secretary DeDe to drive the principal and our mascot, Birdie. DeDe was thrilled to be involved, and she never declines an opportunity to thrust her beloved cat into the limelight.

We're the Lions, but since a real lion is out of the question, a cat was our next best option. It was thanks to my creative thinking too, after the school's mascot suit was stolen as a senior prank a few years ago. It was accidentally charred to bits at their celebratory bonfire.

Since we needed a mascot right away but couldn't replace it in time for the next football game, I suggested we use a cat, and Principal Weathers was so tickled by the idea. Finding a suitable cat was the first task he assigned me outside of the English classroom, and we've come a long way since.

Bursts of hope and excitement explode in my previously heavy chest, lightening the load sitting on it. This is why I'm the first to raise my hand for volunteer positions, seemingly impossible jobs, and the grunge work no one else wants to accept.

I have dreams and goals, and being principal is at the top of my list. All these small stops along the route are proudly leading me to my destination.

Even with my new blast of energy, my body isn't on the same page as my mind. I'm still physically drained. I rise from the chair as if a strong force pushes me down, my feet like bricks from exhaustion. To add, my head aches from what feels like my whole life crashing down on me at once.

But then I see it.

I didn't make up the smell.

The most gloriously greasy brown bag rests on a cushioned chair by my front door, and warm relief seeps into every cool crevice of my body. I'm so glad I don't have to check my leftover chicken casserole from last weekend for signs of mold before I tear into it, I could cry.

A fresh BLT and a little box of fried green tomatoes await.

I inhale a deep whiff of my surprise treat, then glance around for signs of the magnificent Samaritan who dropped this off, but I come up empty. It's too late into the evening for anyone on our cul-de-sac to be out and about. Plus, it's a little chilly for the neighbors to be hanging out on their front porches as they tend to do during the summer, but right before I disappear into my house, I catch Leon emerging from his.

I wave and call out a greeting as I drag my tired feet down my steps to get within earshot. He leans over his railing, and the streetlight barely casts a glow over his frown as I rush to say, "I'm sorry to bother you. I know it's late?—"

"It's so late, my stories are over." The sound he makes can only be described as a harumph .

"I just have a quick question, and I'll get out of your hair."

"You don't need a ride to bail your mother out again, do you?" While I can't see his face, I imagine the deep-set disapproval in his furrowed brows.

"No. As you might remember, my mother doesn't live here anymore." Plus, it's been fifteen years since the incident—let's move on.

That's what I want to say, anyway, but I stick to the matter at hand before we lose control of this conversation.

I hold the bag up. "Did you by chance see anyone drop this off on my porch? There's no note, and I have no clue where it came from."

"I didn't see anything. Like I said, I was watching my stories."

"Right." I offer a smile and back away. "Thanks for your time."

"I hope I won't have to remind you about your trash bin this weekend. According to the HOA, they are to be back in place and out of sight the same day as pickup."

"It won't be a problem, Mr. Leon. I'll remember," I promise, and I scurry away before he remembers how bad my lawn has gotten.

The truth is, I'm always on top of things around my house, but the last month has been trying to kill me. Matters of trash bins and lawns are the least of my concerns.

My stomach gurgles again as I reach my porch. I'm too tired to play detective tonight, but I will resume the investigation tomorrow. I have to know to whom I should return the favor. It's the polite, Southern thing to do.

I could enlist Maren's baking assistance for special cookies, or Caroline could help me shop for something at Conversation Pieces on the square. Mrs. Marilyn has an endless array of unique items at her store that scream thank-you .

Unless they were the ones who sent the food, which could be the case. They know I've been stressed and overwhelmed, and they do a tremendous job of being my friends, even though I can be a handful. They could've done this, in which case returning the favor might be more difficult than baked goods and shopping.

I drop my tote onto the floor on the inside of my door and kick off my shoes, my feet giddy over their freedom. The bag of goodies crinkles in my tight grasp as I leap onto the couch. While I basically inhale my dinner, I rack my brain for something appropriate to meet the magnitude of this generous display of kindness.

But I don't recall any of my ideas as I awake the next morning with a piece of bacon on my chin.