Where the Watermelons Grow: Chapters 12–17

Next to the house, wrapped in a small wooden fence to keep the deer away (Not that it helps that much, Mr. Anton had told me once in a rueful voice), there was a little kitchen garden where collard greens grew high and tomato vines burst with bright red fruit.

“And how about Suzanne, Miles? She still feeling under the weather?”
“She’s fine,” said Daddy, sounding as casual as could be.

I stared at the textbook, its pages glossy and reflective in the evening sunlight falling from the kitchen windows.

“But I might like to borrow it again later,” I said, voice mousy and small.

“Hey there, Della,” said Thomas, tap water frothing into his glass.

Even just leaning against the counter, there was something about the way he stood that seemed different from most people—confident without being cocky or annoying, like he knew he didn’t have a thing to prove to anyone but himself.

She was standing in the kitchen, all naked except for her diaper, her orange hair matted to her head with sweat, and big fat tears were rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto her little white chest.

“I gotta clean up, Miles,” she whispered, her eyes roving up and down the cabinet in front of her, following the invisible line of the ketchup she’d already cleaned off, following the dancing germs only she could see.

My skin prickled, goose bumps breaking out all over my arms even in that stifling heat.

I eased the closet door open and found my lightest, skimpiest sundress, and changed into it.

Still, a day this hot called for drastic measures. Even all that bare skin didn’t do a thing to cool me down, and I felt sticky and nasty. I would have given just about anything to spend the whole day standing under a cold shower.

I reluctantly set the watermelon plate on the counter, already imagining how sweet and cool it would be, and pulled down a box of cereal from the top of the refrigerator.

He looked hot and tired, sweat glistening in the little rivulets on his face that were like baby wrinkles.

I said a quick prayer that God would turn back on our power and maybe fix our AC while he was at it, and then kept my eyes closed and bit into my watermelon, relishing the explosion of chill against my mouth, all those crisp little membranes dissolving as I chewed.

I said a quick prayer that God would turn back on our power and maybe fix our AC while he was at it, and then kept my eyes closed and bit into my watermelon, relishing the explosion of chill against my mouth, all those crisp little membranes dissolving as I chewed.

I grabbed the back of Mylie’s shirt before she could tear out into the road. “All this stuff’s from our farm or the Hawthornes’. That side over there’s certified organic, too...."

“Seems like you got your hands full,” said Miss Lorena as Mylie shot across the canopy and filched a green bean from its basket.

“It’s the truth,” said Thomas as he scooped up his mama’s bags. “You started doing quadratic equations yet, Della? Every time I get to that part in SAT prep, it gives me a headache, I swear.”

Counting by nines was always especially soothing, with all that symmetry. Nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six, forty-five.

I was trying to pick blackberries—about as well as you can pick blackberries when Mylie is involved, sneaking green ones into your bucket and smooshing the ripe ones all over her hands and face—while Daddy did pest control, picking bugs off the potatoes and squash and spraying insecticidal soap on the aphids and spider mites.

“Ain’t nobody wanna buy polka-dotted herbs for two bucks a bunch,” he said, cutting off a handful of yellowed mint sprigs and tossing them into a trash bag.

I didn’t answer, just swatted Mylie’s hands away from my bucket. She was trying to pilfer berries from my bucket to put into hers, and I didn’t like having to pick twice as much for half as many.

He sighed, the reprimand going out of him, his shoulders and his face crumpling down till he looked like an old man again.

I minded Mylie plenty, but it was Mama who had the knack for getting her to take a nap.

Outside the kitchen window I could see a plume of dust kicked up by Daddy’s tractor as he drove through the peanut fields.