God Don't Like Ugly Page 0,51

is.” Mama sighed, fanning her face with the TV Guide.

“Amen,” Mr. Boatwright added, with his paws up in the air and his head shaking from side to side.

“I don’t care. I still like the Nelsons,” I stated.

“I heard Jock got a girl pregnant,” Mr. Boatwright snapped, waving his beer bottle like a weapon.

“So?” I shot back. I folded my arms and crossed my legs and looked Mr. Boatwright straight in the eyes.

“Brother Boatwright here is just concerned about you, Annette. Me and him both advise you to watch your step when you over there and that boy Jock is in the mix. He might drug you with one of that Johnny’s margaritas and take advantage of you,” Mama said seriously. “Now go in that kitchen and wash them dishes.”

Two-faced, mean-ass Mr. Boatwright drank, raped, gambled, and considered himself a holy man! I let out such a deep sigh, my chest felt like it wanted to explode. Instead, I stood up. “Um…they asked me to eat Thanksgiving dinner with them, Mama. Can I?” I stood in front of her and Mr. Boatwright with a pleading look on my face. That sorry old bastard rolled his eyes at me and shook his finger in my face.

“Didn’t your poor mama here tell you she got to work on Thanksgivin’ Day, girl? Who gwine to be here to he’p me get dinner cooked?” he whined.

“You cook all the time when I’m not here—”

“Annette, you on thin ice, girl. Don’t you know your family come first?” Mama muttered. I knew that she was tired after working so many hours, and I did feel bad about that.

“Well…” I mumbled with resignation. They had won this round. There would be other holidays I could spend at the Nelson house, I told myself.

“It ain’t easy for me to hop around that hot kitchen for hours on end, day after day. What if I was here alone and stumbled and dropped a skillet of grease or somethin’ on my toe? What if I slip and fall and bust up my hip?” Mr. Boatwright knew exactly how to get his way. He reminded me of a cunning child. “What if I was to—”

“OK. I’ll stay home and help with the dinner.” Once again, I was defeated.

“You can chop the onions, brown the gizzards.” Mr. Boatwright paused long enough to give me one of his knowing looks. When he saw that Mama was not looking at him, he winked at me. Then he said, “I’ll find plenty for you to do.” Mama patted his shoulder and nodded.

I was ready to leave the room for sure then. But there was one more thing I had to say to Mama.

“Why you lookin’ at me so strange, girl?” Mama smoothed the lap of her housecoat and stood up in front of me. She slapped her hands on her hips and leaned over so that our eyes were just inches apart.

“From now on, I’m going to call you Muh’ Dear,” I told her.

“I been blessed.” Mama smiled proudly. One hand went up to her forehead. Her other hand patted my back. “Blessed.”

Not to be outdone, Mr. Boatwright grunted, and told me, “You better get them dishes done so you can get to bed. You know you got to go to that schoolhouse in the mornin’.”

I slept like a baby that night. The next morning I got up on my own and was in the kitchen making breakfast by the time Mr. Boatwright approached me. Mama had already left for work.

“You don’t watch your step you gwine to suffer, girl,” he warned.

“What do you mean?” I asked, too exasperated to really care. Hardly anything this man ever said made much sense. I spent a great deal of my time trying to interpret his ramblings. I stood in front of the stove and just stared at him. I gave him the meanest look I could come up with. And it must have been pretty effective because he had to look away. I was amazed at the way I now sassed grown folks.

“You and Jock,” he mumbled, nodding.

Next to Mr. Boatwright, Jock Nelson was the last male on earth I would involve myself with willingly. “After what you’ve done to me, do you think I’d go out looking for some other funky, nasty old man or boy to do even more? I hate all men and boys. I wish every last one of you motherfuckers’ dicks would rot and drop off in your funky drawers. I wish there

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