Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,92

information and sifted it through a filter of self-hatred and doubt. What happens if I switch my old filter for a new one? A new one, where anything is possible, even for Brandi-Jaques Wake’s daughters.

Merry Carole, Cal, Hudson, and I walk into the team barbecue that Saturday carrying a six-pack of Shiner Bock and some coleslaw I made the night before. Are they peace offerings, maybe? Are we hiding behind them, as if the beer and coleslaw will shield us from the first line of fire as we enter the barbecue? Most definitely.

“CWake!” another football player says, charging at Cal. He gives the boy a hearty handshake. They are swept away into the fold of the already raging barbecue.

Reed’s house is on the outskirts of town, a simple one-story home with French doors that open out onto the backyard. Close to a hundred people mill around from the inside to the outside of the house. Ladies with fans and men with a cold beer in one hand and an opinion about the upcoming football season in the other. Reed has taken up his place at the barbecue and holds court as a group of men gather around. Merry Carole glances his way. She sighs. Reed’s two little girls are with his mother for the weekend. Their presence is missed, but noted. My plan to have Merry Carole stay after at the party and patch things up with Reed can be put into action now.

“So football is kind of a big deal in Texas, huh?” Hudson asks. Merry Carole and I open our mouths to speak, but Hudson continues, “I’m kidding. I’ve seen Friday Night Lights.” He smiles.

“You look beautiful today,” I say to Merry Carole as she keeps fussing with her dress.

“Thank you,” she says, breathlessly. She decided to go with a bright yellow shirtdress, a black belt cinched at her impossibly tiny waist. She’s been waiting to wear this outfit for weeks. Black and gold—the team’s colors. She continues, “I’m sure someone will tell me I look like a floozy.”

“If they’re using the word ‘floozy,’ how big a threat can they be?” I say. Hudson laughs. Merry Carole loosens up a bit. She’s not alone.

“Thank God you brought that one. It’s all anyone will be talking about,” Merry Carole says, motioning to Hudson. He’s already cracked open a Shiner Bock and is taking a long drink. He’s wearing a loose plaid shirt that he’s once again only half tucked into his relaxed-fit Levi’s. His worn-in leather belt just underneath is visible and becoming more and more inviting every day.

“That one, huh?” Hudson says, offering us a beer. Merry Carole and I decline Hudson’s offer. We need to be stone-cold sober for these festivities. Whether we like it or not.

“Merry Carole and Queenie Wake.” Whitney McKay and Piggy Peggy float over to us followed by a phalanx of no less than four indistinguishable women. Now that Laurel’s off to Dallas, it looks like Whitney has taken her place on the throne. I probably know Whitney’s Gang of Idiots from school, but their high hair and Easter egg–colored wardrobes all blend together into what is fast becoming this barbecue’s terrifying first line of offense.

“Nice to see you, Whitney. You look lovely,” Merry Carole says with a polite nod.

“Team colors. Bless your heart,” Whitney says, giving Merry Carole the once-over. Merry Carole wants this too much. Women like Whitney get a whiff of that longing and it’s hunting season.

“Queenie,” Whitney says, with a curt nod.

“Whitney,” I say, with a sniff. I can’t even look at Hudson. I can feel his grin from here. He can barely contain himself. He folds his arms across his chest, tucking his open beer bottle under his arm.

The women stand in front of us, unmoving. Staring at Hudson.

“Ladies, this is Hudson Bishop. He teaches over at UT,” I say, presenting him for inquiry.

They titter and nod their greetings.

“And how did y’all meet?” Whitney asks. She damn well knows the answer, but wants to hear me say it.

“Queenie and I met over at Shine Prison,” Hudson says.

“Did you now? Isn’t that sweet,” Whitney says.

“I don’t think anyone would call it sweet. What was your name again?” Hudson asks.

“Whitney,” Whitney says, her facade cracking for just the slightest of moments. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“It’s Whitley, right?” Hudson asks.

“Whitney,” she corrects.

Hudson lets the moment hang just long enough as he takes a lengthy pull on his beer. He continues, “Anyway, I’m going to go take a