Prettiest Doll by Gina Willner-Pardo Read Free Book Online

“Let’s save this for
after
church,” because she always assumes that, when people are laughing, they need a scolding. I saw Mama and Trudy sneak glances at each other. Mama put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle. It was nice to see her with a friend. Suddenly I felt my lungs filling with air, the relief of a deep breath.
    When it was time for the sermon, Pastor Templeton stood up slowly and waddled to the pulpit. “I was thinking this morning about bad times,” he said, which was his way of starting a sermon about being submissive to the Lord.
    He droned on for an hour. I barely listened. If a minister wants you to pay attention, he should make an effort not to be so depressing.
    When church was over, Mama and Trudy and Mabel Richter made a beeline for the ladies’ auxiliary food table: ham and fried chicken and macaroni salad and pickles and ambrosia salad and brownies. Everyone was standing around, shoveling food into their mouths and gossiping. The air was sticky and warm and smelled of everyone’s breath mixed with Miracle Whip. Suddenly I wanted to be outside, no matter how cold it was. I took my paper plate and snuck out the side door.
    There’s a cement stoop at the corner of the building, back where the weeds almost never get mowed, across from the toolshed. I sat down and balanced my plate on my knees. I leaned forward and inhaled the good smell of church food. Mabel Richter is a pain in the ass, but she sure can fry chicken.
    I was spooning ambrosia into my mouth when I heard someone whisper, “Hey.”
    It came from the toolshed. For a split second, I thought about ignoring it, but then I heard it again.
    â€œWho’s there?” I asked, making my voice loud. Sometimes we get homeless people who’ve taken the bus as far as they can. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was going to hand over my lunch just because I was scared.
    â€œDanny.”
    I didn’t know any Danny.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be out here. You shouldn’t be talking to me,” I said. “Now scat or I’ll get the pastor.”
    The shed door creaked open, and then I saw him and remembered.
    â€œDanny Jacobson? From that store with all the candy?” He looked mussed up and unwashed. There was straw in his uncombed hair. I couldn’t remember if he’d looked that way on Thursday.
    â€œTurner’s,” I said. “What the hell?”
    He ran his hand through his hair, trying to comb it with his fingers. Then he brushed off his jeans, as if there was dirt on them. I could see he was embarrassed to be so rumpled.
    â€œWhat are you doing in there?” I asked, but trying to be gentler this time. I felt bad that he was embarrassed.
    â€œHey, keep it down,” he said. “I slept in there.”
    â€œWhy? Don’t you live somewhere?”
    Maybe Danny was homeless. But usually, homeless kids have moms.
    â€œTexas,” he said. “Houston.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    He brushed his hair off his forehead, reminding me that he was fifteen, not ten.
    â€œI can’t be home right now,” he said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    He looked over my head, toward the front of the church, where the parking lot is. I turned to look, too. A few people were hurrying toward their cars, but not many. Most everybody was still inside, eating.
    â€œI’m really hungry,” Danny said. “Can you get me something?”
    I eyed him, thinking maybe he was a criminal, running away from the police.
    â€œJust a brownie would be okay,” he said.
    I stood up and held out my plate. “Take it. I’ll go get more.”
    He grabbed the plate from my hands, picked up a chicken leg, and tore off a bite. He didn’t even say thank you, which was how I knew he was starving. Somehow, just looking at him, I could tell he was the kind of boy who said thank you under normal circumstances.
    When I came back, he was standing just