The Fame Equation by Lisa Wysocky Read Free Book Online Page B

quiet weekend at home.
    “I got to head to Alabama and Miss’sippi. I got one client lookin’ for a new horse and another who wants to send me two. Neither are what you might call kid people. Prob’ly not a good trip for Bubba to go on.”
    The parenting classes Hill had been court ordered to take might be doing some good. Bubba had gotten into so much trouble through Hill’s neglect that a local juvenile judge had stepped in to re-direct Hill, rather than Bubba. The results in both had been positive.
    “You did the right thing in asking me,” I said. Then I remembered that Jon, Darcy, and I were touring the Mighty Happy center Friday afternoon. “I might need to pick him up after school, though. Jon, Darcy, and I have to be in Kingston Springs at three.”
    Hill told me that Bubba’s social worker had made him add emergency contact names to Bubba’s paperwork, names of people who had permission to pick Bubba up from school, and Carole and I were the two names he added. I wondered if Carole knew, as I certainly hadn’t.
    “I need you to sign this.” Hill pulled a crumpled, lettersized sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Then I got to get copies to Bubba’s school and social worker.”
    I looked at the paper, and thought of the many other, mostly disgusting, things that could also have been in Hill’s pocket, then gingerly took a corner of the page. At the top was a short paragraph that said Hill had spoken to me about keeping Bubba and I had agreed to do so. There were blank spaces to indicate the dates that I would be responsible for Bubba, and Hill had filled those in with a pen. From the uneven distribution of the writing, I gathered the pen had been trying to run out of ink. If the pen belonged to Hill, I couldn’t blame it for wanting to die.
    Nodding, I put the paper down on my kitchen table, pulled a pen out of my purse, and signed and dated the paper. I looked to see if a witness or a notary was needed, didn’t see any indication that either was required, then handed the paper to Hill.
    “Your horses?” I asked.
    “My man, he’ll come take care of ’em,” Hill said. Hill often talked about his “man,” who seemed to be one of several people hired to feed the animals and do odd jobs around his farm.
    “Okay, then. I have to get to Pegram,” I said, shooing him out the door. Then I turned to look at him. “I really do hope you find the horses you want,” I said. “If you do well in your business, that will be good for Bubba.”
    Hill almost smiled before he put his grimy cap back on his grimy head and slithered between the fence rails that separated my property from his former home, Fairbanks.

    More than an hour after Buffy called I finally found myself in my truck, headed toward Melody’s house. I turned on the radio to find Razzy Bailey singing about his “9,999,999 Tears.” It was about a fifteen-minute drive down Sam’s Creek Road, then left on Hwy. 70 and through the little town of Pegram.
    I was so sure that I’d find Melody at home––filled with embarrassment that she missed her morning appointments–– that I almost stopped at Finch’s Country Store for fried chicken and home fries. Everyone felt better after some of Finch’s fried chicken. But, something urged me onward and I passed the tiny, wooden store without a glance.
    When I pulled up to Melody’s little yellow house the first thing I noticed was that her car was not there, and my heart sank into my stomach. I had been so sure that she would be home. I used my key to open the gate, and just as I got out of the car a dark BMW pulled in next to me and Davis got out.
    “Hi,” I said. “Buffy said you were in a meeting and asked me to come by to see if Melody was here. I take it you haven’t heard anything.”
    Davis shook his head and we mounted the steps before knocking on the door. When Davis knocked again, louder this time, I called out Melody’s name. The house resounded with