Things Too Huge to Fix by Saying Sorry by Susan Vaught Read Free Book Online Page B

figuring a swing by the Grove to feed squirrels and a trip to grab ice cream would still be sort of straight home, with a few small detours thrown in. “I have my phone.” I tapped my pocket. “I’ll call you or Ms. Wilson if there’s trouble.”
    I burst through the front doors of Bondurant Hall. Indri had seen me coming. She was standing just outside of class, her brown eyes wide and her mouth open.
    â€œDid you see a ghost?” she asked immediately, clutching her Stephen King book to her chest. Stephen King wasn’t exactly considered “appropriate reading” for our age group, but Creative Arts parents had to sign a waiver that short of X-rated material, we could read anything we chose. Indri and I loved ghost stories and not-totally-gross horror, and science fiction and fantasy, too. Ghosts the most, though. Bonus that we had been assigned to read some for this week.
    â€œNo,” I said. Then, “Yes.” Then, “Kind of? Worm Dung and Avadelle were walking down University Avenue. Mom thinks Avadelle might be coming here to talk to our camp.”
    Indri’s eyes got even wider. I had seen pictures of the lemurs Indri’s mom had named her for, and right now, withher long black hair swept back and her black and white shirt and black jeans, and that shocked expression on her face, Indri really looked like one of those lemurs. If I told her that, she’d beat me in the head with her Stephen King book, so I kept my mouth shut.
    She eased the book down from her chest and came over to me. In a low voice, she said, “We staying, or we bolting?”
    Best. Friend. Ever.
    I slid my fingers up and down the strap of my backpack. “Staying for now,” I said. “But keep the bolting option open.”
    â€œRoger that,” she told me. Military-speak. That, plus the black motif of her clothing, let me know that her dad was weighing heavy on her mind today. I would have asked her about it, but Indri didn’t like to talk about her dad. My backpack seemed to pull at my shoulder, reminding me of what lay hidden inside, and the fact that we might have to talk about Avadelle Richardson and her stupid, moronic grandson, for my grandmother’s sake.
    â€œInside, ladies,” called Ms. Yarbrough, the Creative Arts Camp director, like she could sense the escape plans zipping through my brain. She was only five feet tall, but her voice gave her a few extra inches of authority. When I didn’t move, Indri laced her arm through mine, and I leaned in to her, holding my breath.
    â€œCampus ghost stories,” Ms. Yarbrough called out as she clapped her tiny hands together. “Gather round, gather round!We have a guest speaker, and she’s in my office, getting ready now.”
    I sagged against Indri, and she sagged right back against me.
    Safe.
    Whoever the speaker was, it wasn’t Avadelle. Avadelle Richardson wouldn’t be caught dead talking about anything paranormal. I could breathe again. And—ghost stories!
    â€œLet’s go,” I said to Indri, but she had already started for the classroom door, pulling me along with her.

5
T HINGS T OO H UGE AND A WFUL TO F IX BY S AYING I’ M S ORRY
----
    Excerpt from Night on Fire (1969), by Avadelle Richardson, page 111
    Funny how fast years can go. One minute I was ten and fighting with Mama about school, and the next, it was 1960, and I was thirty-one years old and widowed and back in Oxford with a boy of my own, taking care of Mama and still listening to Aunt Jessie’s loud mouth.
    â€œThat’s about the whitest White girl I ever did see,” Aunt Jessie told me as she stuffed papers into envelopes at the Mt. Zion Church office. She nodded her big head toward a straw-haired kid hanging with the registration trainers.
    â€œHush your mouth.” I gave her plump elbow a pinch. “That child came down here to do the right thing.”
    Aunt Jessie grunted. “She