A Teeny Bit of Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page A

First Baptist Church. Even then, I could locate candy the way a bloodhound tracks convicts. I went straight for the chocolate ducks and Jelly Belly carrots.
    As I toted my overflowing basket across the lawn, a big kid in a rabbit costume knocked me down. My candy spilled, and the rodent scampered off. Coop helped me to my feet. He was a year older than me, a serious boy who’d won punctuality awards. Me, I was a tardy, child slob, but I knew handsome when I saw it. And just like that, Coop had imprinted on my brain as if I were a baby goose. For the rest of the day, I’d toddled after him, trying to say his name, but I couldn’t shape the words.
    I didn’t talk until I was three years old, mainly because I was afraid to open my mouth. If I did, someone shoved an asthma inhaler between my lips. When I finally worked up the nerve to speak, my first word was turnip , and I shouted it in front of everyone at First Baptist. I was sitting in the back pew with Mama, right behind the O’Malleys. Coop sat between them, dressed like a child evangelist—shiny black suit, starched white shirt, and a red bow tie.
    Halfway through the sermon, he flicked a paper wad in my hair. I ate it. He laughed, a watery sound that whirled through the holy air, colliding with the preacher’s dry voice.
    “Hush!” Irene O’Malley hissed in her son’s ear. He slumped down in the pew. I waited for him to toss another paper wad, but he held real still, as if trapped by the shrill edge in his Mama’s voice. I kicked the back of the pew. He didn’t budge. I opened my mouth wide, intending to shout Coop’s name, but my lips wouldn’t form a C. So I hollered out turnip , mainly because we’d eaten a batch for supper the night before, and also because Ts were easy, seeing as my name started with one.
    The preacher’s voice snapped off, and Mama stared down at me. I pulled away, thinking she’d smack me, but she gathered me into her arms. “My baby talked! Thank you, Jesus!”
    Laughter rippled through the congregation, but Mama kept smiling like I’d found a cure for vaginitis, a word she herself had been using recently.
    Coop’s head popped up. He turned around and whispered, “Taters.”
    “Turnip,” I insisted.
    More laughter. Irene O’Malley pinched her son’s arm. “Bad Cooper,” she hissed. “Bad!”
    He slid back down in the pew. I wanted to make him laugh again, and I wanted Mama to hug me. But I was also peeved at Mrs. O’Malley.
    “Damn turnip!” I yelled, and threw a hymnal to the floor. I wanted to say something real special, so I threw in a few of Mama’s favorite words. In my childish mind, beets and bitches sounded like the same things, foods that grew in the dirt. I realized my error when Mama’s proud smile morphed into a frown. She hustled me out of church, slapping my legs with the mimeographed program.
    When we reached the peach farm, she washed out my mouth—not with soap but with Some Like It Hotta sauce, which was supposedly made from jalapeños, vinegar, and brimstone. This fiery baptism was meant to correct my vocabulary while it burned my tongue, but it only proved that mixing root vegetables with profanity was a bad idea. On that day, a foodie was born, but I never forgot the lowly turnip, and each Thanksgiving, I lovingly add them to casseroles and savory pies.
    Just thinking about that day calmed me down. But I was still determined to improve my vocabulary. I lifted my thesaurus from the night table, opened the book to the Ps, and the word prevaricator floated up. Evader, deceiver, tale-teller.
    “A sign,” I whispered, and tossed the book aside.
    Sir placed his paw on my arm. Bulldogs have the most expressive faces, and his dark eyes looked directly into mine, as if to say, Chill.
    The phone rang, and I leaned toward the night stand. Coop’s number appeared in the caller ID panel. I lifted the receiver. “Hey,” I said.
    “Just making sure you got home safely,” he said.
    His voice sluiced