I Wish I Had a Red Dress Read Online Free PDF

everybody worrying at the same time. “Where’s Mavis?”
    Tomika’s four-year-old daughter is a true Sewing Circus baby. She’s been coming here for day care most of her life.
    “Nikki took her to McDonald’s with Tiffany and Marquis. I wanted to finish the Week in Review. That means all I got left is Saturday for Arts and Leisure and half of that is gonna be movie ads.”
    Tomika even read the Business section. In one of my many fantasies of her future, she is a successful stockbroker managing The Circus portfolio with such skill that we have not only operating expenses but an endowment and a scholarship program. Ihaven’t told her about all of this, of course. They don’t dream as big for themselves yet as I do for them. They’ve still got some catching up to do.
    I shuffled through the stack of mail she’d laid out neatly on my desk. Mostly bills. Tee was clipping the tree-baby story for her “Say what?” file.
    “This kinda stuff really makes you think,” she said, cutting around the picture carefully.
    “About what?” I flipped past the water bill and tossed a flyer from the grocery store into the trash can.
    She shrugged, still searching the face of the tree babymama. “I don’t know. Just the fact of somebody regular, just livin’ her life. She got a man. She gettin’ ready to have a baby, and BAM! all of a sudden all hell breaks loose and she havin’ the kid in a tree!”
    Tee had stumbled upon the exquisitely random chaos that makes the universe the truly challenging place we know it to be, and she didn’t appreciate it. I know the feeling.
    “You don’t think things could break down that tough around here ever, do you?”
    “We don’t have hurricanes,” I said.
    She looked at me and grinned. “You a trip, Miz J. You always look on the bright side, huh?”
    They tried calling me a couple of things before they settled on Miz J. Mrs. Mitchell was way too formal. Joyce was way too informal, and Sister Mitchell was a generation or two removed from what they know. Miz J was a shortened version of Miss Joyce, which sort of evolved from so many of them having southern roots. People south of the Mason-Dixon line add Miss to your first name as a sign of affection and respect, so I liked it right off.
    “I do my best,” I said.
    “Well, then I got one more for you,” she said, flipping through the paper quickly, the cut pages flapping in the wind like torn flags, her eyes scanning for another noteworthy item she wanted to share.
    It’d been a very long day, but Tee loves to talk about what she’s reading and I’d have to be a whole lot sleepier than this to tell her I’m too tired to keep up.
    “Here it is! Listen to this!” Her voice rose with righteous indignation. “ ‘California study shows a dramatic increase in reported cases of domestic violence on Super Bowl Sunday. Experts suspect that increased use of alcohol and heightened emotional reactions to the outcome of the game increase the risk for women during this hotly contested annual event.’ ”
    She tossed the paper down with a contemptuous flick of her wrist and I added anchorwoman to my list of Tee’s future career possibilities.
    “Isn’t that just typical? These guys get so excited they got to kick somebody’s ass and they ain’t even in the game! They sittin’ at home, watchin’ it and drinkin’ a beer just like everybody else.”
    “Do you think it’s true?” I said, deciding I could do the rest of the mail on Monday.
    “I know it is,” she said. “Somebody always comin’ over in a hurry at halftime ’cause the men at they house lookin’ around for somethin’ to hit.”
    She shook her head, setting in motion the tiny, blond braids that hung down to the middle of her back. Tomika liked more hair than she could grow, so she bought what she needed and wove it in. The colors she chose had little to do with what nature had given her, so I learned to think of her extensions like ribbons. The color wasn’t