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Terrace, the low-income project where James grew up, obscenities were a way of life. He hadn’t thought to question his use of them until she’d madehim feel like so much dog shit for his spontaneous utterances.
    Sounding like the meanest mother in town had saved his ass on more than one occasion in his formative years. James hadn’t been naturally drawn to trouble the way his brothers had been. He’d much preferred building things with his hands and drawing his cartoons to knocking heads together. He’d had to fight his way out of his fair share of bad situations, of course, but on the whole he’d preferred to depend on his quick wit and offbeat sense of humor to maneuver him out of a tight spot. Sounding as though he’d as soon rip a man’s eyeballs out of his head as look at him sure as hell hadn’t hurt, though. Neither had his friendship with Otis.
    They’d both been on the verge of adolescence when Otis had moved into an upstairs unit of their Terrace apartment house. Otis had been blossoming into every bigot’s nightmare even then: already over six feet tall, showing promise of his future bulk, and losing his hair to a rare dermatological condition. James had hung around the base of the stairs the day he had moved in, sketching rapidly as he’d watched Otis’s family pack their meager belongings into their new home. They had marched smartly to the tersely voiced directions of a tall black lady. He’d learned later that when Otis’s ma was on a roll, she could put a drill sergeant to shame.
    It was, in fact, his quickly drawn cartoon of her in a marine uniform that had more or less introduced the boys. Otis had suddenly paused to stare over James’s shoulder, wanting to see what the blond boy was drawing. James had stiffened and held his breath, knowing his cartoon could easily backfire. In theirneighborhood, making fun of somebody’s mama could get your head laid open by a rusty pipe.
    But Otis had roared with laughter and snatched the sketch pad from James’s hands. “Hey, Ma,” he’d called and carried the pad over to his mother. “This here white boy’s already got yer number!”
    They’d been friends ever since.
    Now, two decades later, he suddenly realized that somewhere along the way Otis had cleaned up the worst of his language, while he never had. Maybe it was time he did. They’d both moved well beyond the need to protect themselves or intimidate others through the use of rough, crude language.
    But it was going to be one effin’ difficult habit to break.
    In any case, he was trying his best not to resent the way the little Southern princess made him feel, because in all fairness, he didn’t think she was doing it deliberately—except for that mister business. Hell, he didn’t harbor any burning desire to be her good friend. They were two entirely different people and the less he knew her, the less apt he was to get corralled into her troubles. It would be much better all around to keep a healthy distance between them. But he didn’t see the need for hostilities either. Living in the same building—hell, on the same floor—they were going to bump into each other. Seemed to him they could at least manage to be polite acquaintances.
    “Well, I guess I’d better get going and let you get back to work,” Aunie said to Otis. “I’ve got a ton of homework to do today, myself.” She hefted her book bag. As she started to turn away the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the end of the hallway. She noticed James for the first time, sitting cross-leggedon the floor, plaster dust liberally coating his hair, bare shoulders, black tank top, and worn Levis.
    Her mouth went dry with a sense of inadequacy she never felt with Otis or Lola. “Hello, Mistah Rydah,” she said softly. “I didn’t see you back there.”
    “Hello, yourself, Magnolia Blossom.” He gave her a sleepy smile and looked her over with those uncivilized eyes of his. She swallowed dryly.
    “Aren’t you