Sweet Jiminy Read Online Free PDF Page B

one years ago—oh, the unwelcome surprise of embryonic development when all you wanted was breakfast—when she saw the headlights turn into the drive.
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    Jiminy felt like a better version of herself around Bo. She was less shy, less nervous, more curious, more lively. She hoped he’d been enjoying himself, too, and that she was more than just a mildly entertaining diversion from dry medical texts. But they hadn’t discussed how they felt. They hadn’t had physical contact besides friendly shoulder squeezes and high fives on the makeshift basketball court. Which was appropriate, Jiminy knew, at least where Fayeville was concerned. Anything more than a friendship would be frowned upon—even still, even today. Even so, Jiminy had let herself imagine a romance, and recognized that anticipating the disapproval it would engender actually made it that much more tempting to her. She was annoyed at herself for this—for harboring impure motivations. She believed she should want something solely for the thing itself, not because it was surprising or controversial. Because she was falling short, she felt as tainted as the town, and this shielded her from delusions of moral superiority.
    Jiminy wasn’t thinking about any of this at the moment, however. She couldn’t think of anything besides what she’d just experienced. In fact, she wasn’t positive she’d ever be able to think about anything else again.
    At her cajoling, Bo had taken her to visit the crazy old great-uncle who’d talked of his aunt Lyn’s past when no one else would. Bo’s Uncle Fred lived on a hilltop two counties over, forty minutes away, and he’d proven as loquacious as advertised.
    â€œIf it isn’t Mr. Bojangles!” he exclaimed as they pulled up to his sprawling, chaotic abode.
    There was a house amid the clutter, but you had to look hard for it. A tree was growing through Fred’s front porch, and a couch and coffee table sat in the yard. There was an inside-out feeling to the whole place, as if it had been scooped up by a tornado, churned around, and spat back out in no particular order. Plants, animals, and furniture spilled all over one another. It was almost a caricature of a backwoods eccentric’s lair.
    â€œAnd who’ve ya brung?” Fred bellowed. “Who’ve ya brung with ya, Mr. Bojangles?”
    â€œHey, Uncle Fred. This is my friend Jiminy,” Bo answered.
    Fred had rushed toward them, surprisingly fast for a man so frail and gnarled, and peered intently at Jiminy’s face.
    â€œThere’s only one Jiminy,” he said finally. “You must be someone else.”
    Jiminy had been holding her breath without realizing it. She exhaled then, keeping her gaze steady. Fred’s eyes were rheumy but bright.
    â€œI must be,” she agreed.
    And then the three of them had sat in Fred’s outdoor living room, surrounded by strutting peacocks, and talked for hours.
    Now, as the car rolled slowly homeward, Jiminy’s head was stuffed with more of a story than she knew what to do with. She felt it pressing against the back of her eyes and welling up in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her.
    â€œYou okay?” Bo asked.
    Jiminy considered. What a question, given what they now knew. How could she be, really? How could anyone? She could still hear Fred’s words echoing in her head.
    â€œThey hunted ’em,” he’d said. “They hunted Jiminy and Edward and they got ’em. Ran Edward’s car off the road and drug ’em out and shot ’em. Threw ’em in the river, burned their car. Don’t know who exactly—thing is, it coulda been any of ’em. It coulda been all of ’em. That’s the way things were.”
    Listening to Fred, Jiminy had cried long, stringy tears and felt herself unraveling.
    â€œBut why?” she’d asked.
    Fred picked some mites off a peacock chick while he let the