The Summer Kitchen Read Online Free PDF Page A

best they can.
    I’d of gone over there to give that lady what for myself, but Rusty would of killed me. He had a heck of a time finding a place we could afford in Dallas. We didn’t need any trouble here.
    I wished Rusty would come on home. I hated it when he stayed out after work. As soon as the lights were on inside the apartment, it seemed dark and weird outside, like someone might be peeking around the edges where the mini blinds were too small. I didn’t like being by myself.
    When Rusty was gone late, I always started to think, What if he doesn’t come back? What if he got mugged, or had a car wreck, or just decided he was sick of all this mess and left? What would I do then? How long would I sit here and wait? Where would I go, whenever I finally decided to leave?
    I hated it when those questions took over my mind, so I read Seabiscuit instead. I liked the story. When Seabiscuit was a colt, he was skinny and knobby-legged. He was plain-looking—ugly, really—and he didn’t run worth a flip, even though he was what the horse racers call a blueblood. Nobody looked at him and figured he’d amount to anything.
    I could totally relate to Seabiscuit. Even though my daddy ended up in prison, so that probably didn’t rank me as a blueblood, we had the rest in common. I don’t think anybody ever looked at me and was too impressed, either. People always liked my hair, because it was blond and thick, and every once in a while someone said I had pretty blue eyes, but it was kind of like they just picked out one thing to be nice, because altogether the package wasn’t so hot.
    Every once in a while Rusty felt sorry for me and told me when he was a kid, he didn’t look like much, either. The problem was that Rusty still wasn’t too hot, if you asked me. He looked like a man-sized body with a little kid’s head on top, but maybe that was because I always knew him since he was a kid. Mama said Rusty looked just like his daddy, Ray John, and Ray John was sure enough handsome.
    At least my daddy didn’t have red hair and freckles. Things could of been worse. . . .
    I was falling asleep on the lumpy sofa by the time Rusty knocked on the door. The lady’d let her kids in and got them quiet finally, and the Mexican dudes were drinking beer and playing mariachi music down in the corner of the driveway. I didn’t think they meant to bother anybody. They were just loud. Most of the time they had their wives and about a million kids running around down there while they partied. As far as I could tell, there were about eighty-seven of them living in two apartments. Whatever they cooked always smelled really good, though.
    I heard them hollering at Rusty, “Hey, you wan-ee beer, amigo?”
    Rusty didn’t answer. He just knocked on the door again and said, “Open up, Cass.” There was only one key to the apartment, and the stinky guy who lived in the manager’s office across the parking lot, wouldn’t give us another one. I always kept the key during the day, and that way I could lock up if I went places.
    I looked at the squeaky clock while I walked to the door. After midnight. Geez. Rusty was gonna be tired getting up for work tomorrow. Dope.
    When I opened up, someone was with Rusty on the steps. Whoever it was tripped on the way in and just about knocked me over with something she was carrying. She stopped a few steps past me, then turned partway and looked for Rusty out the corner of her eye. She was pretty—tall and curvy, with jeans that fit good. Her skin was a soft caramel color. Her hair hung in a million long spirals down her back. It was blond, but no girl with that color skin has blond hair naturally.
    There were little wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, crow’s-feet my mama called them, and a tiny line that circled the side of her mouth. She wasn’t as young as her body made her seem. She had on lots of makeup, thick eyeliner drawn out to the sides in a greenish color that matched her eyes, like one of