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he may or may not have been in. “Any progress on your intro?”
    “Autobiographies are tough when you’re clueless,” I admitted, settling in. I picked up my pen.
    Miss Lana says her life’s a tapestry. Mine’s more of a crazy quilt stitched together with whatever happened to be at hand. Then there’s the Colonel.
    “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “Do you feel more like a tapestry or a quilt?”
    He tossed a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Wool blanket,” he said. “Warm, scratchy, too ugly to steal.”
    “Thank you, sir,” I said, closing Volume 6 and settling in.
    I glanced out the window, at Mr. Jesse’s lights flickering a couple hundred yards down the creek, like they had every night of my life.
    It’s funny, the things you think you’ll always see again.

Chapter
4
Meeting Up at Lavender’s
    Mr. Jesse lingered over lunch the next day. “This pudding ain’t right,” he said, a fleck of meringue clinging to his unshaven chin. “Take it off my bill.”
    I eyed the half-eaten dessert du jour. “The Colonel’s banana pudding is county-renowned, Mr. Jesse,” I said. “You’re just suffering from sticker shock. It happens every time you order dessert.”
    Dale rolled his eyes. The Colonel says if you handed Mr. Jesse a two-dollar sandwich wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill, he’d still complain about the price.
    “I can’t take back half a pudding, Mr. Jesse,” I said. “You know I can’t.”
    He slapped four George Washingtons on the counter. “Count whatever you charge for that pudding as your tip,” he growled, and stalked off glaring like the afternoon sun.
    The Colonel strolled in from the kitchen and tossed his apron on the counter. “You two have performed above and beyond the call of duty,” he said, watchingMr. Jesse disappear down the lane. “You’re at liberty for the rest of the afternoon.”
    We sprinted for the door before he could change his mind.
    “Want to go fishing?” I asked Dale as the door banged shut behind us.
    He drained a soda and crumpled the can. “Not until Mr. Jesse settles down about that boat. It’s not that I’m scared of getting caught,” he added, giving me a quick look. “It’s just that I’m too pretty to do hard time. Lavender already told me.”
    Lavender, as I may have mentioned, is Dale’s big brother.
    “Hey,” Dale said, flipping his empty can to me. “Practice me.”
    Dale dreams of being the first rising sixth grader to be drafted by a high school football team. This is because he sings in church, which his daddy says is sissified. Football ain’t. Dale may not know much from the classroom, but his recess skills are legendary. He’s small, but he’s a wildcat of a receiver and fearless when he goes up for a pass. I sighed. “Buttonhook on three,” I said.
    He set up to my left.
    “Set!” I said, looking right and left. “Down! Hut-hut-hut!”
    Dale sprinted across the parking lot. I dropped backthree paces and he did a neat buttonhook. My pass sailed high, but he climbed into the air like a cat scrambling up a tree, and snagged it. Touchdown!
    “I’m going home to check on Mama,” he called, veering across the parking lot to his bike. Dale’s protective of Miss Rose. “You want to meet up at Lavender’s?” he asked. “We can watch him work on his car.”
    Visit Lavender? The day went golden.
    “Sure,” I said, trying to sound casual. “See you there.”
    We got two streets in Tupelo Landing: First Street, where the café sits, and Last, where Lavender lives. We like to say if you’re looking for somebody in Tupelo Landing, you’ll find them, First and Last.
    I discovered Lavender working in his front yard, the hood of his faded red Monte Carlo up. While he tinkered, I settled in the cool, dense shade of a water oak and told him about Joe Starr’s visit—even though he’d probably heard it from five other people before me. He stayed quiet until I got to the Colonel’s lie.
    “He
lied
about the Underbird?” He