Clark’s sister was ten years old with a mouth that belonged to a forty-year-old grandmother. In the face of her well-spoken and sophisticated manners, my belief that Clark hailed from ‘farm people’ seemed severely misguided.
The three of us sat in the center table at the ice cream parlor. Mickayla Fisher, Clark’s sister, held an ice cream cone in her dainty hand.
She had striking blue eyes. I wondered for a minute if Clark’s parents had stolen some of the vibrancy from his irises and given it all to
Mickayla.
Her hair was dark and plaited on either side of her oval face. She was very pretty and seemed rather demure. Until she opened her mouth, of course.
I was chomping into my Oreo cookie cone when Mickayla narrowed her eyes at me.
“So, you’re Clark’s friend?”
Clark choked on his tr
