“Why…do you call…me that?” I’d once asked.
“Because Miss Virginia says I should.”
We had all come skipping into the kitchen from outside that fateful day in late August. Judah’s long, dark fingers had been wrapped around mine, much paler, much cleaner, with nary a scar or scrape, as I was discouraged from playing in the gravel and the dirt. Auntie Virginia had been preparing lemonade at the counter. She always made her own food and drink, due to an aversion to certain others’ touch on her belongings. Auntie Virginia had dropped the glass pitcher at first sight of Judah and me holding hands. Her eyes had gone right there and she’d yanked me hard, and then had reached back to strike me.
“Virginia! Don’t you dare!” Georgia had snatched at me too, just as roughly, but to protect, not to pun
