In Front of God and Everybody Read Free

bald-headed when I couldn’t stop laughing.
    â€œYou could say that,” I muttered.
    Outside, Daisy gave another low, lazy woof. Someone squealed. A car door slammed loud enough to wake the dead in Cedar Ridge Cemetery eight miles away.
    Myra Sue gave me her usual dirty look.
    â€œDid you lock the screen?” she asked. “We don’t want a lunatic or a salesman in the house.”
    With one foot, I set Grandma’s chair to rocking and ignored her. I opened my book and plunged myself back into the world of Oliver Twist , which I like way, way better than that series about junior high cheerleaders all the other girls my age love so much.
    â€œHey in there! Girlie!” The man’s voice came from outside, somewhere in the region of the porch steps.
    Myra Sue didn’t move, and neither did I.
    â€œHe’s hollering at you,” she said. That girl is so lazy she wouldn’t move if the towels caught fire.
    â€œSay! In the house! Hello in there!” the voice came again.
    â€œAren’t you going to see what he wants?” Myra Sue asked.
    â€œNope,” I said.
    My sister’s dirty look got dirtier. Then she blew an exaggerated sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as Days of Our Lives came back on. Clean towels fell on the floor, and she kicked them out of the way with her bare feet. The TV remote was still clutched in her hot little hand, so I couldn’t use it even if I wanted to. With the other hand, she smoothed her side ponytail in its blue scrunchie, patted her bright yellow T-shirt and stone-washed jeans in case wrinkles had invaded her territory, then went to the screen door.
    â€œAre your parents at home?” the banker-looking man asked.
    Myra Sue gave this oopsy little gasp and blurted out, “Ooo! I love your car! It’s a Chrysler New Yorker, isn’t it?”
    So much for lunatics and salesmen. All they’d have to do is drive up in a flashy car, and she’d invite them in to murder us or sell us a Kirby vacuum cleaner.
    â€œIt’s a Cadillac!” the man snapped. “Now call off your dog. He’s terrorizing my wife.”
    I figured I might have to call the TV station about this late-breaking phenomenon. You see, Daisy is fifteen years old. If she were an old lady, she’d be almost a hundred. Plus, she has lost most of her teeth. I scooched around in the rocking chair so I could look outside. Oh yeah, Daisy seemed ferocious, all right, sitting near the bottom of the steps, her tongue hanging out of her mouth sideways while her tail whacked back and forth in the dust. The skinny woman in the car looked like she was about to run for the hills.
    â€œGo get ’er, Daisy,” I whispered and turned away.
    That goofy Myra Sue was still fluttering and panting over the man’s dumb ole car when I went upstairs to renew my calamine lotion and sit in front of the fan.
    Here’s the thing: I’m pretty sure Myra Sue is adopted because she isn’t like Mama or Daddy or me, or even Grandma. None of us cares about what people drive or what they have. If Myra Sue is related to anyone I know, it would have to be Queenie, Grandma’s cat, because they are both such a pain in the behind and like to cause trouble for everyone else.
    For instance, that very evening my dear sister announced right at the supper table: “April Grace was mean and rude to our new neighbors.”
    Well, everyone, including yours very truly, stopped chewing and stared at her. She was sitting so straight and prim, you’d think Mama had starched her drawers.
    â€œWhat new neighbors?” Mama, Daddy, and I said at the same time.
    â€œIan and Isabel St. James.”
    Her tone of voice and her high-and-mighty expression said the rest of us must be from a planet far, far away.
    â€œYou mean that loudmouthed man and that skinny woman that looks like the ugliest boy in the world?” I said.
    â€œApril Grace,” Mama