Hotter Than the Devil’s Armpits
Francheska Pugh-Cuadra • Fiction
Truly Jones sometimes heard her mother’s johns slink around the living room—their footsteps always noticeable when they were high or drunk. She couldn’t tune out the laughter or the grunts, and when it was real bad, she heard a scuffle or a fight. When the noises got loud, she’d clutch her Care Bear and bury herself under the covers. On some nights, her mother wouldn’t come back till the next day—when Truly had gotten off the school bus or after she had scrounged up something to eat for dinner— with a burger and a useless apology. Louisiana was hotter than the devil’s armpits. (Or at least that’s what she heard her mama say.) Truly spent most of her days down by the bayou catching frogs with the rest of the town’s stray kids. She felt the freest when dirt caked her legs and leaves swam in her hair. She often stayed out later than everyone else and caught fish with her bare hands until the hot sun turned into a cool breeze. Truly hadn’t noticed him before. She knew everyone else in her trailer park, and they all knew her. She watched him arrive with his wife—they were younger than most. He had a scar that ran down the side of his face and shaggy blonde hair. Truly often
These Fish Bite •
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