Page 9 of Praying for Thunder

Sheepishly, he told Ani, “Sorry, I assumed—”

“Yes, you did,” Ani snarled, then proceeded to walk me toward the door again.

He quickly came around the counter. “Guilty as charged.”

There was something about him that had me watching him over my shoulder. He was even taller than Stew. His blue jeans had holes and were nowhere as baggy as Ani’s. The chain from a belt loop, wrapping to somewhere behind him, had me curious.

I tugged on Ani’s hand, wanting her to see this man, the likes I’d never seen before, but she didn’t stop.

“Aw, come on,” he pleaded to her playfully.

When that still didn’t stop our retreat, he speedily bragged, “I’m the best artist you will find in three surrounding states. If this tat you’re wanting means anything to you, I’m your man.”

Her feet stopped.

I bumped into her leg.

She turned around but did not appear pleased in the slightest.

Dio tried to further convince her by saying, “And I have a basket of toys.”

Sounding like Scooby Doo, I uttered, “Rrr-rrr?”

Laughter escaped him until he noticed Ani had yet to stop scowling at him. He coughed, long dark hair falling forward, then told her, “And I won’t ask for your number.”

Progress. She fought a smile while proclaiming, “Good, because I won’t even give you my name.”

A dimple appeared as he dared a grin. “I’ll get it off your credit card.”

With no delay, she countered, “I’m paying with cash.”

“Cash is King, they say!” He turned away and headed to a basket by a rugged brown leather couch against a burnt-looking brick accent wall. He scooped up the basket and then headed to a separate room in the back of his shotgun-style shop. Without him looking back at me, his right hand appeared by his thigh, and it was holding a fire engine truck.

Not being the good boy Ani swore I was, I broke free, falling straight into Dio’s lighthearted trap.

Hearing my shoes squeak and scamper to follow him, he winked over his shoulder at Ani. “Someone has faith in me.”

She stomped to follow. “That’s not faith. That’s bribery.”

His voice echoed from the small yet bright room as he entered it, saying, “Potato, potato. Does it really matter?”

Her growl entered the room before she did. “Everything matters in my world—” She sharply inhaled when seeing me already sitting on the floor, in a corner, on a blue kid bean bag, the basket of toys upside down so I could have free range of them all.

Behind me, taking up the whole corner, were all kinds of crayon drawings taped to the white walls. It was clear the works of art were all done by young children.

After digging through a small black refrigerator, Dio held up a box of apple juice for Anita to see. “Is this allowed?”

Mouth gaping, she nodded.

“Heads up, kid.”

Again, I looked to the ceiling. The box of juice bounced off my cheek.

“Oh my God!” Ani rushed to me. “Baby! Are you okay?”

Rubbing my face, I grabbed for the juice. I couldn’t figure out how to stick the straw in, so I handed it to her. “How does this work?”

Dio was squatted next to us, baffled. “He doesn’t know lingo. Clearly never caught a ball. Nor does he know how to operate a juice box. What gives?”