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After we got back to class, everything settled down like nothing had happened. The excitement of the fire drill and the firetruck was already fading as Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, his hands resting on his desk.

"Alright, class. Time for spelling," he said in that clear voice of his. "Get out your paper and pencils."

The sound of rustling notebooks and clinking pencil tips filled the room. I glanced at Abby, who gave me a little eye-roll. Spelling wasn't either of our favorites, but we knew we had to get through it.

"I'm going to call out each word," Mr. Johnson continued. "Listen carefully and write it down. No asking your neighbor, and no looking over shoulders. Understood?"

A few groans, but mostly nods.

"Good. First word—'arms.'"

Easy. I scribbled it down.

"Next—'Agnes.'"

That one made a few kids pause. I peeked at Jacob out of the corner of my eye—he was chewing his pencil, clearly stuck.

"Number three—'angry.'"

I felt confident with that one.

"Number four—'arise.'"

The words kept coming:

"Acorn. Amuse. Allow. Ardor. Alligator."

That last one made me grin. Me and Abby exchanged a quick look—we knew that one from our project.

But by the time we got to "alter," I started feeling less sure.

"Advice. Appear. Auntie. Answer. August."

I was scribbling fast now, feeling like I was starting to slip. My brain was getting tangled.

"Abusing. Absence. American. Aquarium."

I heard a few frustrated sighs around the room. Papers crinkling. Jacob was whispering to Brian again, probably asking how to spell "aquarium."

And then, I noticed something.

Billy—who sat two rows over—was holding his phone under his desk. I could see him sneaking peeks, his thumb moving fast.

Cheating.

I nudged Abby lightly, nodding toward him. She raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything.

Mr. Johnson was walking slowly between the desks, his hands behind his back like he always did during tests. Billy hadn't noticed him coming closer.

"Alright, that's the last word," Mr. Johnson said, stopping right by Billy's desk. "Pencils down."

Billy jumped, his phone slipping from his fingers and landing with a loud clatter on the floor.

The whole class froze.

Mr. Johnson bent down slowly and picked it up. He held it in his hand, looking at Billy with that calm, serious face he always had.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Billy?"

Billy's face went beet red. "Uh... no, sir."

Mr. Johnson raised his eyebrows. "Cell phones are not allowed during tests. We all know that."

Billy squirmed in his seat.

"We'll talk after class," Mr. Johnson said simply. He placed the phone on his desk and turned back to the class. "The rest of you—pass your papers forward."

My heart was racing, even though I hadn't done anything wrong. I handed my paper to Abby, and she stacked hers on top before passing them up the row.

I peeked over at Billy. He looked miserable. I kinda felt bad for him—but not that bad.

Cheatin' wasn't worth it.
And Mr. Johnson? He always caught you.

The final bell rang, echoing through the halls, and we all started gathering our things—pencils clattering into pencil boxes, books stuffed into backpacks.

But before anyone could rush out the door, Mr. Johnson's voice cut through the noise:

"Hold on, class. Before you go, your homework for tonight—write each of today's spelling words three times. Neatly."

A few kids groaned, but most of us just nodded. I scribbled the assignment into my notebook.

As I zipped up my backpack, I glanced at Billy. He was staring down at his desk, looking like he wanted to disappear into it.

Just as I slung my bag over my shoulder, Mr. Johnson's voice came again—quieter this time but firm:

"Billy, stay behind for a moment."

The room went a little quieter. A few kids exchanged looks, but no one said anything. We all knew better than to make a fuss when someone was getting "the talk" from a teacher.

I gave Abby a quick look as we filed out into the hallway, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of shoes filling the room. She raised her eyebrows like, "Ooooh, he's in for it," and I just nodded.

As I stepped into the hall, I glanced back once more. Billy was still sitting at his desk, eyes down, while Mr. Johnson stood by the door, waiting.

I hurried to catch up with Abby, our steps falling into rhythm as we joined the stream of kids heading for the buses.

Mama was outside putting clothes on the line when I stepped off the bus. The warm afternoon sun made the damp sheets glow bright white as they flapped gently in the breeze. She had a clothespin between her lips and was reaching up to fasten Papa's work shirt when she spotted me.

She took the pin from her mouth. "Hey there, baby! How was school?"

I shrugged, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder. "It was alright... We had a fire drill, and Billy got caught cheating in spelling."

Mama raised her eyebrows. "Cheatin'? Lord, what's wrong with kids these days?"

I dropped my bag near the porch steps and walked over to her, watching as she pinned another shirt. "Mr. Johnson took his phone. He's probably in big trouble."

Mama chuckled. "Well, that's what he gets. Ain't no need to be sneakin' around like that."

I grabbed the basket of clothes and handed her another shirt. Helping Mama with the laundry always felt kinda nice. It was simple work, but it made me feel useful.

"You got any homework?" she asked, glancing at me.

I groaned. "Yeah... I gotta write all my spelling words three times each."

Mama smiled, patting my back. "Well, better get started when we're done here. I'm fixin' fried chicken tonight, so you'll want to be finished 'fore Papa gets home."

That made me perk up. Fried chicken was my favorite.

We kept hanging clothes, the warm breeze carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant sounds of frogs from the swamp.

Everything felt right.
Like home.

After we finished hanging the clothes, I grabbed my backpack and plopped down at the kitchen table. The sun coming through the window made everything glow soft and golden. I liked this spot—it was my favorite place to do homework because I could hear Mama moving around the kitchen while I worked. It made me feel like I wasn't alone.

I pulled out my spelling list and a clean sheet of paper. The words from earlier still made my head spin a little—"aquarium," "absence," "ardor." I started writing, each word three times like Mr. Johnson had told us.

Arms. Arms. Arms.
Agnes. Agnes. Agnes.

I pressed my pencil hard, making sure each letter was clear. I didn't want Mr. Johnson saying my handwriting was messy.

Mama was wiping down the counter when she leaned over to peek at my paper. She squinted a little.

"Lord, those words look hard. I don't even know if I could spell 'aquarium' right on the first try," she said with a little laugh.

I smiled but didn't look up. "Yeah, it's a tough one. Billy tried to cheat with his phone."

Mama shook her head. "Kids these days... When I was your age, we didn't have phones. We barely had pencils half the time. And school? It wasn't quite like it is now. We learned what we could, but folks didn't press us as hard as they do y'all now."

I glanced up. "Was it hard for you?"

She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sometimes. I had to leave school early some days to help my mama with chores. By the time I was old enough, I was workin' more than I was learnin'. But that's just how it was back then."

Her voice was soft, not sad, but like she was remembering something far away.

I nodded and went back to writing.

Amuse. Amuse. Amuse.
Allow. Allow. Allow.

Mama stayed beside me for a while, watching as I worked. Her hand brushed through my hair once, gentle like she was proud.

I liked that.
Even though the words were hard, this didn't feel so bad.

Dinner was ready by the time Papa's truck rumbled into the yard. I heard the door shut and his boots crunchin' on the gravel. My wrist felt better today, but I still wasn't runnin' to meet him like I usually would. Instead, I stayed at the table, watching Mama set out the fried chicken, mashed taters, green beans, and biscuits. The smell was enough to make my mouth water.

Papa came in, washed up, and sat down with a tired but content look on his face. His shirt still had sawdust on it, and his hands were rough and worn like always, but that was just Papa.

We all joined hands around the table.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the work that brought it to our table, and for the hands that prepared it. We ask that You bless our home, our family, and our neighbors. And Lord, we thank You for the healing You've started in Emily's wrist—please continue to mend it. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

There was a short, peaceful pause before the forks and plates started clinking.

"Smells mighty good, Bev," Papa said, piling chicken onto his plate.

"Hope it tastes as good as it smells," Mama said, smiling as she spooned green beans onto mine.

I grinned, already digging into my taters. This was the best part of the day—us, together.

Mama's chicken was crispy, the taters were buttery, and the biscuits were warm, perfect for sopping up gravy. We were all eatin' and talkin', laughin' a little about Papa accidentally cuttin' a board too short at work and havin' to start over.

But then, I went and ruined it.

"You know," I started, mouth half-full of chicken, "Jacob said his cousin found a dead possum in the ditch last week, and when they poked it with a stick, its belly exploded, and all these maggots—"

"Emily!" Mama gasped, nearly dropping her fork.

Papa's hand hit the table—not hard, but firm enough that everything stopped.

"That's enough," he said, his voice low and sharp.

My face burned hot. I hadn't meant nothin' by it—it was just a story—but I could see I crossed a line. Mama's face was tight, like she was holdin' back from scoldin' me right there, and Papa's eyes... they weren't angry, not like yellin' angry, but disappointed.

"We don't talk about filth like that at the table," Papa said. "Especially not when your Mama worked hard on this meal. Stand up."

I froze.

"Now, Emily."

I pushed my chair back, my heart thumpin'. My feet felt heavy as I made my way over to the corner by the pantry.

"You stand there and think about what you said," Papa's voice came behind me. "When you're ready to apologize, you can sit back down."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the wall, the sound of forks scraping plates behind me. I hated this part—the part where I let them down. I wasn't a bad kid. But sometimes my mouth got ahead of my brain.

A few sniffles escaped, and I wiped my nose with my sleeve, hoping they didn't hear. The food smell that had made me so hungry just minutes ago now made my stomach twist.

After what felt like forever, I took a shaky breath and turned around.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry, Papa. I shouldn't have said that."

Mama gave me a soft smile, and Papa nodded, his face a little softer now.

"Come on back, baby," Mama said. "We saved you a plate."

I slid back into my seat, my eyes still watery but feelin' a little better now. I took a small bite of my biscuit, chewin' slow.

Dinner was quiet after that, but it was alright. I'd made a mistake—but they still loved me.

That's what mattered.

I was still eating, picking at what was left on my plate, when Papa pushed his chair back with a soft scrape and stood up. He didn't say a word, just grabbed his pipe from the counter and stepped outside onto the porch. I watched him through the window as he lit it, the little orange glow flaring up in the dimming light. He took a long puff, then let the smoke drift out slow into the evening air.

Mama was rinsing dishes at the sink, her back to me. The sound of water splashing mixed with the faint creak of the porch boards as Papa rocked in his chair.

I finished up—what little was left—and quietly pushed my plate toward the edge of the table. I didn't want to bother Mama, not after everything that happened at dinner. She gave me a little nod, though, like she knew I was tryin' to be good.

Wipin' my mouth with my sleeve, I slipped outside, the screen door creaking softly behind me.

Papa looked up as I stepped onto the porch. He tapped the bowl of his pipe lightly against the armrest, embers flickering down into the dirt.

He didn't say nothin' at first, just watched the horizon, the sky fading from orange to a dusky purple.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady.
"I was this close to givin' you a whoopin' back there, Emily."

He held his thumb and forefinger barely apart, his eyes still on the trees in the distance.

My chest tightened.
"I know, Papa. I'm real sorry."

He nodded, takin' another slow pull from his pipe.

"I know you are. That's why I didn't. But you gotta understand... there's a time for those kinds of stories. Dinner ain't it. Especially not when your Mama's worked hard all day."

I looked down at my bare feet, toes brushing the edge of the porch.

"I get it," I said softly.

Papa leaned forward a little, restin' his elbows on his knees.

"You're a good kid, Emily. But sometimes you gotta learn when to hold your tongue. Words can be as sharp as a knife if you ain't careful."

I nodded. I didn't like gettin' in trouble, but I understood. Papa didn't like bein' strict—it was somethin' he did 'cause he cared.

The night was quiet 'cept for the chirpin' of crickets and the distant croak of frogs from the swamp. I sat down beside him on the top step, listenin' to the pipe crackle every time he drew a breath.

We didn't talk much more after that. We didn't need to.

Sometimes sittin' beside Papa was all I needed to know everything was alright.