her faucet is leaking and don her hot-pink coveralls before even putting in a call to her grandkids.
Inside, we each take our shoes off and leave them in the entryway. (The Hen House might be a bachelorette house, but these women are no slobs.)
Grammy takes turns hugging us all, including Hannah, whom she has a soft spot for. Takes a real fierce sort of person to pull off that much black. Chic, but edgy.
When Grammy hugs me, I hug her back, letting our embrace linger for a minute. Her perfume—the one she’s worn for as long as I can remember—is crisp and floral but not overpowering. Everyone ought to have their own personal scent. Which is why I’ve been wearing two spritzes of Bleu de Chanel every day since she first bought it for me on my thirteenth birthday.
“Oooh, Pumpkin,” she says.
Pumpkin is more than a term of endearment. Orange hair and orange freckles set off by the pale white of our complexion. Grammy has called me Pumpkin since the day I was born. Clem’s a ginger too, of course, but with a name like Clementine, she didn’t need a nickname.
“We’ve got to make it fast today, Gram,” I tell her as I pull away. “We’re doing a marathon of Fiercest of Them All.”
Gram pinches my cheek. “You’ve got to teach me how to watch that on the streamer TV software y’all got me for Christmas. But first, let’s get this kitchen sink looked at. Come on, Hannah,” she says, taking Hannah’s hand. “You and I will have some rhubarb pie while these two have a look-see at my sink.”
Clem laughs. “She gets pie and I get to crawl under your sink. What kind of treatment is that for your only granddaughter?”
Gram snorts. “Perks of being family.”
Clementine gingerly takes the pink toolbox from the kitchen table and plops down on the ground, pulling me down with her. The toolbox was a Christmas gift from Dad. I remember him coughing into his fist as he said, “Now, I know a toolbox need not be pink for a woman to use it, but—”
“But it certainly is fabulous,” Gram finished.
Clem and I are well trained on basic household fixes. Dad owns a pavement striping company, but he’s been known to pick up handy jobs, especially when we were younger and he was first starting out, so we spent a lot of summer days at Camp Dad while he jumped from job to job.
“Check the washer. It could be cracked,” I tell Clem, shining my cell phone light under the sink as I shimmy beneath the counter.
She grunts, wiping her hand on her jean shorts. “Nope, that’s not it.”
My brain wanders as Clem fidgets with the pipes and sink undercarriage. It’s not that I don’t know my way around a basic kitchen sink and it’s not like my sister is some kind of stereotype of a lesbian, but she’s got a brain for technical stuff. A mechanic’s brain is what Dad calls it.
Heck, she’ll probably be the smartest person at Austin Community College. We were both wait-listed at University of Texas, but convinced our parents to let us move to Austin to attend ACC until we’re accepted to UT.
Even if it’s only a few hours away, Austin is like a world away in terms of culture and has plenty of space for me to blossom into Waylon Stage Three. Waylon Stage One was Waylon before I came out of the closet. The entire history of me until that moment. Stage Two is my life in Clover City out of the closet, which hasn’t been unbearable, but is not exactly full of memories worth remembering. I try to dress in unassuming clothing and keep to myself at school, which sometimes works. Stage Three, though . . . that’s the big reveal. My butterfly moment. Austin will be the perfect arena. And Clem will be right there with me. The idea of us not going to the same school was never on the table. It wasn’t even a discussion. Besides, Clem can barely drive. She wouldn’t get very far without me.
“Hand me that wrench, Waylon.”
I sit up too soon and hit my head on the frame of the cabinet. “Shit,” I whisper as I rub my forehead.
Grammy chuckles. “You’re lucky Cleo’s sunning herself in the backyard. She’d have a bar of soap between your teeth faster than you could say Judas.”