Page 19 of Taming Georgia

I look around. The truck seems on the newer side, and it’s clean. I don’t know why that annoys me. I suppose I pictured Wyatt as a slob—anything to hate him more.

There are no personal items lying around. The cupholders in the middle console are filled with a large metal water bottle and his wallet. Pretty boring stuff. I don’t know what I was expecting. Long-lost letters of regret for the words he said to me? A diary or scrapbook?

After a minute, the arguing stops. The vehicle jostles as Wyatt throws some things into the bed of the truck. Then, he’s opening the driver’s door and getting in.

I fasten my seat belt.

“I have no idea why you came back,” he growls as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Just do what you’re told and don’t talk. Are we clear?”

I opt to look out the window instead of answering him. He told me not to talk after all.

5

“If I didn’t detest Georgia as much as I do, I might laugh at how adorable she is.”—Wyatt Gates

I’m not particularly thrilled to be heading to my old stomping grounds. I try to avoid this area at all costs. Too many bad memories exist there. I’m even less enthused that I have to take Georgia with me.

Ethel.

I’m trying to remember what it is that I love about that woman. I’m finding it hard to recall at the moment. She’s the sweetest person in the world, but she’s also the most stubborn.

The inside of the cab is mostly quiet, except for the rumble of the engine. If Georgia’s mere presence didn’t bother me so much, I could almost forget she was even here. Almost.

Even when she’s silent, I can’t ignore her. My body knows she’s close. It warms at the thought of her. How is it possible to despise someone so much and be insanely attracted to them all at once? It makes no sense, and it’s driving me crazy. I just want her gone.

I haven’t figured out her motives for being here, and it really doesn’t matter. There’s no reason valid enough for me to want her to stay on working at the shelter.

We drive through Ann Arbor and into Ypsilanti.Home sweet home.This place stopped being my home the second I moved out the summer after senior year—also known as the summer my mom overdosed.

There are some nice parts of Ypsilanti, just not where I lived. I’m from across the tracks. The housing projects I called home were located literally on the other side of the train tracks. It’s ironic how the tracks separated the two parts of the city. On one side was the not-too-shabby area, complete with hospitals, a college, restaurants, and nice subdivisions. Then, there was my side, full of Section 8 housing, drugs, gangs, and dog fighting.

I hated being here then, and I hate being here now. But if there’s a dog that needs saving, I need to suck it up and get over it.

The truck bounces over the tracks, and I see the dingy brown apartment buildings where I spent my childhood. I pull into Building C’s parking lot, turn the truck off, and get out.

“Wyatt?” Mr. Meaner stands before me with a brown bag in hand.

“Hi, Mr. Meaner.”

I can’t believe this old man is still alive. He must have a liver of steel. He’s Building C’s resident alcoholic—or at least, one of them. And contrary to his name, he’s the happy drunk. I always liked him. I learned early on that most drunks aren’t so happy.

“I got a call about some dogs stuck under a building.”

“I’m not sure about any dogs, but there is something going on over there by the corner of Willie’s old place that’s making a lot of racket.” He swings his arm toward the apartment that he’s speaking of, as if I could ever forget it.

Four hours on a smelly bus isn’t good for much besides sleeping and homework, and I do both daily. I hate taking this bus to Ann Arbor every day for school. It’s an epic waste of time. I can think of plenty that I’d rather be doing than wasting two hours every morning and night. I could be working more, for one.

Even with my two jobs and Mom’s government check, we’re barely making ends meet. I’m fucking sick of ramen noodles—like, really sick of them. I also don’t know how many more too-old-to-serve burgers I can stomach. I’m not one to turn down food, but these fast-food places aren’t serving quality as it is. That quality depletes rapidly when a sandwich has been sitting so long that it’s deemed unsuitable for consumption and has to be thrown away or put in my pocket for dinner later.

But Mom got me a scholarship to that snobby high school, promising me it would help my future. I don’t understand how she can feign concern over my future when she has no desire to be present in it. Even if she’s alive when I graduate, she won’t be there. She’ll be off in some drug-induced stupor.

The bus finally reaches my stop, and I get off and make my way across the tracks toward our apartment building. This is the earliest I’ve been home from school in weeks, as I normally work in the evenings. In place of the happiness I should be feeling at finally having an evening off, I can only feel dread. If I’m being honest, I’m always leery, entering my apartment.

I reach out to open the handle of the door, but it opens before I can. In the entryway stands Willie, my mom’s dealer. He zips up his pants with a sick smirk in my direction. I step aside, allowing him to pass, which he does without a word.

I walk inside and close the door, dead-bolting it shut. I drop my backpack on the floor.

“Mom?” I call into the apartment that smells like rotten cheese for some reason.Guess I’ll be cleaning tonight.“Mom, I’m home.”

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