My Spy

Mississippi Sunshine

"The last thing you need my dear, is another scandal!" My mother barks as she slams my rickety bedroom door shut behind her. The very door that has been slammed shut so many times, that you can see the hairline fractures crawling up all over the white wood. Somehow, ten years after the slamming began, it still stands intact.

I wait until my mother's footsteps disappear down the stairs before pushing myself up and off my wooden vanity chair. Our arguments always leave me in a tizzy, feeling like a toddler left in timeout, so I cross over to my nightstand in a huff. I yank my phone off of the smooth cherry wood and punch in Annabeth's number. I know it's not my phone's fault that my best friend is a dimwit but that still doesn't stop me from stabbing each number furiously. I shake my head as I wait for the phone to connect and play out what I am going to say to her. It rings twice before she answers.

"Sawyer, what happened?" She asks with her southern twang peeking through and I quickly cross back to my chair.

"I took a bullet for you is what happened. My mother told Mrs. Penderghast that we didn't realize the bottle was an auction item," I explain. "She apologized on our behalf and offered to pay whatever amount the highest bid was. Turns out you stole a six-hundred-dollar bottle of wine!" I hear Annabeth's sweet syrupy laugh on the other end.

"No wonder we got such a good buzz," she jokes. She isn't taking the scolding from my raging mother very seriously, but then again, she didn't have to endure the wrath either.

"But come on, it's your mother's fault for dragging you to the charity event when you begged her not to go in the first place. You have to be drunk to enjoy high society functions, especially when everyone there is gossipin' about you," she says sharply. This is exactly what she told me when she bounded over to my table with the wine bottle in her hand at the charity auction last night. I had assumed she snagged the bottle from the caterers- now I get what they say about assuming. I shake my head in frustration and reply, "Yeah, we know that, but my mother did not see that as a valid excuse." Annabeth waves my snappiness off.

"Hey, she also donated six-hundred dollars to the Children's Hospital. We literally gave back to those poor little kids. She should be thrilled we were so charitable." 

"Annabeth..."

"What? This won't be the last time you have a spat with your mama, Sawyer." Then more seriously she adds. "But I do want to thank you for coverin' for me though. My mother would have been horrified and wouldn't have been able to foot the bill." I sigh but before I can say anything she says, "I'll see y'all at LulaBelle's brunch tomorrow yeah? Mama Sweeney is still dragging you there?" 

"After last night, I am in such deep shit that I will be there tomorrow with my best fake, I-am-totally-fine smile." 

"Good. And I promise to not snatch any ol' bottle of wine off any ol' table." She giggles again before the line goes dead and I toss my phone to the end of the vanity. I roll my eyes dramatically at Annabeth, even though she's not here to witness it, while shaking my head at her stupidity. I understand she was trying to have a good time and was attempting to cheer me up, but I really don't understand how she didn't realize she snatched up the bottle the Penderghasts donated from their winery for the auction. I took all of the blame because I knew Annabeth didn't have the money to cover the cost of the item. Luckily, us Sweeneys do and it ain't the first time my mother has written a check to bail me out of trouble.

I glare at my closed door as if it's my furious mother wondering what the hell to do with myself now. It's the end of August but the sweltering, sticky summer heat won't dissipate until late October. Even though the air conditioning is pumping through the vents into my room, it's still unbearable to be locked in here for the remainder of the afternoon. I glance around at my obscenely decorated room like it's in a fancy dollhouse with rich, floral wallpaper making me feel claustrophobic. My four-poster bed is covered in a plethora of pillows and my plum duvet is already folded nicely (thanks to Mrs. Celia), which makes it seem off-limits and uninviting. My whole room is uncomfortably neat and I feel like I cannot hang out in my own space. I need to go out and do something other than sit here and twiddle my thumbs.

I don't want to chance crossing paths with my fuming mother downstairs, so I decide to sneak out through my large bay window like I used to do back in high school.

I swiftly walk into my oversized walk-in closet and find my favorite pair of grey battered converse stuffed in the corner. Mrs. Celia tries her best to keep my closet organized, but she's completely given up on stacking my dusty shoes neatly. I tug them on before quickly walking back over to the wide bay window. I push the decorative throw pillows away from the latch before shimming the large rectangular glass panel up. I grab my phone off the vanity before swinging my right leg out of the opening. I manage to find a hold on the roof of the veranda below and quickly swing my left leg out so I'm facing the backyard. I remember to slide the window shut behind me so I don't have to hear my mother tell me, "We don't pay to cool the outside, Sawyer," when I get home later.

I carefully tiptoe down my roof until I reach the drop-off and quickly scurry to the side that holds the wide trellis attached to the side of our house. I haven't had to use the wooden structure in years, so I am hoping it's still as sturdy as it was all those years ago. I wipe my sweaty hands down my jeans shorts so I'll have a better grip on the wood, even though, falling off the roof and breaking my neck wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me lately.

Using the trellis like a ladder, I carefully climb down the house trying to avoid the fluffy vines that snake across it. I feel the leaves tickle my legs as I climb down and I hope there aren't any terrifying spiders hiding out, waiting to startle me as I pass.

Once I am close enough to the bottom, I drop down and land on the plush grass with a thud. I don't linger by the suffocating house as I quickly jog across our vast backyard, looking behind me every few steps of the way, hoping my mother didn't catch me breaking free.

When I am closer to the front of our property line, I stop glancing behind me and grin as I realize how overjoyed I am to be away from my stifling room. 

Our house is an old Antebellum Plantation that sits on ten acres of land, so by the time I reach the dirt road that leads into town, I am a sweaty mess. My joy of being away from my air-conditioned room quickly turns into regret as my clothes start to stick to me and my thighs rub together. I try and walk in the shade cast by the large oak trees lining the road but I still feel the tiny beads of sweat roll down my forehead every few feet.

I don't see any cars roll past on my leisurely stroll and I don't see anyone dumb enough to be walking into town right now either. It's just me on the dirt road and I welcome the isolation. Although lately, I've noticed I don't handle total silence well, as my mind uses it as an opportunity to replay every horrific thing that has happened to me in the last couple of months. I decide to hum my favorite song loudly as I cruise into town, hoping not to dredge up any painful memories along the way.

Because of the miserable heat Mississippi brings us every year, everyone that doesn't have proper air conditioning spends most of their day in town at either the large cinema complex, the pee-filled community pool, or the Rusty Spoon diner. Since I'm still trying to avoid most of the people in our small town due to my latest scandal, I dodge the cinema doors and sneak into the small cool public library that sits adjacent to it. This is where I usually come when I am avoiding my judging mother at home or my noisy peers in town because the only person I encounter here, is our ancient librarian, Mrs. Hillsborough. She scowls at everyone that walks through the door but as long as I am quiet and return my books on time she doesn't bother me.

I've found that I can spend hours walking down the wooden aisles, deciding on my next adventure while purposely dodging the romance section as if there were an evil spirit lingering in that section's shelf space. And even though it's a quiet area, I manage to keep my brain busy with vibrant stories of murder mysteries or thrillers. I've found I'm partial to any thriller with a murdered cheater. Mrs. Hillsborough skimmed through my holds list last week and said very pointedly that if Jackson Hemming was found murdered, she'd be sending the detectives to my address. 

Today, I tilt my head as I pass the ancient librarian frowning at me from the check-out desk and march straight to my favorite section. I walk down the mystery aisle, gliding my fingers across the titles, and settle on a murder mystery that deals with a scorned lover- perfect! I pull out the small hardback that's wedged between the others and saunter over to the old leather couch my family donated to the library a few years back. I prop my legs up on the familiar armrest and flip the yellowing pages to the first chapter. I'm immediately sucked into the pages and I stay there, solving the mystery until the pulsating sun is pulled away from all the wide windows.