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The next morning Mamma makes us breakfast. She thinks I don't notice the way she starts off with three eggs, then quietly places the third back in the carton. That's one egg in thousands she'll have to put back. See, Mamma and Daddy were one of those couples that practically shared underwear. None of that constant bickering you see with some folks, just two people who woke up every morning excited as hell to brush their teeth together.

The small house brims with flowers and fruitcakes. We almost had to duct tape the freezer shut. For now it's full, but I know when the lasagnas dwindle and the carnations wilt the place will start to echo.

As Mamma cooks, I look over my calendar. "Everything all right?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm just checking on some assignments."

December bursts with brightly colored to-dos, rainbow reminders of my life down the road.

"Shoo-ee! Look at all that. Don't let 'em work you too hard now."

"It's not all school. I've got a Secret Santa going with my study group on the twenty-first and I'm doing some extra research for the department the week after Christmas."

"What about the green ones?"

"Shoot, that's a symposium I need to finish my application for. I can probably knock it out in a few days with enough coffee. Don't let me forget."

By the look on her face, Mamma's holding back tears, a fart, or both. The eggs jostle as she sets the plates on the table. I put my laptop away.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Oh, don't worry about me, sugar." She clucks. "I've got my needlepointing. And the Hog Club. We's real close to getting that tampon tax repealed, so I'll be up to my elbows in work, don't you know. Busy, busy. But enough about me! What's new in Music City? I heard Faith Hill and Tim McGraw just bought a new house. Think you could sneak over there and snap a picture for me? Bet it's real fancy."

Despite the smile, the red of her eyelashes pokes through the mascara again. Mamma and I don't look much alike—my hair stayed red for only a little while and my curves outran hers in the seventh grade—but what we do have are the same eye sockets. Deep as Mammoth Cave, Daddy used to say. Good for holding water. Last thing I want to do is fill the well again. So, no, I don't tell her that Nashville is sensational. That there are pretty girls and Pride parades and coffee with frothy milk on top. I leave Vandy's library out of it completely. Nor do I mention my book club or my perfect little apartment right off Centennial Park, where my neighbors, who always seem one song away from famous, play guitar late into the night when I'm trying to sleep.

Instead, when Mamma goes to wash the plates, I circle an ad in the Pennywhistle classifieds.

'Fry cook. Chickie Shak.' It ain't glamorous, but it's something to do.

The Chickie Shak is something of a historical landmark. Red clapboard walls, a thriving wasp population, yard toilets resplendent with sunflowers. Tornadoes do not wither it. Instead, the building settles into the hill like a cat does a lap, time and tragedy be damned, and continues to purr.

My best friend, Lee Ray, and I used to go there after our softball games. Cleats caked with victory, pockets lined with Hubba Bubba wrappers. We'd mosey up the dirt road and snag a picnic table while our mammas ordered the home-team special. The line snaked around the building far as you could see, a real parade of diversity. White ass cheeks hanging out of jean shorts. Red necks poking out from mullets. The grimiest bunch of Jessies, Pearls, and Scooters you ever did behold, hobnobbing in the parking lot from noon until night.

"Well, well, well," the preacher would say as he approached our table, "if it isn't the finest first baseman and pitcher this side of the Mississippi."

"I don't know about 'finest'," I'd say, shrugging. "But certainly the best," Lee Ray would clarify.

At eleven, we were both still wiry. Me with great big glasses, him with feet that spoke of growth spurts but couldn't say when they were coming. You never saw two kids better loved than us.

"How 'bout that last out you two pulled off?" the preacher would nudge. "Don't get too humble on me, now."

"Okay," I'd admit. "We might be the finest."

"Amen."