Loving Buddy

By Peggy Eldridge-Love

Meet the Hawkins, a family steeped in religion generations deep. Through the eyes of 13-year-old Kaye Hawkins we get a bird's eye view of life inside the preacher's home, the stresses of being a PK, especially if you are her brother Buddy, the boy all the girls want to call their own!

You'll fall in love with this great girl with her old soul and beautiful humor. We promise you'll want more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peggy Eldridge-Love
• Release date: Oct 29, 2010

Peggy Eldridge-Love

Peggy Eldridge-Love is a poet, playwright, novelist and non-fiction writer. She is the author of You Beckon, The Knoll Frames, Two People, Peach Seeds, Holding it Together with Bandaids and Safety Pins, and Loving Buddy. Her poems and plays have appeared in Poets and Artists, OCHOS, Denver Syntax, Mused and other journals and zines.She resides in the mid-west with her husband and is also a visual artist and doll-maker.

Book preview

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

LOVING BUDDY

By Peggy Eldridge-Love

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2010 by Peggy Theresa Love

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Loving

Buddy

by

Peggy Eldridge-Love

Chapter 1

I answered the knock at the door, saw Tarrah standing on the front step and yelled over my shoulder as loud as I could.

Mama, somebody else’s daughter is here crying over how Buddy done done ‘em wrong. You need to come.

No you didn’t say done done ‘em wrong, Kaye. Since when did you start talking like that? Mama’s voice echoed from the kitchen mixed with the sound of pans in motion, dishes clattering, and the comforting noises of dinnertime at our house. I knew she didn’t think I was serious, so I shouted it out again in another way.

For real Mama, Sister Joseph’s daughter Tarrah is standing out on the porch crying and hiccuping. Like Grandma said, Buddy need to stop doing all these folks’ daughters wrong. I’m getting tired of it myself!

Mother came around the corner, the soft green tee shirt she wore declaring how difficult it was to be that color, her calf length green plaid pants bearing a few uncharacteristic flour smears. I saw where the smears were coming from as she rubbed her hands again along her thigh and gave me her ‘don’t make me cut you’ glare, but she brushed past me and pushed open the door.

Land sakes Tarrah, whatever is wrong? She stepped outside, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

I followed and pressed my face to the screen. The look on Tarrah’s face said things that even I understood, even though I’d just turned 13 five days ago and probably shouldn’t, but I’d seen doe eyes just like Tarrah’s