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peered across the car’s engine, his blue eyes soft and thoughtful. “Why?”
    I shrugged, and he pushed his wheat-colored hair back with his wrist. Lavender is tall and hound-dog skinny. He wears his hair combed up in front, like he’s speeding through life. “Have you asked him?”
    “No,” I said. “Mostly the Colonel won’t talk ’til he’s ready.”
    Lavender’s handsome in the NASCAR way, and if I was old enough I’d snatch him up and marry him before sundown. I’ve asked him plenty of times already, starting the day I turned six. He always laughs and says I’m too young. Lavender is nineteen, and dangerous close to being a man.
    “It’s not like the Colonel to lie,” he said. “Of course, he’s always been a mystery. We don’t really know where he’s from, or who his folks are.” He flushed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Mo,” he said quick. “What I mean is …”
    “I know what you mean.” I tossed an acorn at the birdbath. “The Colonel and me ain’t true family. Everybody knows that.”
    “You
are
family,” he said. “You’re just not blood, is all. And blood don’t count for much anyway. Look at Macon and me.” Lavender calls his daddy by his first name, but as far as I know, he’s never called him that to his face. Lavender slammed out of his daddy’s house the day he turned eighteen and hasn’t been back. He moved here the same day.
    Lavender’s house is old, with a patched roof, but his pride shows in the way the porch stays swept and thedaylilies never want tending. His hand-lettered business sign stands in the front yard: A UTO D OC —W E M AKE H OUSE C ALLS . He keeps the Azalea Women’s wheels turning and has Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton’s Buick purring like a kitten. But everybody in town knows Lavender is just scraping by.
    “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe blood ain’t all that much. I guess the main thing is, the Colonel’s good to me.”
    “No,” he said, picking up a pack of spark plugs. “The main thing is, the Colonel loves you. Miss Lana does too. Speaking of Miss Lana—”
    “She’s fine,” I said. “She’s in Charleston, with Cousin Gideon.”
    “Don’t worry,” he said easily, “she can’t stay away from you very long.”
    “I know. I just wish she wouldn’t go away.”
    He dove back under the hood. “How’s your autobiography coming?” he asked.
    “I’m still in the research stage,” I admitted. “Miss Lana gave me a newspaper article before she left, about my coming to town. Your daddy’s got some quotes in it.”
    “Really? I’d be curious to see that.”
    Lavender? Curious about me?
    I smiled. “Truth is, autobiography is harder than I expected. Maybe because I got so many fill-in-the-blanks.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “I’m more of a multiple choice man, myself.”
    An easy silence fell between us.
    “Hey, Lavender,” I said after a while. “That new girlfriend of yours—what’s her name? Candy? Taffy? You may not know it, but a girl like that will rot your teeth out. How about you marry me?”
    He tossed a screwdriver in his battered toolbox. “You? You’re a baby.” He grinned. “Hand me that ratchet. I got to get this car right for tonight’s race. Where’s Dale, anyway? You guys are usually like get and got, one right behind the other.”
    “Gone home to check on your mama,” I said as he leaned over the engine.
    I haven’t mentioned it to Lavender yet, but if we adopt children after we’re married, I’ll want to name them myself. Naming Good runs scarce in the Johnson family.
    Lavender’s full name, for example, is Lavender Shade Johnson. No lie. Miss Rose says she named him during her Early Poetry Stage. When Dale come along, Mr. Macon named
him
Dale Earnhardt Johnson, III—after Dale Earnhardt, maybe the most famous racecar driver in history. The “III” in Dale’s name stands for Dale Earnhardt’s car, the Immortal Number 3.
    Dale runs opposite his daddy on most