“I meant to give you P. T.,” he said. “But”—he looked at Jess and his eyes were those of a pleading little boy—“but I can’t seem to give him up.”
It’s OK. Leslie would want you to keep him.
The next day after school, Jess went down and got the lumber he needed,
carrying it a couple of boards at a time to the creek bank.
He put the two longest pieces across at the narrow place upstream from the crab apple tree,
and when he was sure they were as firm and even as he could make them, he began to nail on the crosspieces.
“Whatcha doing, Jess?” May Belle had followed him down again as he had guessed she might.
“It’s a secret, May Belle.” “Tell me.” “When I finish, OK?”
“I swear on the Bible I won’t tell nobody. Not Billy Jean, not Joyce Ann, not Momma—”
She was jerking her head back and forth in solemn emphasis.
“Oh, I don’t know about Joyce Ann. You might want to tell Joyce Ann sometime.”
“Tell Joyce Ann something that’s a secret between you and me?” The idea seemed to horrify her.
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