And she made me laugh. I was not the laughing kind. I swore more than I smiled. Life just wasn’t that funny. But Georgia was extremely funny. And laughing and kissing does not make it easy to convince someone you want them to go away. And she just wouldn’t go away.
I thought after that night at the rodeo, tied up and terrorized, Georgia would lose some of her sass. Terrence Anderson, who had nothing but insults for Georgia, had definitely lost his sass when I cornered him a few nights after the stampede and made sure he knew that little boys who liked rope got sliced up by men who liked knives. The truth was, I was good with knives—I could throw them and hit the target dead center at twenty paces—and I made sure Terrence knew that. I showed him a nice big one I’d taken from Gigi’s kitchen drawer, and I gave him a little knick on his cheek, marking him up in the same place where Georgia’s cheek had bled.
He said he hadn’t done it. But his eyes shifted around like maybe he had. Even if he hadn’t done it, he was an asshole, so I didn’t feel bad that I made him bleed. The only thing I felt bad about was that I had been compelled to scare him off at all. Georgia’s problems were not my problems. Georgia was my problem. Like right now, when she was determined to help me repair fence, talking and making me laugh and then making me angry because she was making me laugh.
“I can’t get any work done when you’re around. And it’s gonna rain, and I’m not gonna finish. This section of fence has been a bitch, and you aren’t helping.”
“Whine, whine, whine,” Georgia sighed. “You and I both know I rock at repairing fence.”
I laughed. Again. “You suck at repairing fence! And you didn’t bring gloves, so I had to give you mine, and now my hands look like porcupines from all the damn splinters. You are not helping.”
“That’s it, Moses. Give me five greats.” Georgia said, like she was demanding push-ups, a drill sergeant barking out a command.
“Five greats?”
“Five things that are great about today. About life. Go.”
I just stared at her sullenly.
“Okay. I’ll go first. It’s easy. Right off the top of my head, five things I’m grateful for. Bacon, wet wipes, Tim McGraw, mascara, and rosemary,” she said.
“That’s kind of a strange assortment,” I said.
“What did you tell me about finding beauty in little things? What was that painter’s name? Vermeer?”
“Vermeer was an artist, not a painter,” I objected, scowling.
“An artist who painted nails and stains and cracks in the wall, right?”
I was impressed that she remembered.
“The five greats game is kind of like that. Finding beauty in ordinary things. And the only rule is gratitude. My mom and dad use it all the time. Grumbling isn’t really allowed around my house. Foster kids learn that real quick. Any time you start feeling sorry for yourself or you go into a rant about how bad life sucks, you immediately have to name five greats.”
“I can name five grates. Five things that are grating on my nerves.” I smiled sarcastically, pleased at my play on words. “And the fact that you’re wearing my gloves is at the top. Followed by your annoying lists and the fact that you just called Vermeer a painter.”
“You gave me your gloves! And yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something to it. It changes your focus, even if it’s just for a minute. And it shuts down the whining. I had one little foster sister who named the same five things every time. Toilet paper, SpaghettiOs, shoelaces, light bulbs, and the sound of her mother snoring. She had a pair of flip flops when she came to us, and nothing more. The first time we bought her shoes, we got her a pair with fluorescent green laces with pink hearts on them. She would walk, staring down at those laces.
“The sound of her mother snoring?”
“It meant she was still alive.”
I felt a little sick. Kids all over the world put up with too much from people who should know better. And then those kids turned into adults that repeated the cycle. I would probably do the same if I ever had kids. All the more reason not to. Georgia continued on while I considered how much people truly sucked.
“My mom lets the kids tell her five things that are bothering them, things they needed to express. They count them off on their fingers.” Georgia grabbed my hand and ticked the items off on my fingers to demonstrate. “Like, I’m tired. I miss my mom. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go to school. I’m scared. Whatever. Then they make a fist with the fingers they just used to express their problems. And then they throw the things away, they toss them.” Georgia illustrated the motion with my hand, wrapping my fingers around my palm, making a fist so I could throw away the imaginary ball of wadded up complaints. “Then she makes them name five greats. It helps them to refocus and it reminds them that even when life is pretty bad, it isn’t all bad, ever.” She looked at me, still holding my hand, waiting. I stared back.
“So give it to me, Moses. Five greats. Go.”
“I can’t,” I said immediately.
“You sure as hell can. I can name five things for you, but that doesn’t work as well. Gratitude works best when you’re the one feeling it.”
“Fine. You do it then—you name five greats for me,” I fired back and pulled my hand from hers. “You think you know me?” I said it mildly, but there was a prickling under my skin, an irritation that I couldn’t quite tamp down. Georgia thought she had it all figured out, but Georgia Shepherd hadn’t suffered enough to know shit about life.