A bluebird nowhere day starts like any other, I suppose, with a jaunt and a whistle and a something near like catcalling from the near beyond rail line off Tatnall Shore. My name’s Jessie, and my knobby kneed story decided to come out and play today. She don’t often take a liking to strangers, so you might as well sit back and make comfortable for the ride, like, ya hear? Now this goes back to the old days, the days when crimson blowed up my cheeks as big as it dripped down my pants. Yeah, it was gunnin’ time and I was making for the adulthood finish line quicker than any other. Sally Mae said I’d damn near be pregnant by this time next year. I was a full grown blossomin’, only eleven and almost near six feet tall. My daddy said it was on account of all the green beans I ate. Green beans grow big and tall, daddy says. I eyed the green beans on my plate, half expecting them to do a salsa across my bowl. I’d heard Sally Mae talking about salsa like she done it. It sounded all exotic and fancy like. I suppose daddy wouldn’t have liked it. Those green beans never so much as budged. I ate them anyway. I wonder if momma knew how to salsa. We don’t talk about her much, what with her bein in jail and all. Some nights I stay up and like to pretend she killed a man, held the gun right up to his temple and pulled the trigger all lady like. Daddy said she got in the slammer for gambling. That ain’t nearly half as interesting. I guess I should be lonesome what with bein the only woman in the house, but it don’t bother me none. At first the kids at school tried to tease me about it, but I set them straight right quick. I’d just look ‘em in the eyes and say, point blank, I says, “My momma shot a man. It runs in the family.” And then their jaws fall so far down it could tie their shoes, and they don’t never talk mean about me or my momma ever again.