Read Online Last in a Long Line of Rebels by Lisa Lewis Tyre - Free Book Online Page A

eyes, no crow’s-feet, even when she laughed. I decided, right then and there, Botox was a miracle, and if I ever needed it, I would get it. Her hair was fluffed perfectly, and she was wearing pale slacks with a turquoise top and matching turquoise jewelry. I glanced under the table. Even her sandals had a large turquoise band across the toes. I looked down at my own jeans and T-shirt. If fashion sense is hereditary, Patty got my share.
    â€œOf course it’s ridiculous,” Bertie was saying. “Most of the town knows Coach Peeler is the biggest donkey’s behind this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.” She turned around and caught me looking. “Why are you staring?”
    I licked the last remaining bits of chocolate off of my fork. “’Cause you look really pretty,” I said.
    That brought a huge smile. “Aren’t you sweet? Should I be humble and pretend I don’t agree?”
    I laughed. “That would be a first!”
    Bertie laughed along with me and turned to the boys. “Are you enjoying that biscuit, Franklin?”
    Franklin wiped his chin with a napkin. “Yes, ma’am. It’s delicious.”
    â€œYou let me know if you need another one,” Bertie said, winking. “I never could resist a man in uniform.”
    I rolled my eyes. Bertie would flirt with a rock.
    â€œSo we were kind of bored and thinking about visiting that new museum you’re so crazy about,” I told her.
    Bertie set her coffee cup down with a thud. “What? Miss I Hate History wants to go to the museum?”
    I grinned. “Key word—
bored
.”
    â€œThe museum, huh? Y’all angling for a personal tour?” she asked.
    â€œHey, that’s a really great idea,” Benzer said enthusiastically. I kicked him under the table; he didn’t have to oversell it.
    The sleigh bells rang behind me.
    Bertie made a face at someone over my shoulder. “Oh, phooey,” she muttered.
    I turned around in the booth. A short, pudgy man wearing a suit was smiling and shaking hands with folks at the counter.
    â€œWould you be able to leave soon?” Franklin asked. “I need to be home by lunch.”
    â€œFine by me; I just lost my appetite anyway. Y’all go to the car. I’ll settle up and meet you there.”
    Benzer stood, but not before he managed to stuff a whole biscuit into his mouth, his cheeks blowing out like a chipmunk’s. I punched him in the stomach, causing a chunk to shoot across the room.
    â€œDisgusting,” Franklin said.
    We walked past the counter and around the group of men that were still standing there.
    â€œYou think those boys are going to be finished with the bridge by fall, Pete?”
    â€œThey better be,” the man in the suit said. “That’s when their pay stops.”
    â€œIf they are,” another man laughed, “it will be the first time the county’s met a deadline that I’ve heard of.”
    â€œThings have changed since I became commissioner. You boys remember that when I’m up for reelection.”
    I glared at the back of his head. That had to be the sorry thief who was trying to take my house. I elbowed Benzer. “Is that Blake’s dad?” I asked, whispering.
    Benzer nodded.
    Franklin opened the door. “I call the front seat!”
    I gave one more hateful look at the back of Pete Winningham and ran outside.

    The Grey County Museum was housed in what used to be a shirt factory. It had closed a while ago, and since no one seemed interested in buying the building, the town donated it to the historical society. Bertie is passionate about a lot of things, and history ranks right up there. She organized the town ladies, and they held raffles, spaghetti suppers, whatever they could think of to raise enough money for remodeling. Benzer and I went to the grand opening, but we didn’t get to see much of it. We’d signed the guest book—Verbyl Belch