Read Online The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out by Neta Jackson - Free Book Online Page A

ear—“is your emergency?”
    â€œUh, uh . . . I’m sorry. Dialed by mistake. Sorry.” I fumbled with my cold fingers, managed to flip the phone closed. The lighted LED died. I let my head fall back to the snowy sidewalk. No way did I want to lie here for ten minutes waiting for paramedics to arrive, and it was probably just a sprained ankle anyway. The Hickmans were just up the street. That’s what I needed to do—call Florida and Carl, tell them I’m lying out on their sidewalk, feeling like a fool.
    Good thing I had the Hickmans’
number on speed dial. My brain felt like cold oatmeal. And the pain in my ankle robbed me of lucid thought. Carl was at my side in half a minute, no coat, Florida right behind him. I was so glad to see them, I started to cry.
    â€œJodi Baxter! What—? Never mind. I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”
    â€œNo, no,” I gasped. “It’s just a sprained ankle. Just get me to your house. Please.”
    Between the two of them and me hobbling on one foot, they got me inside. I sank down on their couch, winced as Florida pulled off my boot, but gratefully accepted the pillows she used to prop up my left foot. “Ice,” she muttered. “Gotta get ice on that foot. Carl, where you goin’?”
    â€œGoin’ to pick up Jodi’s stuff lying out there on the sidewalk. I saw a bunch of boxes. Those yours? What else is out there? You got your purse? ”
    I shook my head. “I was bringing boxes for Becky. But my purse . . . it’s gone. That’s what happened. Somebody ran up behind me, grabbed my purse, made me fall down . . .” I blinked back hot tears, suddenly feeling the full weight of fear and pain now that I was inside and safe and among friends.
    Both Carl and Florida stared at me. “I’m calling the police,” Carl muttered.
    â€œNo, wait! I . . . give me a minute to think, please?” I wanted to stay on the Hickmans’ couch. I didn’t want police standing around in their living room asking questions.
    Carl scratched his head. Like Denny. Did all men do that when they felt frustrated? Then he yelled up the stairs. “Chris! Cedric! Get down here! I need some help!”
    The two boys came clattering down the stairs—and stopped, staring at me propped up on the couch. “What’s wrong, Mrs. B?” At sixteen, Chris Hickman had shot up as tall as his dad—and was as good-looking.
    â€œDon’t you be askin’ no questions,” Florida scolded on her way to the kitchen. “Just git on outside, help your dad pick up Mrs. Baxter’s things. She . . . fell.”
    â€œWait!” I sniffled, fumbling in my jacket pockets until I found my car keys. “There’s a bunch more empty boxes in the back of my car. Can you bring ’em in, Chris? They’re for Becky.”
    Florida came back with a plastic bag full of ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel and packed my foot, muttering the whole time. “You’re a stubborn woman, Jodi Baxter. You need to get this x-rayed. What if it’s broken? An’ if you don’t report a purse snatchin’ to the police, then I’m goin’ to. Don’t want no thief workin’ my block. Whatchu got in that purse, anyway—credit cards? You gotta call the credit card companies and put a stop on ’em, else that thief gonna rack up several hundred bucks tonight ’fore you can blink.”
    â€œThieves,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere were three of them. One came back to help me.”
    Florida stared at me. “What do you mean, came back?”
    I tried to explain what happened. “I’m not positive the person who found my phone was one of the thieves, except somebody kept yelling at him to run. But he found my phone and dialed 9-1-1.”
    â€œWhat? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You should be on your way to the hospital. Wait—if he called