Every week Sister Pearl turned it up a notch. Driving us up the wall. Mama didn’t mess with religion—who knows what abominations she’d seen holy people do, growing up down there—and by that summer I was old enough to have my own mind and my own interests. My patience with Pearl quoting verses and looking cross-eyed at me on Sundays had worn entirely out. I would’ve understood it more if all that passion she supposedly felt for Jesus didn’t wax and wane, depending on whether she’d heard from that man. If she’d mustered some real gumption, maybe she could’ve become a preacher herself, instead of
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