Ansel lay in bed that night unable to sleep. It was as hot inside as it was out. He could smell the smudge pots his father had put on the front and back porches in a vain attempt to keep the mosquitoes out of the house. Neither the heat nor the mosquitoes bother him as much as the memory of Zeph’s arm around Mary Susan, as his lips on hers. Over and over Ansel asks himself: Why didn’t I ask Mary Susan what she was doing with a piece of trash like Zeph? His father might own everything and everybody in town, but his son was a piece of trash. Ansel does not understand why he had not gone to Mary Susan, taken her hand, and led her away. But what if she wouldn’t have let him? What if she had said she wanted to be with Zeph? Ansel didn’t know what he would have done. He didn’t know anything about girls, and especially a girl from someplace big like Atlanta. Other boys were intimidated around her because she was the preacher’s daughter. Ansel was scared of her because she was from the big city.
