The phone rang, and Sweet tensed. Pistol and Bubba were busy arguing about their favorite pro wrestler so his mother got to the phone first.
He heard her, “Who? Virgil? Oh, you mean Sweet! Sweet, the phone’s for you.”
But Bubba, his oldest brother darted into his way, his feet skidding on the bare wood floor, “Who’s callin’ you, and why they askin’ fer Virgil?”
“Dunno,” shrugged Sweet. Pistol inched around to behind Bubba, offering mute support.
“One of yor new smarty friends from the magnate school, huh? Callin’ you Virgil?” Bubba pressed.
“Dunno,” Sweet answered more emphatically.
“You too good to be called Sweet round yor uppity friends?”
“Ain’t like that, Bubba!” Sweet shouted.
“Sho’ is,” Pistol added, “Soon nuff he’ll be too good for grits and pig’s feet.”
“Boys,” momma cut in, “Give yer high falootin’ brother a whallop and let him answer the durn phone. I ain’t got all day to stand here holding it.” Before Sweet could protest Bubba gave him a hard punch to the chest, and Pistol followed suit.