The Dollar Kids

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  Lowen was left feeling on the hook with Coach and wondering how he was going to weasel out of this whole “we need you” sports thing. He made the mistake of glancing at Sami, who seemed to take this as an invitation to talk. But before she could get a word out, a screech of microphone interference drew everyone’s attention to the three people seated on the stage.

  An older man, with a stern face and dressed more formally than Coach or the woman seated at his other side, wiped his brow and leaned forward to speak directly into a microphone. “We’ll begin,” he said.

  Those that were still standing moved toward seats. Lowen sat down beside Dad and Anneth in the last row of folding chairs. Mum joined them. She had a big stack of papers in her hands. “I just signed our life away,” she said.

  “No turning back now,” Dad kidded.

  Anneth popped up from her texting. “But, Daddy, you said —”

  The older man continued. “I’m Douglas Avery,” he said into the mic, “president of the town council. To my right is town councillor and librarian Barbara Duffey, and to my left is Coach — ah, I mean selectman Bo Walker.”

  Chuckles burst from the bleachers, now filled by the people who were once near the front door.

  “I had no idea that this was going to be such a public event,” Mum whispered. “I thought choosing a house would be a private affair.”

  Lowen recalled Sami’s comment about this being a behavioral experiment. Maybe she wasn’t so far off.

  Mr. Avery continued: “We’d like to welcome our five new families to Millville. If you could stand up when I call your name . . . the Doshis. The Greys. The Grovers. The Kellings. And last but not least, the Muñozes.” (The Muñozes appeared to have only two kids, but the rules definitely specified three. Lowen hoped that there was a third girl somewhere, one around Anneth’s age, since everyone else seemed younger or older. A new friend would make a big difference in Anneth’s willingness to give Millville a try.) Each family stood in turn, and the crowd applauded politely. Clem raced over to join his family in a clownish way, and he got the laugh he anticipated. “What fine, diverse families,” Mr. Avery said. Lowen tried to shoot Clem and Anneth a look, but Anneth had her nose in her phone, and Clem seemed to be looking anywhere but at him.

  “We’ll begin with a short film that presents the origins of our great town.”

  The lights dimmed and the movie began. It had an old-timey sound.

  “They converted an old reel movie to digital,” Clem whispered as he slipped in next to them.

  A deep voice narrated the film: “The proximity to the Grand River and the abundant forests made Millville the ideal location for a paper mill. Construction included a dam and power development, a grinder room, and a hydroelectric station.” The narrator went on to talk about how many machines were purchased to run the mill.

  The movie then switched from mill pride to the construction of homes, the digging of wells, the building of a school, and the establishment of a town government. Fire equipment was purchased (and later an ambulance and a police car), and a cemetery was established. By 1927 the town had lots of other businesses, too: a men’s clothing store, a car dealership, a hotel and restaurant, a shoe-repair shop, a jewelry store, a milliner (which Mum said was a hat store), a barbershop, and an ice-cream parlor. There were two grocery stores. It seemed like the whole town had popped up practically overnight. In every scene there were smiling, happy families. People were greeting one another on the streets, watching children perform at the bandstand, sitting on their front porches with sparklers.

  The movie ended with happy high-school students taking off their graduation gowns and entering the mill — a place where promotions and prosperity were guaranteed.

  “You hate to think of what the founders would think of their booming town now,” Dad remarked.

  The townspeople in the bleachers clapped when the lights came back on, and Councillor Duffey outlined the procedure for the lottery: Families would be called in the order their application had been received. When called, one member from the family would come forward and choose a number from a hat. Number 1 would have first choice of a house; number 2 would have second choice; and so on. After signing a lease, families could move into their house that afternoon.

  The Greys, from Hawaii, were the first to choose a number. They sent their youngest child, a smiley four-year-old boy named Lagi, to the front of the gym. He stood on tiptoes to reach into the hat and pulled out an envelope. He was then directed to stand right where he was and wait until all of the families had drawn their envelopes before opening his. He couldn’t stop grinning; clearly, Lagi thought this was fun. But Lowen didn’t want fun; he didn’t want suspense. He wanted this part of the lottery to go as quickly as possible.

  Because of the cute factor, or because it was simply easier to follow suit, Mrs. Doshi sent her youngest, Meera, to choose an envelope.

  When the Grovers were called third, Clem said, “I’ll go!” but Dad stopped him. “Lowen can handle this,” he said.

  Lowen froze. Not only did he not want all of these faces looking at him, but he didn’t want the responsibility of choosing. What if he selected a terrible number? Unfortunately faces were already turned to him, expecting him to rise, and refusing to go would only bring more attention. He stood, walked to the stage, reached into the hat, and grabbed the first envelope he touched. He felt like a giant standing next to the other kids. He locked eyes with a spot on the floor like it was his long-lost friend.

  The Kellings went next, and sent up Mason, which made Lowen feel a little better. The Muñozes were the last to go. They sent up their younger son.

  Finally the kids were told to open their envelopes. Lowen tore open the seal and stared down at the number 4. Not great, but at least it wasn’t number 5.

  “A house is a house,” Mum said when Lowen came back to his chair. “We’ll make it ours.”

  The Muñoz family had drawn number 1. Lowen held his breath as Mr. Muñoz glanced at the easels on the stage. Finally, he said, “We’ll take thirty-two Elm.” The house with the fake brick paneling. There was still no sign of a third Muñoz kid. Perhaps this family had somehow gotten the requirement for three children waived. Perhaps the smaller house suited them better.

  The Kelling family chose the house with all the DayGlo rooms. Yes! Of course! The twins could easily share a room.

  Even though he knew better, a small drop of hope rippled inside Lowen. Maybe, by some weird luck, they’d still get the four-bedroom house.

  “Rena’s next,” said Mum. Rena was Mrs. Doshi.

  “They’ll take the four-bedroom for sure,” Clem muttered.

  But they didn’t. Rena and the girls seemed very happy to get the house with all the junk in it. In fact, it looked like the jam-packed house had been their first choice. Lowen and Clem couldn’t help themselves; they did a little happy dance. The four-bedroom would be theirs!

  “People have different tastes,” said Mum. “Looks like this lottery is working out in everyone’s favor.”

  Lowen couldn’t believe his family’s luck.

  When their name was called, the Grovers walked to the front of the gym and examined the poster-board displays of the two remaining houses: 11 Beech Street and 4 Maple. The four-bedroom house and the stinky house that they’d toured earlier in the day. They lingered over the picture of the four-bedroom for a few moments, knowing that the house would be theirs.

  The house had a tiny addition and a detached garage. The addition made the house look like a bird with one broken wing.

  Mum glanced over at the Grey family — all six of them. Mrs. Grey looked distraught. She pulled Lagi up onto her lap.

  Clem and Lowen exchanged a quick glance of horror. Mum was about to pass on the only house that would allow them to get out from under each other’s stuff and annoying habits.

  “Mum,” said Clem, trying to use his mature voice, his voice of reason. “Remember that you are moving your family a million miles away fr
om everything and everyone we know and love. You owe it to us to pick the four-bedroom house.”

  Yikes, thought Lowen. How could Clem be so smart about some things, but so clueless when it came to others? Mum couldn’t stand claims of entitlement.

  It was in that moment that Mrs. Grey, possibly reading Mum’s mind, put Lagi down and tiptoed toward the stage. Mum squatted so they could talk privately.

  There was a look of apprehension on Mr. Avery’s face, and rumblings from the audience. Mrs. Corbeau, the woman who had showed them the stinky house, stood up in the bleachers.

  “If you’re sure,” Lowen heard Mum whisper to Mrs. Grey.

  Mrs. Grey nodded gratefully. Lowen’s heart dropped.

  Mum turned to Mr. Avery. “We’ll take the house on Beech Street.”

  The Grovers looked at one another, stunned. But Mum just smiled. For whatever reason, it seemed that the Greys didn’t want the four-bedroom house. They were happy with the stinky house on the park.

  The Grovers moved in for a group hug.

  “I’m going to find the restroom,” Lowen said.

  As he searched for one up and down the locker-lined hallway, thinking about the lottery, he felt as if his family had dodged a bullet. Another bullet.

  The snake lifted its head. What should have been a moment of happiness was not. Lowen doubted that he’d ever feel a pure sense of gladness again. How could he feel happy when he was here and Abe was dead?

  Closer to the center of the building, he heard music — music that was simultaneously jarring and soothing, like the first bite of vanilla ice cream over warm apple crisp, or stepping outside on an icy winter’s night and looking up to see a sky full of stars. He felt a swelling sensation deep inside his body.

  He followed the music until he found the source: a girl, likely the fifth Muñoz, playing the cello. Her dark hair hung over her face. Sunlight streamed through the windows, across her cheek, and danced on her bow hand. For a moment, Lowen wanted nothing more than to sketch that hand.

  The girl stopped playing and looked up at him. He could see now that she was older than he was, probably more like Clem’s age, but it didn’t stop his heart from scrambling up to his throat.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  The song? Did she mean the song? Or perhaps she meant his staring?

  “The lottery?” she clarified. “Is it over?”

  “Oh,” said Lowen. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, it’s over. Are you a Muñoz?”

  She nodded. “Luna Muñoz.”

  “You got thirty-two Elm. The one with the carved grape leaves,” he said, guessing that she would be pleased.

  Luna shrugged. “They’re all the same.” She began packing up her cello.

  That’s when Lowen heard his name being called. “I better go,” he said. “Your playing — it was crazy. I mean beautiful. Crazy beautiful.” Lowen never talked to girls, and now he’d spoken to two in one day.

  Luna smiled, and when she did, her eyes smiled, too.

  Just then Clem burst into the room. “Hey, Low, we’re lea —” He stopped cold. Apparently you didn’t need to hear Luna’s music to see that she was, well, special.

  “You play the cello,” Clem said, reaching over to carry her case for her. “Cool. I’m Clem, Clem Grover. Do you live here in Millville?”

  Lowen trailed behind, listening to his brother talk to Luna, and acknowledged two things: for the first time he was not grateful that his more outgoing older brother had taken over a conversation, and at this moment his blood was no longer frozen in his veins. Listening to Luna’s music, he had felt something other than sadness or worry. It wasn’t gladness, certainly. But he had felt . . . what?

  Alive.

  As soon as the Grovers exited the gym, Mum pulled out the key to their very own house and waved it in the air.

  “May I see it, Mum?” Anneth asked.

  “It’s just a key,” Mum said.

  “I know, but I want to take a picture.”

  “I want to see it next,” Lowen said. It was, as Mum said, just a key. But he cradled it in his hands when it was his turn to hold it. Unlike the apartment key he carried back home, this one felt magical. It was the key to a new kingdom, a new life.

  The Grovers decided to leave the car at the school and walk to their very own house near the corner of Beech and Monument.

  “Home of the Grovers!” Dad called out as they approached. Close up, they could see that it was in the same disrepair as all of the others. The front yard had a small patch of unmowed grass that was mostly dandelions and a cracked cement walkway that led to partially rotted front steps. It was easy to imagine teams of insects munching away in the dank, soft wood of those steps. Laying eggs that would turn into larvae. Little worms.

  On one end of the porch were two rusted chairs. A scraggly bush with light-yellow flowers (honeysuckle, Mum said) grew up over the railing at that end. The overbearing scent of the flowers reminded Lowen of floral air fresheners that were intended to mask bad smells but instead mixed with them to make lingering, headachy odors.

  As Mum stepped gingerly up the steps and tried to turn the key in the door, Clem slipped around back.

  While the others waited, clouds of little black flies swarmed around Lowen’s head and dove for his eyes. He looked down at a fly settling on his arm and smooshed one, then another. They were tiny and easy to kill, but there seemed to be hundreds. No, make that thousands. Maybe wishing for no screens wasn’t such a good idea.

  “Hurry up, Mum!” Anneth cried, flapping her arms around her face. “We’re being eaten alive!”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Clem said, swatting as he returned, “but there’s nothing behind us but a parking lot — paved with newly painted lines.”

  Dad took the key from Mum. “There must be a business nearby.”

  “I suppose,” said Clem.

  “Augh!” Dad said, battling flies while trying to open the door. “Let’s try the back door.”

  They walked around the house. A grassy driveway led to a single detached garage. Beside the garage was a weedy yard with a rotating clothesline. A small picket fence had once been erected to mark the end of the yard and the beginning of the lot, but it was mostly flat on the ground now.

  The parking lot took the space of two housing lots. Their next-door neighbor’s garage abutted one end of the parking lot, which seemed a strange layout.

  “Look,” said Clem. “A basketball hoop!” Sure enough, a basketball hoop (a now crooked basketball hoop) had been erected on a pole at one end of the pavement.

  “Do you suppose this lot belongs to our neighbor?” Dad pointed to the house next to theirs, the one with the nice front lawn.

  It was at that moment that an ambulance quietly pulled into the parking lot.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mum. “I hope our neighbor isn’t ill.”

  Two men jumped out of the ambulance and came around to the back, where they opened wide doors. One of the men hopped into the rear. Moments later, a gurney emerged and was gently lowered out of the vehicle. Lowen couldn’t quite tell from where he stood, but it seemed as if there was a body on the gurney — though what he could see of it was covered with a sheet. The paramedics wheeled the gurney into the garage that faced the parking lot.

  Mum and Dad looked at each other with instant recognition — recognition and fear.

  “Someone home from the hospital?” Anneth asked.

  Dad hightailed it around the house back to Beech Street, with Mum close behind.

  “What’s going on?” Clem asked as the three kids raced around the corner.

  Mum and Dad stood in front of the home next to theirs.

  “Lovely,” Mum said in her most sarcastic voice.

  “Impossible,” said Dad. “Someone should have prevented this.”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Lowen saw a small, discreet sign that read FIELD’S FUNERAL HOME.

  No wonder the other families didn’t choose the four-bedroom house
! They’d all had a chance to visit the homes. No one wanted the four-bedroom house because it was next to a funeral home! The person on the gurney? That person was dead.

  Dad shook his head. “It’s not too late to back out,” he said. “The officials would have to understand. Like I said, they never should have let this happen. You told them . . .”

  Mum sighed; her shoulders drooped. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.” She sounded as if she’d traveled a million miles only to arrive back where she started.

  “Damn,” said Clem, and for once no one told him to watch his language.

  Lowen’s family hadn’t dodged a bullet after all.

  Come on, Lowen. It was the voice . . . Abe’s voice. Dead is just dead. I should know.

  The snake rose up. He turned to his family. “I want to live here. I want to live at eleven Beech Street.”

  It only seemed right that Lowen should be reminded every day that dead is dead.

  It’s what he deserved.

  Of course it wasn’t as easy as that. Mum and Dad had to ask him a million more times if he thought he’d be OK living next door to a funeral home, and then they talked among themselves, and then they asked him again.

  In the meantime, Clem practiced air jump shots and Anneth wildly texted messages to Megan that Lowen guessed were variations of Guess what! We might be coming back to Flintlock!

  Finally he overheard Dad say something to the effect of Well, death is a part of life, and the next thing they knew they were going around to the back door to see if their key would fit there.

  It did.

  The back door led them through a musty mudroom lined with coat hooks, and then into the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets had doors, but they were ill-fitting, crooked. Two of the cupboard doors had come off altogether, leaving only hinges. One lower cupboard was covered with a broken sheet of trellis — a door replacement, probably intended to keep out a dog or a cat or possibly something wilder than that. The floor was a patchwork of bare wood and linoleum. Although it was clear that someone thought the floor should be changed, Lowen couldn’t tell in which direction they were headed.