The Dollar Kids

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  And that he was deeply, deeply sorry.

  He wrote.

  As he finished recounting the events that led to Abe’s death, he began to remember all the things he loved about Abe: his quick wit, his great sense of humor, his wonderful imagination, and his ability to help (even if it wasn’t always needed), and he shared these with Mrs. Siskin, too. He wrote:

  His curiosity, his questioning, it made me question. I didn’t always want to stop and take the time to consider his questions. Sometimes it’s easier not to think, or to look at things differently, or to come up with answers. But when I did, I was almost always glad. He challenged me. He made me look at things differently. When I took the time to be open to what Abe was saying, I was a better me.

  He sealed the letter into an envelope. But then, more worries: Was it right to send it? Was he simply trying to make himself feel better by confessing?

  He knew that Abe’s mother would never think about that day in the same way again, would never think about Lowen in the same way again. But maybe that was for the best. Because surely, some part of her — however small, however misguided — blamed Abe for going into Georgio’s alone, which he wasn’t supposed to do. Maybe she was tormented by the thought that if only Abe had followed the rules, if only he’d listened to her, he would still be alive. Maybe by knowing that it was Lowen’s fault her son was dead, she could stop blaming her son and finally find some peace.

  Maybe by taking the blame, Lowen could finally find peace, too.

  He called out that he was going for a walk and in doing so, dropped the letter into the nearest postbox.

  Despite the fact that the house still needed fresh paint, new front steps, and two windows repaired, the Grovers hoped for a fairly good report when the inspector arrived on the second Monday of May.

  He hardly introduced himself before he spent what seemed like hours knocking on walls, testing smoke detectors, and looking behind electrical wall outlet covers. He tested the water for lead, the basement for radon, and the roof for structural soundness.

  Unfortunately, the final report was anything but good. The Grovers had many infractions that had to be addressed, and most would require a plumber or an electrician. The worst of the news, though, was that the continual freezing and thawing of the past winter had taken a final toll on the roof. It now needed replacing. And that wasn’t all. The boards in the eaves (where the ice dam had leaked) were rotten and needed replacing as well.

  The blood drained from Dad’s face as he read the report aloud. Mum sank into the corduroy chair, and suddenly Lowen noticed how thin she had become, how pale.

  He felt cold.

  “Maybe the town will give us more time,” Anneth suggested, but knowing how hard Mr. Avery and the Corbeaus had worked against this plan, all of the Grovers agreed that an extension was highly unlikely.

  Should I even try out for baseball if we can’t stay in town? was the question on Lowen’s mind when he showed up that same day for baseball tryouts.

  “Grover!” Coach said as he passed him, lined up against the backstop with the other kids. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

  Does Coach know about the house report? Is that why he didn’t expect me?

  Nah. More likely he was thinking about Lowen’s lack of athletic ability. He hadn’t exactly been the star athlete in soccer or basketball.

  But even though he didn’t have an ounce of the skill his brother had, and even though he might not make the team — or if he did, Coach might keep him on the bench the whole season (since girls and boys played on the same baseball team, they didn’t lack players) — and even though he might be moving in less than a month, he still wanted to try out. Correction: He still wanted to be on the team. He liked being part of something. He liked the common goal, the inside jokes (even when the jokes were about the two points he scored for the rival team), and he liked going to bed tired — too tired to think about the dead bodies next door. Too tired to think about Abe.

  So a week ago, he’d asked Sami to help him. Just went right up to her and said, “Will you teach me how to be a better batter?”

  She’d studied him for a moment, and when she realized that he was serious, she nodded yes.

  They’d met at the baseball field before school started on two different mornings. Sami showed him how to keep the bat straight and how to follow through. She helped him to judge the approach of the ball without ever saying, “Keep your eye on the ball.”

  Now that tryouts were here, he’d wished they’d started the lessons earlier and that he’d asked for fielding tips as well.

  “Left field, Grover!” Coach yelled.

  Lowen hustled out to his position. Was this field larger than what he was used to in Flintlock? He felt miles from the mound. He doubted any kid in middle school could hit this far. Might as well be on a different planet. No doubt Coach was sticking him in some no-matter position.

  Wrong.

  First hit by Dylan went well over his head.

  “Back up, Grover! Follow the ball,” Coach yelled.

  The next two hits — one by a seventh-grader and one by an eighth-grader — were infield hits.

  Then Sami hit a pop fly.

  Lowen kept his eyes up, followed the ball, followed it . . . and . . . smack!

  He had it!

  He’d caught it!

  Then he dropped it.

  “Two hands, Grover!” Coach called. “Catch with two hands!”

  How did you do that, when only one hand sported a glove? He’d have to ask Sami.

  To everyone’s surprise — but especially to Lowen’s — Coach didn’t make any cuts. They had all made the team! “Now, if you want actual playing time,” Coach warned, “you’ll have to show up at every practice and work hard. No daydreaming in the outfield or doing your homework when you’re on deck.”

  As they walked off the field, Sami motioned for Lowen to follow her into the dugout. She looked around to make sure they were alone, then sat down on the cement bench.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you told me about your friend,” she said gently.

  He sat beside her. “My friend?”

  “The one you sent to the store.”

  Lowen’s heart stopped. She and Dylan hadn’t brought up Abe since that day at the cemetery. Why was she doing so now?

  “What did you usually do when he was bugging you? You know, when you were drawing?”

  He kicked the dirt below his feet. “Why? What does it matter?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “You mean B. F. Skinner has a theory, right?”

  “Actually, yes. It is Mr. Skinner! Anyway, what did you do when Abe was bugging you?”

  “I don’t know.” Lowen shrugged. “I usually tried to distract him. It was the only thing that really worked — though never for very long.”

  “Like how?” asked Sami, leaning closer.

  “I’d give him candy and stuff,” Lowen admitted. “Once I gave him a sketchbook.”

  “I knew it!” Sami smacked her glove on the bench.

  “Knew what?” Lowen asked, totally confused.

  “Don’t you see, Lowen? You thought you were finding clever ways to get him out of your hair, but maybe he was bugging you so you would give him candy! Mr. B. F. Skinner would say that he was training you.”

  “Training me? Like a dog?”

  “Or a pigeon. Think about it.” She stared at him. Her face was so serious. So intense.

  So Lowen thought about it. Maybe there was some truth to what she was saying. Maybe Abe had wanted Lowen to give him candy. But he suspected that what Abe had really wanted, more than candy, was friendship.

  (Just like he told Oliver in his story.)

  Lowen had tried so hard not to hurt Abe’s feelings. Not to say to him, Go away. I don’t want you hanging around me all the time!

  But maybe he hadn’t been thinking about Abe. Hadn’t been protecting him at all.

  He’d been protecting himself from fe
eling like a bad person.

  And in the end, he hadn’t protected either of them.

  When Lowen returned home, Clem was trying to build the new front steps. He was measuring and sawing, hammering and swearing.

  “What’s your plan?” asked Lowen.

  “My plan is to stay in Millville!”

  “Because of Luna?” He regretted the question as soon as it was out; the last thing he wanted to talk about with Clem was Luna Muñoz.

  “What? No! I like it here.” Clem put the hammer down and shook out the tension in his wrist. “Besides, we broke up.”

  “You did? But she’s so —”

  “Pretty?” Clem finished.

  Lowen nodded, blushing. “And talented.”

  Clem sighed loudly and plopped down in the grass. “Yeah. But she’s also callous.”

  “What does that mean?” Lowen asked, sitting down on the ground next to his brother.

  “Uncaring.”

  Lowen flinched, remembering how she’d treated him. “Is she that way with everybody?”

  Clem looked at him. “Doesn’t matter. She can’t mess with my little brother.”

  Lowen stared. Was Clem saying that he’d broken up with Luna because of him? He felt something hard, something solid, melt inside his chest.

  “I’m the only one who can be mean to my brother,” Clem added.

  Lowen smiled.

  “Now go get me some more nails — this size,” said Clem, opening his palm to reveal two nails, “and help me with these steps. I got to meet my buds in an hour.”

  Dylan sent Sami and Lowen a message, asking them to meet him at Field’s after baseball practice — and after the two deliveries he had to make. On the walk there, they tried to predict the reason for the meeting. For a second, Lowen thought that Dylan might have prepared an ambush — some way to scare the wits out of them (moaning from the embalming room, a severed hand) — but he knew that wasn’t Dylan’s way at all.

  Dylan was waiting for them at the back door when they arrived. “The Fields are away. I’m watering the flowers,” he reported.

  Sami looked back at the gardens, where annuals had just been planted. “Do you want some help?” she asked.

  “Not with watering.” Dylan motioned for them to come inside. He started to pace around the little serving kitchen, gearing up to tell them what this meeting was all about.

  “Just tell us, Dylan,” Sami said.

  “My grandfather got a letter,” he said.

  “From your mom?” Lowen asked hopefully.

  “From the bank. They’re taking his house. Our house.”

  “What?” asked Lowen. “How can they do that?”

  “It’s called foreclosure,” Sami said. “It’s how most of us got our dollar houses.”

  “But a bank can’t just take a house, can they?”

  Dylan picked up a dish towel that was folded on the center island and began twisting it in his hands. “Gramps owes them a lot of money. When my grandmother got melanoma, the bills really piled up. And then my grandfather had his stroke and he hasn’t been able to pay the extra loan on the house.”

  No wonder Dylan had been working at two jobs, skipping meals, paying with nickels.

  “Can your dad help?”

  “I’m not sure my dad would help him if he could. He’d rather I come live with him, anyway.”

  “What do you want?” Sami asked.

  Dylan sucked in air. “What do I want?” he shouted. “I want my mom and Gramps to make up! I want my mom to come home! I want my family back!” Then he laughed. It probably felt good to let it out.

  “What’s going on?” It was Anneth. She must have heard them through the screen door.

  Lowen looked to Dylan, who nodded. He opened the door and let his sister in.

  As Dylan explained the situation to Anneth, Lowen grappled with mixed emotions. Here was the man who not only had done nothing to help any of the Dollar Families feel welcome, but had done everything he could to prevent their success. Lowen should be happy that Mr. Avery’s house was being taken away from him. It was what he deserved.

  Or was it?

  He thought about how hard Mr. Avery must have worked to rise through the ranks at the mill — to make papermaker without a college degree. And how hard it must have been for him to lose his job.

  Maybe Mr. Avery didn’t always do the right thing or act in the nicest way, but he’d lived in this town his whole life and had seen it turn from a place of prosperity and beauty to a downtrodden shell of its former self. In that time he’d not only lost a wife, but he’d lost a daughter, too. And now he was losing his house — while others, like Lowen’s family, were being given the opportunity to purchase houses for one lousy dollar. He was pretty sure Mr. Avery would like to buy his house for a dollar. Come to think of it, it’s likely that Dylan’s father would have given more than a dollar to stay.

  Did one person’s fortune always have to come at the expense of someone else?

  “There’s more,” said Dylan.

  “More?” Sami and Lowen said simultaneously.

  “My mother called me. She’s thinking of coming back home.”

  “Do you tell her about the foreclosure?” asked Sami.

  Dylan shook his head. “I didn’t want her to change her mind. Make other plans.”

  “But maybe she can help,” Sami said.

  “How?” asked Dylan. “She doesn’t have money. If she moves back home, she won’t have a job.”

  “He can’t lose his house,” Lowen said, the force of his conviction surprising everybody. “There has to be a way we can help.”

  “Unless any of you has a few thousand dollars lying around, there’s just no way,” Dylan said.

  Lowen couldn’t help but feel the frustrating irony of the situation. Maybe if Mr. Avery had supported the Dollar Families instead of undermining them, Mum’s shop would be doing well enough that they would have a few thousand dollars they could loan him.

  Everyone was silent for a while, thinking. Anneth curled a strand of hair around her finger. “Maybe we could crowdfund,” she said at last. “Lots of fashion designers have gotten their start that way.”

  “What’s crowdfunding?” Dylan asked.

  The question surprised Lowen. He wasn’t online that much, but even he’d heard of it. “It’s when people explain their needs on a website and others donate to help them out. Friends, family — but sometimes strangers, too. Especially if you can get the word out.”

  Sami nodded. “My mom’s friend raised money for her dog’s vet bills,” she said. “Mostly it came from her friends and coworkers, but it got shared a lot on Facebook, and strangers from different parts of the country chipped in, too. It makes people feel good to help those in need,” she added, no doubt about to launch into the explanation of another psychological theory.

  But Dylan cut her off. “Are you kidding? My grandfather would hate that! He would be furious if he even knew that I told you about the foreclosure notice. He hasn’t even told me about it. I just happened to read the letter for myself.”

  “So we won’t tell him,” Lowen suggested. “Not at first. Seems to me he’s going to feel lousy and embarrassed no matter what. We might as well try to keep the house for you and your mother.”

  “He’s probably not on the Internet much. We can tell people that the crowdfunding is a surprise,” Sami said.

  Dylan snorted. “Fat chance keeping a secret in this town. And won’t people be upset that my grandfather gets help but no one else does? There are still lots of peoples trying to hold onto their home.”

  “You may have a point there,” said Anneth.

  “No,” said Sami. “It’s not an organization helping Mr. Avery. We’re just a bunch of kids doing something nice for —”

  “. . . for a friend,” said Lowen, completing her thought. “Our friend. Dylan. We’re doing this for you.”

  Dylan shook his head vehemently. The idea seemed to scare him more.


  “Think of it this way,” Anneth said. “How are people in this town going to feel if one of their leaders — one of the town selectmen — loses his house? Won’t they all feel like throwing in the towel, then?”

  That justification seemed to sit better with Dylan. “Let me think about it,” he said at last.

  They agreed to wait a day or two. “In the meantime,” Anneth said to the group, “think of incentives. People who donate to these sites usually get a little thank-you gift in return.”

  They decided to go ahead with their plan. Lowen could tell that Dylan still had his reservations, but since no one had come up with a better idea, they went into action. They told a few of the older Dollar Kids (for help and better incentives) and swore them to secrecy.

  Clem freaked when they told him.

  “Avery’s house? We’re helping Avery?” Clem had said, slamming his hands down on the table. “Why haven’t we been crowdfunding to get donations to fix up our own house?”

  “I don’t think crowdfunding would have worked for us,” Anneth had said. “Only a tiny percentage of campaigns reach their goals, and most people would probably agree that we’ve already been given help.”

  “We’re doing this for Dylan,” Lowen said. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “But, if you really think about it, it doesn’t seem quite right. . . .”

  Clem got it. “If we get a house for one dollar and Mr. Avery loses his?”

  Lowen nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this. Why can’t the town just give the house back to Mr. Avery for a dollar?”

  “Banks agree to donate properties to a town” — Clem stopped to line up his thoughts — “so that others with more earning potential will move in and keep the town running. Once a homeowner has shown that he can’t pay his mortgage, he’s no longer considered an asset.”

  “An asset?” Lowen asked.

  “Helpful,” Clem corrected. It took Clem some time to agree, but in the end he said that he and Mason would come up with an incentive together.

  They also decided to tell two adults: Mrs. Lavasseur and Coach. These adults could offer great incentives for large donors (paintings and handmade furniture), and Dylan — especially since he’d quit sports and started making deliveries — had already shared personal information with and trusted both.