And then the camera zoomed in for a close-up of Mr. Avery and Dylan. “Our community’s been through some tough times,” said Mr. Avery. “But I realize now that at one time or another, everyone needs help — and everyone, at one time or another, can find a way to be helpful.” He turned to Dylan. “My grandson taught me that.”
The room cheered — and then cheered even louder when the reporter wrapped up the story, announcing, “Not only has Mr. Avery’s house been saved, but, from the looks of it, the Grovers’ house has been saved, too.”
A very sad thing happened in the first week of June. Mrs. Manzo came over to tell them that Mrs. Lavasseur had died in her sleep. She’d had a very successful day painting a single mill smokestack. Then she went home to bed. She never woke up. If Abe had had the worst kind of death imaginable, perhaps Mrs. Lavasseur had one of the best.
The Grovers — even Lowen — attended the visiting hours at Field’s. Lowen dressed in his best clothes, though he didn’t wear a suit jacket; over the year his arms had grown another three inches and his jacket no longer fit.
When it came time for the family to walk up to the open casket and say their good-byes, Clem hung back for a moment, but not Lowen. Since drawing his Abe comics, he felt calmer, braver. This time he would look at the body. He would look death straight in the face.
It wasn’t as scary as he thought it would be. In truth, the body in the casket looked like Mrs. Lavasseur, and it didn’t look like her. It was like viewing the discarded skin of a snake. The energy that made Mrs. Lavasseur Mrs. Lavasseur was gone.
He wondered what her artistic soul was seeing now.
The Corbeaus were at the funeral, too. While standing graveside, Lowen overheard Mrs. Corbeau say, “You wait and see what that family has set off. There’ll be so many tourists trampling through Millville that we won’t even recognize our lovely town.”
Sami rolled her eyes at Lowen.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said.
But in a way she did. What none of the Dollar Kids realized on that bright June morning was that their crowdfunding efforts set actions in motion that would affect the town for years to come. Folks would travel to Millville to taste Mum’s pasties and to visit Restored Riches. Artists would bring their art to be exhibited in Rena’s expanded shop. Many, realizing that houses cost very little in Millville, would stay. With so many artists in town, other businesses would come too: a coffee shop, an art supply store, a bookstore, even a greengrocery that sold rutabagas. Eventually, Ms. Duffey and a group of artists would convince the company that owned the old mill building not only to leave it standing, but to turn it into studio space for painting and sculpture. (She would no longer regret her decision to turn down a marriage proposal and stay in Millville.) More folks would come to Millville to see the extraordinary art that was being produced. More houses would be built to accommodate all of the folks who wanted to live there. A wing would be added to Central School.
On the day they stood in the cemetery, none of the kids could know that visitors to the mill would be greeted by large comic panels — panels that told the history of the town from its early days of papermaking to the present.
As for Mrs. Corbeau, she wouldn’t stick around long enough to realize that selling dollar houses had been good for Millville.
Just a few months after the funeral, she and Mr. Corbeau would sell their shops, move to Florida, and complain about the traffic.
When the funeral was over, Lowen headed to opening day at the town pool with Sami and Dylan. Dylan warned them that the pool was always freezing on opening day, and it was. Nevertheless, most of the town’s kids — who no longer differentiated themselves as Dollar Kids or Millvillians — were there. After doing a few cannonballs into the ice-cold water, the three of them lay down on their bellies on the hot cement. They soaked up the heat and breathed in the smell of chlorine rising from their wet skin. Lowen turned his head to the left. Dylan had his eyes shut. Then he turned his head to the right to look at Sami. She opened one eye and smiled at him.
Shazam!
The snake inside him seemed to be replaced by an electrical current.
That very same day, when Lowen returned home, a letter was waiting for him on the kitchen counter. It was from Mrs. Siskin. He started to tear open the envelope but stopped himself. The day had ended so sweetly. He’d read it tomorrow.
Only, that night, he couldn’t sleep. Not with something explosive sitting there.
Finally he got up and opened it.
Dear Lowen,
Thank you for writing to me. That act took much courage. As you predicted, it was hard for me to read your letter. A thousand times or more I have wished that I could turn back the clock. What if I had made him clean up his room before leaving the apartment? What if I had held him in a hug for just a moment more? What if, when he peppered me with questions while I was trying to clean up, I didn’t suggest that he go play with you?
Don’t get me wrong, Lowen. I am not angry with you for sending Abe to the store. You see, I did the same thing. I shooed him away.
What pains me most (when I am not thinking about how angry I am at his killer or the fact that this seventeen-year-old had access to a gun) is that I didn’t realize that the very thing that annoyed me when Abe was living is the thing I desperately want now that he’s gone. I want my little boy glued to my side, asking me questions.
In truth, Abe’s voice continues to follow me around, asking questions. Only now, I stop to think about them. As you pointed out in your letter, he was curious about everything, and his curiosity forced us to see the world differently. Time and time again, he brought me back to the moment.
Yes, your letter caused me sadness, but what I want you to know is that it also offered me solace. It is a great comfort to connect with someone who knew Abe so well, who loved him as I did.
I know you cared deeply for Abe and you must forgive yourself for all of the complex feelings that come with a true friendship. There was frustration, but there was also happiness. Remember the happiness, because you did, indeed, make Abe’s short life very happy.
I hope you will write me again.
With love,
Rachel Siskin
That night, Lowen drew this strip:
“You are, Abe,” Lowen whispered to the dark, and drifted off to sleep.
Lowen finally told his parents about what had happened on the day Abe died. He figured that if his friends could forgive him, and Mrs. Siskin, probably his parents would, too. And they did. Of course they did.
That evening, Lowen pulled out his sketchbook. He had been thinking about Abe, thinking of a way to end his story. In the first frame he drew Abe standing, looking out, saying, “Is that you, Lowen?”
“Yeah,” Lowen said aloud as he filled in Abe’s features. “It’s me.”
“He’s all yours, Abe. He belongs to you now.”
Lowen laughed and adjusted Globber Dog’s ears.
Lowen closed his sketchbook and went downstairs to be with his family. They could hear the pound, pound, pound-ing of a basketball out back.
“Part of me wants to go out there, but part of me is too tired,” Clem said. He’d worked hard that afternoon to dig an herb garden for Mum.
“Too tired to shoot some baskets with your old man?” Dad asked.
Mum looked at Dad with astonishment.
“What? I know I’ll stink, but I thought Clem could share some of his knowledge.”
Clem hesitated and then grinned. “OK,” he said, standing. “Do you want to come, too, Lowdown?”
Lowen smiled. His brother had called him by his nickname. “Sure.”
“Me too?” asked Anneth.
Clem nodded.
“Wait,” said Mum. “I’ll change into trainers.”
The Grover family joined the Fields on the blacktop and passed, teased, encouraged, dodged, and laughed. At one point Dad fell, but he quickly got back up again.
The sky tu
rned from blue to royal purple. The air cooled, and the day stilled. Fireflies began to flicker in the tall grass around their house.
Lowen stood still for a moment and watched for each new sparkle of light.
He felt incredibly peaceful, as if the expansiveness of the night were sharing a secret.
A secret from an unseen force.
There might very well be a heaven, he thought.
And for now, it was right here in Millville.
Enormous thanks to my agent, Alyssa Eisner Henkin, for enthusiastically embracing The Dollar Kids when it was little more than an ember. You carefully tended this story — simultaneously fanning it and containing it — as needed. Your editorial and professional guidance has been invaluable. Thanks also to Meagan Cohen, Alyssa’s assistant.
Thanks to my husband, Don O’Grady, who introduced me to East Millinocket and patiently answered my 1,265 questions. I have loved getting to know your hometown! Thanks, too, to my grown children and stepchildren, who were willing to grapple with logistical, philosophical, and political questions as they related to this story.
Thank you to my readers Mary Atkinson, Jane Kurtz, and Holly Jacobson for your insightful feedback. You know how much I depend on your knowledge of story, your deepest reactions, and your analytical superpowers. (I never tire of your input.)
Thanks to my friend Frank Crosby, who shared his knowledge, literature, and videos on the Millinocket region. And thanks to (then) fifth-grader Audrey Murray, who taught me about “left foot day.”
Huge thanks go to my brilliant editor, Kaylan Adair, who in asking all the right questions in all the right ways led me to create a richer, more connected world. You have been my cheerleader, my writing coach, and my editor extraordinaire. I know how lucky I am to have you as a creative partner.
And thanks to the rest of the Candlewick tribe: Mary Lee Donovan, Hayley Parker, Sherry Fatla, Jessica Saint Jean, Chris Paul, Angie Dombroski, Kate Schwartz, Maggie Deslaurier, Emily Quill, K. B. Mello, Jamie Tan, Susan Batcheller, Katie Ring, and Kathleen Rourke, who helped design, publish, and promote this book. You rock!
Finally, thanks to the incredibly talented Ryan Andrews, whose art makes the heart of this story beat brighter.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Richard Jacobson
Illustrations copyright © 2018 by Ryan Andrews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2018
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
The illustrations in this book were done in pencil and digital watercolor.
Candlewick Press
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