by Rosa Jordan
Justin felt his face getting hot. He dug the toe of his sneaker in the sand and said, “Not exactly, Booker. We just want to know what you’d do if you were in our place.”
22
THE DEAL
Booker turned back to Little Billy. He stared through the fence for what seemed like a long time. Finally he spoke. “You say the guy kicked him?”
“Worse than that,” Justin said. “He was using an electric cattle prod to make him pull a cart. Little Billy was barely two months old, and the cart was almost as big as the one we built for Old Billy.”
“Electric prods hurt!” Chip yelped as if one had just zapped him.
“They use them at cattle auctions. It’s so mean!” Luther said angrily.
“It’s not even necessary,” Lily pointed out. “Little Billy will do anything for corn chips.”
“Hmmm.” Booker still had his back to them. They looked anxiously from one to another. There was no way to know what he was thinking.
At last Booker spoke. “What’d the guy pay for him?”
“Seventy-five dollars,” Justin replied.
Another long silence.
Justin was getting more and more nervous. He was absolutely certain they could trust Booker. But what if he was seeing the Situation like any other adult would? Little Billy was Grimsted’s personal property. Once he bought him, he had the right to do whatever he pleased with him—even cut his throat and roast him on a barbeque if he felt like it.
It seemed like forever before Booker spun his wheelchair around again and faced them. He wasn’t smiling. “You all know just as well as I do that it’s wrong to take something that belongs to someone else.”
“But Mr. Grimsted was abusing Little Billy!” Kate cried. “We couldn’t let him—”
“You already said that,” Booker interrupted. “But even people who go against the law for a good reason can expect to face some consequences. A lot of folks have gone to jail for—”
Luther began to whimper.
“Calm down, son,” Booker said. “I’m not suggesting that you turn yourselves in to the sheriff.”
“But what can we do?” asked Justin. “We can’t take Little Billy back and we can’t leave him out here.”
“Okay.” Booker folded his big arms across his chest. “I’ll make you kids a deal. You pay the guy back, and I’ll, uh, dispose of Little Billy. He’ll still be stolen property, but at least you won’t be ripping somebody off.”
“But how? I already spent the money,” Justin protested. “To buy a bike.”
“I only get a dollar a week allowance,” Luther reminded him.
“We don’t get an allowance anymore,” Kate said. “I earn a little from our candy business and Denim Designs, but—”
Booker held up a hand for silence. “I don’t want to hear about your financial problems. You kids took something that didn’t belong to you. You either pay for it, or you’re on your own.”
Justin swallowed hard. “When do we have to come up with the money?”
“I’m going on to Orlando to visit my girlfriend,” Booker said. “But I could come back Sunday and pick up Little Billy before I leave for Atlanta. That gives you all six days to get this mess straightened out. That is, if you want my help. I won’t be a party to ripping somebody off.”
Justin was dead broke. He had used the last of his money to buy feed for Little Billy. He had no idea how to lay his hands on seventy-five dollars in six days. But with Booker looking at him like that, Justin wasn’t about to say “I can’t.”
“We’ll get the money,” he mumbled. “I’ll sell my bike if I have to.”
Luther looked up at him, his dark eyes wide and serious. “But it’s not just your fault, Justin. We found him. It was our idea to steal him.”
“It was everybody’s idea,” Kate said. “Seventy-five divided by five is fifteen. That’s how much we each have to pay.”
Chip looked shocked. “Fifteen dollars!”
“Deal?” Booker asked.
“Deal,” five voices answered.
By the time they started back from the Old Place, the sun had gone down and the sky’s sunset colors were turning dark. They were all pretty quiet. Just before they reached the Wilson house, Luther said, “If I asked Mama to give me fifteen weeks’ advance on my allowance, I’d have enough.”
Booker let out a low whistle. “That’s more than three months,” he said. “What about the snacks you like to buy after school?”
Luther repeated what he had been told a hundred times. “Cokes and candy are bad for my teeth.”
“That’s true,” Booker agreed. “Why, I’ve seen candy-eaters who ended up snaggle-toothed before their tenth birthday.”
Justin laughed. He was grateful to Booker for trying to lighten things up. And he did feel lighter, a whole lot lighter, now that Booker had agreed to help. Still, coming up with that much money wouldn’t be easy. They couldn’t possibly ask Mom, who would naturally want to know what it was for. She never had any money to spare anyway. That’s why she’d had to cut off their allowances over a year ago.
After dropping Booker and Luther off at their house, the others walked back down Lost Goat Lane toward the Martin farm and the Hashimoto house behind the nursery. The fireflies were already out, flashing brightly above the dark fields. “My dad will pay me for putting potting soil in the planters,” Lily said confidently. “I can earn fifteen dollars easy.”
“Your mother will pay you just to wear a dress,” Kate said. “I heard her say she’d give you a dollar for every day you wear a dress to school.”
“I don’t do dresses,” Lily said. “I do potting soil.”
Justin said nothing, but Lily’s plan gave him an idea.
That night Justin asked Mom, “Do you think Mr. Hashimoto might have some odd jobs I could do around the nursery?”
Mom looked surprised. “Justin, I asked you about that very thing two weeks ago. You said you didn’t have time, what with ball practice and your dad visiting every weekend.”
“I changed my mind. I need money and—” Something flashed through Justin’s mind that he knew would convince Mom to talk to Mr. Hashimoto. “And I don’t want to ask Dad for it.”
“No,” Mom said quickly. “Don’t ask him. I’ll check with Mr. Hashimoto tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll find something.”
Later, when Mom had left the kitchen, Kate looked up from her homework. “I’ve got my share,” she announced.
“You do?” Justin took a box of Cheerios out of the cabinet. Mom always allowed them one snack before bedtime. “From your candy business?”
Kate nodded. “I was saving for a new swimsuit. I had nineteen dollars, which was almost enough.” She sighed. “After I pay my share for Little Billy I’ll only have four dollars left. I’ll have to start saving all over.”
Chip climbed up onto the step stool and held out his bowl. Justin poured some cereal for his brother and put the box back into the cabinet.
“What about you?” Justin asked Chip as he set the carton of milk on the counter.
“I don’t want milk,” Chip said. “I’m eating mine dry.”
“No, I mean what about your share of the money?”
Chip stood there, eating one Cheerio at a time. “I’m thinking,” he said.
Justin decided he wouldn’t say anything more about it. There was no way on earth Chip could come up with fifteen dollars in a week. Justin was pretty sure he would have to earn enough for both of them. Maybe he could do it, but in six days, with school and ball practice? That was a tall order.
Even so, Justin went to bed that evening feeling better than he had felt in weeks. The problem with Little Billy was practically solved, and he wouldn’t have to sell his bike. Thinking of the bike, which he loved almost as much as he loved Little Billy, reminded him of Brad. Poor Brad, stuck with a mountain of problems he couldn’t do anything about.
That’s when Justin realized three things. One, everybody has problems. Two, the worst problems are th
e ones where nothing you do will make any difference. And three, he was lucky that his problems were the kind he could do something about.
23
HOW GROWN-UPS THINK
At school the next day, Justin did something he never thought he would ever do. He went to the principal’s office voluntarily. Twice, actually, because when he went there the first time, the secretary gave him an appointment and told him to come back later. When he returned after lunch, the secretary smiled and said he could go right in.
Principal White was not the punishment person at their school. The vice principal, Mr. Bowls (the students called him Mr. Bowels behind his back), did that. Principal White spent most of the time in his office meeting with teachers and parents and doing paperwork. He was sitting behind a big stack of papers when Justin came in. He looked up, blinking his pale blue eyes. His bushy blond eyebrows came together in a frown, not an unfriendly frown, but one that made him look puzzled, like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He probably didn’t. The day Mr. Simmons had brought Justin and Brad to the principal’s office with the switchblade, Mr. White had promptly sent them to the vice principal, who, as usual, had decided who was at fault and what the punishment should be.
“Hello, son. How can I help you?” Mr. White called all the boys “son” and all the girls “young lady,” which saved him the trouble of having to learn students’ names. He sat there blinking in such a pleasant way that Justin wondered if he even remembered that the last time they’d met face to face it had involved a dangerous weapon.
“I don’t need any help personally,” Justin said. “I, that is—my friend is in trouble.”
“Has your friend talked to a guidance counselor? You know that’s what they’re there for.” Mr. White’s pale eyes took on a worried look, like he was afraid Justin was going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.
“He’s not in school now. He was suspended,” Justin blurted out.
“Ah, you mean the boy who brought a knife to school. That was a disciplinary problem. Mr. Bowls would be the one to talk to about that.”
Mr. White hadn’t asked Justin to sit down, but Justin sat anyway, on the very edge of a chair, and leaned forward. He knew grown-ups liked it when you looked them in the eye, so he stared straight at Mr. White and said, “I think you’re the only one who can help, sir.”
“Now why would you think that?” Suddenly Mr. White didn’t look friendly at all. He looked like a person who was gathering himself up to say “no” to whatever Justin said next.
“Because you’re the principal. A principal is in charge of the school.” Justin had rehearsed this part. He had practiced it over and over on his bike, riding in that morning. “The wellbeing of the students is your responsibility. We know we can come to you with a serious problem.”
Justin spoke fast, hoping that something he’d said might ring true, even though to his knowledge no student in the entire school had ever come to Mr. White with any kind of problem.
Mr. White’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment the blinking stopped. “What is it exactly you’ve come about?”
“About Brad Beatty,” Justin said. “I know he brought a knife to school and I know he shouldn’t have, but it was, well, sort of an accident. He did a bad thing, but he did it for what he thought was a good reason. He got the switchblade because he thought he would need it to protect himself or one of his parents. His mom and dad both have guns at home. You remember? That’s what he told you the day you—that is, the day Mr. Bowls suspended him.”
Without waiting to see if Mr. White remembered or not, Justin rushed on. “Now things are even worse because his parents are still fighting and he can’t come to school, so he’s right in the middle of everything and—sir, he really wants to come back to school.”
“I am aware of that. His mother has been to see me several times.” Mr. White started tapping his pencil. “But we do have a zero-tolerance policy.”
“Yes sir, but Brad’s never been in trouble before. If you let him come back, I’m sure he’ll give you zero trouble ever again.”
“I was told that they might be enrolling him in a military academy.”
“Brad’s dad wants him to, but his mom won’t allow it. It’s just one more thing for them to fight about. That’s why somebody else needs to, well, you know, help sort things out.”
“And your friend Brad? What would he like to do?”
“Get away from the fighting!” Justin exclaimed. “Come back here. Because this is, you know, it’s his school.”
Mr. White sat there blinking behind his eyeglasses, while his pencil went tap, tap, tap on the desk. When he finally spoke, it didn’t seem to have much to do with Brad. All he said was, “My parents divorced when I was about that age.”
Justin didn’t know what to say to that, so he just waited. Finally Mr. White stopped tapping and blinking long enough to ask, “Don’t you have a class this hour?”
“Study hall.” Justin stood up. “I got permission to come see you.”
“Yes, well, now you’ve seen me and we’ve had our little talk.” Mr. White fluttered his hand in the direction of the door.
Justin took the hint. “Thank you,” he mumbled, and headed for the door.
He had his hand on the doorknob when Mr. White spoke again. “Son?”
“Yes sir?”
“Are you still on our baseball team?”
Justin was so amazed he could barely speak. “Yes sir!”
“Excellent,” Principal White said, and bent his head low over his paperwork as if to make Justin disappear.
Justin went back to study hall feeling totally drained. It had taken all the nerve he had to go to the principal’s office, and it hadn’t done a bit of good. But he didn’t regret it. At least he had tried to help Brad, the way Booker had helped him. It wasn’t his fault if Mr. White was a weirdo. If he lived to be a hundred, Justin would never figure out how the mind of a guy like Mr. White worked.
Even though it was Mom’s day off, she wasn’t at home when Justin got there. He hadn’t finished his homework in study hall, so he went directly to his room and hit the books. He’d been working at math for about an hour, moving through the problems pretty easily for a change, when he heard a noise at the window. He looked up but didn’t see anything.
Then a small brown hand appeared above the windowsill, waving back and forth. “Pssst. Justin,” a voice said.
He walked to the window and looked down. It was Lily. “What do you want?” he asked.
“They’re talking about you again.”
“Who?”
“My dad and your mom and Ruby. But this time they’re not fighting.”
“Thanks a lot,” Justin said. “Anybody ever tell you you’re not supposed to eavesdrop?”
“Can I help it if they talk in front of me?”
Justin shrugged. It was true that adults often forgot kids were around and said things in front of them that they didn’t mean for the kids to hear. “So what did they say?”
“Ruby said she’d work for your mom so she can take a few days off.”
“What’s Mom taking time off for?”
“So she can spend some time with you.” Lily ran to the driveway and looked toward the nursery. “My mother’s back from the store,” she called. “Gotta go.”
Justin stood at the window staring out at a sky streaky-red with sunset. Mom had been talking about spending more time with them. He hoped she could just so she wouldn’t feel so guilty. But why single him out? Why not Kate or Chip?
Justin went back to his homework, but he couldn’t get his mind back on math. The last thing he needed was a close encounter with his mom, when she was sure to quiz him about things he did not want to discuss with her. He knew Mom wanted to be their friend, but the fact was, she was their mother, and that was an altogether different thing. You’d think that after fifteen years she would have figured that out.
For the second time that day, he found himself at
a loss trying to understand grown-up thinking.
24
GETTING IT TOGETHER
Mom came in a few minutes later and went into the kitchen to put supper on the table. Justin, Kate, and Chip were used to having supper ready when Mom got home from work. But she had decided that she would make supper on her day off. That gave them a day off, too, at least from that chore. Kate still had Sugar to feed and milk, and Chip had to feed the ducks and gather eggs.
When Justin heard Mom in the kitchen, he wandered in, thinking that she might let him know what she had in mind for her time off, since it seemed to concern him. She was making a salad to go with the rotisserie chicken she’d brought home from the store.
“I spoke to Mr. Hashimoto,” she said over her shoulder. “He wants the weeds cleared off that vacant lot behind the nursery. He’s going to put Christmas trees back there.”
“Christmas trees? It’s not even Easter.”
“He plans to raise small ones, and sell them in pots. By December they’ll be just the right size for people who want live Christmas trees. He says there’s a good market for them these days. I told him you were looking for work, and could start this weekend.”
“Actually,” Justin said, careful not to sound too eager, “I’d rather do it after school. Do you think it would be okay if I started tomorrow?”
Mom looked surprised. “Are you sure? With ball practice and homework and all?”
“I’ll come straight home after practice,” Justin promised. “I can get in at least an hour before dark. Then do my homework after supper.”
“Well …” Mom said dubiously. “If you’re sure. I know Mr. Hashimoto won’t mind, because he said he wanted it done as soon as possible.”
On Tuesday afternoon Justin cycled straight from ball practice to the nursery. Mr. Hashimoto showed him what he wanted done, and Justin promptly went to work. He plugged away until six o’clock, when the nursery closed and Mom called him to go home.
He was back at it on Wednesday. He considered himself in pretty good shape, but whacking down weeds and chopping them up so they could be turned under to enrich the soil seemed to take different muscles from baseball. By the end of that second day, muscles he didn’t even know he had were hurting.
