Also by Lisa Lewis Tyre
Last in a Long Line of Rebels
NANCY PAULSEN BOOKS
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Copyright © 2018 by Lisa Lewis Tyre.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tyre, Lisa Lewis, author.
Title: Hope in the holler / Lisa Lewis Tyre.
Description: New York, NY : Nancy Paulsen Books, [2018]
Summary: Upon her mother’s death, Wavie Conley, eleven, must go live with a scheming aunt in the Kentucky town her mother left behind.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017033535 | ISBN 9780399546310 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780399546334 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Orphans—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Aunts—Fiction. | Adoption—Fiction. | Family life—Kentucky—Fiction. | Kentucky—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Parents. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Death & Dying. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emotions & Feelings.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T97 Hop 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017033535
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jacket art © 2018 by Dawn Cooper
Cover design by Kristin Boyle
Version_1
For Rachel
CONTENTS
Also by Lisa Lewis Tyre
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Acknowledgments
Praise for Lisa Lewis Tyre’s
CHAPTER ONE
An actual clown conducted my mama’s funeral. He didn’t wear clown clothes, or greasepaint, but I’d read his biography on the Andro Funeral Home website, which had included his hobby along with the facts that he’d been married for thirteen years and had a son named Angus.
Mama had been especially tickled. “They ought to change their tagline to We Put the ‘Fun’ in Funerals!”
“Sounds like your funeral will be a real three-ring circus,” I said.
“Write it down, Wavie,” she’d answered. “I want my pallbearers to ride in on unicycles.” When she laughed, I giggled along with her even though I didn’t find planning the funeral one bit funny. But when your mama is practically face-to-face with the Grim Reaper, you do what you can.
It had been Mama’s idea, fueled by our long hours waiting in hospital rooms and the need to find something else to think about: to take words and see how many new ones we could make out of the letters. “Doesn’t cost but two cents’ of graphite, Wavie. Try it!”
There are all sorts of words to make out of F-U-N-E-R-A-L. FUN, of course, and LUNAR, LEAF and EARFUL. There were ninety-six if you counted words that people use for Scrabble but aren’t really words, like NU and ER. My favorite was UNREAL. That’s a perfect word to describe the day you lay your mama to rest.
In the end, there hadn’t been any unicycles, or even pallbearers for that matter. Mama had left instructions to be cremated with only a small graveside service for the burial of her ashes, conducted by the part-time clown.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my dress and felt the corner of the Andro Hospital stationery with the list Mama had made for me. I’d memorized it, but I liked being able to look at her handwriting.
It was seven final instructions.
Use Andro’s. A man that moonlights as a clown and names his son after a steak sounds like someone I’d like to know.
I left a cutting from our peony bush in a pot by the front door. Peonies are fickle, so don’t plant it until you’re sure you’re staying put somewhere. It was from my mama’s plant and she grew the prettiest peonies in Kentucky. You can look at it and know I’m with you in spirit.
The chaplain said since I’m a believer, you and I would meet in heaven if you act right. I told him if it depended on how we acted, it’d be a right lonely place. Just ’cause someone’s in charge don’t mean they’re smart. Think for yourself. Also, be good. It doesn’t hurt to cover all your bases.
No dropping out of school! I’m banking on you being the first Conley to ever go to college. U-N-I-V-E-R-S-I-T-Y even has some fine words in it like NURSE and VET!
Cry when you need to but don’t dwell. It won’t bring me back and you’ve got to get on with living.
Be brave, Wavie B.! You got as much right to a good life as anybody, so find it!
Never, ever forget that I loved being your mama more than anything in this big, wide world.
She’d signed it xoxo, Mama.
I’d already heard most everything on the list, except the part about my grandmother’s peonies. Mama hardly ever talked about her family and she hadn’t gone back to her hometown since my grandmother died. I parted ways with the rest of them right after you were born and as far as I’m concerned it was a good trade. It’s just you and me, Wavie, against the world. Sounds like a fair fight to me!
My eyes stung and the cemetery blurred. Now it was just me. Wavie against the world didn’t have the same ring to it. I blinked twice, willing the tears back into my eyeballs. If I started crying now, I was afraid I’d never stop, and making a scene at Mama’s graveside service would really have the neighbors at Castle Fields Mobile Home Park talking.
I focused on the weather instead. The man on TV had said to expect spring showers, but so far the rain had held off. The wind was starting to pick up, though, and had blown a fistful of dirt from the mound by Mama’s urn across the scuffed dress shoes of my best friend, Hannah, and the black slip-ons of her granny Mrs. Watkins.
There was only a small cluster of folks attending, mostly neigh
bors from our mobile home park, but I spotted a few other faces in the back—Mrs. Leslie, Mama’s old boss from Walmart; a nurse from the oncology floor; my math teacher, Mr. Stephens; and a few classmates. Everyone wore black, and we stood there hunched against the cold breeze like crows on a wire trying to decide where to fly next.
A beat-up sedan drove through the gates and parked down the hill, its brakes squeaking. Two people sat inside watching us, but they didn’t get out. It wasn’t a friendly-looking car. Mama said you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I think sometimes you can. I mean, one look at Harry Potter and I knew it was going to be about magic. That B-U-I-C-K (BUCK, ICK) car was dented and banged up like it was mad at the world and ready to run down whatever got in its way.
My caseworker, Mrs. Chipman, patted my shoulder as the funeral director placed the biodegradable urn into a small hole in front of a plaque that read simply, Ronelda May Conley, Beloved Mother. A few people came up and hugged me, muttering things like, “She was a fine woman,” and “She’ll be missed,” until Mrs. Chipman nodded that I could go and sit in her car.
I could feel the stares of the people as they walked by, and could imagine their conversations as they got into their cars. Poor kid. Orphaned at eleven, how pitiful. I leaned my head forward until it hit my knees, and closed my eyes.
Someone tapped softly on the glass. “Wavie, are you all right?”
I sat back up and rolled down the window.
“Hey, Hannah.” I put my hand out the window and laced my fingers through hers.
She wiped her eyes with her free hand. “I am so, so sorry.”
I nodded.
Hannah dug an envelope out of her pocket and handed it through the window. “The trailer park took up a collection. It’s not much, but hopefully it’ll help.”
The envelope was heavy and I could feel an abundance of change. It was all I could do to choke out an answer. “Tell everybody I said thanks.”
Hannah gave me a final sad smile and turned to leave.
The driver’s side door opened and Mrs. Chipman settled into the front seat. Then she reached back and rubbed my shoulder. “You ready?”
I looked once more toward the grave site. “Yes.”
Everyone was gone except for the old car I’d noticed earlier. As we moved to pass it, the driver held up a hand for us to stop. We watched as a woman with long, frizzy blond hair got out and walked toward us. A grumpy-looking teenager stayed in the car, slumped against the window.
“Why is that woman dressed like a cat?” I asked.
“That’s called leopard print,” Mrs. Chipman said.
Leopard Lady was top-heavy, with broad shoulders and skinny legs. She wore leopard-print leggings under a leopard-print sweater.
When she got to the car, she motioned for Mrs. Chipman to open the window, then bent down and stared into the backseat.
“Wavie? Wavie Conley? Is that you?”
I leaned back against the seat. “Yes?”
“Why, I’m your aunt, Samantha Rose! I’ve come to take care of you.”
See. UNREAL.
CHAPTER TWO
Everything about Leopard Lady was loud—her bright, bleached hair, the bracelets that jangled when she moved her arms, and especially her voice. Half of Castle Fields was probably outside our trailer, listening to our business.
She sat sprawled in Mama’s chair. It looked so wrong that I felt my heart start to sink, weighted down, into my body. Like that time the Baptists held a free dental clinic and they put a heavy apron-thing on me so I wouldn’t get radiation poisoning. They ought to make an apron to guard against people poisoning.
“I swear, Hoyt, she looks just like her mama!”
“Sure. Whatever.” His hair covered the top half of his face as he stared down at his phone. All I could see was the lower half—a small mouth, an even smaller wisp of a mustache, and a smattering of chin acne. I wasn’t usually bad tempered but I wanted nothing more than to punch the sullen look off his pimpled face. No matter what had gone wrong with his day, burying his mama wasn’t on the list.
“I’m Samantha Rose, honey, the older sister of your departed mother. This here’s your cousin Hoyt.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I can’t believe we have to meet under these terrible circumstances.” She stood up and grabbed me in a big bear hug.
My head was smashed into the leopard bosom and I got a nose full of onions and stale smoke before Mrs. Chipman cleared her throat and Samantha Rose released me.
“Wavie, have a seat.” Mrs. Chipman motioned me toward the couch and waited until I was perched on its edge. “So it seems like your aunt has made a request for guardianship. Isn’t that good news?”
I pulled the list out of my pocket and laid it on my lap. “Mama didn’t mention anything about an aunt on this.”
“What’s that?” Samantha Rose asked. She held out her beefy hand. “Can I read it?”
I couldn’t see a way to refuse, so I handed it over.
Samantha Rose’s lips moved as she read. “Well. Right here it mentions my mama’s flowers. If that don’t tell you she was longing for her family I don’t know what would.”
“Maybe a line saying she was longing for her family?” I asked. Sometimes you’ve got to point out the obvious.
Samantha Rose frowned, but I kept going. “Why didn’t Mama mention having a sister before?” I asked Mrs. Chipman. “When she filled out the paperwork?” For all we knew this woman was a crazy child abductor who trolled cemeteries.
“Wavie’s right. Our first priority when finding a home for children is to place them with family,” Mrs. Chipman said. “We asked Ronelda if she had relatives and she said there was no one.”
Samantha Rose folded the note carefully and handed it back. “Unfortunately me and Ronelda had a falling-out a few years ago. She probably figured we wouldn’t help. And now it’s too late to make up with her and say all the things I wanted to say to my little sister.” She blew her nose with a loud honk. “But I can make it up to her. I can take care of her sweet baby girl.”
Mrs. Chipman’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me. This will be the office.”
Samantha Rose stared at me through lashes thick with mascara. For somebody who’d been so upset, she didn’t have any black streaks on her cheeks to show for it.
“It’s like seeing a young Ronelda again. That reminds me.” She picked up a hot-pink purse the size of a toaster oven from the floor near her feet and plopped it into her lap. After a few seconds of searching, she handed me a photo album.
It was small and plastic with the word Photo written in fancy script on the front. I opened the cover and sure enough, there was Mama’s face staring back. Young, younger even than I was now, but it was her. I flipped through the pictures. Mama as a toddler in a blow-up swimming pool, Mama in a faded sundress drinking an Ale-8 on a front porch, a teenage Mama with her hair in a ponytail holding a fishing rod and a tiny fish. I dropped the album onto the couch beside me, dizzy. There was a whole life between those plastic covers that I’d never known existed.
“I think she’s gonna pass out,” Hoyt said. “Cool!”
“Hoyt, shut your piehole.” Samantha Rose leaned forward in the chair and patted my knee. “You’ll be okay, sugar. It just takes some getting used to, I know.”
Mrs. Chipman walked back into the room. “Everything seems to check out, Wavie. Your aunt and uncle were approved as temporary guardians for you this morning.” She smiled like she’d just delivered great news; I could practically see the relief coming off her in waves—problem solved.
The problem of course had been what to do with me. I hadn’t liked it when Mama talked about what would happen if she died, but she’d insisted on being prepared. Hannah and her granny had been plan A. Mrs. Watkins had agreed to be my guardian, but then two weeks before Mama died, Hannah’s own mother had shown up with a
n old boyfriend and a new baby. There wasn’t room for another mouth to feed in their small trailer and Mama was gone before she could make a plan B.
“I’m going with them?”
“Yes, I’ve been instructed to release you to your family for the time being.” She smiled. “But I’ll be in touch soon to make sure this is a suitable arrangement.”
Mrs. Chipman and Samantha Rose talked, ironing out all the details. I flipped through the photo album again, looking at Mama’s face. It wasn’t until the third time through that I noticed Samantha Rose. She was in the background of a bunch of the pictures and she wasn’t smiling in a single one. In fact, she was mostly glaring—at my mom.
CHAPTER THREE
Samantha Rose didn’t look or sound a thing like Mama. Mama had been tall and thin, and Leopard Lady wasn’t. Mama had dark hair and blue eyes, while Samantha Rose’s hair was yellow blond, and her eyes were brown. When Mama talked, her tone was soft and sweet. Samantha Rose sounded like a twangy banjo with a broke string. Maybe if she’d been at all like Mama, I’d have been more excited at the prospect of an aunt. If Mama had even hinted at having a sister somewhere, it might have felt real, but she hadn’t.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gone from being an orphan to having a new family in the space of an hour, but I didn’t like it. Of course, I didn’t like anything at the moment. I admit that burying my mama’s ashes an hour earlier might have warped my perspective.
The walls of my room were thin as watery soup and I could hear Samantha Rose and Hoyt down the hall going through Mama’s things. All of it had been put into boxes already. There was only four days left before rent was due and Mr. Randolph wouldn’t wait on anybody, no sirree, Bob. He wasn’t running a homeless shelter. Mrs. Chipman had wanted to call the thrift store and schedule a pickup, but I’d convinced her to leave everything for the neighbors to go through after the funeral.
Stuffed in my old backpack by the door were two pairs of pants, three T-shirts, three sets of underwear, my toothbrush, all the photos I owned, my school yearbook, my notepad and a dog-eared New Testament that Mama had kept by her bed. All my worldly possessions, not including the peony, were in one bag. I pulled a photo of me and Mama from the front pocket and propped it up beside me.
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