Making Friends with Billy Wong

by Augusta Scattergood

  “My family told the police sergeant Willis did it. Sooner or later, the police are going to ask about him.”

  “Oh, brother. I hope it’s later,” I said. “Because first, I need to figure out how to tell Grandma Clark the truth.”

  Instead of rushing back to Ruby Street, I followed Billy outside. He walked fast, leading me somewhere, saving me from confessing to my grandmother. For now.

  People came in and out of other stores, pulling away from the gas station, driving slowly by Lucky Foods. Some of them whispering, some gawking. If my mama hadn’t liked how everybody in Paris Junction knows your business, she’d hate hearing the gossip now. Billy ignored it.

  Until Melinda Bowman bopped out of Ward’s Drugstore, smack-dab in front of us. She’s pretty hard to ignore, flouncing her curls and smiling her gigantic fake smile.

  “Hey, Billy. I hear your great-uncle had a heart attack. Hope he’s okay.”

  “He’s going to be fine” was all Billy said.

  “I betcha Willis made that mess of your store. Word is, the police are after him.”

  Now how in the Sam Hill did Melinda come up with that? Two nickels says her mother listened in on the police call.

  “We don’t know what they think,” Billy answered, more polite than he needed to be.

  “Just wait. It was Willis. You’ll see.” She beamed another fake smile, then crossed the street.

  My heart was beating so fast, I couldn’t talk. That’s all I needed. Melinda spreading rumors. The police after Willis. My grandmother hearing the stories. Me and my big fat fib in the middle. I’d better confess to Grandma Clark this very minute.

  Before I could take off running, Billy stopped in front of the Paris Junction History Room. He held his head way up, his shoulders, too. “Something I want to show you,” he said.

  We stepped inside, and I took a deep breath of the room’s dusty coolness. “What’s all this stuff?”

  “The town’s history. The librarian next door doesn’t mind if I come in anytime. Some days it’s open. Sometimes I ask for the key.”

  Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I sank into a soft chair that smelled like a rainy day. I tugged the desk lamp’s chain to shine light on a book of old pictures. After a while, even though I heard the outside noises—cars slowing down, people talking—if I shut my eyes, the bad memories vanished into the room’s quietness. I understood why Billy wanted me to see this special place.

  “When the grocery’s not too busy, I sneak over here. Where nobody will find me. But Azalea? Don’t tell anybody.” Billy laughed. “It makes me sound like I don’t like having friends. You know, hanging around here by myself?”

  I opened my eyes, blinked away the shadows, and laughed louder than Billy. “You? Not wanting friends? You even wanted me for a friend.”

  Now Billy had scooted in front of a big photograph hanging on the wall. A tiny sunlight sliver beamed in from the window. I slipped my bare feet back into my sandals to walk across the dusty floor. “What’s this picture?”

  He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the glass. “This is what I wanted to show you. Great Uncle donated this photograph. See that?” One thumbtack on the curled-up label had disappeared. Billy straightened it and read out loud. “William Wong and Billy Jue Moon. Building the railroad from California, 1867. Our family moved to Arkansas and Mississippi right after the railroad was finished. We’ve lived here a long time.”

  “Grandma Clark says everybody loves the Wongs.”

  “Guess not everybody,” he said.

  “Do you think they’ll figure out the real culprit who messed up your store?”

  “Whoever vandalized Lucky Foods didn’t care who they hurt. Great Uncle hopes the police will handle it properly.”

  “I hope the police don’t handle it all the way to believing Willis is guilty.”

  We stood side by side next to the picture, being quiet together. I could escape to this room all day. But I needed to get back. Grandma Clark would worry. Finally, we walked down the hall to open the front door.

  And I almost slammed it shut!

  Because there on the sidewalk was none other than Willis DeLoach, clutching a bottle of Coca-Cola. When he noticed Billy behind me, he banged his hand hard onto the door frame. “You hiding in here? What’s going on? Cops asking everybody questions.”

  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to talking back to a boy as mean as Willis. But I took a deep breath and spit out, “Somebody threw rotten eggs at Mr. Wong’s grocery store. What do you think about that?”

  “Don’t look at me. I don’t know nothing.” Willis could glare all right, but that’s all he said before he pushed his way in like he owned the History Room.

  I looked behind Willis. “Where’s your sister?”

  “None of your business, but she’s with our aunt at the cafeteria,” he muttered.

  I worked to bring up a picture of Willis in a hairnet or Lizzie and her puppy. To keep me from being so mad. But all I saw was Willis flipping through the pages of a yellowed newspaper like it was the funny papers, instead of something old and valuable.

  “Be careful with this stuff, Willis. You might learn a thing or two. Billy just moved to Paris Junction and he knows more about your town than you do.”

  Willis puffed up his chest in Billy’s direction. “A squirt like you would hang out with this creepy junk. Not me. My first-grade class might’ve come here. My friends and me got better things to do now.” He picked up a wooden box filled with arrowheads and shook it hard.

  Billy put his hand on the box. “You’re not supposed to mess things up.”

  Willis snarled, took a swig of his Coke. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.” His eyes settled on the big photograph of the men standing in front of the locomotive. “What’s that?”

  “A long time ago, Billy’s relatives helped build train tracks across the country all the way from California.” I looked again at the Chinese men pushing wheelbarrows, loading rocks.

  Willis elbowed me out of the way. He smacked the wall next to the photograph. “Nothing but a bunch of stupid coolies.”

  In my whole entire life, I’d never heard that word. But the way Willis DeLoach spit it out, I knew calling Billy’s ancestor a coolie wasn’t something nice.

  Billy’s hands turned into two hard fists. “Watch what you’re saying.”

  Willis spun around and stomped out. Outside the History Room, a bottle smashed loud against the brick wall. My heart jumped into my throat.

  Billy stood in the dim room, shaking his head. “I’m leaving. I need to see about the store.”

  I needed to chase Willis down, grab a big sliver of glass off the sidewalk, and stab his eyeball out. But he disappeared into the bright sunshine and all I could think about was getting him out of our garden. Quick.

  To Azalea: What I Didn’t Say

  About

  notes under the glass on the store’s counter.

  They may look like chicken scratch.

  To me, the Chinese writing tells

  what time the milk delivery arrives.

  Who owes Great Uncle money.

  Groceries ready for delivery.

  About

  Superman movie.

  Great Uncle always needs me to work.

  It’s my responsibility.

  I’ve never been to a picture show.

  My sister, May Lin, says

  I wouldn’t even know where to sit.

  About

  the History Room.

  Keep Willis away.

  About

  shoppers at Lucky Foods.

  Some come in, go out. Hardly talk.

  Think we don’t speak their language.

  Think if they ask hard questions

  about something besides fishing lures,

  sewing needles,

  sacks of flour,

  we would never understand.

  Never answer.

  Great Uncle, Great Aunt, and
I

  can’t believe they don’t add grocery prices

  in their heads!

  Choose the freshest carrots.

  Grow spinach from packets of seeds.

  We never laugh at shoppers like Mrs. Clark.

  But when others open the door to Lucky Foods,

  we whisper quiet words in our own language.

  And behind our hands, we smile.

  Your Friend, Billy

  When I opened the kitchen door, Grandma Clark peered over her coffee cup and raised her eyebrows in a big question. “Well? What did you find out? How are the Wongs?”

  “Somebody tossed raw, smelly eggs at their store. Mr. Wong almost had a heart attack. But I think he’s okay.”

  “My goodness!” Grandma Clark slammed down her cup. “Who would do that?”

  “The police don’t know yet. The Wongs think it was Willis DeLoach.”

  But I knew. No matter how mean he is, no matter how much he doesn’t like Billy or how mad he was at Mr. Wong, Willis wasn’t about to leave his sister sleeping in a dark shed.

  My grandmother hobbled to the sink and dropped off her coffee cup. “That boy needs a strong hand to keep him out of trouble. What a disaster.”

  “Billy’s whole family is cleaning up the store and visiting the hospital.” I’d save the rest of the story till I’d figured out how to confess.

  Grandma Clark chewed on her bottom lip, exactly what I do when I’m worrying. “Glad Mrs. Wong has her family. Nice as it is when friends bring casseroles, it’s special when your real family comes to help.”

  She was almost saying thank you to me.

  “We’ll send vegetables. For when they reopen the store.” Grandma Clark untied her apron and folded it on the back of a kitchen chair. “I’m feeling sprightlier this morning. Let’s get ready for the garden helpers.”

  Jiminy Cricket. It’s always that garden and those helpers.

  She walked around pointing to her ink pen, wooden Popsicle sticks, her scissors. Telling me to hand her this and hand her that. “Row markers, dear. We’ll need to prepare our garden for fall.”

  Our garden. Fall. I eyed her black phone and wondered for the zillionth time if I’d truly get back to Texas for the first day of school. Or whether Barbara Jean had found a new friend as easy to talk to as Billy Wong.

  “Azalea! Garden markers, please.” Grandma Clark’s sharp voice made me jump, but when I handed her the wooden sticks, she smiled. Maybe her project would keep her from asking more about Willis or Lucky Foods right now.

  She picked up her fancy pen and drew tiny spinach leaves, chard with bright red stems, and brussels sprouts. The words were curly and beautiful, too, like mine when I won the handwriting contest. I held up Swiss chard. “You’re better than my mama, who can’t draw a stick man to save her life.”

  I think she blushed. It was hard to tell behind her glasses, with her gray hair flopped out of its bun and onto her cheeks. “Happy it was my left arm I fell on,” she said.

  Closing my hands in my lap, I felt the thin envelopes still stuffed in my pocket. If I asked her why a box of letters—written to me—was hidden in the garden shed, she might haul off and shake them loose, telling me to mind my own business. Or holler at me for sneaking into her shed. But the words spilled out. I couldn’t grab them back.

  “Grandma Clark, you know how you’re always telling me to be truthful? Well, here’s the truth. I went inside your garden shed.”

  Her smile disappeared. “You shouldn’t have done that. There’s nothing there of your concern.”

  “I’m sorry. I was curious. Sometimes Daddy says too curious for my own good. I might not like meeting a bunch of strangers, but I like finding out about them.” I took another brave breath. “I found something that might be my concern.”

  Grandma Clark peered down her nose and fiddled with the garden markers. “Yours? What could possibly be yours in my garden shed?”

  I pulled the letters out. My voice and my hand were shaking. “There’s a whole box of them. Addressed to me.”

  She reached for one envelope, turning it over and touching my name. “Such a long while ago. Your granddaddy tried to hide them from me when they kept coming back. But I knew.” Her voice got softer. “He saved them, every one. He missed JoBelle something terrible. He would have loved you, Azalea.”

  I stood up quick so she wouldn’t see my prickly tears. With my back to the table, I rinsed the coffeepot, her cup, my glass, letting the hot water hit my fingers. I grabbed the side of the sink and held on, trying not to cry about never knowing my own granddaddy.

  “But somebody sent the letters back? Somebody didn’t want them?”

  “Your daddy had the wanderlust. No way to raise a baby, all that moving around. I wanted you to move here, instead of all over kingdom come. But JoBelle didn’t want my influence.”

  “She sure was glad to be influenced when you needed a helper to push your wheelchair. Water the garden. Wash dishes,” I mumbled. When I turned, a wisp of a smile had started on my grandmother’s face. I stood up straighter and smiled right back. “So she and Daddy could go gallivanting off to the Grand Canyon.”

  “I was about to tell you your mama called while you were at the Wongs’. To check on us. Your parents didn’t go anywhere without you, honey. Just sent you a gift to let you know they missed you.”

  “Will they be here before my school starts?”

  “I’m sure they will. I know you’d like to go home,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. But not as much as I did when I first got here.” I sat close to her at the kitchen table and flipped the spinach marker back and forth between my fingers. I grabbed her hand, and the softness reminded me of that first day, when Mama squished our fingers together, all three of us. “Grandma Clark? Those cups and saucers and china plates in your shed? You paint them all?”

  “A friend and I made little puzzles out of the images. Secrets we shared. Haven’t painted in years. Hardly go in that shed these days. Your granddaddy thought my art was foolish. JoBelle wasn’t interested.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said.

  Grandma Clark reached for the hankie tucked in her sleeve and blotted a corner of her eye. Then she laughed out loud. “When your mother was a child, that garden shed was my quiet place. JoBelle didn’t sit still long enough to read a book, much less pick up a paintbrush.”

  “Mama’s still like that.”

  “That child was more than a notion! When she got older, if the phone rang, I never knew whether it would be the operator gossiping or a neighbor telling me she and your daddy’d run my car into a ditch.” Grandma Clark shook her head at that memory. “Always hoped for a daughter who’d share my interest in painting. Wasn’t JoBelle.”

  I touched a broken fingernail, still trying not to bite it off. “Nobody knows this but my friend in Texas. I like to draw. I’m pretty good. Even tried to draw some of your roses.”

  Grandma Clark beamed. “You’ll have to show me.”

  “I’m different from Mama like that.”

  “Everyone in a family is different, Azalea. And every family is different.”

  I pictured her staircase wall of photographs, sad-looking people connected to each other from way back. If you unraveled a ball of string from one picture to the next, would they all connect back to me? Maybe those frowns just meant they didn’t like sitting in front of a stranger getting their picture taken.

  “Those pictures lined up on the stairs? Any artists like us?”

  “Heavens to Betsy, no! Those are mostly Mr. Clark’s people. Not an artistic bone in their bodies.” Grandma Clark winked. “Let’s get this cleaned up.” She lined up her garden markers and handed me a stack to put away. “You’re a good friend, Azalea. You’ve been kind to Billy.”

  “Remember when I thought I wouldn’t be able to talk to him because he was a boy? And Chinese?”

  “Be careful about jumping to conclusions. Even about boys like Willis DeLoach.” When she s
aid his name, my heart was the thing that jumped. Right into my throat, pounded so loud I worried she’d hear it. “Sometimes things are harder to figure out than they first appear,” she said.

  Since I’d been in Paris Junction, here’s what I’d figured out.

  Grandma Clark and I have art in common.

  Even when he worried about his little sister, Willis DeLoach could be mean as a snake.

  If you’re sitting in Texas with your cat in your lap and the postman delivers a fancy note that you’re sure will ruin your summer? Well, sometimes it doesn’t.

  A few days after the mess at Lucky Foods, Billy appeared at our door holding a brown paper bag. “Good morning, Mrs. Clark. Great Aunt sent these. Thought you might want to make pudding.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She opened the bag and a smell of ripe bananas drifted out. “How’s Mr. Wong?”

  “Much better. We’re opening the store today.”

  “Good news, Billy!” I said.

  Grandma Clark reached in her apron and pulled out her best clippers. “Look in the garden for some vegetables. While you’re there, cut my Lady Banks roses for Mrs. Wong.” She opened and closed the clippers, making sure I knew the sharp side. “Where’s my cane? I’ll show you how.”

  “If you fall again, Dr. Wiggins will definitely hang you up for crow bait, just like you said. Billy and me know everything about your garden.”

  For another second, my grandmother clutched her rose clippers. She finally handed them over. I put them in my shorts pocket and patted it twice.