“What are you saying?” Gus asks. He barely asks in a whisper, but the room is so quiet that Chuck still hears him.
“I don’t have the money we need to fix Hopewell,” he says sadly. “Everyone around here’s facing hard times, and, well—I’m afraid—we might have to sell the property, and find ourselves another place to hold church permanently. We won’t be able to use Montgomery forever.”
There’s such a quick intake of air that it feels like it’s Montgomery that’s gasped, not the people sitting inside the all-purpose room.
“Lose Hopewell?” Ms. Dillbeck blurts. “You can’t let that happen, Chuck!”
Chuck opens his hands, to show us his palms. They’re completely empty.
• • • 44 • • •
Gus doesn’t look like he can quite wrap his brain around what Chuck has told him about the church. Because it’s funny, really, how the brain and the heart are connected.
“Chuck is going to reason with Mr. Cole,” I remind Gus, dragging him straight to the welding shed that weekend. “Remember? Chuck told me there was no Eleventh Commandment about how to fix up a house. Chuck will get through to the committee. Of course he will.”
“Auggie,” Gus says. “We tried. We gave it everything we had.”
“Don’t talk like it’s over, Gus. When we’re working on our company, I’m happier than any girl has ever been. And you are, too. I can see it in your face. Chuck sees that, too. Looking at our house makes him think of all sorts of stories to tell me about Mom.”
“It does?” Gus asks, his face softening. “It reminds him of your mom,” he mutters. The words haven’t even completely fallen from his lips when he reaches for the welding torch. I grab a metal mask and slam it on over my face.
We use the Widow Hollis’s old washer and dryer to make a boy with bright silver streamers coming out of his hand—a Fourth of July sparkler. An old vacuum cleaner motor allows a boy to dip his wand into a plastic bottle of soap. When the wind catches the wand, it looks as though he’s blowing bubbles. We prop them in the porch swing and on the fence. We’ve got to be a little creative about where we put our figures, since our yard is starting to get so full.
We use some old bikes to put together a little boy who hangs from the front yard pin oak. His knees are hooked over the lowest limb, and he dangles upside down like a possum. He’s got a big round stomach with a spring for a belly button, because he’s an outie.
Our last two people turn out to be my all-time favorites: baseball players. The umpire wears a wire mask (made from an old screen door), and the batter is on his belly, sliding toward an old plate that’s anchored into the ground right in front of our gate . . . he’s sliding toward “home.”
“It brightens up the world,” I tell Gus as we stand on the front walk, eyeing our creations. “Just like Mom wanted to do.”
When Gus looks down at me, sadness and joy swirl through his face like the stripes on a peppermint candy.
• • • 45 • • •
Valentine’s Day at Dickerson brings pretty much everything I’ve been expecting: brand-new plastic boxes on all the Dickerson kids’ desks, and prettied-up homemade paper sacks with slits cut in them on my desk and Harold’s and Irma Jean’s. I swear, it’s all so predictable.
But what bothers me the most is that Victoria gives me a Valentine. A pretty, fancy, store-bought Valentine with a little piece of foil-wrapped chocolate inside. Nothing like the small pieces of paper with hand-drawn crayon hearts that Irma Jean and I give out.
“What’s the deal?” I ask Victoria. Because it’s not like her to be nice for no reason. Especially to me.
Victoria shrugs. “Let’s call it a parting gift.”
“Parting gift? You moving, Victoria? Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Victoria doesn’t answer. She just grins.
The way Lexie squirms gives me an awful sick feeling deep in my gut.
By the time three o’clock rolls around, I’m feeling more than a little wonky inside. I don’t even notice Gus when he lurches to a stop at the Dickerson door. Old Glory’s got to honk to get my attention.
After we drop off Irma Jean and Weird Harold, Gus pulls Old Glory to a stop next to our mailbox. I glance to the side in time to watch Gus reach through the window to pull out a notice from the House Beautification Committee. And I get the same feeling I do when I have a nightmare of tumbling off a cliff—like I’m falling and falling without ever hitting anything.
ATTENTION
AUGUST JONES
An Individual Residing at 779 Sunshine Street
Willow Grove, Missouri
Refusal to repair the property at the above address has resulted in fines in the amount of $5,400 and climbing.
We have been forced to officially blight the property at the above address.
Other residents of Serendipity Place are in similar situations.
An emergency meeting will be held at City Hall tomorrow evening, at which time options will be presented to Serendipity Place residents in the interest of resolving the situation as quickly and as fairly as possible.
Thank you,
The House Beautification Committee
(Making our city beautiful, one house at a time.)
“Chuck didn’t get through,” Gus mumbles. “He couldn’t reason with Mr. Cole.”
His worry and mine feels far too big for us to hold. As we glance through the windshield, I swear that our worry is a black cloud that swells, growing darker, thicker, until it covers the entirety of Serendipity Place.
.
• • • 46 • • •
The very next night, City Hall feels prickly and so full of anger, I think the place might explode.
Voices roar, protesting, as the House Beautification Committee enters; Victoria’s with them, wearing that smug look most kids get on their face when a teacher passes back an A.
“We all got your notice,” Weird Harold’s dad shouts, from somewhere off to the side. The room’s so packed, I can’t even see him in the midst of bodies.
“I’m glad,” Mr. Cole says. He’s no longer smiling and sweet. He’s glaring at us, as though we’ve all done something wrong.
“We have listened to your concerns,” he says. “We have reevaluated your homes. We have done everything we possibly could to make sure that you would be dealt with fairly. You did not comply with city ordinances. As a result, you have all acquired steep fines. It appears as though none of you has the ability to pay them. You’ve had ample opportunity to fix your homes.”
“We did!” Gus shouts. “Mr. Cole, poor folks have poor ways, and sometimes, the only way to fix a broken window is with a tube of glue.”
Mr. Cole shakes his head. “Improvements have to be made in an appropriate manner. We’ve told you all that, with our warnings. But in response, you all made your homes worse—patches on roofs, mismatched paint . . . it is unacceptable, Mr. Jones. We have to put a stop to the deterioration of Serendipity Place.”
Before anyone has a chance to protest, Mr. Cole continues, “We want to be sure you understand your options at this point. The fines on your properties, now deemed blighted, will not disappear until you fix your homes in an acceptable manner. If you do not have the ability to pay your fines and make the necessary improvements, we encourage you to sell to the city of Willow Grove. The city is prepared to offer you a fair price for your properties.”
The room groans—we’ve all been kicked in the teeth at the exact same moment.
“Fair price?” Gus shouts. “Fair means fair for you.”
“Now, Mr. Jones—”
“Come on—these are blighted properties. You just said so,” Gus insists.
“Yes. Mr. Jones. That’s right. But—”
“Being blighted is going to dramatically affect the value of our houses,” Gus says. He’s got a look on his face like I’ve never seen before. I would bet my favorite front yard figures that Gus wants to swear—that he’s holding the words inside.
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“Take a deep breath, Gus, please,” I whisper, because I’ve never seen Gus so upset in my life.
“I wouldn’t pay full price for a house the city has blighted,” Gus says, swallowing hard. “The city’s not going to pay full price, either. We aren’t exactly the richest people in town. Our homes are our biggest assets. The one thing we own that’s worth more than any other. If you devalue our homes, we’ll never have enough money to buy another one. None of us will.”
“Mr. Jones,” Victoria’s dad says, trying to encourage him to calm down by making his voice sound as soothing as a lullaby. “Like I said, you had ample opportunity to fix your homes. You have forced us to take action.”
It takes all the strength I can muster to keep breathing.
Gus looks pretty sick to his stomach as he curls himself over his coffee cup the next morning. He slumps into a kitchen chair, elbow on the table and his stubble-covered chin in his palm. I figure he’s trying to think of a way out of this situation, so instead of disturbing him, I head out the front door, still dressed in my pajamas.
Mrs. Shoemacker’s staring right at our house like she’s been waiting for me when I step out of the front door. But she doesn’t have a wide-eyed, open-mouth look on her face like she’s happy to see me. Instead, her mouth droops and I think she might even be shaking a little.
I walk cautiously to the end of the drive, the gravel popping under my house shoes. When I pick up our paper, I instantly realize why Mrs. Shoemacker looks so upset. My house is pictured in the paper yet again, this time on page one, front and center.
The headline above the photo proclaims: “Blighted Neighborhood to Make Way for Community Center.”
I start to shake all over. My nerves are like tiny Ping-Pong balls bouncing underneath my skin. “No,” I mumble. “No, no, no!”
“The abundance of trash outside this residence is one example of the dilapidated conditions in Serendipity Place,” the story reads. “Once the city acquires the houses in Serendipity Place, they will all be demolished along with the neighboring Montgomery Elementary, which has been vacant since the end of the last school year. . . .”
“Trash?” Why does that word keep showing up? It’s the exact opposite of what I thought I was doing. The last thing I ever wanted anyone to say about my house.
And they’re going to knock us down—knock us all down—right along with Montgomery Elementary.
• • • 47 • • •
I can hardly hold in everything I want to say to Victoria as the morning drags on. When Ms. Byron finally lets us out to recess, I race straight through the playground dust that Victoria and Lexie kick up with their shoes. They hop into swings, and I stand right in front of them, like a giant roadblock.
“I’m not going to leave without a fight, Victoria,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’ve got rights, too.”
“Oh, really? The right to be filthy little pigs?” Victoria snickers as she sways in her swing. She makes a little snort in the back of her throat and elbows Lexie, who’s seated in the swing next to her. Lexie doesn’t join Victoria in her laughter, though. Instead, she gives Victoria a rough glare.
“The right,” I tell Victoria, “to decorate the way we want to. The right to fix our own houses the way we see fit.”
“Auggie, Auggie, Auggie,” Victoria snickers. “Did you ever happen to notice that those—those—things in your yard are made of garbage? Ready for the scrap yard. Somebody else’s used-up stuff. That’s not decorating. That’s turning your house into a junk heap.”
“No—it’s—reinventing,” I protest.
When Victoria rolls her eyes, I go on, “What about everybody else on the street? Why are you going after them? If you don’t like the way I decorate my house, fine. Come after me. Not the Widow Hollis and Weird Harold and Mrs. Shoemacker and Irma Jean’s family. They’re trying to patch what they have.”
“When something breaks, it’s trash,” Victoria tells me. “A broken window or a ripped-up screen is trash. People shouldn’t have trash on the front of their own house. Besides, your house is the worst—on the block, in the whole state, the entire country. It’s got to be. Metal flowers on the roof? Heaps of junk all over your yard? Are you serious? If you cared so much about Serendipity Place, you wouldn’t have a house like that. A house that ruins the whole neighborhood.”
On the opposite side of the playground, Ms. Byron begins to slowly make her way toward me and Victoria. From this distance, I know she can’t hear us. But she can surely tell, by the way we’re leaning into each other, heads jutted forward, pointing, jabbing back and forth, that we’re arguing. I can see the unhappiness etched into her face.
“You know something, Auggie?” Victoria says quietly, without any hint of sarcasm or anger. Almost like she’s a teacher lecturing me.“What we’ve been asking isn’t even really that big of a deal. If you painted your shutters all those different colors, why couldn’t you find a way to paint them all one color? I think you like being poor.” The word—poor—scratches. “You wear it like a badge,” she goes on. “Because being poor means you don’t have to play by the rules.”
“The rules?” I say. “The rules should work for everybody, Victoria. No matter how much money you might have in the bank. Otherwise, the rules aren’t right.”
• • • 48 • • •
We’re eating off our TV trays in front of the news when our house starts to flash across the screen.
“When did they film this?” I ask Gus, clutching my stomach.
Gus only shakes his head.
“Well, I think they should clean that place up,” a girl says. Not any girl, though—a girl from Ms. Byron’s fifth-grade class. One of the Dickerson kids who have spent the year cringing at Old Glory. She looks straight into the camera when she talks, so it’s like she’s getting after me and Gus right here in our living room.
“It’s awful,” a boy says, dipping his head down so that he can speak into the reporter’s microphone. That boy’s face shocks me worse than a fraying electrical cord. Because he’s not in Ms. Byron’s class. I’ve never seen him before. Not ever. And I know our house has been in the paper—more than once, even—but I hadn’t thought about everyone in town making up their minds about it without ever having met me or Gus. At that moment, the entirety of Willow Grove seems full of Victorias.
“Heck, I think they ought to leave Auggie and Gus alone,” another boy shouts, yet another face I don’t recognize. But he’s got white circles on his jeans.
“I believe we’re famous, Auggie,” Gus says. He drops his knife onto his plate with a clank and droops into his favorite living room chair. He puts his TV tray to the side, which means he’s done with supper. But he’s hardly touched any of his food. In fact, his plate looks pretty much like it did when he sat down, except the cream gravy’s not steaming anymore.
Seeing Gus so sad makes me put my knife down, too.
“Where do you stand on this issue?” the reporter asks a man in a suit jacket. I rub my forehead, because I already know what his answer will be. He’ll say he hates our house. Because our city is divided right down the middle—between people like me who have worn jeans with white circles, and people who never have. The white-circle people side with me and Gus, and the ones who have the kind of clothes that could only hang in the closets of fancy new homes think that Gus and I have been asking for trouble all along.
“Well,” the man begins. I’ve been so intent on staring at his suit instead of his face, it takes his name flashing along the bottom of the TV screen for me to realize who it is: Edward Cole. I clutch my stomach and groan. Victoria’s standing at her father’s side, staring seriously into the camera.
“As the head of the House Beautification Committee,” Mr. Cole says, “I have always believed that the Joneses should be required to clean up their property. The Joneses have flown right in the face of everything our committee stands for. In fact, all the committee wanted in the beginning was for Mr. Jones to use clea
r glass to repair his windows. Instead, Mr. Jones brought heaps of broken and useless junk home and cluttered his roof and his lawn. Now, I’m a reasonable man. I know that Mr. Jones hauls trash for a living, but he certainly doesn’t have to bring his work home with him.”
“In fact,” Victoria adds, flashing a beautiful, white-toothed smile for the camera, “the committee and I have a special name for the Jones house. Since it’s completely covered in junk, and since it sits on a corner, we all call it the junk-tion of Sunshine and Lucky.”
The reporter offers a chuckle.
“The Jones house is not the only property in Serendipity Place in violation of current codes,” Mr. Cole goes on. “Because the residents have neglected their homes and refused to fully comply with repeated warnings, we have been forced to officially blight the entire area.”
Gus groans and slumps over the worn-through arm on his chair, and I have to go outside to get a breath. That name that Victoria has given our house doesn’t just sting, it kills. I feel my heart coming apart in my chest.
I stagger to the end of the yard, wishing for a way to dull this ache. I open the gate and stand on the sidewalk, feeling my lungs tighten with fear, until a tiny bicycle bell rings, a few feet down the street. When I look, Victoria is steering her bike in circles with one hand and holding a can of soda with the other.
“Judging by the way you look, I’d say you saw the news,” Victoria taunts. “My father’s going to clean up this neighborhood. He’s going to replace all these run-down houses with a community center. He’s going to make it so pretty. And then he’s going to run for mayor. And then he’s going to run for governor. And then I’m going to live in the governor’s mansion.”
The Junction of Sunshine and Lucky Page 12
