by Joan Bauer
“What does that mean?” Peyton Crawler asked it not too nice.
“It means he had so much sunshine in him, it filled up the sky.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I can’t help that.”
King Cole was on chapter ten of his autobiography when he died. I’ve read every chapter except number three, “Women I Have Known and Sometimes Loved.” I’d just gotten to the part when he met the beautiful Marla Monroe at a 7-Eleven in Baton Rogue when Reba yanked it from me.
“Can I at least read it when I’m older?”
“No you cannot.”
I don’t know where she hid that chapter. I’ve looked everywhere for it.
The last thing he ever told me was, “It’s not fair, but sometimes a kid has to act older than their age. If that happens to you, pray hard about what to do. You hear me?”
“Yessir.”
He took my hand. “You’re going to fall down in this life—everybody does. But you be the kind of person who doesn’t stay down for long. Get back on your feet and keep going no matter what.”
“I will.”
When he died, I wrote him a thank-you note. I wish I hadn’t waited to do it. I made a copy of the note at the library, crying at the Xerox machine.
“Are you all right?” the librarian asked me.
“My grandpa died.”
“Oh, my dear.” She picked up a vase with fresh flowers from the return desk and handed it to me. “These are for you.”
Being this was a library, I wasn’t sure if I had to return them, so I figured I’d better ask.
“They’re for you to keep,” she said.
That’s something coming from a librarian.
I took them to the funeral home and put them near King Cole’s coffin. He always said when his autobiography came out, it would be front and center at the four-day book table. Just about everything he told me was right, except that.
I put my thank-you note in his coffin before they closed it.
Dear King Cole,
I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I think every word you’ve ever spoken to me is in my heart, and I promise you I won’t lose one of them. You took over raising me when my own daddy couldn’t do it. You were happy when it didn’t make sense, and you showed me how to love life and people. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, but I want you to know, I’m going to be the person you always saw in me. I don’t know how, but I am.
I love you, Grandpa, and I’m going to miss you like crazy, but I’m going to picture you dancing up in heaven having the time of your life. Not everybody gets to live with a true person who’s also a king, but I got to. I promise I won’t take it for granted. XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Sugar
When we got home from the funeral, I took out my journal and wrote, Today, I’m going to have to act older than I am.
x x x
I headed across the Iversons’ backyard to the path by the ridge that led to Mrs. Pittman’s house and my really odd job. It wasn’t easy getting this job. Mrs. Pittman called my school looking for “a youngster with a good attitude who can do rudimentary tasks.” Three eighth-graders applied for it who probably knew what rudimentary meant. Me, I was in sixth grade and up for anything; I just needed to make some money.
“Why should I hire you over an eighth-grader?” Mrs. Pittman asked me.
“Because eighth-graders don’t always do what they’re told, ma’am. I’m young and still respectful.”
“See that you stay that way.” And I got hired right there. I’m twelve now, and for the most part, I’ve stayed respectful.
I walked up the path to the old stone house. Leona, her housekeeper, was sweeping the porch.
“How is she today?” I asked.
Leona shook her head and went back to sweeping. I walked in the front door, wiped my feet on the welcome mat that read GO AWAY, and walked past her collection of cuckoo clocks. It was exactly three o’clock, and all the cuckoos went crazy.
Cuckoo, cuckoo.
That really fit around here. I knocked on Mrs. Pittman’s bedroom door. “It’s me.”
“The children,” she said, “are hungry.”
I opened the door. “Right.” I picked up the bag of bread pieces.
She looked out the window at the lake. “Now, you know what to tell them.”
“That you’re sorry you haven’t been able to spend any time with them, but it doesn’t mean you don’t care.” This is where Meesha lost it when she subbed for me; I had a sore throat so bad I couldn’t eat.
“That’s right. And you’ve got the food?”
I held up the bag of bread pieces.
She grinned. “And be sure you look for Bessie.”
“I will.”
Mrs. Pittman believed that Bessie, the sister of the Loch Ness monster, a famous monster in Scotland, was living at the bottom of Round Lake just waiting to be discovered. “Monsters know how to hide,” she told me. “You have to watch for the signs to see if they’re moving. Look for shadows, look for any movement on top of the water.”
“Okay.” I headed outside, walked down the path to the little lake, and threw some bread into the water. The ducks swam fast to get it.
“Look, you guys, I’m getting paid to tell you this. Mrs. Pittman says she hasn’t been able to spend any time with you because she’s been sick, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. This is from her.” I tossed more bread in the water and a dozen ducks went for it, causing ripples everywhere.
I sat down on the bank and watched the surface of the lake. Was there a great sea monster swimming down deep? The first day I came to work for Mrs. Pittman, she told me about Bessie.
“She’s waiting,” Mrs. Pittman explained.
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for her close-up. She’s playing us now.”
I met an official monster once. He wasn’t in a lake, he was at my front door.
“Where’s your father?” he snarled.
“He’s not here.”
The man had big hands. He cracked his knuckles. “Where is he?”
“I . . . I don’t know. He only stays with us sometimes. I haven’t seen him for—”
“You tell your old man this. You tell him I came by and I’m going to keep doing that until we get paid all the money he owes us. You think you can remember that?”
You think I can ever forget that, mister?
I threw the rest of the bread in the water. “Are you there, Bessie?”
What do monsters eat anyway?
Bread?
Ducks?
Or maybe sixth-graders?
3
MR. B READ my poem on bad persuasion a couple of times and shook his head. I figured that meant I had failed, and it was a rough blow after emptying my heart about my mess of a father.
He looked up at me. I took a huge breath.
“You did it, Sugar. You did me in. It will kill me not to read this to the class.”
I broke out in a grin.
“Have you talked to someone about your dad? This isn’t easy stuff.”
“I’ve talked to my grandpa.” And now you.
“And that helped?”
“Talking to him always helped.” I mentioned the locked drawer.
“Do me a favor. Write about that drawer sometime.”
I wasn’t sure my brain had that kind of range, but I said I’d try.
“I appreciate how hard you try, Sugar.”
He twirled Claus in the air after he said it.
I never want to leave sixth grade. Ever.
I mentioned this to my friend Woody, as we were walking to the cafeteria. “There’s more t
o life than sixth grade,” he said.
“I can’t imagine having a better teacher than Mr. B. I mean, how many rubber chickens are there in education?”
He nodded. “Claus might be the only one.”
That’s when Harper Wilhelm crashed against me, giggling. I dropped my books. She grinned. I felt my face turn red, but I just smiled bigger at her. Woody put his face close to hers. “Nice imitation of a truck, Harper.” Then he helped me pick up my books.
My poem about Mr. Leeland landed in the corner. Woody headed for it.
“Don’t read that! It’s personal!”
Wrong thing to say. Harper scooped it up.
I screamed. “Give it to me, Harper!”
I tried grabbing it as she read out loud, “‘There are people in our lives we cannot trust. One of those people in my life is my father.’” She was laughing and I hated her. I didn’t care what Reba said about being sweet. “‘Is there Gorilla Glue for fathers, I wonder?’” She smirked.
I felt my face turn purple. Woody grabbed the paper from her. So many kids were watching. Now everybody knew. Staying in sixth grade forever didn’t sound like a great idea anymore.
Mr. B walked up. He didn’t usually get angry, but he was now. He pointed a finger at Harper. “That was a cheap shot, Harper.” He looked around. “Just so all of you know, that was the best poem in the class. It took great courage to write it, and don’t any of you make fun of something that rings so deep and true.” He stared at Harper, who was looking down. “I was about to take a break, but I’d much rather take you to the principal’s office.”
“For what?” she shouted.
“For inappropriate, unkind, and asinine behavior.”
Kids gasped at the A word.
“Any questions?” Mr. B demanded.
Kids looked down, except me. I looked right at Mr. B like he was an angel swooping down to save me. He nodded and took Harper to the principal.
Meesha Moy walked up. “He should have used handcuffs.”
I tried to smile, but I just felt like I’d been invaded; all my pain, all my secrets.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Woody muttered.
Marna, my science partner, said, “She’s mean, Sugar. Don’t let it stick.”
A few months ago, Harper had written a mean poem about me. That girl can rhyme. I showed it to Reba.
“I think deep down Miss Harper Wilhelm doesn’t like herself much,” she told me, “and if she can concentrate on disliking you, she doesn’t have to face her own badness.”
We took the poem, put it in a bag of garbage with smelly eggshells and old oatmeal, and threw it in the trash.
“If you’re inclined to go back searching for those words, remember what you’ll have to dig through to find them,” Reba told me.
I ate oatmeal for breakfast that whole week to let the concept sink in. Then I wrote Harper a thank-you note and taped it to her locker.
Dear Harper,
I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.
I feel real sorry for you. Thank you for this important lesson I will never forget.
Sugar Mae Cole
She didn’t stop hating me, but she did stop writing poems, at least for a while, and if she sent that Sugar Booger envelope, it’s where it belongs—in the garbage.
I guess if you look hard enough, there’s always something to be grateful for.
x x x
The man from the bank had small eyes and a red face; he was sitting at our kitchen table when I got home from school. Reba’s face was paler than usual.
“You go on to your room, Sugar,” she directed.
I sat at the table, too. I wasn’t leaving my mother alone with this guy.
Reba shot me her obey now look. I put the oldest expression I had on my face. “I’m staying.”
“It appears, Mr. Bergen, my daughter will be joining us.”
The bank man ignored me. “Here’s the thing, Miz Cole. You’ve not paid your full monthly mortgage payment for five months now. Add onto that the loan your husband took out against the house.”
What loan? I looked at Reba, who was looking down.
The bank man shook his head; his extra chin jiggled. “Those late fees pile up faster than manure in a stable.” He laughed. We didn’t.
“My husband, Mr. Leeland, has had some difficulty securing the money to pay back the loan, and I had no idea things had gotten to this point. But I assure you—”
Was she kidding? Trusting Mr. Leeland to pay back money was like trusting a dog to watch your food.
“Miz Cole, we’ve talked to you about this over the phone for some time now, we’ve sent you letters. This cannot be a surprise to you. You’re in the hole big-time, ma’am.”
I didn’t know anything about loans or what Mr. Leeland did, but I wasn’t going to let him know that.
Reba bit her lip. “Mr. Bergen, since my father’s passing one year ago, I’ve done everything I could to hold on to our home.”
“These are tough times, Miz Cole, but People’s Trust isn’t running a charity.”
People’s Trust?
Give me a break.
Reba stood up and stomped her foot. I did the exact same thing.
The bank man leaned back in his chair. “I know you’re suffering because of the death of your father, and we’ve given you all the breaks we can. There’s no way around it, you have to be out.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We had to leave our house?
The bank man pushed some papers toward Reba. “This here is what you sign that says you agree to these terms.” He handed her a pen.
Reba breathed out hard like she’d been hit in the stomach.
“Just sign here, Miz Cole.” Reba took the pen.
“Don’t sign it,” I said.
The bank man didn’t like that. “You’re a feisty one.”
“She shouldn’t sign it if she hasn’t read it and understood everything it says.” I added “sir” to be respectful. That advice was in King Cole’s book, chapter seven—“Don’t Let the Scumbags Get You Down.” I’d memorized a lot of this book.
The bank man fixed his small eyes on me. “And how old are you?”
Reba slapped the pen on the table. “Old enough to not be pushed around. I’ll be having my attorney look at these papers and we’ll be getting back to you.”
“Miz Cole, do you realize the gravity of this situation?”
Reba gripped her silver bell. She got laid off four months ago from her full-time job at Len Norris Toyota and had been cleaning houses to make ends meet, although the ends weren’t meeting. “Mr. Bergen, I expect you should be going.”
“Miz Cole, you’re making a big—”
“Now, sir.”
Just then thunder boomed and rain poured down. I was glad he was going to get wet. Reba put her head in her hands. I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. I looked at the papers. I knew it was right not to sign them, but King Cole never wrote a word about what to do when you’re getting kicked out.
A big wind blew our screen door shut. “What kind of loan did you give Mr. Leeland?”
She gulped. “It was against what’s been paid off on the house.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Leeland is going to do the right thing by us.”
“No, he’s not, Reba.”
“You show great disrespect for your father, miss.”
“He shows great disrespect for us!”
She walked out of the room. I followed her.
“What are we going to do, Reba?”
She took an enormous breath. “We’re going to find the way through this.” She closed her baby-blue eyes. “I have to think.”
>
You do that. I have to think, too.
I marched upstairs and sat at my desk that began its life as a door. King Cole found it on the street, sanded it down, and painted it yellow, my favorite color. I opened the box of my least favorite note cards.
I would never send this note, but it felt good to write.
Dear Mr. Bergen,
I’m young, but I know about monsters. I’ve dealt with them before and I’ll do it again. Get your fat hands off our house and leave us alone!
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
I took out another card and wrote,
Dear Mr. Leeland,
If you were ever looking for a time to do the right thing, this is it. Reba’s counting on you, and me . . . well . . . I’m just hoping.
Sugar
4
I WAS SITTING by Mrs. Pittman’s bed singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” It was her second favorite song, next to “Happy Days Are Here Again,” and I was moving into the big finish, where I stood up and sang about how even though your dreams get tossed and torn, you’ve got to keep on walking.
“Tossed and blown,” Mrs. Pittman corrected me.
I sang that part over, then I got serious and closed my eyes. I wasn’t the best singer (I could mostly carry a tune), but I knew how to put my heart into a song. I sang about how you’ve got to walk on through the wind and the rain and do this with hope in your heart, which is a lot to manage, in my opinion.
This could be my theme song.
“Sing it, child!” Mrs. Pittman waved her hands in the air.
My hands went up as I finished. Mrs. Pittman and Leona applauded. Leona brushed a tear from her eye, which was something, since Leona mostly had one expression—irritated.
Mrs. Pittman said, “I think that’s the best rendition I’ve ever heard.”
I smiled. I guess when you start living a song, you can really sing it.
“And I liked what you did with your voice at the end. It’s very important to end big and leave ’em wanting more.”
