by Joan Bauer
“Yes. You and your mother are welcome.”
I looked at Shush, who was mauling the bunny. I wasn’t going to mention a dog just yet.
“So, if we need to do this, I just call back?”
“Where are you?” the lady asked.
“I’m at my house.”
“All right,” she said. “Let me get some information.”
7
THE MONSTER WAS rising up.
“Yes, this is Reba Cole calling. . . . Yes, I did receive the notice. . . . Yes . . . but as I informed your office, Mr. Leeland, my husband, was unable to escort me to the courthouse. . . . I beg your pardon? I most certainly am not kidding. You see, this all has an explanation. . . . We can’t possibly be out in seven days. . . .”
“Leeland, it’s Reba. We’re right up to the edge, darling.”
If you asked me what I learned in school that week, I couldn’t tell you. The only thing I remember was Mr. B taking me aside and saying I was a natural-born leader and he wanted to start developing all that potential in me.
I looked around and no one was lining up behind me. “I’m a leader?”
“It’s pouring off of you.”
I looked at my arms. I didn’t see anything there either, but Mr. B made me team leader for our language arts reading fair. My team was supposed to look at six books and decide why the authors wrote them.
“Because they needed the money,” Peyton Crawler said.
I got home just in time for the worst day of my life.
There was a loud knock at the door. I jumped. Reba walked by me with her jaw set.
“Sheriff’s office,” a man shouted from outside.
Reba threw back her shoulders. “They most certainly cannot come in here. This is my father’s house!”
“I know you’re in there, Mrs. Cole!”
“Do not enter these premises!” Reba shouted. She was wearing her special GRITS shirt for the occasion. That stands for Girls Raised in the South.
It sounded like the door was being yanked off the hinges.
“Sheriff’s office!” the man said again. “I’ve got an eviction notice for you, ma’am. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
My bag was packed so full I had to use duct tape to close it.
“Go to your room, Miss Sugar,” Reba directed.
I shook my head. “I’m staying right here.”
She sighed. “All right then.”
A pry bar broke the lock on our door and the sheriff busted in. He took one look at Reba standing there, small and pretty; she had all her makeup on and the sparkly earrings Mr. Leeland gave her the last time he won big at poker.
The sheriff coughed. “I hate this part of my job,” he said.
Reba raised her chin and said each word slow. “I would dearly hope so, sir.”
The sheriff gulped and looked at me. I glared at him with everything I had.
Reba stood there like a Southern belle who didn’t take guff from anybody. “Mr. Leeland, my husband, has the check for the bank, but unfortunately, he has been delayed. I informed the bank of this. I informed your office.”
Reba, if you think he’s coming, you’re crazy.
Reba raised her head like a queen. “I was told we’d have more time.”
“I don’t know who told you that, Mrs. Cole, but it’s not true.”
And two men began to carry our things onto the street.
Reba tried to get her cousin Guernsey on the phone, but there was no answer. She tried calling Mr. Leeland.
No answer anywhere.
I told her about the shelter, how the lady said we could go there.
“Certainly not,” Reba said. “We can’t leave our things on the street.”
“What are we going to do, Reba? Where are we going to go?”
8
IT’S NOT FAIR, but sometimes a kid has to act older than their age. You just pray hard to know what to do.
I prayed and nothing came to me.
I needed to pee and didn’t know what to do.
I rang Mrs. Mulch’s bell, but she wasn’t home.
I knocked on the Iversons’ door—they weren’t home either.
But I wasn’t going to have an accident on the street, I’ll tell you that; so I walked to our backyard, our ex-backyard, and stood behind a bush.
I remembered King Cole planting this bush when I was little.
I remembered his dog Murphy peeing on this bush.
Shush peed, then I squatted down, but not down enough, and got my underpants wet.
And that’s when I started to cry.
x x x
I lay in the backseat of our car covered with a blanket. Shush was lying on the floor looking up at me. It was dark out.
I wondered if some criminals would come by and hurt us.
I wondered if the sheriff would come by and take us to jail.
I wondered how many monsters had surrounded our car already.
I was trying to think about other things so I wouldn’t be so scared.
Like, you can live in a free country and not feel free at all.
You can try your hardest and it isn’t enough.
I got born in the backseat of a Chevy, and here I was in another backseat trying to survive.
Dear Chevrolet,
How many people sleep in their cars, I wonder?
Do you think about that when you make the seats?
Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.
“I can’t do this, Reba. I need a place with walls.”
“I know.” Her voice sounded small. She reached over from the front seat and squeezed my hand.
I tried to pray like King Cole told me, but I couldn’t. I felt like the earth had opened up and swallowed us into a dark place—a place no prayers ever got answered.
9
DEAR MRS. PITTMAN,
I want to thank you for hiring me a year ago and teaching me all your favorite old songs, especially “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” I’ve sung them for a few friends of mine, but they always have a crowd around them, so walking alone wasn’t a big concern. I get it, though, and I’m trying, as the song says, to not be afraid of the dark.
I’m sorry I won’t be able to work for you anymore—sorrier than you know. As I mentioned on the phone, my mom and I have to stay at our cousin’s for a while and it’s too far from your house for me to keep coming. I’m going to miss singing for you and feeding the ducks and talking to you about life. When I get really old, I want to be like you—full of life and trying new things, although bringing that baby duck into the house wasn’t too great an idea with your cat and all. But nobody’s perfect.
Thanks for giving me such a wonderful, crazy job.
I will always remember you.
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
x x x
I was going to have to take two extra buses to get to school, because we were living outside the district at Guernsey’s house. Reba said I couldn’t tell anyone what happened either. I slapped this fake smile on my face.
I didn’t know how to be at school now. I felt like I had a sign plastered on my head: HOMELESS GIRL. BEWARE. I lied to Meesha Moy, my best friend, and told her we had to stay with Guernsey’s family because they needed our help. I lied to Woody when he asked why our house was locked up. I lied to Mr. B when he asked how I was. I felt like termites had gotten into my heart. I hated lying. I hated how good I was at it.
You know the definition of a loser? King Cole wrote. Somebody who doesn’t try.
I was trying so hard.
“I know this girl,” I told Mr. B. “She lost her house and it’s been hard on her and her . . . father .
. .” I coughed. “I was wondering . . . if you have any advice for this girl.”
I waited.
Mr. B put his hands in his pockets and looked at me. His shirt read ACCEPT AMBIGUITY. We’d had ambiguity as a vocab word, but I’d gotten it wrong on the test. I could tell he was thinking about what I’d asked.
“Tell her I said that a house does not make a person—not by a long shot. It’s what she’s got inside that counts. Tell her that anyone who knows her well will want to help her. Tell her to not be afraid to talk to people that she trusts because there is help out there for her—more than she understands.”
I looked down. “I’ll tell her.”
I don’t know why, but the next day he handed me an envelope. “Give this to your friend. I did a little research. These numbers might actually be much higher, but this is what I found.”
I went into the bathroom and opened it.
In case you were wondering if any famous people had ever been homeless, you’re about to be amazed.
Two were nominated for the Nobel Prize—one of them won. Seven people won Oscars and five more were nominated for Oscars. Eight have won an Emmy, nine have won a Grammy, and that’s not counting all the people who were also nominated for those awards. At least nine have been best-selling authors, and get this—one received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and one person was actually knighted!
But let’s not forget all the doctors, lawyers, nurses, teachers, scientists, artists, business people, and so many others who found their way out of homelessness to live remarkable lives.
I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting pretty inspired by this.
Mr. B
I didn’t think girls could get knighted, but “Sugar Mae Cole, Nobel Prize winner,” sounded pretty good.
I’m going to tattoo this across my heart!
Harper Wilhelm came into the bathroom, smirking at me. I think bullies take classes in smirking, because they all do it just the same. I didn’t look at her.
“Sugar booger,” she said.
I pictured Shush peeing on her ankle, and that felt good. Someday I’m writing a book and I’m going to name names.
x x x
Dear Mr. B,
You said the best leaders inspire people. I’d say that makes you the greatest leader in America. Thank you for what you gave me on homelessness. I think you should get the Presidential Medal of Freedom and your face should be on a stamp.
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
x x x
“Well,” Reba’s cousin Guernsey kept saying, “I guess you could stay with us a little longer.” He said it like we’d asked him to sell his soul to the devil and give us the money. “I don’t know what much I can do,” Guernsey kept telling Reba. “I’ve got two jobs and a family to feed.” Guernsey liked Shush, though, so that was something.
Catching extra buses to get to school was tough, except for the lady who drove the second bus—she always had a good word for me. She’d say, “You go out there and set the world on fire.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.” Every time she said it, I felt a little candle trying to light in my heart. It’s hard to light a candle in the wind.
Reba and me did everything perfectly so Guernsey and his wife, Lou, wouldn’t throw us out. We cleaned their whole house as often as we could, we made sweetie pies for them, and I taught Shush how to go to the door happy as anything the minute Guernsey walked in. That probably bought us a week or so.
“It’s good to have family close by,” Reba kept saying to Guernsey and Lou, but they would just look at her with flat stares.
One night I heard Guernsey and Lou talking in the kitchen.
“You tell them they have to leave now,” Lou ordered. “I’ve had it. I want my house back.”
“I don’t know, Lou.”
“Then I’ll tell them.”
I told Reba what was coming, but she said, “Nonsense. We’re family.”
Not that kind of family.
Finally Lou said, “We’ve loved having you—really. But we need our spare room back. I mean, there are shelters for people like you.”
Not that long before, we’d been people like them.
Whenever you go through a fat mess of a time, try to learn something from it so you don’t have to go through it again.
I’ve learned it’s better to sleep in a car than with people who hate having you in their house and can’t wait for you to leave.
I’ve learned about the power of a cute dog, too, even if he’s nervous. People in houses think they need a dog. Believe me, no people on earth need a dog more than people in a shelter.
At least, that was going to be my big sales pitch when we got to Grace Place.
“They will not let you have a dog,” Reba said.
I bent down and looked at Shush, who had curled into a ball, and I thought of King Cole settling into his big chair in front of the TV watching football, telling me, “The great Vince Lombardi always said, ‘Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing.’”
Vince Lombardi was King Cole’s favorite football coach. He also said, “If it doesn’t matter who wins or loses, then why do they keep score?” King Cole had these big truths framed on his wall. I wasn’t sure the score was looking good for me and Reba. We lost our house, we got kicked out of Guernsey’s place, and now we needed to stay in a shelter.
Three strikes and you’re out. Of course, that’s baseball. “In football,” King Cole said, “you win by the inch. An inch in the right direction matters.” He got this from a football movie.
Maybe I had an inch or so in me.
“You’re a dog,” I told Shush. “That’s something to be proud of. I know what you’ve got inside. Go out there and do what you’ve got to do.”
10
“YOU HADN’T MENTIONED a dog,” the lady at the Grace Place desk said to me.
Reba shot me a look, but I said, “I know you help people get back on their feet, and Shush here has four feet, but they’re little. He got kicked around a lot and I figured that’s your specialty here.”
I waited.
“I’ll have to ask the supervisor.”
That wasn’t no. I followed her down the hall holding Shush in his blanket, because a picture is worth a hundred words. She could talk to her supervisor about some random brown and white dog, but when you look in Shush’s eyes, you see he’s got it where it counts.
She went into an office and shut the door. I waited for a while, then I knocked.
“Yes?”
“In case you want to see the puppy, he’s right here.” I put Shush down and patted him. “You’d better be ready,” I told him. “You only get one chance. You’ve got to find it in yourself. Nobody else can do it for you.”
The door opened, Shush sat like a good boy, and he looked up at her with his big black eyes.
“How cute!” she said.
Good start.
Shush wagged his tail extra adorably. She picked him up and he licked her chin. After a minute of that, she couldn’t say no. I mentioned the call on his life to be a helper dog.
“Is he housebroken?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’ll poop just about any place I tell him.”
At the word poop Shush squatted down. I shook my head. “No, not here.”
He stood up, waiting.
“That’s remarkable,” the supervisor said.
“Training dogs is a natural gift I have.”
x x x
A long, thin room.
Two mattresses on the floor. Bathroom down the hall.
A skinny window that overlooked a noisy street.
Shush didn’t like the noise much. “You’ll have to deal with it,” I told him. “You’ve dealt with ha
rder things than this.”
I laid our shoes against the wall as Reba whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sugar. My God, I’m so sorry.”
Shush came over and climbed into her lap. Reba buried her face in his soft fur. “We won’t be here forever,” she said.
It just felt like forever. And close to the worst part was, I couldn’t be in Mr. B’s class anymore. This shelter was too far away.
“I’m sorry,” Reba kept saying.
Sorry didn’t cover it.
You keep saying that you’re sorry,
But I wonder if you are.
I don’t see you changing to make things better.
I don’t see you reaching out to help me
Or getting any help for yourself.
Who’s the mother anyway?
Is it you or me?
When I finished writing that, I cried.
I wished I had a rubber chicken to throw against the wall.
I wished I had someone in my life who knew about life.
Shush climbed into my lap and purred.
“Dogs bark,” I mentioned. He kept purring.
My whole life was ruined because my mother couldn’t say no to Mr. Leeland’s gambling ways.
King Cole, if you’re watching me up in heaven and you’ve got some advice, I promise I’ll pay attention. I sat there with Shush waiting, but I didn’t hear anything or feel anything or think anything.
Reba came into the room, climbed onto her mattress, pulled the sheet over her, and mumbled, “Nighty night.”
Right.
I bent my face toward Shush’s little head. “It’s you and me, boy. We’re going to have to act a whole lot older than we are. It would help if you could act more like a dog.”
x x x
Reba’s face was gray, her eyes were flat, and she didn’t eat anything the next morning, my last day in Mr. B’s class. I got to school late because none of the buses came on time. Reba came to sign me out of the school. I made a point of finding Meesha, who cried when I told her. Woody just looked down mostly and mumbled good luck. Marna was out sick, so I didn’t get to say good-bye to her.
