by Joan Bauer
I sat through English and didn’t say anything. I waited by Mr. Bennett’s desk as the kids filed out. I looked at Claus the rubber chicken. This might be the last rubber chicken I ever saw.
“I can’t come to this school anymore, Mr. B. Me and my mom, we’re moving.”
He leaned against the wall. “Where are you going?”
“We have to live with . . . friends for a while.”
“Boy, Sugar, this is fast.”
“It’s been building.” I handed him a blue envelope. “So I just wanted you to . . .” I started to cry. I was out of words.
“Listen to me, Sugar, you’ll be fine wherever you go. You’re an exceptional girl.”
Not anymore I’m not.
“Look, do you want to talk to the school psychologist, because—”
I shook my head.
“Now, listen. You’ve got my e-mail and it’s important that we stay in touch.”
I gave him a hug and walked away from the best man in America.
Dear Mr. B,
You told me to write about the locked drawer, so here it is.
A key isn’t just to open something,
It’s to lock things up good and tight.
And when you lose a key, it’s a big deal because you can’t get in or out.
That’s what happened to my father.
He has a drawer in him with good things,
But it’s locked tight and he can’t find the key.
None of the keys I have will work.
This drawer has been locked up tight for years.
I wonder what’s in there.
Has it gone stale like an old sandwich in a lunch box?
Does it have holes like old underwear?
Or is it new and waiting to be discovered?
I hope that’s it.
I hope he has a better life to live and new things to help him.
Sometimes I hate him, but mostly I just hurt.
I pretend like I don’t care, but I do.
Maybe I have a locked drawer, too.
I will always remember you, Mr. B. Everything you taught me is written across my heart. I hope you feel good about that.
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
11
THERE ARE LOTS of rules to follow in a shelter. You can’t drink liquor, for one, but Reba breaks that rule sometimes. Normally she doesn’t drink, except when Mr. Leeland is around, but she and this lady Evie, who lives at the shelter, they have a drink now and then in Evie’s room. Reba snores in her sleep when she drinks. It’s noisy enough here as it is.
It’s good Reba and Evie are friends. They talk about everything together. My best friend at the shelter is Maxwell, one of the volunteers. He taught me how to make an omelette. He’d been a cook once in a restaurant, but now he works in a factory making cans. All day long, Maxwell makes cans. He says without cans the world would be a messy place because where would all that food go? He says cans are one of those things people don’t think about, but they’re everywhere in life, just like homeless people.
His dog Sparkle is with him tonight. Sparkle and Shush are friends. Maxwell taught me how to get Shush to come and lie down. He says I am a natural dog person.
He is showing me how to flip an omelette, which I am not so natural at. I flip it and miss the pan and it goes splat on the floor. Sparkle heads over to eat it.
Maxwell shouts, “Sit!” and this dog does just that, even though he’s got fresh food right in his face. That’s obedience.
I’m not too natural at that either, but I try to obey when it makes sense.
I obey at school for as long as I’m there, although I’m not doing so well in my new school. I miss Mr. B bad; I miss Meesha and Woody. Mrs. Mariah, my new English teacher, writes adjectives on the board. I’ve decided to collect adjectives, because they don’t cost anything and they don’t take up any room in my pack.
Glowing. That’s my favorite new word.
The moon can be glowing. A person can be glowing.
The glowing girl giggled in the garden.
I would like to be that girl.
I wrote this poem about our garden.
Before we lost our house, we had a garden.
With lilies of the valley across the side of the house.
I can almost smell the perfume those flowers gave off.
Almost, but not quite.
We had peonies, too;
Bright pink ones that were so huge it didn’t seem like they could be real.
The ants crawled all over them.
But the sunflowers were the best.
Sunflowers shoot up higher than any other flower because they’ve got attitude.
I wonder if the bank man is watering our flowers.
I wonder if people go by our house shaking their heads.
Someday I’d like to go back to that house.
Someday I’d like to go back to my old school.
This new school I’ve got, I don’t like it or the kids.
I feel I’ve got a sign across my forehead that everyone sees:
HOMELESS GIRL.
Maybe it’s just that I don’t like me.
I didn’t show that poem to anyone, but I did write the best paragraph in English about what animal we thought we were most like. I said a camel because I try to stop where I can and get a good supply of fresh water before my journey. I try to soak up whatever is good around me. I thought about sending it to Mr. B, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I haven’t written him.
At school I hear kids say, “I’m going home.”
“Come over to my house.”
“When you get home . . .”
It’s the most normal thing in the world, except when it’s not.
When I get home
Someday.
I’ll find my home
Someday.
I think a lot about someday.
Today some group brings boxes of canned goods to the shelter. Teenage boys carry the boxes into the kitchen. I want to tell them, you did a good thing, but I’m too embarrassed. Once we collected cans of soup in Mr. B’s class. Funny, I always thought homeless people were somebody else.
King Cole always said, you can’t know someone until you’ve walked in their shoes. Somebody else said that before him, but he liked it so much he wrote it down in his autobiography. The thing people don’t know, until they’ve been there themselves, is how tiring it is to be homeless. It’s always heavy on you, like wearing a winter coat in summer. It makes you look down when you walk. You’ve got to work hard at looking up.
Reba’s got the give-up look most days.
I’ll do anything not to catch that. It can move like the flu through a shelter and get people sick. You hear them say: I can’t get no work. There’s no work out there. I been done wrong by the world. I’m sick of being here and sick of listening to the traffic at night and sick of you looking in my face like I’m some kind of case.
Get out of my space, you hear that?
You’d better get and not look back. But the ones I like say, I’m going to get me a house someday. I’m going to take back what I lost, and I tell them, Yeah, you’ll do it. That’s the thing that’s holding them up.
Reba’s got a headache most days, so Shush spends time making sure she feels loved. Shush makes the rounds in the shelter, too. He makes Evie laugh when he purrs. Evie’s got a loud laugh that wakes people up. He makes Marianne so hopeful she takes out a pencil and paper and draws the most amazing picture of him.
“That’s wonderful, Marianne!” She’s got his big eyes just right.
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing special.”
“It’s clos
e to the most special thing I’ve seen in a long time. How come you don’t draw more?”
“I have a degree,” she begins. Then she looks down. “You know, life isn’t fair.”
Maxwell has a vet friend, Dr. Dave, who gave Shush his shots for free. When he took me over there, it wasn’t Dr. Dave’s best day. I took that into consideration when I wrote my thank-you note.
Dear Dr. Dave,
Thank you so much for examining my dog Shush for free. You could have said no, since you’d just been puked on by a cat. I didn’t think a cat could have that much in her stomach, but I guess being a vet you’re used to all kinds of animal barf. It’s okay that you said that bad word in front of me. Believe me, I’ve heard worse.
My mother says that a good turn always deserves another, so I hope something great happens to you today.
Thank you for being a friend in need even on a bad day.
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
x x x
Fall blends into winter, winter melts into spring.
Reba has some house-cleaning jobs, but not enough for us to get on our feet. She’s been lonely, too, since Evie left with her baby a few months ago and moved to Illinois. She and Reba used to e-mail each other, but I think that stopped.
I know what it’s like to miss people. I’d even listen to bad accordion music if I could walk home with Meesha again. I give Reba a head massage every night before bed to help her with her headaches. She closes her eyes and an almost peaceful look comes over her face. “You’re a good girl,” she says. “Sleep sweet, Miss Sugar.”
“Feel better, Miss Reba.”
At least she’s not talking about Mr. Leeland showing up. I suppose that’s something.
I try to help Reba remember who she is. “My mom is a great cook,” I tell the church ladies who come on Wednesday nights with dinner.
The lead lady smiles and puts out a big tray of salad. “Is she now?”
“She makes these sweetie pies with buttery crust and pecan filling.” I say it loud so the others can hear.
Reba looks down, but she’s smiling a little. She’s not talking much these days.
“She makes Southern soup, too, and maple corn bread.”
The lady’s half listening. “My, that sounds delicious.”
It’s lasagna night, and the church ladies brought a cake with thick white frosting. I ask for a corner piece of cake and hand it to Reba, who eats dessert first whenever possible. She looks at it confused.
“Extra frosting,” I tell her. She nods a little, but doesn’t eat it.
“And what would you like, honey?” the lead lady asks me.
I’ve told her my name the last three times she was here. “My name’s Sugar,” I remind her. “Sugar Mae Cole.”
“Of course, of course. Such a sweet name.”
There are forty-seven of us to feed tonight and we’ve all got names. I try to be good at names. When you have to line up to get things, it’s nice to remember the people around you.
Lining up is a big part of life in a shelter.
So is holding it.
There’s a line at the bathroom and I’ve got to go.
It kills Reba to have to line up. Sometimes she stands in line with her eyes shut like she’s closing out the world. I let her go to the bathroom in front of me.
A lady, Billie, is laughing about how she scared a cockroach so bad it ran back into the wall. Marianne picks Shush up and holds him like a stuffed toy.
“I had a dog,” Marianne says softly.
“Did you ever draw a picture of him?”
“No,” she snaps. She’s rubbing Shush in his sweet spot under his chin, his eyes are closed, and he’s purring. The ladies are laughing at a purring dog.
Reba mutters something about “finding Sweet Street” on her way to the bathroom. Sweet Street isn’t a real place, it’s a place Reba believes is out there somewhere—a place without problems, a place with everything good.
I don’t know about that, but the place I head for after the toilet is the shower. I turn on the water, throw my head back, and let the tears come. I recommend crying in the shower because you can get two things done at once.
Reba is quiet tonight, sitting on her mattress.
“Are you okay?”
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
She turns out the light and goes to sleep. Me, I toss and turn. Shush puts his paw on my arm.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to him. I’m not sure it is, but saying it feels good.
Later that night, I hear Reba sitting up in bed. The room’s dark. “Reba?”
She sighs.
“I know I keep asking, but are you all right?”
“We’re not making it here, miss.” Her voice sounds far away. “I need to go someplace where the work is steady and there’s insurance.”
My mouth feels dry. “Like where?”
“Chicago.”
“Chicago!”
She turns on the light. “There’s a new cleaning company there that really takes care of their people, and I can get a good job with benefits. Evie wrote me about it. She said we could stay with her and the baby until we find a place. We can start over.”
It’s not like I love the shelter, and I’m not sure this is a good idea, but my mother, she can clean houses, let me tell you. It’s a natural gift she has.
“You know, Miss Sugar, I can clean up anybody’s mess except my own.”
Unfortunately, that’s true.
12
THIS PLACE I’M at, it’s got gargoyles on the roof. Big ones that you don’t want to mess with. It’s like they’re saying, don’t push it. Don’t break the rules.
I’ve got to, though.
The computer I’m sitting at is on a table. The kids around me are on computers, too. I type in my e-mail address, [email protected], and write,
Dear Mr. Bennett,
It’s me, Sugar. I’m sorry I didn’t write you back when you told me to, but I’ve been pretty busy with surviving and all. Right now I’m in Chicago to start a whole new life, which can be good or bad, depending. I just wanted you to know that being in your class was close to the best time of my life. I don’t think teachers get a lot of thanks, so I wanted you to know I’m grateful.
Please write me back. It would be great to hear from you.
Yours very truly,
Sugar Mae Cole
I press SEND.
There’s a whining sound at my feet. I make a whining sound, too. A man is helping a kid at a computer, a father, probably. He looks at me like I’m strange.
Mister, you don’t know the half of it.
Now my green bag on the floor is squirming. I put my hands over it. There’s another whine. I make a whiny sound, too.
“Are you all right?” the man asks.
I clear my throat.
“Your bag is moving,” he mentions. He and the kid look at it.
“What’s in there?” he demands.
“Mister, I’m just trying to use this computer. I’ll be out of here in five minutes.”
“What have you got in there?” he shouts.
I smile. “Just a poltergeist.”
Now more people are looking at me and my wiggling bag, and this man won’t let it be. He grabs the bag and Shush jumps out.
“It’s a dog!” the kid shouts.
“Just a little one.”
Shush lifts his leg and pees on the man’s shoe—he deserves it, in my opinion. The father says a bad word as Shush leaps over a pile of books and tears past the librarian’s desk.
Did I mention I was in the Chicago Public Library?
It takes a lot to get a librarian
worked up. This lady shoves her glasses on her head.
“Was that a dog?”
“Yes, ma’am, but just a little one.”
Now I’m hearing the voices of the other people as Shush runs free. Some are laughing. Some are shocked. The man-who-got-peed-on is telling the whole world what happened.
You should have let him be, mister. He was doing fine in the bag.
I run down a big aisle of books shouting for Shush, but I don’t see him. Kids are running around looking for him.
“Shush!” I yell. It sounds kind of funny when you shout it.
“Is that your dog’s name?” It’s the librarian.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why did you bring a dog into the library?”
This is a fair question. “Because he didn’t have any place else to go.”
Me either. I don’t tell her that part.
I see a tiny brown tail wagging behind a copy machine.
“Good boy, Shush.” A girl about my age scoops Shush up and gives him a hug. He puts his little paw on her shoulder and shudders. This is one of Shush’s premier moves.
“Are you a little book dog?” she asks, laughing. Shush wags his stump of a tail.
If you need to sneak a dog into a library, make sure it’s a cute dog.
“You have to take the dog out now,” the librarian tells me.
I take Shush from the girl and go back and get my green book bag and my duffel. I put my bag on the floor, hold it open, make a click click sound, and Shush crawls right in.
“Will you look at that,” someone says.
Training dogs is a natural gift I have.
“I’ll take you downstairs.” The librarian says it like an order.
The man-who-got-peed-on walks by glaring at me. I can tell he’s about to say something not too nice, but Reba always says a kind word turns away anger.
I smile at him. “I think my dog likes you, mister. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t like you.”
I try to make friends wherever I go.
I just got to Chicago.
