The Junction of Sunshine and Lucky (13 page)

“I saw your house in the paper this morning,” Victoria Cole spits at the back of my head later on the very same day. “I guess you saw it, too.”

I try to pretend that I didn't really hear her. When Ms. Byron starts our science lesson, I sit up straight and proud, chin jutted out.

“Can anyone tell me what happens to a plant when its light source is blocked—say, by a fence?” Ms. Byron asks.

I throw my hand right up in the air. “It'll grow to the light,” I say, tossing a glare at Victoria. “You can't cut a plant off from the light. It'll always grow right toward it.”

Can't cut Auggie Jones off from the light, either,
I think.

“Sure, sure. Everything's all fine and good until the neighbor chops the plant's head off because it's climbed the fence and is in his yard now,” Victoria growls.

Lexie tries to shoot a “Shhhh” at Victoria.

“Besides,” Victoria says, ignoring Lexie as she leans close to me, and whispers, too quietly for Ms. Byron to hear, “some flowers deserve to be leveled. Like, say, the flowers you've got on your roof. You go on, though, Auggie. You just keep on building up heaps of junk around your house. Like I said, it won't do you any good. Before you know it, that whole street will belong to the city.”

“What are you talking about? You can't do that,” I shout, too angry to care who hears. “You can't take our house. It's not something you could ever steal. It's not—a bike or a coat. It's a house.”

Victoria narrows her eyes at me, starts to open her mouth.

“Girls,” Ms. Byron snaps, popping a stomach pill into her mouth. “After school. My desk.”

When the final bell rings, the rest of the class races off. Lexie waits for Victoria in the hall.

“Do you want me to tell Gus you'll be late?” Irma Jean asks when she pauses at my desk.

I cringe, shake my head. “I don't want Gus to know I'm in trouble,” I say.

Irma Jean heads out to the hallway where she instantly starts pacing, shooting me worried looks every time she passes by the door.

While I drag myself up to Ms. Byron's desk, I picture Old Glory rattling horribly beyond the school's entrance. I picture Gus's eyes darting this way and that, wondering where I am as pretty new SUVs honk and drivers yell at him for blocking the way.

“Girls, I've been watching this feud from a distance,” Ms. Byron scolds. “I've been trying to let the two of you handle it, but I'm telling you both now, this has to stop.”

“I would, Ms. Byron,” I insist, “but—”

Ms. Byron holds up her hand, shakes her head. “Auggie, that little argument this afternoon was uncalled for. It disrupted class. At the beginning of the year, I would have said it was unlike you to behave in such a way. But now, I have to say that your behavior is getting out of hand.”

“
My
behavior?” I ask. “But she—she—” I stutter, pointing at Victoria. How can I possibly be the only one in trouble?

“I've been following the news story regarding the House Beautification Committee,” Ms. Byron says. “I know Victoria is the junior member, and I know your neighborhood is having some troubles. Wasn't your house pictured in the paper?”

“Yes, but—but—” I try. Every word crumbles against my tongue.

“I think maybe you're taking your situation out on Victoria. It's not her fault that your house is in violation, Auggie.”

“But, they—”

Ms. Byron eyes me in a way that makes me suck my words back into my mouth. I've never been this kind of girl before—not the kind who causes trouble. Not ever.

Just as my face heats up with shame, Ms. Byron adds, “Victoria, there's no need to bring your position on the House Beautification Committee into this classroom. When you are in this room, you're Auggie's classmate. Understood?”

Ms. Byron lets up on the hard way she's staring at us. She nods her head once to excuse me and Victoria, and we both stomp out into the hallway.

I'm furious—it doesn't help that Ms. Byron got after Victoria, too. Because I feel like she actually agrees with Victoria.
Everyone
seems to agree with Victoria and the committee. I'm so mad that when I see Lexie I shout, “What's
with
you? Huh? Why are you so into Victoria? Did you ever once think about the fact that she's been going to school at Dickerson forever, but she doesn't seem to have a single friend here other than you? Why are you suddenly letting her make
your
mind up about everything?”

“Leave her alone,” Victoria says, jumping in between me and Lexie. “You're just jealous.”

“Jealous,” I repeat, while Irma Jean stares at us all wide-eyed. “What you and your dad and this committee are doing isn't right,” I hiss at Victoria. “It isn't right at all.”

“You try to do something about it,
August Walter
,” Victoria sneers. “You just try.”

“Watch me,” I spit back, determination burning as hot inside of me as the fiery spray from Gus's welding torch. “I will.”

I'm not the only one whose anger is beginning to spread through her insides like poison ivy. The reevaluation and the story in the paper have both made the entire congregation of Hopewell so angry, they actually start shouting up at Chuck the minute he steps behind the pulpit on Sunday.

“We fixed it, Chuck!” Mr. Pike calls, from a seat in the back. “We picked up the toys in the yard. Irma Jean made new cushions for the swing set. But the committee
still
says the swing has been racking up fines now for more than two months. How can they do that?”

“Gus brought me all those shingles,” Mr. Bradshaw adds, from his spot next to the piano up front. “Brought some to the Widow Hollis, too. Now, we hear patches are in violation? I can't afford the fines—so how am I supposed to afford a whole new roof?”

“It's pay fines or eat at my house,” Mrs. Shoemacker agrees.

Chuck raises his hand to settle everyone down, and nods as he steps out from behind his pulpit.

“Why is
my
swing set in violation, when they've got old rusted pieces of the swing set from Montgomery cut up and glued together?” Mrs. Pike shouts, pointing at me and Gus.

“Now, don't start in on our house, Mrs. Pike. We're getting fined, too,” Gus insists.

“I thought when they reevaluated our homes, it would fix the situation. But it's only made it worse,” Ms. Dillbeck says. “Most of us can't exactly undo what we've already done. Once a porch is painted, you can't really
unpaint
it.”

“You know Mr. Cole,” the Widow Hollis tells Chuck. “You see him all the time downtown as you try to raise the money to rebuild Hopewell, don't you? Surely you can reason with him. You've got to tell him this isn't right.”

Everybody starts shouting so loudly, Chuck has to stick his fingers in his mouth and whistle to get us all to quiet down.

“I'm every bit as concerned about this as you are,” Chuck says. He sighs, leaning against the pulpit. He's looking as skinny as an old farm dog living on scraps.

“What are we going to do, Chuck?” Mrs. Pike demands. “We've got to think of something!”

Silence in the room swells.

“Chuck?” Mrs. Pike presses.

“Right now, I think your only concern should be for your homes,” Chuck says. “I'll speak to Mr. Cole on your behalf. I'll certainly take your concerns straight to him, try to reason with him. But the most important thing right now is for us to stick together and support each other.”

That doesn't sound like much of a solution—it sounds more like Chuck's trying to walk around the real answer. Everyone else must feel it, too, because we all just stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for more.

“I have to admit,” Chuck says quietly, “that I am also at the end of my ideas.” In our shock, Chuck goes on, “Our rummage sale didn't bring the amount of money I was hoping for. I've appealed to every appropriate business in town. But I've come up short.”

“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.

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.

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.

.

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.

“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.