The Junction of Sunshine and Lucky (4 page)

“Your mom and I sure were troublemakers back when we were younger,” Chuck reminds me as we head back toward the giant brick sign, branded
SERENDIPITY PLACE.
“That's what everyone called us, anyway.” He's walking awfully slow—so slow, I can't ride my bike. I have to steer it beside me, guide it along like a blind dog. So I know he's gearing up for a pretty long tale. “Of course,
we
didn't feel like we were trouble back then. Felt like we were out finding freedom.

“We were barely older than you are now,” he goes on, “hanging out one day, early on in the fall. That time of the year when it still feels good to be in a T-shirt, and all you want to do is be outside.”

I smile, because Chuck has a way of telling stories that makes me feel like I'm there.

“So we were hanging out behind the church—our very own Hopewell. You know how that church butts up against a big wooded lot?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “And the old creek where they used to do the baptisms.”

“Well, we figured nobody'd come looking for us there, and it was so beautiful, full of fall colors. I remember, it was the kind of day you want to put in a bottle. Which was why we'd ditched school. We didn't think we could be in school on such a perfect fall day. And out behind the church, we were soaking it all in—the autumn sun and the leaves. And we were hiding from the truant officer. And—now, don't tell Gus, because he'd kill me for admitting this . . .” He leans down to whisper, “We were sneaking cigarettes.”

“Chuck,”
I say.

“Shhh. Now, like I said, the sun felt really good to us that day. Must've felt good to that snake, too, because here he comes right out of the shade. Here he comes, heading straight for the light.

“Bad part was, he had to get past us so that he could stretch out on the church's nice, sun-warmed back step.

“That snake, he saw us, but he refused to skitter away. He acted like he was used to everyone being afraid of his angry-looking orange-brown stripes. He must have learned to expect it. Everybody who lives in this part of the country knows a copperhead when they see one.”

“They're unmistakable,” I jump in, because my heart is racing. “Everybody knows a copperhead is poisonous.”

“I saw those copper-colored stripes,” Chuck says, “and I was ready to run. But your mom? She reached out and grabbed that copperhead behind his head. Grabbed him, like there was no way that snake would ever hurt her.

“Auggie, your mom stared that snake down. Stared, even while I was yelling at her to leave him alone. But she never budged. Stood there, like she was telling that snake something just by looking. And you know, when she finally put him back down, he slithered off as fast as his scaly belly would take him. Ran away, like he was scared of your mom. Probably was, too,” he adds with a chuckle.

“I don't think I've ever felt quite as safe as I did right then,” Chuck admits. “With your mom at my side, I knew whatever bad thing might come my way, it would take one look at her and run off, too.”

My head buzzes like the beetle traps in Harold's yard as I try to figure out why Chuck told me this story. There's a reason for everything with Chuck, though. I try to take as many notes as I can, in my head, because I'm already betting that I'll need to remember his story later.

As we get closer to Serendipity Place, he says, “Let's turn down Joy Boulevard. Take the long way to your house.” Chuck glances around while he walks, breathing deep like he's in the midst of something wonderful.

“Always did love this neighborhood,” he says. “You know, these houses were built before electricity,” he adds, as though this is really something to admire. “Wires had to be put in later on.”

Not that it really matters. It's not like anybody in our neighborhood has a computer or even cable TV. We're more like taped-together rabbit-ear antennas and antique everything. As we get closer to my house, at the corner of Sunshine and Lucky, it feels like we all have as much need for electricity as a camping tent.

“Lot of history in this neighborhood,” Chuck insists.

Sure. History. As I stare at my own house, I think that “history” is cloth awnings over side windows, each of them dotted with giant mismatched patches of material. It's duct tape on screen doors. It's a whitewashed house with gray shutters, every inch of paint peeling like skin after a sunburn. It's a fence made out of wrought iron so rusty, nasty orange grit comes off on my hand when I touch it.

For the first time, it hits me that maybe the only fancy thing about my neighborhood is its pretty name.

“See you tomorrow,” Chuck says, swinging open my front gate. “At Montgomery.”

“Montgomery?” I ask. My heart beats a little faster.

“Sure. We had to find a place to hold church services,” he says, his face turning as dark as a storm cloud.

“Isn't Hopewell getting fixed up?” I ask, feeling a tight, worried twist in my stomach.

“Of course,” he says. “But we need a place to have church in the meantime.

“I saved everything,” he goes on. “Even the tiny little broken bits from the stained-glass windows. Not sure what I'll actually do with them, but—sometimes, when you love something, the letting-go can't happen with a single sweep of the broom.”

He forces a little strip of sunlight into his smile as he motions for me to walk through the open gate.

“Tomorrow then,” he says.

And because I don't know how to say anything to him about the forced sunlight in his smile, I nod and agree, “Tomorrow.”

When I step inside Montgomery the next morning, the first thing that hits me is how scooped-out the building feels. Without the benches and the desks and the plaques and the teachers, Montgomery feels like an ice-cream cone with the Butter Brickle already licked out.

Gus steers me into the all-purpose room, though, and I instantly start to feel different. Because Chuck has set up rows of folding chairs and his own makeshift pulpit, and everyone from Serendipity Place is pretty much here already, milling around the aisles and talking and taking it all in, this new but familiar place where we'll be holding church every week. I start to feel a smile on my face—a real, honest smile.

It's good to be back at Montgomery, I think. So good, in fact, that as I look at the faces of my neighbors filling up the school I loved so much, I get a warm glow in my chest.

Old Widow Hollis—it's all we've ever called her, since she's so knobby and wrinkled, the only word we ever think of to describe her is
old
—eases herself into a folding chair and slowly stretches her feet out in front of her. She crosses her legs at the ankle, and scratches at her scalp, her frizzy white hair making her look like a dandelion gone to seed.

Widow Hollis's little great-grandson, Noah, mimics the sound of a track gun firing, sprints, and launches himself over her legs like they're hurdles.

Mrs. Shoemacker, the neighborhood ears, steps in, folding her arms over her cardigan. Without so much as a nod hello to anyone, she slinks into a seat in the back. As usual, she leans forward and listens in on everybody else, watching out the corner of her eye as the Widow Hollis grabs Noah by the back of his shirt and wraps him into her arms, saying, “Honey, every time you start acting up, I'm gonna kiss you and hug you. . . .”

Noah's face turns bright red and he struggles to free himself, eyeing me in a way that pleads with me to keep quiet about him being kissed by his grandmother in public. Noah lives with his great-grandmother, and it seems like I'm always watching the Widow Hollis use her kisses to try to embarrass him into behaving. But at six years old, Noah is a scabbed knee waiting to happen. The kind of kid who could accidentally stab himself with a pencil, spit on the bleeding hole in his hand, and move on without a second thought.

I'm still glancing around the room, taking in the sight of the members of my church packed inside of my favorite school when I hear a familiar, “Hi, Auggie,” from somewhere over my shoulder.

“Lexie!” I shout. I turn and lean in to hug her, thinking,
Everything's coming back. First Montgomery, now my best friend.
But there's something funny about the way she hugs me—it's like trying to hug somebody through a mattress.

When I finally pull away, half of Lexie is missing. “You changed your hair,” I say when I realize her long curls have been clipped into short spikes. “But—but why—?”

I can't believe it. Cut the way it is now, Lexie can't wear her hair any way but one. I try to put on a white lie of a smile—because I don't want to hurt her feelings. But I must have shock and disappointment smeared all over my face, because Lexie's smile gets awfully droopy, suddenly.

“I think it's cute,” Victoria says as she tosses her own perfectly combed, silky hair over her shoulder.

Lexie turns toward Victoria, trying to put her wide smile back on. But it kind of looks like a vase that's been broken and glued back together—wobbly, crooked, and about to fall apart all over again.

“Mom and I took her to my hairdresser yesterday,” Victoria says, looking at Lexie's spikes admiringly.

“
That's
where you went?” I say.
To get rid of her shine
?
I think, my own mouth drooping.

“Don't you love it?” Victoria asks.

I stare at Lexie, feeling sad because her hair makes her look prickly and dangerous and not like herself at all.

My stomach is a teeter-totter as I finally turn toward Victoria and ask, “What are you doing here? You don't—go to Hopewell—”

“Hey, Auggie!” Mr. Bradshaw shouts, interrupting us as he walks up to my side. “Harold and I just passed by your mom's old billboard, and it made me start thinking of her all over again.”

Weird Harold walks beside his dad, his hair extra-crazy from their bicycle ride. He's carrying a jean jacket that could completely swallow him in one gulp. Probably, I figure, it's his dad's coat. Smart Harold Bradshaw is always trying to take care of his dad, making him take cod-liver oil to ward off colds in the winter, that sort of thing. This morning, he stares in a disapproving way at his dad's old rope sandals, at the feet that shouldn't be bare, not now, not in the cooler fall weather.

Victoria eyes Mr. Bradshaw, then me, and shares a look with Lexie. The look itself is like a secret passed between them.

“See you, Auggie,” Victoria says, turning. I'm not sure if she means,
Nice to see you
, or
See you later
, but the way she says my name—it rings through the air in such an awful way. It sounds like the noises the sea lions at the zoo make when they bark for their dinner.

I'm still trying to remember how to make my mouth work as Ms. Dillbeck ambles in. She's kind of like a walking eggplant—same color, same shape. She leans against me a little, so that I have to start moving forward, help her toward a seat. Irma Jean follows, and I wind up getting smooshed into a chair of my own, surrounded by a few Pikes, Gus, and Ms. Dillbeck.

I glance about, wondering what happened to Lexie. I feel like my whole body's been scrubbed with a stiff wire brush when I realize she's across the room, beside Victoria.

I don't hear a single full sentence of Chuck's sermon. Mostly, I'm staring at the back of Lexie's spiky hair and Victoria's silky straight mane. The longer I stare, the more Victoria starts to look like a storm cloud, filled with winds strong enough to knock a friendship down.

At the end of the sermon, right when I'm expecting everyone to stand, Chuck points to the man sitting next to Victoria and announces, “Mr. Cole has asked if he could have a moment of your time.”

Chuck steps aside, and lets Victoria's dad stand in front of us all. He's wearing a suit, but he looks comfortable in it, like maybe he's the kind of guy who wears suits all the time—even to the Fill 'N Sip for a bag of ice.

“As some of you are probably aware,” Mr. Cole begins, “Reverend Taylor has already begun the task of seeking funds to renovate the Hopewell Community Church. In appealing for funds, he and I came into contact with each other. I'm on the city council, after all. As an extension of the city council—and as a result of the recent storm—I've helped form a new committee. The House Beautification Committee. And that's why I came to introduce myself today.”

I glance at Weird Harold. I can practically feel him bristle on the other side of the all-purpose room. He crosses his arms over his chest, and shakes his head beneath a ball cap that says
I'M NOT WHO YOU THINK I AM
. He's suspicious. Already.

“Following our recent storm, the House Beautification Committee would like to make sure that the sections of Willow Grove that were hit the hardest are rebuilt in a way that preserves the charm of our city. We want Willow Grove to continue to be the beautiful city it's always been.

“My daughter, Victoria, a junior member of the committee, has a few handouts,” Mr. Cole goes on. Chair legs squeak as Victoria jumps to her feet, as though she's been waiting all morning for this very moment. “We simply want to remind everyone of some of the existing ordinances of Willow Grove as we all rebuild those structures hit by the storm,” Mr. Cole says, grinning at us as Victoria passes out the papers like a teacher's pet.

My heart is as scraped and hot as a rug burn as she heads toward the section where I'm sitting. I try to seem completely unfazed when she hands me a printed sheet. But the truth is, I can barely even read the handout through my tears:

 

ATTENTION
RESIDENTS OF SERENDIPITY PLACE

A Neighborhood in Willow Grove, Missouri

A property is in violation of city codes if:

1. Any structure present on the property (including, but not limited to, a house or outbuilding) is not being adequately maintained or is deemed to be a fire hazard.

2. Any land within property boundaries (including, but not limited to, lawns, gardens, or undeveloped lots) is shown to have a significant overgrowth of brush or weeds, or grass measuring more than ten (10) inches.

3. Any land within property boundaries contains items or materials deemed to be a threat to public safety.

4. Any structure or land within property boundaries is found to be in violation of city health codes.

The owner of an offending property will receive one (1) warning notice, and a forty-five (45) day conditional grace period, during which the owner will be required to improve the condition(s) of their property.

If a property owner fails to comply, the grace period will be deemed null and void; said owner shall be fined $10–$100 a day for each of the prior forty-five (45) days and every day that it remains in violation thereafter.

The amount of the fine will be based on the severity of the offense(s).

Thank you,

The House Beautification Committee

(Making our city beautiful, one house at a time.)

“But Serendipity Place didn't get hit by the storm,” Weird Harold shouts, even as his dad tries to shush him. “Not like our church did. Our neighborhood looks exactly like it did before. And what's this about yards being overgrown? What does that have to do with storm damage?”

“You're worried the committee will make you clean up your room,” Irma Jean teases.

Laughter spreads, loud enough to cover anything else Weird Harold tries to say. Chairs screech, too, as everyone stands and starts to leave, off to a Sunday brunch and the ambrosia salad or the fried chicken leg they've started to daydream about.

I finally get up, start saying my good-byes and helping Ms. Dillbeck out of her chair. I catch sight of Victoria—even though I don't see Lexie, I can see the red spikes of her hair sticking up above Victoria's head, the way a shark fin sticks up out of the ocean. Lexie and Victoria are walking side by side toward the exit. I decide, right then, to only miss three things about Lexie:

1. Her long red hair that she could twist into a million never-before-seen hairdos.

2. The way our laughter used to sound like it needed each other, the way piano notes need each other to form a chord.

3. The way she liked to wish with me as we stared up at my mom, the brightest star in the sky.