The Seventh Most Important Thing (5 page)

O
utside, the air felt colder this time around, and the December afternoon had gotten gloomier. The snow looked like white BB pellets coming down from the sky.

Arthur swung the bag of soda pop cans over his shoulder, wincing at the noise, and glanced up and down the street, looking for anything that might fit the Junk Man's list. A lot of people had their garbage cans out, so Saturday had to be a collection day in the neighborhood. Fortunately, the garbage trucks hadn't finished their pickup yet.

In front of the small grocery store across the street, Arthur noticed a stack of flattened cardboard boxes wrapped with twine. Perfect. He crossed the street to pick up an armload of them and brought them back to the cart, since it was a lot easier than hauling a bunch of soggy cardboard around with him all afternoon.

Most Important Thing #7: Cardboard. Done.

Farther down the street, Arthur found a lamp in somebody else's trash pile. He could see why they'd thrown it out—it looked like an ugly turquoise teardrop. Plus, it had a big chip out of one side, and it was missing its bulb and shade.

Still, Arthur figured finding an entire lamp was probably way better than finding a lightbulb. He carried the lamp back to the cart.

Most Important Thing #1: Lightbulbs. Done.

But the toaster was his best discovery.

He'd just reached the end of the block when he spotted the silver toaster sitting on a row of trash cans, as if it was waiting for breakfast.

There was an old lady walking by with a bag of groceries at the same time, so Arthur decided to ask her if she thought the toaster was being thrown out—just to be sure—before he took it.

“You think I can take that thing?” He pointed nervously at the toaster.

The lady gave him a sympathetic look and then squinted at the house behind them. “I don't know the people who live there, but if it's in the garbage, I'm sure you can have it if you need it, young man.”

Feeling his face start to get red, Arthur picked up the toaster and hurried back to the cart. He didn't turn around again until he was sure the lady was gone.

Later, he found a dented hubcap by the curb. Another shiny thing. And for Most Important Thing #4, Pieces of Wood, he pulled a couple of evergreen branches from a messy pile of shrubbery trimmings beside somebody's driveway.

By three o'clock, he was finished.

As he hauled the grocery cart out of its spot next to Groovy Jim's shop and dumped the contents of the burlap bag inside, he thought the first Saturday of his probation had gone pretty well.

It was true he hadn't found all of the things on the Junk Man's list. He'd given up on mirrors, for instance. Really—how often did most people throw out a
mirror
?

And he'd switched around a few other things on the list. He'd left ginger ale cans instead of coffee cans. A lamp instead of lightbulbs. And he'd found the really nice toaster and the hubcap instead of foil. But he figured the Junk Man wouldn't mind. He'd gotten close enough, right?

However, Arthur Owens would soon find out…the Junk Man did mind.

And close enough wasn't nearly good enough.

I
t was Monday afternoon, two days after Arthur's visit to the Junk Man's garage, when Officer Billie called. Barbara, who wasn't very good at taking messages, had answered the phone.

“A person just called for you,” Barbara announced as Arthur walked into the living room. She was curled up on the couch eating a bag of Cheetos and watching cartoons. Usually, Arthur got home before his sister. But it was his first day back at junior high after his time in juvie. The day hadn't gone very well, and then his bus had been late.

“Who was it?” Arthur asked.

“I don't know, but I think she said she was a police officer lady.”

Arthur felt his stomach drop. It had to have been Officer Billie.

“Did you do something wrong again?” Barbara pressed her cheddar-orange lips together like a disapproving goldfish.

“No.”

“Well, she said you need to call her right away.”

Arthur went to the kitchen phone and dialed the officer's number reluctantly, hoping she'd gone home for the day. Or the year.

Of course, she answered on the first ring.

“Officer Wanda Billie,” a box-shaped voice said.

“This is Arthur Owens.”

There was a long silence. Arthur wasn't sure if Officer Billie was trying to remember who he was. Or if he'd already said the wrong thing.

“I spoke with Mr. Hampton today,” the chilly voice finally continued. “And he informed me that you did not follow the directions he gave you on Saturday. Is that correct, Mr. Owens?”

“No. I mean—yes, I did follow the directions.” Arthur stumbled over his words. “But some things on the list didn't make any sense, so I found a couple of other things for him instead.” He tried to explain how he'd left the blue lamp instead of lightbulbs, and how he'd found the hubcap and the toaster instead of foil.

“But everything else he asked for was there. Pretty much…” Arthur's voice trailed off as he realized he was making about as much sense as his mom when she got upset. Plus, Officer Billie didn't seem to be listening anyhow.

Or to care.

“I didn't ask you for a list of excuses,” she replied flatly. “I asked if you followed Mr. Hampton's specific directions.”

“No,” Arthur mumbled. “Not exactly all of them.”

“Next time,
follow the directions
Mr. Hampton gives you. I don't want to hear from him again. Is that clear?” Officer Billie bellowed into the phone, and then hung up.

Arthur heard himself saying “Yes, ma'am” to the dial tone.

A
rthur's first week back at school was about as successful as his first day of probation had been. Going from juvie to school was like going from one extreme to the other. In juvie, you learned to avoid everyone else. If some convict kid wanted to cut in front of you in the food line or steal your banana pudding at supper, you let him, no questions asked.

When Arthur got back to school in December, everybody avoided
him
. He felt as if he were inside an invisible box. Nobody bumped into him in the hallway. Nobody spoke to him. When he sat down in the cafeteria for lunch, the other kids picked up their trays and left.

The whole school knew what he'd done, of course. Nothing was a secret at Byrd Junior High. You couldn't fart without somebody knowing.

On Arthur's first day back, the vice principal, who everybody called Vice, although his name was Mr. Barber, met him at the front door after he got off the bus. He always reminded Arthur of a dry cornstalk. Tall guy. Gray wisps of hair on his head. Grim-colored suits.

“Follow me,” Vice said, gripping Arthur firmly by one shoulder and steering him down an almost-deserted hallway. “We've moved you.”

Arthur wasn't sure what “moved” meant until Vice showed him his new locker in the gym hallway. It was at the opposite end of the school from the other seventh graders' lockers. It didn't take a genius to figure out they'd decided to put him there to keep him away from everybody else.

Plus, the coaches' offices were nearby. Arthur figured the coaches had probably been told to keep a close eye on him and tackle him or something if he did anything violent.

For some reason, the thought of the balding, overweight football coaches trying to tackle him made Arthur smile.

“What's so funny?” Vice asked.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied quickly.

“This one is yours.” Vice opened metal locker 1034, which smelled like foot odor.

“Okay,” Arthur said, glancing inside, although there was nothing to see except a crumpled Oh Henry! candy bar wrapper in the bottom.

Vice closed the locker again with a clang. “So this is where you'll be for a while. Until we see how things are going. With good behavior, you might be able to earn your way back to the seventh-grade hallway someday.”

From the doubtful tone of Vice's voice, Arthur guessed that no matter how good he was, someday was probably never going to come.

Later in the week, Arthur had a big quiz in his earth science class. He'd thought he understood the material pretty well. He knew about volcanoes and earthquakes and how continental drift is the way the continents move. He remembered some of the facts he'd learned before juvie: how we're all living on big plates that are floating around—nothing is permanent—and how some people are unlucky enough to live in places where the plates already have big cracks in them.

Arthur was convinced he was one of those people.

Despite the gloom and doom, he liked earth science. It was one of the few classes he looked forward to. Industrial arts was another one—maybe because the teacher reminded him a little of his dad. And he never gave out any homework.

But Arthur had missed an entire set of volcano questions on the quiz. Without even trying to be funny, he had to admit to himself that he'd completely
blown
it.

The earth science teacher was a short man from India who everybody called Mr. C because his full name had about twenty letters in it. As he handed the quiz back to Arthur, he shook his head sadly and tapped a dark finger on the missed questions.

“You must follow directions next time,” he said.

Follow directions.
Arthur wondered if the guy knew Officer Billie.

During his first miserable week back at junior high, when he was failing stuff and forgetting stuff and going to his foot-odor locker in the gym hall, Arthur often thought about giving up and quitting. His dad had dropped out of school in the eleventh grade. Can you drop out of school in seventh grade? he wondered
.
And why bother to learn all this crap anyway? What's the use? What does it matter?

But whenever he thought about quitting, he'd hear Judge Warner saying,
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
And it would make him mad enough to stay.

A
rthur Owens could hardly drag himself out of the house for his second Saturday of probation the next weekend. It was snowing big, wet flakes. The streets were full of slush.

He had no idea what kind of job the Junk Man would dream up for him to do this time. He really hoped he wasn't going to be pushing the rust-bucket cart around the neighborhood collecting junk from a list again. But just in case, he dug out his oldest winter coat to wear.

It was a heavy beige jacket that had these ridiculous pockets and buckles. He'd last worn it in fifth grade, probably. It might have been cool back then, but it definitely wasn't cool anymore. He was amazed—and dismayed—to find that it still fit, except for the sleeves being a couple inches short.

Arthur stuck some folded grocery bags in the pockets, and he made sure to wear a pair of gloves and a hat this time. As he pulled on the black knit hat, he tried not to think about how much he was beginning to act like the Junk Man. Old tan coat. Pockets stuffed with paper bags. All he needed was a pair of foggy eyeglasses, and the transformation would be complete.

“Where did you find that thing?” his mother said, catching him in the hallway before he left.

Arthur shrugged. “Back of the closet.”

She gave him a curious look. “Did you lose your other coat?”

“No.” Arthur avoided her gaze.

He could tell his mom wanted to ask more questions, but she didn't. He hadn't told her about the deserted garage or about collecting the Seven Most Important Things yet. And he'd managed to make sure Barbara didn't blab about Officer Billie's phone call. Why make his mom worry even more?

Before Arthur's first day of probation, his mom had called Officer Billie to make sure working for the Junk Man was safe. “When we see him around our neighborhood, sometimes the man acts a little strange,” she'd explained.

Officer Billie had told Arthur's mom that she should be way more worried about her brick-throwing son than Mr. Hampton—a comment that really irritated her. “That lady doesn't know you like I do,” she'd said in a huff as she hung up the phone.

Knowing what his mom was like, all Arthur had told her was that he'd been running errands for Mr. Hampton. “It was pretty easy,” he'd said after his first Saturday. “He gave me a list of things to get for him.”

It wasn't a complete lie, even if his mom thought he meant he'd gone shopping.

As Arthur got ready to leave for his second Saturday of work, his mom patted his back and tried to sound encouraging. “Be as helpful as you were last week for Mr. Hampton and maybe he'll let you off early.”

Arthur knew there was no chance of that happening. Not with Officer Billie keeping track of every second.

“We'll work on the Christmas tree when you get back, all right?” his mom continued. “Before Barbara gets home from her friend's house.”

“Sure. Okay. See you later,” Arthur said, quickly yanking the door shut behind him. He didn't want his mom to see his face and realize how much he was dreading the Christmas tree. Actually, he was dreading it way more than his four hours of work for the Junk Man.

Arthur's father had always been the one who put up the tree.

Two weeks before Christmas, he'd drag the boxes down from the attic to assemble the fake tree and do the lights. It took him hours and never put him in a good mood. But when it was finished, it was a work of art. That was what he used to call it, “a work of art.” Some years, they'd leave his “work of art” up until February, when Arthur's mother would have to dust off the branches before they put it away.

This year, the tree was still in the attic. Arthur knew his mother and Barbara were counting on him to take his dad's place, but he couldn't bear to think about putting up the tree himself. Not yet.

As he slogged through the slushy streets to the Junk Man's neighborhood, he tried to get his mind to focus on something else. What kinds of crazy stuff would the Junk Man have him searching for this Saturday? he wondered. Toilet paper rolls? Cigarette butts? Used toothbrushes?

He didn't think he'd ever be able to find a mirror, if that was still on the list. Or lightbulbs. Heck, he'd just borrow one from a lamp at home if he had to. He wasn't going to waste his time scrounging around for a stupid lightbulb.

What he'd like to find was a good pair of boots. He glanced down at the pair he was wearing. The rubber soles were cracked and already leaking. A slow dampness crept up from his toes.

Since the weather outside was so crummy, he thought maybe Mr. Hampton would have him working on something inside the garage instead. Then he decided it would be better if that didn't happen. He had no idea what he'd say if he finally met the guy face to face. Or what the guy might say to him.

Fortunately, the garage was deserted when Arthur got there. As he walked up the gravel alleyway, he could see that the door with the drippy address numbers was firmly closed. The side door was locked. And the cart sat in the same spot he'd left it the week before.

From a distance, the cart appeared to have everything he'd collected still piled inside it too: The ugly turquoise lamp. The toaster. The ginger ale cans. The dented hubcap. The tree branches.

Clearly, Officer Billie was right. The Junk Man hadn't liked any of it.

As Arthur got closer, he realized a few things were different, though. Some of the cardboard was gone. And the silver temperature knob had mysteriously disappeared from the toaster. (At least, Arthur thought it had been attached when he'd left the toaster there.)

Arthur also noticed a different sign taped to the grocery cart handle. He stepped nearer to read what it said.

The first part of the message was the same list of Seven Most Important Things he'd been given the week before, with the same misspelled
Artur
at the top.

But at the bottom of the sign, the Junk Man had added a few more words. In blue ballpoint pen, he'd written a quote:

“WHERE THERE IS NO VISION, THE PEOPLE PERISH.”

Arthur had no idea what it meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be a compliment.