Almost Home

3

MR. B READ my poem on bad persuasion a couple of times and shook his head. I figured that meant I had failed, and it was a rough blow after emptying my heart about my mess of a father.
   He looked up at me. I took a huge breath.
   "You did it, Sugar. You did me in. It will kill me not to read this to the class."
   I broke out in a grin.
   "Have you talked to someone about your dad? This isn't easy stuff."
   "I've talked to my grandpa." And now you.
   "And that helped?"
   "Talking to him always helped." I mentioned the locked drawer.
   "Do me a favor. Write about that drawer sometime."
   I wasn't sure my brain had that kind of range, but I said I'd try.
   "I appreciate how hard you try, Sugar."
   He twirled Claus in the air after he said it.
   I never want to leave sixth grade. Ever.
   I mentioned this to my friend Woody, as we were walking to the cafeteria. "There's more to life than sixth grade," he said.
   "I can't imagine having a better teacher than Mr. B. I mean, how many rubber chickens are there in education?"
   He nodded. "Claus might be the only one."
   That's when Harper Wilhelm crashed against me, giggling. I dropped my books. She grinned. I felt my face turn red, but I just smiled bigger at her. Woody put his face close to hers. "Nice imitation of a truck, Harper." Then helped me pick up my books.
   My poem about Mr.Leeland landed in the corner. Woody headed for it.
   "Don't read that! Its personal!"
   Wrong thing to say. Harper scooped it up.
   I screamed. "Give it to me, Harper!"
   I tried grabbing it as she read out loud, "There are people in our live we cannot trust. One of those people in my life is my father.'" She was laughing and i hated her. I didn't care about what Reba said about being sweet. "Is there Gorilla Glue for fathers, I wonder?" She smirked.
   I felt my face turn purple. Woody grabbed the paper from her. So many kids were watching. Now everybody knew. Staying in sixth grade forever didn't sound like a great idea anymore.
   Mr. B walked up. He didn't usually get angry, but he was now. He pointed a finger at Harper. "That was a cheap shot, Harper." He looked around." Just so all of you know, that was the best poem in the class. It took great courage to write it, and don't any of you make fun of something that rings so deep and true." He stared at Harper, who is looking down." I was about to take a break, but I'd much rather take you to the principal's office."
   "For what?" she shouted.
   "For inappropriate, unkind, and asinine behavior." Kids gasped at the A word.
   "Any questions?" Mr. B demanded.
   Kids looked down, expect me. I looked right at Mr. B like he was an angel swooping down to save me. He nodded and took Harper to the principal.
   Meesha Moy walked up. "He should have used handcuffs."
   I tried to smile, but I just felt like I'd been invaded; all my pain, all my secrets.
   "In sorry that happened," Woody muttered.
   Marna, my science partner, said, "She's mean, Sugar. Don't let it stick."
   A few months ago, Harper had written a mean poem about me. That girl can rhyme. I showed it to Rebate.
   "I think deep down Miss Harper Wilhelm doesn't like herself much," she told me, "and if she can concentrate on disliking you, she doesn't have to face her own badness."
   We took the poem, put it in a bag of garbage with smelly eggshells and old oatmeal, and threw it in the trash.
   "If you're inclined to go back searching for those words, remember what you'll have to dig through to find them," Reba told me.
   I ate oatmeal for breakfast that whole week to let the concept sink in. Then I wrote Harper a thank you note and taped it to her locker.
The note:

Dear Harper,
   I know what your doing and why your doing it.
   I feel real sorry for you. Thank you for this important lesson I will never forget.
   Sugar Mae Cole

   She didn't stop hating me, but she did stop writing poems, at least for a while, and if she sent that Sugar Booger envelope, its where it belongs--- in the garbage.
   I guess if you look hard enough, there's always something to be grateful for.

                         *   *   *
   The man from the bank had small eyes and a red face; he was sitting at our kitchen table when I got home from school. Reba's face was redder than usual.
   "You go on to your room, Sugar," she directed.
   I sat at the table, too. I wasn't leaving my mother alone with this guy.
   Reba shot me her "obey now" look. I put the oldest expression I had on my face. "In staying."
   "It appears, Mr. Bergen, my daughter will be joining us."
   The bank man ignored me. "Here's the thing, Miz Cole. You've not paid your full monthly mortgage payment for five months now. Add onto that the loan your husband took out against the house."
   What loan? I looked at Reba, who was looking down.
   The bank man shook his head; his extra chin jiggled. "Those late fees pile up faster than manure in a stable." He laughed. We didn't.
   "My husband, Mr. Leeland, has had some difficulty securing the money to pay back the loan, and i had no idea things had gotten to this point. But I assure you---"
   Was she kidding? Trusting Mr. Leeland to pay back money was like trusting a dog to watch your food.
   "Miz Cole, we've talked to you about this over the phone for some time now, we've sent you letters. This cannot be a surprise to you. Your in the hole big-time, maam."
   I didn't know anything about loans or what Mr. Leeland did, but I wasn't going to let him know that.
   Reba bit her lip. "Mr. Bergen, since my fathers passing one year ago, I've done everything I could to hold on to our home."
   "These are tough times, Miz Cole, but People's Trust isn't running a charity."
   People's Trust?
   Give me a break.
   Reba stood up and stomped her foot. I did the exact same thing.
   The bank man leaned back in his chair. "I know your suffering because of the death of your father, and we've give you all the breaks we can. There's no way around it, you have to be out."
   I couldn't believe what I was hearing. We had to leave our house?
   The bank man pushed some papers toward Reba. "This here is what you sign that says you agree to these terms." He handed her a pen.
   Reba breathed out hard like she'd been hit in the stomach.
   "Just sign here, Miz Cole." Reba took the pen.
   "Don't sign it," I said.
   The bank man didn't like that. "You're a feisty one."
   "She shouldn't sign it if she hasn't read it and understood everything it says." I added "sir" to be respectful. That advice was in King Cole's book, chapter seven--- "Don't Let the Scumbags Get You Down." I'd memorized a lot of his book.
   The bank man fixed his small eyes on me. "And how old are you?"
   Reba slapped the pen on the table. "Old enough to not be pushed around. I'll be having my attorney look at these papers and we'll be getting back to you."
   "Miz Cole, do you realize the gravity of this situation?"
   Reba gripped her silver bell. She got laid off four months ago from her full-time job at Len Norris Toyota and had been cleaning the houses to make ends meet, although the ends weren't meeting. "Mr. Bergen, I expect you should be going."
   "Miz Cole, you're making a big-"
   "Now, sir."
   Just then thunder boomed and rain poured down. I was glad he was going to get wet. Reba put her head in her hands. I waited for to say something, but she didn't. I looked at the papers. I knew it was right not to sign them, but King Cole never wrote a word about what to do when you're getting kicked out.
   A big wind blew our screen door shut. "What kind of loan did you give Mr. Leeland?"
   She gulped. "It was against what's been paid off on the house."
   "What does that mean?"
   "Mr. Leeland is going to do the right thing by us."
   "No, he's not, Reba."
   "You show great disrespect for your father, miss."
   "He shows great disrespect for us!"
   She walked out of the room. I followed her.
   "What are we going to do, Reba?"
   She took and enormous breath. "We're going to find the way through this." She closed her baby-blue eyes. "I have to think."
   You do that. I have to think, too.
   I marched upstairs and sat at my desk that began its life as a door. King Cole found it on the street, sanded it down, and painted it yellow, my favorite color. I opened the box of my least favorite note cards.
   I would never send this note, but it felt good to write.
The note:

Dear Mr. Bergen,
   I'm young, but I know about monsters. I've dealt with them before and I'll do it again. Get your fat hands off our house and leave us alone!
   Yours very truly,
   Sugar Mae Cole

I took out another card and wrote,

Dear Mr. Leeland,
   If you were ever looking for a time to do the right thing, this is it. Reba's counting on you, and me . . . well . . . I'm just hoping.
   Sugar