The Dollar Kids

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  Rena sighed. “But not, it seems, a used-clothing store. I’m afraid that I have to find a part-time job just to stay afloat.”

  “I’d hire you if I could,” Mum said. “But I’m still in the hole.”

  “Things are getting better, though!” Anneth said.

  Mum nodded. “Now that Millvillians are willing to stop in once the Busy Bee is closed.” She looked at Coach. “You know, I think we have you to thank for that. It’s a pretty big deal to have one of the town pillars sitting front and center in our window where anyone can see him!”

  Lowen studiously avoided Coach’s eyes and hoped that Coach wouldn’t out him.

  But Coach just laughed. “I don’t know that I’m that influential. But your pies are delicious! I’m only too happy to help spread the word — officially and otherwise.”

  “You ever think of staying open later?” Mr. Field said to Mum. “Providing pasties for dinner?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Mum said. “But then I’d never be home in time to make a decent dinner for my own kids.”

  “Yeah. I sure would miss all the gourmet meals we’re having now,” said Clem. “Can’t get enough of chicken potpie soup. Or shepherd’s pie soup.”

  “Or rutabaga and steak soup,” Anneth added.

  “I thought that was called upcycling.” Mum laughed, but her laughter quickly turned to tears.

  “It’s OK, Mum,” said Lowen, putting his arm around her. “Clem and Anneth were just teasing. The point is that family dinners don’t have to be the be-all and end-all.”

  “Yeah,” said Clem. “We just want you to beat the pants off of Mrs. Corbeau!”

  Anneth nodded enthusiastically. “And maybe once the shop is a huge success, you can hire someone to cover the dinner shift.”

  Mum sought out Rena. “What do you think? Would it be worth it to miss dinner with your kids if it meant Restored Riches could get off the ground?”

  “Tough call, to be sure,” Rena said, but she seemed distracted. “You know, Julie,” she added, “you and Anneth have given me an idea, with your ‘upcycled’ soups and your ‘upstyled’ clothes. Folks in town might not want to purchase one another’s used clothing, but perhaps they would if they couldn’t recognize it.”

  Lowen’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

  But Anneth knew exactly what Rena was thinking. “You could combine different used items to upstyle: make dresses from men’s shirts, skirts from jeans, and make fancier sweaters by adding bows or faux fur!”

  Rena smiled. “Exactly! I’m no slouch when it comes to sewing, but I’d love your creative input! Will you help me?” she asked Anneth.

  Anneth didn’t hesitate to say yes. “I can highlight the new fashions on my vlog!”

  The talk of later hours and upstyled clothing continued until after dessert. The Grover kids gathered in Mr. Field’s office to Skype with their father, who had shared a Thanksgiving meal with Abe’s mom. “It was OK,” said Dad. “She seemed happy to talk to someone who knew Abe.”

  After the call, Clem joined Mr. Field and Coach in front of the TV for the first of three football games, and Lowen told his mother that he wanted to go out for a walk.

  She nodded, no doubt assuming that he wanted to think about Abe a bit. But he had something else in mind.

  Sami asked if she could go with him, and Lowen wouldn’t have minded, but Rena reminded her that her father might call as well.

  “If I had my own cell phone . . .” Sami was arguing — again — as Lowen headed out.

  Lowen crossed the parking lot and retrieved the plastic bag that he’d left in the garage of the Albatross. As the sun set, he walked up the hill to the home he hoped belonged to Mr. Carter Hobbs. (He’d looked him up online.)

  Lowen could hear a crowd inside and he rang the doorbell several times before someone answered.

  Finally a woman came to the door.

  “May I please speak to Mr. Hobbs?” Lowen asked.

  The woman squinted, looking none too pleased that someone was bothering them on Thanksgiving Day. But she finally turned. “Carter, one of those Dollar Kids is at the door. Asked for you.”

  Lowen wondered if he’d ever get used to being called a Dollar Kid.

  Soon Mr. Hobbs appeared at the door. “Oh!” he said. “It’s you.”

  “Hunting season is over,” said Lowen. “I brought you your vest.”

  Mr. Hobbs laughed. “You didn’t have to come today,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.” He held up the bag. “This here vest will remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “I do too,” said Lowen, hopping down off the steps.

  “Do you want to come in?” asked Mr. Hobbs.

  “No, thanks,” said Lowen. “Gotta get back to my own family.” He waved.

  “Be safe!” Mr. Hobbs called.

  Lowen, whose feet had grown another size since they moved to Millville, tromped home in new boots purchased at Handy Hardware. Though the sun had set, the sky retained some of its blueness. A fingernail clipping of a moon hung low in the sky. A lone bright star — probably a planet — made the night feel calm.

  But only for a moment.

  The stillness of the night awakened the snake inside of Lowen. It curled around his lungs.

  Lowen puffed out a burst of air to make more room. His breath, the thing that kept him alive, hung in the air before him.

  His dad had spent the day with Abe’s mom — something that probably wouldn’t have happened if either of them knew. If they knew what really happened the day Abe died. He felt like he was suffocating.

  When he returned home, he went to his room, took out a sheet of paper, and wrote, Dear Mrs. Siskin . . .

  He had no intention of ever mailing the letter to Abe’s mother, but he had to shed some thoughts — the same way he had shed the debt of the orange vest. The same way a snake sheds its skin.

  The snow that started the night before Thanksgiving kept on coming through December. In Flintlock, it took no time at all for the snowfall to be plowed up into icy mud monuments. Here in Millville, snow blanketed the town — hiding the long grass, the dingy roofs and porches, the abandoned junk in the yards of empty homes. Now every house was somewhat restored to an earlier glory. It seemed to lift spirits.

  So did basketball season. Most of the middle-school games were scheduled for Wednesday afternoons. Miraculously, the other middle-school boys welcomed Lowen. Sure, they’d seen his lack of coordination on the soccer field, and his legs were just as likely to get tangled up on a basketball court, but having a kid with height did have its advantages. If he were in the right place at the right time, he could swat an opposing shot down. Also, thanks to Coach’s lessons, he could shoot the ball with some accuracy — if he was standing in place. Layups were still beyond him. Mostly, they thought of him as a secret weapon, a way to psych out the other team.

  Lowen wasn’t sure how much psyching out he was doing, since he spent most of his time sitting on the bench. According to Coach, to get more playing time he needed to work on his “burst” — that is, he needed to move more energetically, and he needed to think like a basketball player. He wasn’t quite sure how to do either.

  That wasn’t for lack of advice. Like soccer, middle-school basketball games were well attended, and it seemed that everyone hung around to give the tall kid some tips. On the one hand, it made Lowen feel valued, and from time to time he wondered if he might actually have potential. On the other hand, he didn’t understand half the tips, and he feared that if he didn’t start playing well, folks would write him off. Or worse, turn on him.

  He had seen how ardent Millville fans could be. The high-school games were every Tuesday and Friday night, and the attendance at the first game was unlike anything the Grovers had seen in Flintlock. The gym was so packed with teenagers, families, and retired folks that it was impossible to get a seat. So Mum, Anneth, and Lowen had stood between the bleachers and the cement wall for the length of the game, listening to
the boom, boom, clap of the cheerleaders, the swells of shouting from the crowd (sometimes supportive, sometimes not so supportive), and the jarring blast of the buzzer. The excitement was contagious and Mum couldn’t help jumping up and down every time Millville scored (and twice as high when Clem did).

  Lowen could understand why folks in Millville loved attending games — they were a fun distraction from daily worries. And the Grovers certainly had their fair share of those. Mum was putting everything she had into making the shop work, and the rest of the family was trying to upgrade the house, but every effort they made seemed to hit a dead end. Replacement tiles for the bathroom? Discontinued. The same was true for the kitchen cabinet doors. Replacing the glass in the living room window? The woodwork around the window was rotted. So was the wood in the kitchen beneath their nonexistent dishwasher. It seemed as if every project began with determination and ended in frustration.

  So Lowen was relieved when on the second Saturday in December, he had to duck out on repairs in order to visit the seldom-open library. Mrs. K. had assigned the sixth-graders a report on the history of Millville and told them they could work in pairs. Once again, Lowen and Sami were paired by default, though he didn’t mind. They agreed to meet at the library soon after it opened.

  Lowen was the first to arrive. When he told Ms. Duffey that he and Sami had chosen to write about the closing of the mill, she led him to a back room and told him to wait at the table. The room was cold — so cold that Lowen sat on his hands. Finally Ms. Duffey returned with a couple of books (including one that looked to be handmade) and some actual newspapers (the library didn’t have a microfiche machine) that were quite old and had to remain in the library. She also directed him to a site online where they could read articles about the mill closing.

  “Ms. Duffey,” Lowen said as she was leaving him there to do his research, “I never asked you — what was the regret you buried?”

  She thought for a moment, and then said, “Why, I don’t know. It’s buried!” But she winked, and Lowen knew that she had chosen not to tell him.

  He couldn’t bury the letter he’d written to Mrs. Siskin in the frozen ground, but he had buried it deep in his closet. That hadn’t seemed to help.

  “A sixth-grader like you hasn’t lived long enough to have regrets worthy of burials,” Ms. Duffey said, as if reading his mind. She gave him a reassuring smile and returned to the circulation desk.

  If only you knew.

  Lowen opened his notebook but was too distracted to begin reading. Instead he continued to ponder what Ms. Duffey might regret. As far as he knew, she lived alone. If she had kids, they must be grown by now. Maybe her kids had moved away and she regretted letting them go? Maybe someone she knew had died and she never got to tell them something important?

  The snake inside Lowen stirred, and his thoughts drifted. He remembered hearing about a book written by a kid who had supposedly died and come back to life. The kid claimed that when you die, deceased loved ones emerge from a tunnel of light to greet you. But what if there was someone in your life you didn’t want to see again? When Abe’s grandfather died, Abe told Lowen that his grandfather had always been really mean to him. What if his grandfather was the one who met him at the entrance of the tunnel?

  Lowen could see it now:

  “I can see you’ve accomplished a lot.” It was Sami.

  “I knew better than to start without you,” Lowen said. “You’d just go ahead and redo any work I’d done.”

  Sami punched him in the shoulder. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “You organize your thoughts well. That’s why I like working with you.”

  Ha! If Sami knew all of the confusing thoughts he’d had of late, she’d know that he could use some real help with brain housekeeping. But he was determined to focus this morning.

  One of the first things they discovered is that paper mills are not all the same. Some make wrapping paper; some, paper for books; others make paper for checks or envelopes. The mill in their town had made wax paper.

  “What’s wax paper?” asked Sami.

  “It’s paper that’s been coated in wax. My mum used to use it sometimes to wrap stuff like her pasties so they wouldn’t stick together. But you can’t recycle it, so she uses parchment paper now, which can be reused.”

  “I’ve never even heard of it,” said Sami. “And according to this article, that’s one of the reasons the mill closed: people stopped using wax paper regularly.”

  “Why didn’t the mill make another type of paper?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like parchment paper. Or newspaper or books or something?”

  “Given how specialized paper mills are, my guess is that it would have taken a huge investment to convert to a different type of mill,” Sami pointed out. “Besides, it’s not just wax paper that’s on the decline. Newspapers and even books are being replaced by devices. People aren’t using as many paper bags. Even stationery and envelopes have probably taken a hit, now that most people have e-mail.”

  No wonder the mill had been abandoned. And it wasn’t just the mill workers who lost their jobs. Landowners who grew the trees for paper, loggers who cut the trees, and truckers who transported them were all down on their luck as well.

  Lowen had heard kids in his class grumble about jobs going overseas, where people worked for less money. And maybe that was part of the problem. But it seemed like the bigger part was that computers were making things like paper unnecessary. He couldn’t help wondering what other jobs would disappear. Would a machine replace his father in diagnosing people? Could a robot make better pasties? And what about comics? Could a machine draw better?

  It was a depressing thought.

  Lowen and Sami worked together until the library closed. From there they headed through the falling snow to the Cornish Eatery.

  They had no sooner walked through the door than Lowen’s heart splintered.

  There, at the table, was Clem.

  And Luna. Together.

  Together, together.

  Clem and Luna leaning over the table, sharing one of Mum’s sweet potato pasties. Clem gazing at Luna. Luna taking little bites of the pie and laughing.

  Lowen could feel heat rising from his neck to his cheekbones.

  When he looked away, he caught Sami staring at him. He knew by the expression on her face that his feelings had been discovered. Great. As if things weren’t bad enough!

  “Hello, you two,” Mum called from behind the counter.

  Luna looked up and gave Lowen a smile just for him.

  “Do you want some help, Mum?” he asked, already hurrying toward the back.

  “That would be great,” she said.

  He went behind the counter and popped a saffron roll into his mouth — whole.

  “Go easy,” said Mum.

  The place was pretty packed for an early Saturday afternoon. It seemed as if people in town were getting braver about visiting the Cornish Eatery — even when the Busy Bee was open. Sami entered into a conversation with two teen girls who were talking about Restored Riches while waiting for pasties. Sami pulled out her phone (a recent gift from her father, who was probably just as sick of going through Rena as Sami was) and appeared to be showing them a picture of an upstyled shirt.

  And that’s when Mr. Avery walked in.

  His presence surprised them all. Maybe it was a sign that Mum really would be able to make a living here in Millville.

  “May I speak to you, Mrs. Grover?” he asked.

  “If you don’t mind talking to me while I finish making this batch of buns,” said Mum.

  “If you wish, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The tone of his voice sounded more like he’d just discovered a cure for cancer.

  Mum raised her eyebrows.

  “Coach tells me that you plan to stay open through the dinner hour several nights a week.”

  “That’s right,” said Mum. “Until eight.”

  “Well, I double-c
hecked,” he said, waving a paperbound book in the air, “and I’m afraid there’s an ordinance that will prevent that. You see, any Millville restaurant that provides food after the hour of four must have at least four tables for dining, and fifty percent of the menu must require a knife and fork for eating.”

  Mum laughed cheerfully. “That’s rubbish.”

  “It’s right here in these pages,” said Mr. Avery, holding the book up again. “The people of Millville had foresight. They have always known that families who eat dinner together are happier and healthier. This ordinance was intended to squelch the very thing you’re trying to do, Mrs. Grover, and that’s encourage families to eat on the run rather than sit down at a table with one another.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. We’re a take-out establishment. Most people order their pasties to go, and presumably they eat them at the family table.”

  “I don’t make the laws, Mrs. Grover. It’s simply my job as a town selectman and code enforcer to remind people that a lot of careful consideration went into creating these laws and they shouldn’t be dismissed simply because newcomers think they should.”

  “But surely there’s some —”

  Mom stopped short as Mr. Avery grabbed his knees and bent at the waist as if he were about to throw up.

  “Mr. Avery?” Mum moved out from behind the counter. She reached for his arm, but he pulled away.

  “Mr. Avery? Are you all right?”

  Mr. Avery straightened, looking pale. He teetered for a moment and then put his hands on the counter to steady himself. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. “Would it be possible . . . for me to have . . . some juice?”

  Mum nodded to Lowen, who retrieved a bottle of juice from the cooler.

  Mr. Avery drank the juice down in one long gulp. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, placing the empty bottle on the counter. “I’ll let you get back to work.” With that, he headed out the door.

  Lowen walked to his mother’s side. “What was that about?”

  “If I had to guess,” said Mum quietly, “I would say that Mr. Avery suffers from low blood sugar.”