Troy raises his hand. “I do. She’s a liar.”
“Laura!”
I fall out of my wedding dress and back into my sweats. “Huh?”
“I’m serious. I’ve never touched it.”
I’m lost. “Touched what?”
“The ledger!”
He’s staring at me, waiting for a response, and I don’t even know what the what he’s talking about. All I know is, I lied and he’s cute. And of all the conversations I’ve imagined having with Troy, I can’t believe we’re here, having this one. But I answer anyway.
“Oh, right, okay.”
Troy nods and keeps talking. “And that graveyard of crosses behind the shack is wicked, isn’t it? The Laura Line is eerie and cool at the same time. Every once in a while, when I’m here after the sun goes down, I get creeped out when I look at it, because it’s so . . . awesome.”
“Did you say awesome?”
Troy leaves the planet as he talks. “Heck yeah! You know, like seeing that big statue of Sam Houston down near Huntsville! Or visiting the Alamo in San Antonio! Or . . .”
I put my hand up. “Stop the madness, Troy. I’m not down with history like you are.”
I’ve passed those crosses a bunch of times but never felt the awesome Troy’s talking about. More important, how can I make him forget I’m a liar?
Troy keeps talking about the Lauras. “I can’t touch the ledger because Dad said it’s sacred. But I heard your grandma talk about Laura Elaine. It almost broke me down, but I’m not wimpy, know what I mean?
Troy sticks out his chest and grimaces like a tough guy.
I nod. “I know what you mean.”
He picks up his can and sprays the flowers as he talks.
“Have you told Sage about her? Which Laura is your favorite?”
I try one question at a time. “Why would I tell Sage?”
He looks at me with those puppy brown eyes, and I just want to pat his head and put a collar around his neck that says I BELONG TO LAURA. But I manage to ask the question.
“Let’s see . . . Laura Elaine . . . now which one is she?”
He frowns. “Seriously? If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”
It’s as if a loud alarm wakes me up. “It’s not like I can’t find out for myself.”
He spits in the dirt. “I can’t believe you don’t know this stuff.”
The only thing I know right now is that he knows I lied. I stay quiet, but I think Troy reads my expression, because he drops his spray bottle and glares at me.
“Obviously you’ve never read the Laura Line ledger. But you’ve been in the shack, right?”
I cut my eyes to the shack door. “Well, I’m thinking about going . . .”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Unbelievable! This is megahistory in Brooks County and it’s on your property and you haven’t been inside? That should be a crime.”
I know Troy loves history, but I’m not going to let him hate on me without a fight.
“It’s a slave shack! I mean, ding! Don’t you see how wrong that is?”
He surprises me with a counterattack. “You’re the one who’s wrong! It’s way more than a shack, Larda . . . Laura. And the story of Laura Elaine is good and bad and sad and all that. I can’t believe you don’t know it. You should ding yourself!”
“I’ll read it . . . someday.”
Troy picks up his Gatorade and finishes it before tossing the bottle in a trash bag.
“It’s not like I care. I just can’t believe that you haven’t checked out the shack. Or that you lied about it.”
He puts the sprayer in the basket of his bike, then climbs on as his foot lifts the kickstand. “Anyway, I gotta go. Later . . . Dyson.”
As Troy rides that raggedy bike down the hill, I realize I’m standing closer to the shack than I ever have before. Troy made it sound like some kind of fabulous castle. But it’s not.
I sit on the bottom of the shack steps and admire the flower garden now that I know Troy helped make it. But the enjoyment doesn’t last, because there’s one thing I know for sure: I’ve denied the existence of this shack to all my classmates and directly to Troy and Sunny. But the one person I wanted to impress more than anybody else in the world knew I was a liar all along.
On the bright side, I might show him my stadium next time he comes to spray the garden. I should’ve shown it to him today. Dang it! Baseball is easy to talk about. I probably know more about the game than he does.
The second subject is scary and a lot more difficult. I know he’s been inside. And now he knows I haven’t. But he really likes it in there. I look up at the lone window of the shack and can’t believe I’m thinking what I’m thinking.
Chapter Fifteen
After I shower and change clothes, I head to the kitchen, where Grandma’s waiting on me for dinner. Even though I’ve got Troy on my brain, I try to push him to the back of my mind so I don’t slip and say something about the shack. Grandma says a blessing; then afterward I go straight for the meat loaf and she starts in about that afternoon’s game.
“You sure missed a good baseball match today.”
I correct her. “Game, not match, Grandma.”
She nods. “I saw those Cubs play again. I’m beginning to recognize some of the players when they come up to bat. But why was there a different pitcher today than yesterday?”
I pretend to throw a pitch. “Gotta rest that throwing arm. Starting pitchers usually have a four- or five-day rest before they pitch again.”
Grandma nods. “So they won’t hurt themselves; that makes sense. Okay, I get it. How was your day? How’s Sage doing? You haven’t talked about her much since you’ve been here.”
“She’s got big-time drama going on.”
I scoop pasta salad onto my plate and tell her about Sage and the Pink Chips.
“You know, Grandma, I don’t know what to say to her. She’s the best photographer I know. Our school newspaper is lucky to have her because she’s so good at that kind of stuff. But she wants to be a Pink Chip because she thinks it will make her popular.”
I’m waiting for Grandma to say something grandmotherly like Don’t worry, things will work themselves out. But what she says makes my toes curl and my eyebrows shoot all the way up my forehead, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my pigtails were pointing toward the ceiling.
She puts her elbow on the table and holds her face in her palm. “I wish my mother had lived long enough to meet you. She would have loved you, Laura Eboni. And she would have enjoyed Sage, too. See, my mother was a journalist and loved a good news story.”
I stand and look out the window. “Did Troy Bailey call you?”
With a bewildered look, she responds, “No. Why?”
Goose bumps ride my arms and I sit back down. “Never mind. Go ahead and finish telling me about your mom.” I pick up my glass of iced tea. “What was she like?”
Grandma slowly rocks side to side before starting. I can tell she’s enjoying the memory. I’m taking a big gulp of cold iced tea when Grandma drops a bomb.
“My mother’s name was Laura Elaine.”
I spew tea across the table and drool it on the end of one of my braids. Grandma grabs a dish towel and helps me wipe the table as I squeeze tea out of my hair.
“Laura Elaine was your mother? I’m sorry, I . . . uh . . . got choked. But please, finish telling me about her.”
Grandma sits and returns to that happy place she was in moments ago. “Momma was a beautiful woman. All she ever wanted to be was a news reporter. When I was young, I’d sit in the shack on this little wooden chair my daddy made for me and watch her work. That chair had one leg shorter than the other three, and it wobbled, but I didn’t care. As a matter of fact, it’s still out there in the shack.”
Grandma’s way down memory lane, back in her childhood, reliving a special moment, and I refuse to disturb her as she continues talking.
“I’d watch Momma type away on the typewriter her
boss gave to her. And to help, I’d sing her songs as she worked. Sometimes she’d stop typing and sing along.”
“How old were you?”
“Not too old.”
She wipes at her eyes, and we finish eating in silence, maybe out of respect for her mom.
After dinner, Grandma scoots back from the table. “I’m going to wash up these dishes while you finish your homework.”
I go to my room, but instead of taking the books out of my backpack, I stroll to the window, pull back the curtain, and stare at the shack. Even after watching Grandma enjoy a memory, I still can’t make myself like it. But I need to work on that, because Troy’s got a big crush on the shack and the Lauras. And I’ve got a crush on him. I twist the wet end of my braid, thinking about the whole situation.
It would be nice to talk to him about something that only he and I could talk about. And that would be the only reason I’d step foot in that shack. I’ve known Troy since last year and he’s barely ever spoken to me. This could change everything.
Maybe I can go inside just long enough to learn one thing about the Laura Line. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow, just to find out about Laura Elaine. And that’ll get things rolling between us. And after that, maybe I’ll show him how to pitch. Then he can show me how good a kisser he is.
I close the curtain, do my homework, and go to bed.
All day Thursday I think about my conversations with Troy and Grandma. In history class I stare at him, but not like I’ve stared at him before. I’m deep in thought, weighing out whether or not I should do what I swore I’d never do, just for him.
And I’ve made my decision. Heck to the double yes!
Once the bus drops me off at the mailbox, I walk with purpose down the gravel road, but instead of going all the way up the hill, I take a shortcut. I push down a line of rusty barbed wire fence and step over it. I’m watching and listening for anything and everything that might move. I’m so short of breath from all this walking that I’m hoping there’s at least one chair inside the shack besides Grandma’s wobbly one. And maybe an oxygen tank. And a glass of iced tea. A sandwich wouldn’t hurt my feelings. I won’t be mad if it has potato chips on the side.
There’s the shack. I exhale without inhaling, which throws my breathing off. My heart pounds my chest as if it wants out before I go in. I don’t blame my heart one bit. If it weren’t for Troy, I wouldn’t go inside either.
And today, as I stand near the front door, it looks so much bigger, darker, scarier, creepier, and uglier than it did yesterday. But I’m sure ghosts and slave zombies only come out of the ground at night, so I better get this over with while the sun’s high in the sky. There’s no such thing as daytime monsters, right?
I order every ounce of courage I have to my legs, look over my shoulder, and see my bedroom window. Soon, I’ll be looking out from it, thinking about this very moment. With every step my legs wobble, my body shakes, and I feel like I’m going to puke. I wonder if this is how my ancestors felt when they were forced to live in there.
But of all the things I feel, the one thing that I don’t feel is what bothers me the most.
My knower. It’s not warning me or doing anything to make me change my mind. So I climb the two steps, turn the dull gray doorknob, and push. The door whines as I ease my head inside and say the dumbest thing ever.
“Hello?”
Chapter Sixteen
I’m going to ding myself for that. If someone answered, I’d run out of my skin.
It smells like mildew, old people, and . . . and slavery. I’m shaking and walking as softly as I can. I need to take care of business and get out of here. Now, where’s that ledger?
I cover my nose, take a few more steps, but leave the door open in case I need to dash.
What’s all this stuff doing in here?
To the right, against a short wall, is a thick wooden table, a child’s chair, and two full-size ones. The legs on the child’s chair are uneven, and it leans to the right. That must be the chair Grandma told me about. Down the wall from the table is a fireplace made of bricks. And in front of it are two wooden rocking chairs. The fireplace is clean, but as I get closer, I notice a huge pot hanging from inside. Maybe when the electricity goes out at Grandma’s house, she comes in here to cook.
On the other side of the room is a wall full of pictures. One day I’ll check them out, but not today. I look down on the floor and notice a box of stuff, a wicker basket with folded blankets inside, a black sewing machine, and . . . is that a typewriter?
This shack must be where my family stores junk. So I didn’t really lie to Sunny when I told her it wasn’t a slave shack. It really is a storage shed!
Okay, where’s that ledger? My eyes catch a glitter on top of a small wooden stand, so I shuffle over to check it out. It’s a huge book with two gold Ls in the center and the word LEDGER engraved at the very top. Booyah!
I’ll just take a quick look at Laura Elaine’s stuff and get out of here. I pick up the ledger, carefully walk it over to the table, and take a seat in one of the bigger chairs. I’m ready to read whatever’s inside. As I open the book, my goose bumps get goose bumps. And I can’t decide if I want to stay or run.
* * *
The Laura Line
LAURA, 1824–1915, mother of Laura Mae
LAURA MAE, 1849–1932, teacher, mother of Laura Belle
LAURA BELLE, 1869–1948, restaurant owner, mother of Laura Ann
LAURA ANN, 1900–1958, athlete, mother of Laura Jean
LAURA JEAN, 1924–1995, seamstress and model, mother of Laura Elaine
LAURA ELAINE, 1941–1966, journalist, mother of Laura Lee
LAURA LEE, 1958–, loan officer, mother of Laura Rachel
LAURA RACHEL, 1976–, scientist, mother of Laura Eboni
LAURA EBONI, 2001–
* * *
Who put my name in here? I turn the page, looking for answers. Each page is protected in a plastic cover. The first one reads:
LAURA RACHEL
My mother’s not dead, so what’s her stuff doing in here? I flip the page and find pictures of her in elementary, middle, and high school. There’s one of her doing her first science experiment at this table! Here’s a letter from Texas State University letting her know she didn’t get accepted. And another one from a college in Louisiana. I didn’t know Mom had such a hard time getting into college. Well, at least she didn’t give up. And her alma mater, Texas Southern University, is a good school. That’s where she met Dad, and got her degree in science.
On other pages behind Mom’s name, I find certificates, diplomas, her letter of acceptance into the Army Reserve, a pay stub where she wrote on the top, “First paycheck.” Besides the pay stub and the college rejection letters, I knew about all that other stuff.
I turn the next page and it reads:
LAURA LEE
There might be some good stuff in here, like an old love letter to Grandpa or something. Or maybe even one to an old boyfriend! Let’s see, she’s got her marriage certificate on one page and my mom’s birth certificate behind it. I turn the next page and find the ticket stub from the baseball game we went to last Sunday. Why would she put that in here?
Up in that Laura Line family tree, it said she was a loan officer. What is that? She doesn’t have anything in here about it. Is this all she’s going to leave in the ledger?
What a bust. If the next one isn’t Laura Elaine, I’m out of here. I turn the page, and there she is.
LAURA ELAINE
Okay. Here we go. The first page shows pictures of people I’ve never seen before. There’s a letter from a publishing company, telling her they don’t have any openings but thanking her for applying. Here’s a letter from March 12, 1959, welcoming her to the Brooks County Tribune and mentioning her work hours are eight o’clock in the morning until six in the evening. Plus her salary will be ninety cents an hour, with a raise to one dollar in sixty days after her probation period.
I turn the page and fi
nd a newspaper article about a new church, and the byline reads “Laura E. Holmes.” Okay. That’s kind of cool. The next few pages have more pictures. But it’s the last page that floors me. It’s a eulogy written by Laura Jean Upshaw.
I go back to the family tree and find out that Laura Jean Upshaw is Laura Elaine’s mother. On the front cover of the funeral program is a picture of Laura Elaine. She’s so young. I rush back to the Laura Line and subtract the year of her birth from the year of her death. She died at twenty-five? What happened to her? Was she sick? I’m not sure I want to read this, but I know I have to.
* * *
July 27, 1966
IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER,
Laura Elaine Holmes
* * *
I only had one daughter, so of course I named her Laura. Laura Elaine. She was my youngest child. I loved her so much. When she was small, I could always find her reading to the farm animals while sitting under a tree or pretending to be an actress or a model like me inside the shack on our property.
Even though Laura Elaine loved to read, she had an even greater passion to write. When she got old enough, she volunteered at the Brooks County Tribune just so she could be close to the news. The editor loved my Laura Elaine so much—and I’m sure she bugged him plenty—that he gave her a small writing assignment. She did such a good job that he eventually hired her.
After she got that job, we’d find her in the shack on the farm at all hours of the night, typing away on the typewriter her boss gave her. But last Monday, she went down to Gator Lake. I don’t know why. Laura Elaine was an excellent swimmer, but she knew better than to swim alone. I guess I’ll never know what happened.
Even though she’s gone, she left me her only daughter, Laura Lee, and that beautiful little girl looks just like her mother. I miss my Laura Elaine, but I know all the Lauras in heaven will take care of her.
The Laura Line Page 9