The Laura Line

by Crystal Allen

  “Take your seats.”

  Moments later, she paces around the front of the class.

  “Any permission slips for the field trip on Friday?”

  I raise my hand. Mrs. Jacobs comes to my desk, and I hand her the crumpled-up permission slip with Grandma’s signature. She doesn’t say a word.

  Sunny and London both raise their permission slips in the air. I’m sure they’re coming just to try to trash the place again, but I won’t be fooled like I was last time.

  London looks my way, then raises her hand again.

  “Mrs. Jacobs, I’ve already been to the shack.”

  If looks could kill, London would be dead in her seat. Mrs. Jacobs crosses her arms over her chest and stands in front of London’s desk. She doesn’t look happy.

  “Is there something else you want to tell us, London?”

  I know Mrs. Jacobs is looking for a confession. That’s not what she gets.

  “Yeah, I want to say that the shack on Larda’s . . . I mean Laura’s grandmother’s farm totally surprised me. It’s . . . it’s . . . I can’t wait to go inside again.”

  London looks my way, and I give her a quick smile. Random talk about the field trip starts, and it gets so loud that Mrs. Jacobs has to make everybody settle down.

  Mrs. Jacobs cuts her eyes my way. Her eyebrows rise. My shoulders lower. I don’t know what to say or think. Most of all, I just want to hang out in the shack and talk to the Lauras about how to fix that chair. That’s the most important thing to me right now.

  Later that afternoon, I leave the door open to the shack and crack the window, just in case there’s any Pink Chip smell lingering. I need to work on this chair, but I don’t even know where to start. There’s a basket full of tiny broken pieces. I’m not even sure which piece goes where. I rip open an Almond Joy while I think about it. As I chew, instead of thinking about how to fix the chair, I realize I’ve only got two Almond Joys left. And now I’m really bummed.

  “Hey!”

  I almost jump out of my skin, but once I see Troy looking in the window at me, I can’t help but smile.

  “What are you doing here? It’s only Tuesday.”

  “We got a new customer. They want their yard done tomorrow, so Dad got your grandma’s okay to switch days just for this week.” He stares at the basket of wood, then looks at the table.

  “What the heck happened in here?”

  I tell him the story, and he’s shaking his head and spitting in the grass.

  “So the rumor was true. I can’t believe you let Sunny and the rest of those Potato Chips in the shack. I mean, they don’t care about anything but themselves.”

  I bite my lip to keep my laugh inside my mouth. “Did you say Potato Chips?”

  Troy folds his arms across his chest. “That’s what I said, and I ain’t taking it back.”

  I let out a big sigh. “Grandma’s really upset about it and . . . well, I don’t feel very good either. I’ve got to get this fixed.”

  Troy comes inside and grabs a piece of the wood out of the basket. He doesn’t move when I step closer to him to see what he’s looking at. I guess he’s used to me now. He turns the wood over a few times like he’s some kind of expert. He even sniffs it.

  “Yeah, they busted it up pretty good. It’s going to be hard fixing it.”

  Troy steps out of the shack and picks up his sprayer. He’s back to spraying the garden when his cell rings. I sit in a chair near the window, just to find out if it’s a girl calling him.

  He puts the phone on speaker so he can talk and spray the flowers at the same time.

  Troy: “Yo.”

  Shane: “Whatcha’ doing?”

  Troy: “Hey, what’s up, bro?”

  Shane: “Just got the new MLB for Xbox. Want to come over? Where are you?”

  Troy: “I’m with my dad on a job.”

  Shane: “Are you near my house?”

  Troy: “No. Remember I told you we cut Larda’s grandma’s grass?”

  As he says that, Troy’s eyes go high beam and meet with mine. I’m zoned in on him, and he closes the cell without saying good-bye to Shane. But the damage is done. I feel the heat rising inside me, even as he tries to explain.

  “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  Low-down dirty dog. “But you said it.”

  Troy frowns. “Well, you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on my business!”

  Silence.

  He sighs and lowers his head. “I didn’t mean that, either. I’m sorry, Dyson.”

  His apologies are becoming weaker than that see-through salad dressing I drizzle on my salad every day at lunch. I stay in my seat, hold on to the windowsill, stick my head out the window, and let him have it.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Troy Bailey, because really, all the Fat Larda remarks and the cruel stuff you say about me with Shane and your other friends—I’m sick of it!”

  He tries to interrupt me. “Wait, Dyson—”

  Grass-cutting, liver-lipped alien. “And all the eavesdropping you do on conversations my grandma has with your dad about the Laura Line is lame.”

  He puts up a finger. “Hold on a minute—”

  I’ve got my finger and my neck working now. “Heck to the infinite no I won’t hold on a minute! You’re the one who seems to be all in my business. While you’re around here growing flowers and stuff, why don’t you grow some business of your own!”

  I’m going off the deep end when he reaches through the window and touches my hand. My anger gets shed like a useless layer of skin. Orchestra music plays, and the clouds seem to move in rhythm. My lips pooch and my face relaxes, just in case I’m about to get a kiss. But instead, his face softens, and he looks more sincere than I’ve ever seen before.

  “I swear that slipped, Dyson. I’m really trying to stop calling you Larda, because I just don’t want to anymore. You’re not that girl.”

  “Then what girl am I?”

  He spits in the grass and takes his hand off mine. “I don’t know! Don’t you know? I mean, you taught me how to throw a curveball. I struck out two guys with that pitch yesterday. And you’re part of the Laura Line. You’re not fake like the Pink Chips. You’re just . . . different.”

  It’s about time he got a clue. We’re making progress, and I can’t wait for him to get down on one knee and ask me to be his girl. It’ll happen.

  I sigh and shrug. “Anyway, I’ve got to figure out what to do about this broken chair.”

  Troy shrugs. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Jacobs? She knows all kinds of stuff.”

  Of course! Why didn’t I think of her before? I could kiss Troy, but instead, I grin.

  “Great idea, Bailey. Want a quick lesson on how to throw a nasty changeup?”

  He drops his watering can and jogs toward the mound. “Heck yeah!”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  That evening, I send Mrs. Jacobs an email and she replies:

  This may be a good time for your grandma to reconsider making the shack a historical monument. Go to the Texas Historical Commission (it’s down the street from the public library) and speak to a man named Mr. Bob Adams. He’s already got a file started on the shack. I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming. Good luck, Laura.

  The next day after school I rush to catch the Main Street metro bus. It stops right in front of the library, and that’s where I get off. Just a short walk down the street puts me where I need to be. I open the door to the Texas Historical Commission office. There’s a man with curly black hair standing at the front desk with three women.

  “Are you Laura?”

  I nod. “Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s me. Come on back to my office and let’s have a little chitchat.”

  Click.

  A short gate releases, and Mr. Adams pushes it open. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I walk quickly through the gate. “No, thank you. I don’t have much time before the last bus leaves.”

  Mr. Adam
s replies, “Have a seat. Mrs. Jacobs called me this morning and told me you would be stopping by. I pulled the file on the Anderson property. Let’s see, my notes say there’s a slave shack and a cemetery. How can I help you, Laura?”

  I slouch in the chair. “Something got broken in the shack, a very important chair, and I can’t fix it myself. So I was wondering if you could send a repair person out to the shack to do it. See, my grandma doesn’t have a lot of memories with her mom, just the ones that took place in the shack. And now, without that chair . . . can you help me?”

  Mr. Adams clears his throat. “I’m sorry about the accident, Laura. I can tell it was not just important to your grandma, but to you, too.”

  I wipe mist from my forehead. “My class is making a field trip to the shack, and it just wouldn’t be the same without the chair. I mean how am I going to talk about Grandma when she was a little girl and how she sat in that chair and the chair isn’t there?”

  Mr. Adams nods. “Let’s see, I know of a few organizations that may be willing to help you with that, but first things first. I don’t have any pictures of the shack or the cemetery. I also need pictures of any letters, maps, antiques . . .”

  I sit up. “I can get that.”

  Mr. Adams hands me his business card. “Great. I’d also like to have information on why this shack is so special. I’ll need proof of its history.”

  I sit up straighter. “I can get that, too!” I reach into my backpack and pull out a map I made especially for him and place it on his desk.

  “Mr. Adams, you could come see the shack for yourself if you wanted. And maybe even bring that repair person with you. Because, see, this Friday, I’m giving the first ever tour of the shack and the cemetery. I made you a map of how to get to our farm. But you could MapQuest it if you wanted. The address is right there, and that’s my cell number.”

  He puts the map in the file. “Thanks for the map, Laura, but unfortunately, I can’t make the tour. I’ve got a meeting in Austin on Friday. And besides, it will be impossible to have anything fixed by then. That’s just not enough time. Plus there’s lots of paperwork that needs to be filled out, and I need signatures and . . . you understand?”

  I slouch again. “I guess so. Thanks, anyway, Mr. Adams.”

  As I head toward the door, he calls out to me, “Don’t give up, Laura. You’ve got to start somewhere. And call me if you have any questions. My number’s on the card.”

  I’m calling Grandma to ask her to pick me up where the city bus drops me off, since it’s about two miles from the farm, when a horn honks. It’s Sage and her brother. He pulls over and rolls down a window. “Need a ride?”

  I close my cell. “Thanks, Kevin.”

  “Back to the farm?”

  “Yeah.”

  He puts the truck in drive and we’re on our way.

  Sage grins at me. “Were you at the library?”

  “No, I was at the Texas Historical Commission, trying to find somebody to help me fix the chair in the shack.”

  Sage looks sad, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. But she asks anyway.

  “Well, what’d they say?”

  “It was this dude named Mr. Adams. He said I need to bring him all kinds of proof that the shack is old and has some historical value, and I need to bring him pictures of it. He also said he wouldn’t be able to do anything by Friday. I really wanted Grandma’s chair fixed for the tour, Sage. He won’t even come and look at it until sometime next week. So I guess that meeting was a bust.”

  The ride down the gravel road is a quiet one, until suddenly Sage goes off. “I’ve got it! I know what to do! Laura, I’ve got my camera in my backpack. Let me take some pictures of the shack and print them out. Then I’ll do some research.”

  I’m confused but I go along with her. “Okay, then what?”

  When Kevin stops the truck, Sage gets out. “Call that Mr. Adams guy back and tell him you need another meeting with him tomorrow after school.”

  “Why, Sage?”

  She snaps a picture of the shack then keeps walking toward it. “Just do it and trust me. You know I’ve got your back.”

  Thursday morning I get up and shower while thinking about that chair. Sage said to make another appointment with Mr. Adams, and I did. I sure hope Sage has a plan. I’m still thinking about it on the bus.

  Troy gets on and nods my way. “What’s up, Dyson?”

  “Hey, Troy.”

  I don’t have time to be all sappy right now. Soon, Sage climbs on the bus and sits next to me. “Did you make the appointment?”

  “Four thirty this afternoon. So what’s the plan?”

  She nods. “I’m going to ask for permission to leave early. Let’s meet where my brother picked you up yesterday, okay? Oh! I almost forgot to tell you that I got special permission to go on the field trip with your class tomorrow! I’m taking pictures for the Royal Crier!”

  “Awesome! I know you’ll take great pictures.”

  She nods. “Of course I will.”

  I’m glad Sage is helping me, but I need Mr. Adams’s help, too.

  Twelve days ago, when my parents left me to live with Grandma, I felt like my life had gone from sugar to shame. And it had. The sugar was always here with Grandma and the other Lauras, but I was all caught up in a shame I brought with me.

  All this time I called it a slave shack when it was really a family museum, waiting for me to see and understand everything. I can’t end up being the worst Laura in the Line. Laura Ann may have broken her mother’s heart, but at least she didn’t break anything in the shack.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Right after school, I make my way to the Texas Historical Commission. Sage is standing at the front door. I forgot my baby powder this morning and I’m misting like crazy. I walk up to Sage. Neither of us smiles, but I notice she’s got a paper sack in her hand.

  “Is that a game changer?”

  Sage shrugs. “I don’t know. Let’s go find out.”

  I open the door and we walk in. Mr. Adams sees us from his desk and waves. The little gate clicks, and Sage and I walk behind the counter. He shakes my hand.

  “Hello again, Laura. And who is this you’ve brought with you?”

  “This is my best friend, Sage Baxter.”

  Mr. Adams shakes her hand, too. “Let’s go back to my desk.”

  We follow him, but even though he takes a seat, we keep standing. He opens up a file, and I see the map I drew for him. He looks back at us.

  “Now, how can I help you, ladies?”

  I look from Sage to Mr. Adams. “I’m not sure, but I think Sage has something for you. Right, Sage?”

  Mist is now streaming down my back like creek water. Sage opens her paper sack and pulls out a binder. It’s just like the one she made for the Pink Chips, except this one’s blue, my favorite color. And it has my name on the front. But just as I reach for it, Sage puts it on Mr. Adams’s desk.

  “Laura told me you needed pictures of the shack and proof that it’s been around for like, I don’t know, forever.”

  He smiles. “Yes, among other things, I do need that information.”

  Sage continues and opens up the binder. The first picture is the one I saw her take yesterday. But when she turns the page, I’m mesmerized by the beauty she’s shown in her pictures of the cemetery and the shack.

  Mr. Adams and I examine them in silence, staring at the awesome shots Sage took. Then he turns the page, and there’s a shot of the wall full of pictures.

  What the what? She went inside? Without me? Without Grandma? I’m fighting the urge to blast her, because if it hadn’t been for her climbing on Grandma’s chair, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. The shack doesn’t have a welcome mat at the door. I take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly.

  If she wasn’t my best friend, and if I didn’t know this was her way of trying to make things right, I’d call her out.

  Sage points to a picture of Laura Elaine.

  �
�She worked for the Brooks County Tribune and typed her articles on that typewriter sitting on the floor.”

  Mr. Adams is still looking. So am I. Sage reaches into her backpack and pulls out a newspaper.

  “I spent the whole afternoon searching through microfilm at the Tribune and I found one of Laura Elaine’s articles.”

  I’m staring at the article with Mr. Adams. I nudge Sage and give her a grin. Mr. Adams takes the article and examines it. Now it’s my turn to add info.

  “The typewriter in the shack has a broken G key. So when she typed that article, every g was handwritten.”

  I watch his eyes go from normal to wide. “Yes, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if you hadn’t told me.”

  Sage exhales. “There’s your proof, Mr. Adams. But there’s one more picture I want to show you.”

  Sage flips to a picture of the basket full of shattered wood.

  “This used to be a very special chair, and I broke it.”

  I jump in. “It was an accident. I mean, seriously, I’m just as much to blame as she is.”

  Mr. Adams is busy checking off items on a list stapled to the inside of his file folder.

  “Okay, ladies, thanks so much for the pictures and historical background. I’m going to put a big envelope of paperwork in the mail today and send it to Mrs. Anderson for her to fill out and send back. As soon as I get it, we’ll be on our way to making the shack and the cemetery landmarks. Plus I’ll send this picture of the wood pieces to Kim and Ana, two ladies I work with in furniture restoration. They’ll let me know if they think the chair is restorable.”

  Sage and I stand there. I’m hoping Mr. Adams is not finished. It seems like he is when he stands and motions us to the door.

  “I want to commend both of you on doing a wonderful job getting me the information I need to get the ball rolling. That was a lot of hard work.”

  I nod and so does Sage. When we get to the door, he shakes our hands again.

  “It was so nice meeting both of you. Bye.”

  Sage and I say it together. “Bye.”

  Outside, Sage points across the street. “There’s Kevin.”

  It’s crazy quiet in the truck, but I don’t want to talk right now. And I’m really thankful that Sage and Kevin seem to understand that. When we get to our mailbox, I ask Kevin to stop.