Back on the Map

by Lisa Ann Scott

  More and more people came through the gates. Some just stood there staring at the doom painting, shaking their heads. Others walked around the site, running their fingers over the murals or examining the sculptures.

  Still, despite all the sadness and all the fading colors, despite Joe’s sadness, the air around New Hope’s Finest seemed to buzz with a thousand happy memories.

  And a thousand crushed dreams.

  CHAPTER 21

  I climbed the stairs to the tree house and curled up in the corner. I imagined my family tree folks up there, too, fretting and worrying right along with me. What would Martin Luther King, Jr. do? How would Thomas Edison fight back against this huge failure? It took him a thousand tries before he came up with the right way to make a light bulb. But fixing up the Finest seemed like more of a one chance deal.

  I felt horrible. Because of me and this big idea, all of New Hope was crushed again, just like Miss Meriwether had been afraid of.

  I looked down to the yard and saw everyone trudging down the driveway. This place was a heartache all over again. Maybe even a bigger one because we’d all worked on it together.

  Guess I wasn’t the descendant of an inventor, or a leader, or a founder. I was nothing but a failure.

  “Why didn’t this work?” I whispered into the breeze fluttering the tree leaves. “How can I make this right?” I closed my eyes, feeling the hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

  The breeze got stronger, and the trees trembled. The wind whipped leaves from the limbs, blowing them up, up, out of sight. The sky darkened, and rain gushed from it. I hunkered down, waiting for the storm to pass.

  It wasn’t ten minutes later that the storm suddenly stopped, and the sun came out full force, like it never shines ’round these parts. I climbed down the tree house stairs and looked around the site.

  Several of the trees were stripped bare of their leaves. The paint hadn’t been washed off the building, but everything looked shiny and new. There weren’t even any leaves or sticks scattered around.

  I walked around, examining the sculptures, and a few more folks from town showed up, quietly walking around the site.

  Tires crunched on the gravel driveway, and I looked up in surprise. A big white RV was making its way toward the building. A man in a tropical-print shirt and a ball cap stepped out of it, followed by a lady and two little kids. The man’s eyes were wide as he looked all around. “What is this place?”

  No one answered.

  “There was a clearing in the trees, and I saw the wild painting from the highway. I just had to pull over and take a look,” he said, turning ’round in circles.

  I cleared my throat, which was still tight from my tears, and stepped closer to him. “It’s New Hope’s Finest.” I tried to think of a word to add, but I didn’t know what New Hope’s Finest was. New Hope’s Finest Place? New Hope’s Finest Spot? New Hope’s Finest Disappointment?

  “It sure is fine,” the man said. “Can we look around?”

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  The lady with him smiled at us. “Is there somewhere to grab a bite to eat afterward? We also need to fill up the RV and grab some groceries. Any place in town to do that?”

  The mayor was walking up the driveway, looking curious. “There certainly is,” she said. “I’ll be happy to show you when you’re done here.”

  The two kids ran toward a pair of tire swings, while their mother took a closer look at the fence paintings. The man went inside the building, and soon called his family to join him.

  Then two more strangers wandered in—an older man and a woman, looking at a map. “What is this?” the lady asked. “We saw this building in the distance as we were driving and had to see what it was all about.”

  “Where are we?” the man asked. “Looks like you’re not on the map.”

  My shoulders slumped. “We’re not. This is New Hope, North Carolina, and this is New Hope’s Finest. You’re welcome to take a look around,” I said. “I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

  “That would be lovely. We needed a break from driving. Perhaps we’ll get some snacks while we’re here.”

  And that’s how the rest of the day went. Dozens of strangers spotted the doom painting and stopped by for a look. People from town were happy to give tours and answer questions. Main Street was filled with cars, the sidewalks bustling with tourists.

  Folks from town were there, too. I saw Miss Meriwether swirling and twirling in the big front room, to music she must’ve only heard in her mind, ’cause I didn’t hear any. Mrs. Carlson sat on one of her tire chairs, reading a book. Mrs. Gaiser wandered through the beautiful flowers that she’d planted.

  Carly swung for hours on a tire swing. “This is even better than I imagined,” she told me. “I knew it was going to be a giant playground.”

  Somehow, the Finest had become all those wonderful things everyone had dreamed about. And it was going to keep being those things—bringing new people to New Hope, maybe even bringing back people who left.

  “Wow,” Parker said when he wandered to the site. “The buyer opened New Hope’s Finest already?”

  “No. He didn’t want it. Basically said we ruined it. But drivers saw Joe’s painting and have been pulling over for a closer look all day.” I sucked in a breath as something dawned on me. “Oh no! He’s planning to cover up the doom painting tonight. We have to tell him not to!” I groaned. “His house is so far away, and our bikes are back at Grauntie’s!”

  “Let’s borrow two of the bikes Mr. Smith fixed up,” Parker suggested.

  “Great idea!”

  We ran back to the building where dozens of bikes were lined up along a fence, and we took two.

  “What are you doing?” Carly asked.

  “We have to tell Joe not to cover up his doom painting tonight. All these people stopped by to see it. It’s not a jinx. It’s a good thing,” I said.

  “Can I come?” she asked.

  “Sure!”

  “Me, too,” Chase said. Some of the other kids who’d been working on the site grabbed bikes, too.

  Soon, there were almost ten of us zooming off on those old bikes through town, streamers flying just like I’d imagined. When we got to Joe’s, we stormed onto his porch. I rang his doorbell while pounding on his door. “Joe, open up! We have to talk to you.”

  No answer.

  “Please, Joe! You can’t cover up your painting. It’s a good thing. Wait until you hear what happened. Joe!”

  The door cracked open and Joe’s eye stared out at me. “What now?”

  I explained how people had spotted his painting and drove into town for a better look. “It wasn’t a doom painting—it was … a boom painting!”

  “The businesses on Main Street are packed today!” Chase said. “It’s so exciting.”

  “So whatever you do, don’t paint that building,” Parker said.

  “But since people are stopping for a look, we need to make things official. We need to paint the final word on the sign,” I said. “I don’t know what to call it, though. It’s New Hope’s Finest … what?”

  Everyone started shouting out different suggestions: Wonderland, Cool Place, Hangout.

  Then Joe opened the door with the biggest grin on his face. “I know what to paint on the sign. I’ll be right over.”

  We rode back to town, making guesses on what Joe was going to paint.

  “I think he’s going to pick mine,” Parker said. “New Hope’s Finest Extravaganza.”

  I laughed. “Not sure there’s room for that.”

  “Mine’s best,” Carly said. “New Hope’s Finest Playground. Because it’s finally a fantastic playground now, with the tree house and the swings.”

  None of them sounded right to me, though.

  When we got back to the building, strangers were still milling about, some talking about plans to spend the night in the bed-and-breakfast that hadn’t had a customer in years. There were townsfolk walking around, like they had to see
for themselves there were really all these people in New Hope talking and laughing and having a good time.

  Then Joe pulled up in his truck.

  “Oh, no, what’s he going to do now?” someone groaned.

  “Go home!” someone shouted.

  I planted my fists on my hips. “Hey! If he hadn’t painted this building, none of these people would have noticed it, and none of them would be here. He’s going to finish the sign for us.”

  “That’s true,” Mr. Gaiser said.

  People shut their mouths, and angry eyes softened, watching what he was doing.

  Joe pulled the truck right up to the building and hopped out. “You ready?” he asked me.

  “Yes. But what are you going to put on it? Because what is it, really? It’s not just a snow globe display, or a dance ballroom, or a playground, or a salon. What is a name for all those things?”

  People around us started chiming in with their own ideas.

  But Joe just smiled and spread his arms wide. “This is New Hope’s Finest.”

  “Finest what?” Carly asked.

  “Finest everything,” Joe said.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “This,” he said, arms open wide. “All this. It’s the finest thing in town.”

  Most people still looked confused. Then Mrs. Carlson said, “He’s right. This is New Hope’s Finest. All these things we did together. It is what it is—our finest work. The finest spirit of our community.”

  “True. It was our finest thing when it was the orphanage, too,” Miss Meriwether said.

  It all made sense. It didn’t need a name to explain what it was. It was what it was. “So what are you going to paint up there?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  We all stood with our eyes to the sky as Joe went up in his bucket, paintbrush, and can in hand.

  I couldn’t see exactly what he was painting—just a few letters of it, like an N and an O.

  When he finally lowered himself down in the bucket, we all stood there blinking at what he wrote. Then we cheered.

  NEW HOPE’S FINEST IS OPEN

  I shouted as I read the words. The Finest was open. It was really open! We all hugged and cheered and hollered. Sure wished I had some confetti to throw.

  Somewhere on my family tree, someone must’ve had a moment of pride like this. I thought about it for a moment and wondered if this was how Booker T. Washington felt when he opened the Tuskegee Institute, a college for black students. He’d been born a slave and couldn’t go to school until the Civil War ended. Then he became a teacher and was asked to create this new institute. Of course he did a lot more work than I did, but I can imagine he had the same feeling of pride when his school opened as I did, standing there looking at this new place. A place that hadn’t existed until we all worked together and made it what it is. I’m the descendant of a great founder. I grinned. And I am a founder, too.

  “Can you paint the name on the back of the sign, too?” asked the mayor. “That way more people driving by will know to stop.”

  “I sure can,” Joe said.

  “Does anyone have a camera?” I asked. “I need a picture.” Once the map people saw this, we’d be listed on it again for sure.

  One of the tourists had a Polaroid camera and snapped a shot. The camera spit out the print, and the lady handed it to me. As the picture appeared, I got goose bumps. It really did look amazing.

  “Can we borrow four of these bikes?” the man from the RV asked. “We’d love to take a ride around town, get some exercise. Been cooped up in that RV for days.”

  “Sure thing. Those are the Finest’s bikes. Anyone can borrow them, just as long as they bring them back when they’re done,” I said, making that decision on the spot. No one protested. In fact, several other people grabbed bikes, too.

  The place was still packed with people from town, chatting about the day’s events.

  The mayor came over and put her arm around me. “I don’t think we’re going to find a buyer for this.” She shrugged. “I don’t think we want to. It’s ours.”

  “Do you think people will forgive Joe now?” I asked. “That wasn’t a doom painting. None of them were. They didn’t cause the bad things to happen. I think they were warnings. A sign to be on the lookout for changes—good and bad.”

  People around us were listening.

  “Maybe she’s right,” Mr. Smith said. “That old clunker of a car was bound to break down sooner or later. Maybe it just happened after I got that painting.”

  “And guess what? I got a doom painting from him,” I said. “And look at all the good things that’ve happened to the town!” I didn’t mention Grauntie getting sick. No, I was trying hard not to think about that. “In fact, why don’t you all bring your paintings here so we can hang them up right in the back room. It’ll be our very own art gallery.”

  A few hours later, folks were showing up with their paintings. Joe brought mine down, too. Mr. Gaiser hung them up for us, and people crowded around to examine them.

  “I see a dog in that one,” Carly said.

  “My dog ran away after I got that,” Jenny said.

  Chase cocked his head staring at another. “If you look long enough, you can see a building here.”

  “My garage collapsed in a snowstorm not long after I got that. Maybe it was a warning,” another man said. “This painting might’ve been a warning for me.”

  Joe smiled. Sure was a nice idea that his paintings might’ve been made for a helpful reason.

  I pulled Joe aside and lowered my voice. “Joe, maybe your warning dreams found their way to your paintings. You said you had some dreams but didn’t say anything,” I said. “This was probably your way of warning people without even knowing it. You didn’t make the bad things happen. You were trying to help. When you left a painting at the Finest all those years ago, you were probably trying to warn everyone that the developers were going to take the money. Everything you create has some of your intention, right? I think the doom painting on the Finest was a warning not to get rid of it!”

  His smile bloomed, and he patted my back. “Kiddo, that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. I like that idea a lot.”

  There was a line of people out the door, waiting to take a look—people from town, and strangers.

  “Where can I leave a donation for this wonderful place?” a lady asked. “Seems like there ought to be an admission fee for such an incredible attraction.”

  “You’re right about that,” said the mayor. “Be right back.” Miss Meriwether returned shortly with an empty coffee can. It had a slit in the plastic lid on top, and a piece of paper taped to it that said DONATIONS.

  Wren would certainly find out about all this activity and come check it out. Please get here soon and find us, I thought.

  I was eager to write a letter to the map company so they’d have time to put New Hope on their new map. So I pulled Parker away from the refreshment stand someone had set up, and we ran home.

  Lonnie had dinner all set out on the table, which was a good thing. We’d been so busy with the building lately, we hadn’t had time for the trading cart or chores or anything.

  “I need to get myself down to that old building and see what all the fuss is about in town,” Lonnie said as we sat down to eat.

  “Are my snow globes there?” Grauntie asked. “I’d love to see them.”

  “They sure are,” I said. “It’s one of the most popular rooms.”

  “I’ll take you down there before you—” Lonnie clamped her mouth shut, but I knew what she was going to say. She was going to take Grauntie to New Hope’s Finest before she had to go to the nursing home in Asheville.

  “Not tonight. Too tired,” Grauntie said, yawning. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Lonnie said.

  Parker and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing: Lonnie was only going to be with us a little while longer. What would happen to us then?
We still didn’t know.

  And that reminded me to get my letter written. “I’ll be in my room,” I said, pushing my chair away from the table.

  I got paper, an envelope, and a stamp from the desk in the living room, then hopped on my bed. I grabbed the book on my nightstand so I’d have something to write on: Great Americans, the book from Mr. Hanes.

  Dear Mrs. Sheila Blakeley,

  Charter Maps Secretary,

  Good news! New Hope’s Finest in New Hope, North Carolina, is now open. (I’m including a picture as proof.) It’s been attracting all sorts of tourists, so we should be back on the map because people will be looking for us now.

  Thanks so much,

  Penny Porter

  CHAPTER 22

  The next few days, more and more people came to take a look at New Hope’s Finest. One day, I found Parker selling our tin can critters out of the trading cart at the bottom of the driveway leading to the Finest.

  “Parker! Those aren’t for sale. They’re for special people. Like the Carlsons.”

  “I know, but we’re going to need the money soon, don’t you think?” he whispered. “When we go to live you-know-where?”

  I blew out a long breath. My insides were still telling me we were going to be fine, but the facts just weren’t adding up. No one new had moved to town. No one had asked about taking us in. Wren hadn’t turned up. Even with all this good news lately, it was possible we’d be living on our own soon. “I guess it couldn’t hurt,” I said with a sigh. “I can always make more.”

  Joe’s truck rumbled down the road, and he stuck his hand out the window in a wave. He pulled up the driveway and hopped out. “I’ve got a project in mind, and I could use two assistants.”

  “Are we going to make a doom painting?” Parker asked.

  I jabbed him with my elbow. “They’re not doom paintings anymore.”

  Joe just chuckled. “No, but it is a painting project. You’ll see.”

  We climbed into his truck, and he drove a ways—all the way to the highway.