Unforgettable Heroes Boxed Set

  I held up my player and scrolled through the music artist’s names. “What do you like?”

  Yo-Yo snorted. “You ain’t got nothing I want to hear.”

  “Then why’d you steal my MP3 player?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  Oh, now there’s a brilliant answer. I bit back the sarcastic comment. Looking through my music, I thought either ABBA or Enya—something that would make Yo-Yo as miserable as possible. Enya was obviously the best choice, but could I stand it until Sister Yo-Yo arrived? Probably not. I didn’t know what I had been thinking when I was going through my Enya phase. ABBA, however, was a classic. Every person ought to be exposed to and come to appreciate their music. Yo-Yo’s time had come. Mr. Harvey’s, too. I glanced back at my supervisor wondering how he would tolerate seventies Swedish music. He struck me more as a Miles Davis kind of guy.

  Just for fun, I put it on number six, touched the repeat option on the screen, and hooked up my player to the jack in the car. I might not have been able to put up with Enya for long, but I could have listened to Dancing Queen all day.

  By the fourth time through the song, I was singing and doing a pretty good job too. I wouldn’t have sworn it, but I thought I heard humming from the backseat. I turned down the volume.

  “Are you going to tell me why you broke into my car and stole my property?”

  Yo-Yo sat stone still refusing to look at me.

  Fine. I cranked up the music again. Five more times through the song, and I turned down the dial.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  Silence.

  “It’s not okay to break into my car and take my stuff. It’s not okay to do that to anybody.”

  “Bite me, White Lady.” Yo-Yo opened the door and ran at break neck speed to a red SUV idling on the street.

  I jumped from the car, cupped my hands, and yelled to the little jerk, “Break into any more cars, and I’ll make you listen to every minute of Carmen.” The opera was over three hours long and plenty tortuous for any kid.

  Yo-Yo stepped in the back of what must have been his sister’s vehicle. “Your music sucks.” He grinned victoriously before shutting the door.

  I watched the car pull away from the curb trying to control my temper. Mr. Harvey exited the backseat and stood next to me.

  “Can you believe what he said to me?” I screeched. “‘Bite me, White Lady’.”

  Mr. Harvey’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t know you were white?” He chuckled.

  I raised my hand in a helpless gesture. “He’s white, too. Why would he call me that? Or tell me to bite him right in front of you? Doesn’t he have any respect?”

  “Respect is earned around here, not given. He was after a reaction. I say he got one.” Mr. Harvey shut my car door. “You know what they call me? ‘De man’ and they don’t mean it in a good way either. ‘Moon Pie’ is another favorite of theirs for me. When they open their mouths and put you down, you look them right in the eyes, and you give them a reason to respect you, but you remember that whatever you say back may be the kindest thing they hear all day.”

  Stunned, I couldn’t think of any response. I couldn’t do this. I wasn’t cut out for this.

  Mr. Harvey studied me. “You need to be patient. With Yo-Yo and yourself. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “I never thought about using music as a punishment before. You may have hit on something here. Although I have to agree with Yo-Yo. If I hear that song ever again, it will be too soon.” He glanced at his watch and strode back to the center.

  I grinned and called, “How can you not like Dancing Queen?”

  “It’s surprisingly easy.”

  Walking around the car and shutting the door Yo-Yo had left open, I noticed a man next to the building, leaning on a broom. He was thin with a full beard, and dressed in dingy clothes. I wouldn’t have called him a character, but I would have called him a person of interest. He watched me with a distant, disinterested look in his eyes.

  “Hi, I’m Abigail.”

  “Eli.” He paused for a moment seemingly lost in thought. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you don’t talk to strangers?”

  “No... What are you doing out here? Are you the resident sweeper?”

  “I like to keep the parking lot clean.”

  I surveyed the pavement and nodded. “Nice job.” I backed up to the building, bent my knee, and rested my foot on its bricks, settling myself in to get to know Eli. He intrigued me. Anybody who would volunteer to sweep dirt off a parking lot this big had to have a story. And if I spent one of my hours hearing it, that would be one less hour having to conjugate verbs with the kids.

  “What were you doing with Yo-Yo?”

  “Apparently I was abusing him with my music. Maybe that’ll teach him to stay out of my car.”

  Eli rested his chin on the broom handle. He turned his head and studied me for a moment. “You should be careful. These kids can be…nasty.”

  “Mr. Harvey was with us. He seemed to think it was okay.”

  “He’s been here too long. Too much of an optimist. Wants to see the best in everybody.”

  “Not a bad way to live your life,” I returned. I thought it was an excellent philosophy.

  “But it means he’s often disappointed.”

  “He seems to handle it okay.”

  Eli snorted. “Have you seen how many antacids the man consumes in one day?”

  I put my foot down, turned and looked at Eli, really looked at him. “Are you a volunteer here?”

  “No, I just hang out here and sometimes I sweep.”

  “Maybe you could find a real job sweeping,” I said.

  “Don’t try to save me, Abigail. I don’t want to be saved.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know,” and with that, Eli picked up his broom and left.

  Great exit line. He put me in my place and left me intrigued.

  ****

  My dad used to tell me character is made, not bred, like I was some spoiled socialite. Despite his lip service, he acted as though I wasn’t living up to my legacy of being a fifth generation Benton, of the Georgia Bentons, attending law school or, at the very least, marrying a lawyer who was a Kappa Alpha and could do secret handshakes with my dad. Ugh.

  Dad had been the one to arrange community service to humiliate me. I knew there was no way that the drug charges could have stuck otherwise. The District Attorney knew I had been a stupid girlfriend of a druggie who had stolen some checks from my job, and that was it. It was the judge that declared I would have to do the community service. If he really thought I was guilty, why put me around inner city kids? I would be too much of a risk. I knew this was Dad trying to give me an attitude adjustment.

  But Dad’s approach seemed so hypocritical. What? I couldn’t contribute to society by doing people’s taxes? I had to join the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Junior League before I was acceptable in his eyes? Or else he’d show me how common I could be by wiping kids’ noses in inner city Clavania? Honestly. All of this was such a waste of my time.

  But what choice did I have? I’d just have to suck up to the after school program, get my hours, and be done with it. ‘It’ was the community center, a converted store building at a place known as Little Five Points in Clavania. When Mr. Harvey took me into his office my first day, he sat behind his desk in his suit and tie.

  “Abigail Benton,” he declared as he read through my arrest record or court report—I didn’t know which. “Why do you want to work here?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Because if I don’t, they’ll put me in jail.”

  “This is a community center. Other than my paid position, we only have volunteers.”

  He cocked his head and studied me.

  What? “Are they volunteers ordered by the court like me?”

  “No. They work here because they care about these kids.”

  Are you kidding? People would actually choose
to be here? “How...nice.”

  “So, I ask you again, young lady, why do you want to work here?”

  Mr. Harvey wanted a noble answer. Saying I needed three hundred community service hours wasn’t going to cut it.

  “Because I want to make a difference.” And may lightning not strike me for this big, fat lie.

  “Very good.” He grinned at me. “You can start making a difference with the elementary kids. Come with me.”

  Mr. Harvey led me down the hall and into a classroom in which elementary aged kids of several races were trickling in one by one. Now this was interesting. With all of the hues of skin, it reminded me of a mini U.N. Cool. In the gated community where I’d grown up, everybody pretty much looked alike, talked alike, and voted alike. Most of mom’s friends were Stepford wives, though she accused me of being rude when I said so.

  “Our community center is the hub of all of the neighborhoods in downtown Clavania. We’ve got young people from Pembroke, Sustantivo, Kenyon, and the District all coming here together. We encourage social interaction and relationship building above their own geographic location because we believe that makes for a harmonious community.”

  No gated communities here. Curiouser and Curiouser.

  Mr. Harvey folded his arms and rocked back on his heels, his glance sweeping over the children settling in their places. “These kids are to do their homework. They will come to you if they need any help.”

  That sounded easy enough.

  When the chairs filled up, Mr. Harvey picked up an attendance sheet from the teacher’s desk and handed it to me.

  “Excuse me.” His booming voice echoed off the walls. “This is Miss Abigail. You are to show her the same respect you show Miss Paula.”

  Piece of cake, and at the end of the afternoon, I could mark off five hours.

  Mr. Harvey left the room, and I passed the sheet to the first kid. He dutifully signed it and passed it on to the next one. Then he sat there with a blank expression on his face. Maybe he didn’t have any homework that day. Every other kid did the same thing. What, didn’t teachers assign homework anymore?

  When the last child had signed the attendance sheet, she brought it up to me and put it in my hand, and the sweet urchin skipped back to her seat. Weren’t they cute? I looked at the attendance sheet and started to call the names.

  What odd names for children. “Achilles Punks, Ayma Moron, Stu Padasso.” What? I paused and looked at them. More innocent faces I had never seen. I read the rest of the list silently. Emma Roids. Eric Shun. Oh, come on. Eve Hill. Gabe Barr. And on the names went. I shook my head wondering which name fit me best.

  Ah, here was one I could identify with. Hal Jalikakick.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to kick any of their disrespectful butts.

  I put the paper on the desk and gazed at them wondering what my course of action should be. There wasn’t a snicker or a giggle anywhere. Should I go and get Mr. Harvey, or show them that they have to do better than made up names to get me to say, ‘Uncle’?

  All right, you miserable, little darlings, let’s see what you’re made of. I suggested that everyone pull out their books and start their homework. No one moved.

  “Don’t you guys have homework?” I asked.

  No response. I walked over to Achilles Punks, the first kid on the list. Achilles Punks. Yes, I liked that suggestion.

  “Mr. Punks, what grade are you in, sir?” I asked.

  “Fifth.”

  “And did you go to school today?”

  He grunted.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Now, tell me, Mr. Punks, do you have any books in that monstrous backpack next to your chair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good. Let’s pull one out and see what we have.”

  In response, Achilles just stared at me.

  “All right then, I’ll open it.”

  Well, that did it. He opened his pack and pulled out a notebook. I took it from him and leafed through the pages. I couldn’t read that chicken scratch. If I couldn’t read it three feet high on the side of a train car, what made me think I could read it on standard ruled paper?

  “Mr. Punks, do you have homework today?”

  “Naw,” he replied.

  “You may address me as ‘Miss Abigail’, and you may answer, ‘Yes, Ma’am’ or ‘No, Ma’am’, as I am sure your grandmother has instructed you to do.” No response.

  I glared at him.

  He glared at me.

  My mom’s best “‘Comin’ to Jesus’” look was not working.

  I walked to the desk and searched the drawers for anything, anything I could use as leverage. What it could be, I didn’t know. I just wanted to show these kids that I was tougher than they were, even if I wasn’t.

  Harmonious community, eh? From my experience it seemed like the hub of Clavania had united in giving the new gal ‘the business’.

  “Next time,” I muttered, “I’m going to tell the judge to just throw me in jail. I’d rather be rotting in the pen than having to pummel kids within an inch of their lives.” I found a ruler, pulled it out and kept searching until I noticed a unison gulp. In fear, I’d like to think, perhaps in surprise that I stood in front of them brandishing a ruler and making threats. Every eye in the room studied me with varying amounts of alarm, discomfort and maybe even respect.

  Ah-ha. Got you. “Mr. Punks,” I murmured, “I’m waiting.” Please, let this work. Please don’t let him call my bluff.

  And there it was. He cleared his throat. “No. No Ma’am.”

  “Excellent,” I said in a creepy, mischievous way, like I was definitely up to something. I never broke eye contact with him as I said, “Does anyone else have homework that they need to work on?”

  Not a peep. Not a movement. Good.

  “You have twenty seconds to pull out two sheets of notebook paper. Now.” I barked.

  They did it. Oh, sweet heavens, I got ‘em. I got ‘em.

  “Since no one has any homework,” I said, “I’m giving you an assignment, which you will begin immediately. Since all of you have such interesting names, I want two pages on how you got your name.”

  Groans and disbelieving sighs were music to my ears.

  “Miss Abigail….Ma’am, I don’t know how I got my name,” I heard. I looked at the student in question then down at the roster.

  “Well, Miss Helen Back, this is what I suggest.” I turned around and wrote on the board the questions I remembered my journalism teacher drilling into my head. Who? What? When? Where? How? “Answer these questions, and if you don’t know the answers to the questions, I’m sure you can make up a good story by using your imaginations. Hurry up. I want them finished and on this desk in twenty minutes.”

  More groans, but the mini U.N. started putting pencils to paper.

  I looked down at the roster and grinned. Picking up my pen, I circled the name which fit me presently.

  Jose Mamanow.

  ****

  My telephone rang as I was contemplating skipping my hours at the center. The writing project hadn’t won me any fans there. The little snots were just as rude as could be, and each day was only making me hate it more. If I didn’t show up, would the police come and arrest me?

  “Abigail,” Mr. Harvey greeted me. “Bring a change of clothes when you come in. We’ve got something special going on.”

  I had no idea that the ‘something special’ would be undergoing a lice treatment.

  Mr. Harvey met me at the door of the center and looked me up and down. “In my office, please,” he invited and barreled down the hall in classic Mr. Harvey fashion. He pulled his key from his massive key ring on his belt, unlocked the door, and went inside. I followed him to find Eli looking a lot cleaner than I had seen him the last time. His hair was combed and his beard looked nearly manageable. His eyes met mine before settling on Mr. Harvey.

  “This is Eli. I’ve asked him to come in and help out since we’re a little…shorthanded tod
ay. He’ll be picking the volunteers only, not any of the children. He’s been checked out, and he’s free.”

  Huh? “He’s free for what? Picking us for what? What are we doing?”

  In response, Mr. Harvey turned on a bright study lamp on his desk and aimed it at a straight-backed chair. He indicated that I should sit on the chair. I did so dutifully though it meant my back was to both men. No problem. I didn’t know Eli, but Mr. Harvey was trustworthy enough. And anyway, if they were going to pull a good cop, bad cop routine, it couldn’t be any worse than what I had been through when I’d been arrested.

  “Lice. We have an outbreak, and everybody has to be checked out.”

  “What?” I turned around and saw Mr. Harvey open up a packet containing a Popsicle stick and a small plastic comb.

  “I’d do it myself, Abigail, but I’m afraid the kids are not cooperating very well, and I need to be out there. If you check out, go to classroom A and they’ll assign you some kids.”

  “If I check out? I don’t have lice.” Do I? Come to think of it, I have felt kind of itchy lately. As in, the last thirty seconds.

  “Just to be sure. Just to be sure.” Mr. Harvey smiled at me before leaving the office and closing the door behind him.

  Here I was in the room with Eli the sweeper. I looked back at him. He was putting on rubber gloves.

  The homeless guy is afraid of catching cooties. From me.

  I sighed in resignation. Honestly. “All right, Eli. Search away.”

  “Can you bend over please?”

  “What?”

  “Put your head down. They tend to hang out at the neckline.”

  “If I have head lice, I am going to scream in three octaves.”

  No response from Eli, so I did as he asked. He stood next to me, and I studied his shoes. They had definitely seen better days—canvas that may have been, in some past year, white. Now they were brown, yucky brown, with three different holes on the left shoe and one big hole on the right one. I detected the same aroma that I had smelled that first day I had talked to him. It was like…I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It wasn’t unpleasant at all—but it was something I was familiar with. Not cologne…not soap. What was it?