Fame and Glory in Freedom, Georgia by Barbara O'Connor

Author:Barbara O'Connor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 2012-01-12T05:00:00+00:00

10

By the time we got to “L,” Harlem knew that my daddy had been married once before, that I found Randy Buckner’s math homework in the cafeteria last week (and threw it in the garbage ’cause he calls me names), and that I got eight stitches in my arm when I fell off the back porch with a steak knife last Fourth of July. He knew my favorite color, how many sit-ups I did in gym last year, and why Colleen’s hair fell out when she was five.

But I still didn’t know much of anything about Harlem. If there was a contest for changing the subject, Harlem would get the trophy, that’s for sure.

But that didn’t stop me from trying. About the most I could get out of him was that his uncle shot a cat one time and his cousin got kicked out of school for starting fires. No mention of his mama and the chicken bone yet.

“‘Likable,’” Harlem said.

“I know, I know,” I said. “No ‘e.’ You’ve said that one a hundred times already.”

“What about ‘likely’?”

“‘L-I-K-E-L-Y’ Let’s go spy on Ray.” I looked at the curtain over the door leading to the back room. A big, fat man was back there getting a tattoo. Ray had let me and Harlem stay this time, and I was sure dying of curiosity about what it looks like to get a tattoo.

“Ray wouldn’t like it,” Harlem said.

“So?”

“So I don’t want to.”

“I’m sick of spelling,” I said.

Harlem closed his notebook and laid his pencil down. “Then what do you want to do?” he said. “Besides spy on Ray.”

I slammed the dictionary shut. “Let’s go to the Have-to-Have-It Shop.”

So me and Harlem headed on over there.

Mrs. Eula Thatcher was sitting in a dirty old chair eating biscuits and gravy that looked like dog slop (smelled like it, too).

“Who’s that?” she said, jabbing her fork at Harlem and spattering drops of gravy onto her giant stomach.

“Harlem Tate,” I said.

“Where’s he from?”

“He lives with Mr. Moody.”

She let out a big “Pffft” that sent spit and gravy flying every which way. “What’s he living with that sorry sack of misery for?”

I felt bad that she said that, but Harlem just said, “You got any binoculars?” like he hadn’t even heard her.

“Nope.” Mrs. Thatcher pushed herself up out of her chair with a grunt and tossed her gravy-soaked paper plate into the trash. “Got a microscope,” she said, taking a big, wheezy breath.

“You got any new stuff?” I said.

She flapped a hand toward the corner of the store.

I motioned for Harlem to come with me to rummage through the piles. We set to work, pushing stuff aside and picking things up. A waffle iron. Rusty cookie tins. A Monopoly game. A hair dryer.

“Hey, look,” I said, stepping over a folding aluminum lawn chair. “Skates!”

I held up a pair of dirty white roller skates. They had black scuff marks on the sides, the laces were frayed and broken, and one of the fluffy pink pom-poms was missing. (They didn’t smell too good, neither.

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