The Seventh Most Important Thing Read online

Arthur didn’t spot the grocery cart until he was about to give up and leave.

  It was sitting at an odd angle, jutting out from the side of the garage nearest the street. As he stepped back from the corrugated door, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. He was pretty sure it was the same cart the Junk Man always used when he came through the neighborhood. The same one he’d been pushing when Arthur hit him.

  There was something taped to the front of it. Arthur walked over to see what it was.

  Just like the note he’d found underneath his father’s hat a few days earlier, this message was written on a scrap of cardboard. It couldn’t have been there long, because the cardboard was mostly dry and the ink hadn’t smudged yet.

  Arthur didn’t need to guess whether the note was meant for him; someone had already written his name at the top—misspelled Artur—followed by the words Please Collect.

  The rest of the note was a list. In square capital letters, like a kindergartner’s printing, it said:

  That was when Arthur began to realize he hadn’t just been sentenced to work for the Junk Man. He’d been sentenced to be the Junk Man.

  ELEVEN

  Arthur stood there for a long time staring at the sign, trying to decide what to do. Snowflakes melted on his head, and his nose ran. Officer Billie had said no excuses, but nobody could expect him to do a crazy job like this, could they?

  The list didn’t even make sense. Collect cardboard—one of the seven most important things. In what? The world? The universe?

  Along with coffee cans?

  And foil?

  No way. He wasn’t doing it.

  So he left the cart right where it was and headed back down the alley, kicking the gravel hard in front of him as he walked. What a joke, he thought.

  But he had only gone a short distance before his pace began to slow.

  He thought about having to tell his mother that he’d screwed up again. That he’d given up on his probation sentence before he’d even started it. That he’d quit and come home. He was sure she’d probably start crying, which would make Barbara cry.

  Then there would be Officer Billie to deal with (and who knows what Officer Billie would do if he was her first kid to screw up). And he’d probably have to face the judge again.

  And juvie’s bad food and bad showers and bad kids…

  The more he thought about it, the more Arthur knew he couldn’t stand to deal with that mess again. Reluctantly, he turned back toward the garage.

  The cart and list were still there waiting for him.

  Of course.

  As Arthur wrapped his fingers around the grimy metal handle of the cart, he tried to tell himself that pushing a rusty grocery cart around the neighborhood wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him in the last few months. Or the worst thing that could happen to someone in life.

  He’d already been through that.

  He tried to convince himself that maybe this was just a test. Maybe Judge Warner and Officer Billie wanted to find out how he’d react. They probably figured he’d see the stupid list, give up, and go home. Just what we’d expect from a no-good kid like Arthur Owens, they’d say.

  Arthur started pushing the cart down the gravel alleyway, determined to prove them wrong. Determined to show he could collect a bunch of junk for a crazy old man.

  —

  Ten minutes later, he couldn’t stand the test any longer.

  The rattling din of the cart was worse than the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. The jangling noise rang in his ears. It set his teeth on edge. It made his head hurt.

  Plus, after he’d gone only a block, one of the front wheels stuck.

  Wouldn’t budge at all.

  Arthur had to lift the cart halfway off the sidewalk and shove it forward. But instead of going straight, the empty cart veered wildly to the right and tipped over in someone’s snowy yard. Wheels spun crazily in the air.

  He yanked it upright. Hauled it back to the sidewalk. The same wheel stuck again. He kicked it. Hard.

  Which actually worked.

  For a minute, Arthur was kind of proud of himself. Maybe he had some of his dad’s mechanical talent after all. He started moving down the street.

  The wheel stuck again.

  Arthur swore under his breath. He was sure the people who lived in the houses nearby were laughing their heads off as they watched him wrestle the Junk Man’s busted cart a few hundred feet down the block. He noticed one guy standing on his front porch, smoking a cigarette. From the smirk on his face, Arthur could tell he was probably the guy’s main entertainment for the morning.

  Finally, Arthur half pushed, half dragged the cart back to Groovy Jim’s and shoved it into the alley next to the shop. Nobody had said he had to use the useless thing for his sentence. All he needed was some kind of bag to collect the stuff on his list. He’d ask Groovy Jim.

  He pushed open the door of the tattoo shop again. Got another blast of antiseptic smells and Hawaiian music. Tried not to look as angry and frustrated as he felt.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Groovy Jim looked up from where he was sitting behind the counter, feet up, reading a book. “Back again? You found your guy?”

  Arthur shook his head and mumbled, “No, he wasn’t there.”

  “Musta just missed him.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Arthur glanced around, trying to come up with a good story. “You got any spare bags?” he said finally. “I’m, uh, collecting stuff for a school project.”

  “Sure.” Groovy Jim pulled his feet off the counter. “I’ve got a couple of burlap ones from the grocer across the street. How many you need?”

  “Just one.” Then another idea occurred to Arthur. “And what about some cans or, uh, glass jars?” he added, thinking of the Seven Most Important Things. “You have anything like that?”

  Groovy Jim nodded. “Sure. I’ll see what I can find.”

  After Groovy Jim disappeared into the back room, Arthur couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for lying to a guy who’d been nice and helpful so far. But how could he tell him that he was collecting garbage because he’d thrown a brick at a person’s head? And even worse, that it was a person Groovy Jim knew?

  Arthur had never been a good liar. Not even about silly things, like pretending to believe in Santa Claus for Barbara at Christmas. And not when it had come to serious things, like covering up for his dad’s drinking sometimes.

  Christmas.

  The sudden thought of what they would do for Christmas without his dad hit Arthur like a fist in the stomach. This was the kind of stuff he still couldn’t deal with. He’d been in juvie for Thanksgiving, so he hadn’t had to face his first holiday without his dad. But how would they get through Christmas?

  And not just this Christmas either. His dad would be gone every Christmas. And every birthday. And every holiday from now on. Forever.

  Thinking about it all, Arthur couldn’t breathe.

  Fortunately, the clattering crash of a half-dozen ginger ale cans hitting the floor and rolling in all directions snapped him back to reality.

  “Jeez oh pete!” Groovy Jim glanced helplessly at the cans he’d dropped on the floor as he came back into the room. “Man, sorry about that!”

  After they’d picked up the cans—and Groovy Jim added an empty Skippy jar he’d been using as a pencil holder—Arthur forced himself to focus on the Seven Most Important Things. To not think about his dad. Or the future. All he had to do was find a few more things to keep the Junk Man happy and he’d be done for that Saturday.

  Only 116 more hours to go.

  “Good luck with your school project,” Groovy Jim called out as Arthur left. “You should ask Hampton for some stuff if you see him. He’s always collecting things.”

  “Okay, yeah, I will,” Arthur said over his shoulder.

  Yet another lie.

  TWELVE

  Outside, the air felt colder this time around, and the December afternoon had gotten gloomier. The snow looked
like white BB pellets coming down from the sky.

  Arthur swung the bag of soda pop cans over his shoulder, wincing at the noise, and glanced up and down the street, looking for anything that might fit the Junk Man’s list. A lot of people had their garbage cans out, so Saturday had to be a collection day in the neighborhood. Fortunately, the garbage trucks hadn’t finished their pickup yet.

  In front of the small grocery store across the street, Arthur noticed a stack of flattened cardboard boxes wrapped with twine. Perfect. He crossed the street to pick up an armload of them and brought them back to the cart, since it was a lot easier than hauling a bunch of soggy cardboard around with him all afternoon.

  Most Important Thing #7: Cardboard. Done.

  Farther down the street, Arthur found a lamp in somebody else’s trash pile. He could see why they’d thrown it out—it looked like an ugly turquoise teardrop. Plus, it had a big chip out of one side, and it was missing its bulb and shade.

  Still, Arthur figured finding an entire lamp was probably way better than finding a lightbulb. He carried the lamp back to the cart.

  Most Important Thing #1: Lightbulbs. Done.

  But the toaster was his best discovery.

  He’d just reached the end of the block when he spotted the silver toaster sitting on a row of trash cans, as if it was waiting for breakfast.

  There was an old lady walking by with a bag of groceries at the same time, so Arthur decided to ask her if she thought the toaster was being thrown out—just to be sure—before he took it.

  “You think I can take that thing?” He pointed nervously at the toaster.

  The lady gave him a sympathetic look and then squinted at the house behind them. “I don’t know the people who live there, but if it’s in the garbage, I’m sure you can have it if you need it, young man.”

  Feeling his face start to get red, Arthur picked up the toaster and hurried back to the cart. He didn’t turn around again until he was sure the lady was gone.

  Later, he found a dented hubcap by the curb. Another shiny thing. And for Most Important Thing #4, Pieces of Wood, he pulled a couple of evergreen branches from a messy pile of shrubbery trimmings beside somebody’s driveway.

  By three o’clock, he was finished.

  As he hauled the grocery cart out of its spot next to Groovy Jim’s shop and dumped the contents of the burlap bag inside, he thought the first Saturday of his probation had gone pretty well.

  It was true he hadn’t found all of the things on the Junk Man’s list. He’d given up on mirrors, for instance. Really—how often did most people throw out a mirror?

  And he’d switched around a few other things on the list. He’d left ginger ale cans instead of coffee cans. A lamp instead of lightbulbs. And he’d found the really nice toaster and the hubcap instead of foil. But he figured the Junk Man wouldn’t mind. He’d gotten close enough, right?

  However, Arthur Owens would soon find out…the Junk Man did mind.

  And close enough wasn’t nearly good enough.

  THIRTEEN

  It was Monday afternoon, two days after Arthur’s visit to the Junk Man’s garage, when Officer Billie called. Barbara, who wasn’t very good at taking messages, had answered the phone.

  “A person just called for you,” Barbara announced as Arthur walked into the living room. She was curled up on the couch eating a bag of Cheetos and watching cartoons. Usually, Arthur got home before his sister. But it was his first day back at junior high after his time in juvie. The day hadn’t gone very well, and then his bus had been late.

  “Who was it?” Arthur asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think she said she was a police officer lady.”

  Arthur felt his stomach drop. It had to have been Officer Billie.

  “Did you do something wrong again?” Barbara pressed her cheddar-orange lips together like a disapproving goldfish.

  “No.”

  “Well, she said you need to call her right away.”

  Arthur went to the kitchen phone and dialed the officer’s number reluctantly, hoping she’d gone home for the day. Or the year.

  Of course, she answered on the first ring.

  “Officer Wanda Billie,” a box-shaped voice said.

  “This is Arthur Owens.”

  There was a long silence. Arthur wasn’t sure if Officer Billie was trying to remember who he was. Or if he’d already said the wrong thing.

  “I spoke with Mr. Hampton today,” the chilly voice finally continued. “And he informed me that you did not follow the directions he gave you on Saturday. Is that correct, Mr. Owens?”

  “No. I mean—yes, I did follow the directions.” Arthur stumbled over his words. “But some things on the list didn’t make any sense, so I found a couple of other things for him instead.” He tried to explain how he’d left the blue lamp instead of lightbulbs, and how he’d found the hubcap and the toaster instead of foil.

  “But everything else he asked for was there. Pretty much…” Arthur’s voice trailed off as he realized he was making about as much sense as his mom when she got upset. Plus, Officer Billie didn’t seem to be listening anyhow.

  Or to care.

  “I didn’t ask you for a list of excuses,” she replied flatly. “I asked if you followed Mr. Hampton’s specific directions.”

  “No,” Arthur mumbled. “Not exactly all of them.”

  “Next time, follow the directions Mr. Hampton gives you. I don’t want to hear from him again. Is that clear?” Officer Billie bellowed into the phone, and then hung up.

  Arthur heard himself saying “Yes, ma’am” to the dial tone.

  FOURTEEN

  Arthur’s first week back at school was about as successful as his first day of probation had been. Going from juvie to school was like going from one extreme to the other. In juvie, you learned to avoid everyone else. If some convict kid wanted to cut in front of you in the food line or steal your banana pudding at supper, you let him, no questions asked.

  When Arthur got back to school in December, everybody avoided him. He felt as if he were inside an invisible box. Nobody bumped into him in the hallway. Nobody spoke to him. When he sat down in the cafeteria for lunch, the other kids picked up their trays and left.

  The whole school knew what he’d done, of course. Nothing was a secret at Byrd Junior High. You couldn’t fart without somebody knowing.

  On Arthur’s first day back, the vice principal, who everybody called Vice, although his name was Mr. Barber, met him at the front door after he got off the bus. He always reminded Arthur of a dry cornstalk. Tall guy. Gray wisps of hair on his head. Grim-colored suits.

  “Follow me,” Vice said, gripping Arthur firmly by one shoulder and steering him down an almost-deserted hallway. “We’ve moved you.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure what “moved” meant until Vice showed him his new locker in the gym hallway. It was at the opposite end of the school from the other seventh graders’ lockers. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they’d decided to put him there to keep him away from everybody else.

  Plus, the coaches’ offices were nearby. Arthur figured the coaches had probably been told to keep a close eye on him and tackle him or something if he did anything violent.

  For some reason, the thought of the balding, overweight football coaches trying to tackle him made Arthur smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Vice asked.

  “Nothing,” Arthur replied quickly.

  “This one is yours.” Vice opened metal locker 1034, which smelled like foot odor.

  “Okay,” Arthur said, glancing inside, although there was nothing to see except a crumpled Oh Henry! candy bar wrapper in the bottom.

  Vice closed the locker again with a clang. “So this is where you’ll be for a while. Until we see how things are going. With good behavior, you might be able to earn your way back to the seventh-grade hallway someday.”

  From the doubtful tone of Vice’s voice, Arthur guessed that no matter how good he was, someday was p
robably never going to come.

  —

  Later in the week, Arthur had a big quiz in his earth science class. He’d thought he understood the material pretty well. He knew about volcanoes and earthquakes and how continental drift is the way the continents move. He remembered some of the facts he’d learned before juvie: how we’re all living on big plates that are floating around—nothing is permanent—and how some people are unlucky enough to live in places where the plates already have big cracks in them.

  Arthur was convinced he was one of those people.

  Despite the gloom and doom, he liked earth science. It was one of the few classes he looked forward to. Industrial arts was another one—maybe because the teacher reminded him a little of his dad. And he never gave out any homework.

  But Arthur had missed an entire set of volcano questions on the quiz. Without even trying to be funny, he had to admit to himself that he’d completely blown it.

  The earth science teacher was a short man from India who everybody called Mr. C because his full name had about twenty letters in it. As he handed the quiz back to Arthur, he shook his head sadly and tapped a dark finger on the missed questions.

  “You must follow directions next time,” he said.

  Follow directions. Arthur wondered if the guy knew Officer Billie.

  —

  During his first miserable week back at junior high, when he was failing stuff and forgetting stuff and going to his foot-odor locker in the gym hall, Arthur often thought about giving up and quitting. His dad had dropped out of school in the eleventh grade. Can you drop out of school in seventh grade? he wondered. And why bother to learn all this crap anyway? What’s the use? What does it matter?

  But whenever he thought about quitting, he’d hear Judge Warner saying, The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And it would make him mad enough to stay.

  FIFTEEN

  Arthur Owens could hardly drag himself out of the house for his second Saturday of probation the next weekend. It was snowing big, wet flakes. The streets were full of slush.