Chapter One: Pinching Pennies I''m sitting on our front stoop, brushing my doll Mitzy''s hair, when Mr. Gray, the rent man, comes, smiling his fat smile. He floomp-paloomps his great big body up the steps. Who does he think he is, almost squishing my fingers? "You''re excused," I say, though he didn''t ask to be. When Mr. Gray knocks, Mama doesn''t answer. That''s because she''s hanging up clothes on the clothesline out back. But I''ve decided I''m not getting Mama.
I''m ignoring Mr. Gray just like he''s ignoring me. Besides, Mr. Gray doesn''t deserve one red cent of my mama''s hard-earned money. He never fixes anything around here. But you watch. Mama will soon be handing Mr. Gray every bit of our rent money just like she always does.
I hate the way my mama has to pinch pennies just to pay the rent on this run-down excuse for a house. Do you think Mr. Gray cares that my daddy ran off like a nogood nobody when I was five years old, then got himself killed, leaving my mama to scrub and wash and sew and clean, working her fingers to the bone all by herself? No. Do you think Mr. Gray cares that I never have two cents to buy a couple of Mary Janes from the jars of penny candy lined up inside Mr. Inge''s grocery store? No. Do you think he cares that I don''t have my own flute, and can''t practice for the school band all summer? No. Do you think he cares about my mama and me? No.
All he cares about is collecting his rent. Too bad Mama can''t afford her own house here in Charlottesville like some of the other colored folks in my neighborhood, like Gwen Turner, my NOT-friend. She lives in a nice brick house on Commerce Street, all because her daddy''s a builder. I''m sure Gwen''s daddy can fix anything that gets broken down at her house. Her daddy has so much money, Gwen gets to buy bags full of candy whenever she wants. She wears different-colored store-bought dresses with matching ribbons every day at school. She even has her own flute. Why can''t I have a daddy like Gwen''s? I''ve seen Mr.
Turner walking through town with his wife and four daughters. I''ve seen him kind-smiling at them, paying attention whenever one of them is talking, holding them if they''re crying. I''ve even seen him break out with a silly song when he wants to make one of his daughters laugh. On top of having a daddy like that, Gwen''s uncle Mr. Coles, our band teacher, treats her like a daughter, too! It''s like Gwen has two daddies. And me? I don''t have one! Just thinking on it makes my inside heat rise. Mr. Gray knocks again.
I start to hum a song to take the lid off my thoughts. They''re bubbling inside me like black-eyed peas simmering in a pot. Just as my inside heat starts cooling, Mr. Gray clears his throat and says, "Run along, missy. Fetch your mother for me." And just like that I''m hot again. It''s the way Mr. Gray says missy like he thinks he''s better than Mama and me.
R un along, missy. Fetch your mother for me . Ha! I''m not running anywhere for you, Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray stares at me. "Late rent comes with a fee," he says. "Mama''s out back," I say, giving in.
"I''ll go get her, but I''m not running, I''m skipping." Mr. Gray laughs, though I wasn''t meaning it to be funny. I hop down the steps, and skip around the side of the house toward Mama. While I''m skipping, I''m thinking on Mr. Johnson at Odin Johnson''s Antiques. He opened his store down on West Main Street this summer and he''s nothing like Mr. Gray.
First of all, Mr. Johnson never stinks of men''s cologne. Second, Mr. Johnson is a fixer. He fixes big things like dressers with broken legs. Medium things like lamps with broken wires. And small things like dolls with missing eyelashes. My best friend Jewel and I have watched him do it.
We like to go into his store and make up stories about the old-timey things he sells. Third, every time Jewel and I visit, we catch him happy-singing, unless he''s with a customer. And the fourth and most important thing is that Mr. Johnson never ignores me. How I wish Mama would marry someone like Mr. Johnson. Then I''d never have to worry about pennies being pinched or being stuck in a broken-down house. My days would be brimmed with happy.
"Mama," I say after I get around back, "Mr. Gray is here." "Gracious me!" Mama says. "Time got away from me." She drops my wet Sunday dress into the clothes basket and places her clothespins back into her apron pocket. She smooths herself out, pats her hair down, and walks toward Mr. Gray. "I don''t like Mr.
Gray," I say to Mama, following her. "Hush your mouth, child," Mama says, though I''m pretty sure, deep-down, she feels the same way. After Mama hands Mr. Gray the rent money, he joggles toward the next run-down house he owns. When he reaches the sidewalk where some girls are singing "On the Good Ship Lollipop," and some boys are playing marbles, he does what he always does. He sticks his fat hand into his pocket and pulls out a handful of pennies. He throws them into the air, and the boys and girls--all with skin in shades of brown, like mine--scatter. I can hear Mr.
Gray laughing, even though he''s halfway down my block, Third Street NW. Would he, I wonder, throw those pennies if those kids had the same color skin as he did? Mama, still behind me, makes a three-steps-down sound on her I''mnot-approvingofthis ladder. " Uhn-uhn-uhn , like little mice after cheese." Then she points her finger at me. "I better never catch you picking up Mr. Gray''s pennies. You hear me?" "Yes, ma''am," I say, though I''m thinking mice are happy when they find cheese, unless there''s a trap.