Close to Famous (10 page)

Betty shook her head. “Not less than fifty.”

“I got overhead, woman!”

Betty glared at him until he muttered, “All right. Fifty percent. We'll try it for one day.”

I'm a professional baker! At least till tomorrow. Longer, maybe, if I don't mess up.
I ran out the door, hugging my Bake and Take.

“Can I have a muffin for my tarantula?” the taller red-headed boy asked.

“No!”

He pressed the remote and the tarantula's eyes lit up. “You want to pet him?”

I jumped over that thing and headed down the road. I had big-time baking to do.

WHAT I CAN absolutely tell you about these chocolate chip muffins that I just baked for Angry Wayne is that they are the best ones of my career—fat, buttery, golden brown, and a little crusty on top. I tried to imagine them going into the deepest recesses of Angry Wayne's heart, but that was hard to picture. I put them on a rack to cool and thought about Eddington Carver.

He and I were the king and queen of school bake sales. Eddington sold his enormous raspberry rolls that were so light and sweet you'd eat them until you got sick. I brought my triple chocolate blowout cupcakes that had cocoa, chocolate chips, and chocolate sprinkles on top. The smartest thing I ever did in sixth grade was give Mrs. Ritter a free cupcake. It was the only time she smiled at me. I think it might be why I passed sixth grade.

I looked at the book on the table tucked under the Bullet's round window. It was Mama's favorite book of all time,
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Don't go thinking I could read the title. I couldn't. It had one of those trick titles, because it didn't have a bird anywhere in the story. Last year Mama read the book to me. It was about life in the South and how unfair some white people were to a black man, so unfair that they accused him of doing something he didn't do. Mama said the story is about courage and fighting for justice, but I think it's about what hate can do.

I held the book; 281 pages, all small print, no pictures. It was almost falling apart, too, because Mama had read it so much. Books were Mama's friends.

I needed a best friend in this town.

Eddington moved to Texas the day after school was out. I baked him butterscotch muffins to eat in the car. “Someday,” he told me, “crowds of people are going to line up to buy this muffin.”

He gave me his number, but I lost it. I wished I could call him and tell him that I got a job as a baker for a day.

There was a knock at the door. It was Kitty. She held out her phone. “It's that boy, Macon. He says it's an emergency.”

I took the phone. “Hi . . .” was as far as I got.

“I'm desperate, Foster! I've got a fever and I'm coughing and I can't go to Miss Charleena's for a few days. I need you to go there and do my chores. I called Amy first, but she said she couldn't handle the stress.”

This sounded like a
bad
idea. “I have to ask my mom.”

“You have to do this, Foster, or Miss Charleena will hire another kid and I'll never be able to buy a movie camera! My entire life will be ruined! You're my only hope!”

Mama said, “Of course, what an opportunity,” and that's why I am standing in front of Macon's house. It was set in the back of the woods hidden from the road. There were lots of houses here, but Macon's house looked like people had been adding onto it without thinking. There was a section painted yellow and another painted blue, the roof had three different colors, a door leaned against a tree, a curling stairway went up to the roof.

Macon opened a window. “I called Miss Charleena and told her you were coming.”

“What did she say?”

“She made a sound.”

“What kind of a sound?”

“Like a grunt. Knock at the back door and she'll let you in. She's really very nice when you get to know her, although that can take a long time. I'm sorry I can't come out; I've got hives.”

“That's okay.”

“There's nothing about hives that's okay, Foster!” He started coughing like he was going to die.

“Feel better!”

I walked past flat-roof houses and trailers with broken-down cars in front of them. Clothes flapped on lines. I walked past FOOD and the Church of God FOR SALE and saw a woman and a man get out of a car. They walked toward the church.

“It won't take much to knock this place down,” the woman said.

The man looked at the church and nodded. They headed up the stairs.

“Lots of parking, too,” she mentioned, and unlocked the big lock on the front door.

They went inside.

“Lord, give me strength.” Perseverance Wilson marched up like she had to defend all that was right and true. Garland was behind her.

“Who's that lady?” I asked.

“The
Realtor
,” Garland explained as his mother headed up the steps. “The guy is from the Taco Terrific restaurant chain.”

“They're terrible.”

Percy shouted, “They want to put one here on sacred ground.” She opened the church door and yelled. “Did you folks know about the rodent problem?”

Garland looked like he wanted to punch something. I said, “This must be hard for you.”

“My dad built this church.”

I could hear Percy's voice: “And when you folks get to the basement, be sure to get a good look at the photos of my late, great husband, our founding pastor. His heart is in these walls!”

Angry Wayne had Barry and Larry out back by their earlobes. “You scared that lady so bad with that blasted tarantula, she started choking!”

I left the muffins and cupcakes at the counter with Betty. “It's a good batch,” I told her.

A man wearing mirrored sunglasses came over. “Those the ones you were talking about?”

Betty put them in a container. “They are.”

“I'll take two.”

That's a good start. I headed out the door to Miss Charleena's and almost got knocked over by Angry Wayne storming in.

“Hello, sir.”

He didn't say anything.

“I brought the muffins and the—”

He hit the buzzer on the wall and stood behind the grill.

“It's my best batch ever,” I whispered, and went outside where Barry and Larry were trying to get their tarantula to climb a rock.

“We're saving up for a black widow spider,” the short boy said. “Then we'll rule.”

“Are you Barry or Larry?”

“Larry.”

The taller one stepped forward. “And that would make me . . . ?”

“Difficult,” I said.

Larry broke up at that.

I headed to Marigold Hill, Miss Charleena, and who knew what else.

I PUT ON my TV smile and knocked at the back door.

Miss Charleena opened it, not smiling. She was wearing a bright red shirt, white jeans, and a necklace with a silver circle.

I gulped. “Hi, Miss Charleena.”

She didn't say hello. She gave me a long list—two pages stapled together on pretty blue paper.

“I'm feeling weak,” she said. “I'm going to lie down. I
do not
like being disturbed.” She walked away, her heels click clicking.

I looked at the list and my mind closed up. I could make out a few of the words like
dogs
,
food,
and
don't
.

Feed the dogs?

Feed the dogs food?

I pictured Macon getting fired and never getting his movie camera, all because I couldn't read.

The phone rang and rang. Am I supposed to answer it? It stopped ringing, then it started again. Maybe Miss Charleena was too sick to answer it. I reached for the phone. “Miss Charleena's house. This is Foster speaking.”

“
This
is Charleena Hendley. Why do I not hear the sounds of you getting down to work?”

I gulped.

“Surely, I've given you enough to do.”

“Yes ma'am, the thing is . . .”

“
What
is the thing?”

How do I tell her? “I'm having a little trouble reading your handwriting. It's real pretty and all.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” She slammed the phone down.

Now what do I do? I didn't hear anything for the longest time, then Miss Charleena's click clicking sounds were coming toward the kitchen. I stood at attention as she entered. She looked at me, not impressed. “
Here
is a computer printout of your tasks.” She handed me a sheet of paper that was plain as anything, if you're a reader.

I took a big breath. “I want to do everything like you want it, Miss Charleena, and I appreciate you trusting me in your house. Could we just go over this list and then you can get back to resting?”

She looked at me for a minute. I didn't dare breathe. Then she sat at the table and began to read from the list, but not in a normal person's voice, like the great actress she was.

“Feed the dogs, Foster. The food is in the cabinet above the refrigerator. They like some chicken breast chopped fine mixed in with their food and a little bacon or shaved parmesan on top. That's in the refrigerator.”

My amazing memory clicked this into place.

“Are we clear so far?”

I nodded. She looked at me like she was trying to figure something out. “Why don't you read the second item?” She pushed the list toward me.

I pushed it back. “I'd like you to do it.”

She held it out to me. “Go ahead.”

I looked at the mess of words and shook my head. “I wish you'd read it, Miss Charleena. I didn't bring my glasses.”