I grab my bike and head straight for the wishing spot—but it feels empty, because Lexie’s not here, and Mom never came for the open house, and now I’ve got a letter from the House Beautification Committee in my pocket and eyes that are fogging up with tears.
They hated it. The words pour into my stomach and harden, like concrete: they hated my house. Some shine, I tell myself, the voice in my head sounding ugly, like a chord played with a wrong note.
I leave Mom’s billboard and head straight for Montgomery. I keep my fingers crossed the entire time that Chuck will be there.
When I skid to a stop, I find the playground marked off by yellow caution tape. I can’t quite bear to look, and I’ve stared to turn my bike around when I hear my name. With Montgomery being so empty, the sound is eerie, and it makes me shiver.
“Auggie!” the voice calls again.
I pull my eyes from the frayed laces of my tennis shoes and feel my entire body spread into a smile. I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist, because I don’t want to look upset in front of the man hurrying across the playground. “Mr. Gutz!” I shout.
His name makes him sound like a terrifying monster—some creature that rises from a swamp, covered in moss, his eyeballs and guts hanging by threads. But Mr. Gutz is no monster. He’s a real-live man, with his eyeballs and insides right where they should be—a man with sparkling silver hair and kind eyes and a laugh that’s always waiting to skip out from behind his lips. When I was still a student at Montgomery, he was my vice principal.
“Actually,” Mr. Gutz says. “It’s not Mr. Gutz anymore. My wife never liked it, so last summer, we changed our name to her maiden name. It was my anniversary present to her. It’s Mr. Chong now.”
My face falls. Chong is as nice a name as any, but it pinches me that Gutz is gone. It just seems like everything is losable—even a funny last name.
“What happened out here, anyway?” I ask.
“The House Beautification Committee roped it off,” he says sadly. “I’m back to teaching again—over at Eastwood Elementary—and I came by after school to check in on the old place. I would have liked the playground equipment to be left alone, so that it could be used by all the neighborhood children. I hoped the families living in the area could use it as a park. But the equipment was already old, and it got knocked around in the storm. Since Hopewell is holding services here, the committee thought it would be best to keep everyone off the playground. Just as a precaution.” He talks a little distantly, like the words coming out of his own mouth are still a shock to him.
“The House Beautification Committee,” I grumble, shaking my head. The letter in my hand feels as heavy as a concrete block.
“Mr. Gutz—Chong—I—was hoping—Chuck—” I try, but my eyes are starting to get watery all over again.
“In the all-purpose room,” he says. “Getting ready for the big rummage sale.” He cocks his head to the side. “You okay, Auggie?”
I nod, but I don’t feel okay at all. I race inside, where the entire all-purpose room is filled with tables, and the tables are piled high with stuff. A giant sign on the back wall announces RUMMAGE SALE—PROCEEDS GO TO THE REBUILDING OF THE HOPEWELL COMMUNITY CHURCH.
The squeak of my sneakers on the tile floor makes him turn.
“Hey, Auggie,” he says, but his face looks funny—a little out-of-shape, like a washcloth right after all the water’s been wrung out of it.
I feel the same way.
“You’ve been collecting this stuff a long time,” I say. Because it’s going to take me a minute to work up the nerve to admit the real reason I’ve come to talk to him.
“Longer than I’d initially hoped,” he agrees.
“You got a lot of stuff,” I tell him hopefully.
He only barely nods.
“It is,” I insist. “A lot.”
“Sure. But it’s a rummage sale. A quarter here. A dime there. Maybe a dollar every now and then.” He shakes his head. “You’re right, Auggie. We got a lot of stuff.”
The smile he tries to put on wobbles as he eyes me. “What’s the matter?”
“The House Beautification Committee has decided they don’t like my renovations.”
I show him my letter. As he reads, he takes in a giant breath of air, the way people do when they’re shocked.
“Would you come take a look?” I ask, because if anyone can find something nice to say about our work, it would be Chuck.
He stares at the mounds of stuff and smiles weakly as he offers, “I’ll come look if you’ll give me twenty minutes of sticker help.”