Double Dutch by Sharon M. Draper

nothing but turned to the cash register and took out some cash. He gave Randy a pink form. “Fill this out for me. Don’t leave nothin’ blank.”
    Randy obeyed, trembling a little from nervousness and a little from hunger. He had eighty-seven cents in his pocket.
    Mr. Clifford took the form, looked at it carefully, and tossed it into a shoe box on the counter. “I have examinedthis VCR very closely,” he said, although Randy knew he had only glanced at it, “and I find it to be rather valuable-a collector’s item. Since I am a businessman, I cannot give you the full value, but I am willing to give you half of what I think it is worth.”
    â€œSeven dollars and fifty cents?” Randy asked hopelessly.
    Mr. Clifford ignored him and said sternly, “You may not be aware of this, but your machine is worth over six hundred dollars!”
    â€œReally?” Randy asked with astonishment. He knew for a fact that his father had bought it on sale at Wal-Mart for eighty dollars.
    â€œNever doubt a man of business,” Mr. Clifford said, softening his tone a bit. He handed Randy three crisp one hundred-dollar bills. “And don’t go advertising to the neighborhood that I cheated you out of a valuable piece of merchandise!”
    Randy looked at the money in disbelief. He could hold the tears back no longer. “Thank you, Mr. Clifford,” he said softly. “Thank you so much.”
    Mr. Clifford peered at Randy once more through those purple spectacles. “Give the folks at the electric company fifty dollars, son, give thirty to the phone company, a hundred toward your rent, then space the rest out as best you can. Come see me if your dad gets better. And come see me if he don’t. You hear?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Randy mumbled.
    â€œAnd don’t be expectin’ your TV to be no collector’s item in a month or so. If things don’t get better, you go get some help. Got that?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Randy said again. “I really appreciate this.”
    â€œGet outta here now!” Mr. Clifford turned his back to Randy, pretending to sort through some papers on the counter.
    Randy walked slowly toward the door of the shop. “Thanks again,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back.” As Randy walked into the Saturday morning April sunshine, he sighed with relief, but he knew that he could not keep up this situation much longer. Along with food and other expenses, he knew that even Mr. Clifford’s generosity would not last long. He evaluated all his options as he rode the bus downtown to the electric company.
    As Mr. Clifford had predicted, the fifty dollars was enough to hold the lights on for another month at most. Randy left there and walked slowly across the busy downtown street to pay the phone bill, at least a small part of it. Finally, he stopped at a market and bought a few groceries, and headed home to feed the cat. He made himself a fat, juicy hamburger and ate it in three huge bites. He burped.
    He plopped down on the sofa after eating, and found himself talking to the cat once more.
    â€œWell, Cat, I gotta get help. I guess Dad has deserted me just like Momma did.”
    The cat, content and full for a change, dozed near his feet.
    Randy mused, trying to figure out his limited options. His dad was an only child. His mother had been an only child. His grandparents were dead. He refused to call the police or a child abuse hotline. But he didn’t know who else to call. A teacher? Too complicated. Bomani? He alreadyhad ten kids of his own. He had enough problems. Randy just didn’t know what to do.
    Randy stared at the phone. “Please call, Dad. I won’t be mad. Just come home.”
    The phone, as if it had heard him, rang shrilly. Randy lunged to pick it up. “Hello,” he said hopefully.
    â€œHi, Randy.” Even Delia’s cheerful voice didn’t cheer Randy.
    â€œHey, Delia.