Dream With Little Angels by Michael Hiebert Page A

accusing people just because of no reason. That’s twice you’ve done that. I don’t want you accusing our neighbor because he works all night in his garage, and I especially don’t want no accusing because people are Japanese or any culture different than yours. That’s racist. And I am not raising no racist. Not under my roof.”
    â€œWell, they all have names that sound like Power Rangers,” I said, ignoring her comment about Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow, who, secretly, was still my prime suspect. Not just in the case of Mary Ann Dailey, but in everything.
    â€œWhat? I’m gonna pretend I didn’t even hear that.”
    â€œWhy? Saying their names sound like a cartoon is racist?”
    â€œOf course it’s racist, Abe. Don’t you even know? Remind me to get your Uncle Henry to discuss this with you.”
    I didn’t see how something true could be racist. I didn’t say having cartoon names was a bad thing or nothing. I would actually like a weird name. Especially if it came with super powers of some sort. I decided to keep this thought to myself.
    â€œWhat’s sushi like?” I asked instead.
    â€œI don’t know, but I’m gonna try it before I say I don’t like it. I think it’s great that we get a chance to broaden our horizons without even leaving Alvin. This is one of the reasons for the outreach program.”
    The outreach program was sponsored by our church in an effort to bring more immigration to Alvin. Me and my mother donated money once a week. The church had helped the Takahashis move here. So, in a way, I guess we’re partly responsible for them and their new sushi restaurant.
    â€œOkay, I’ll try it too, then, before I say I hate it,” I said.
    She sighed. “Well, that’s a start.”
    â€œWhat’s a shogun?” I asked.
    â€œActually, I don’t rightly know that, either. Some kind of Japanese warrior. I bet this is another good question for Uncle Henry. Then, after you find out, you can tell me and we’ll both learn something. Or, better yet, next time you see Mr. Takahashi, why don’t you ask him? Just don’t say anything racist.”
    â€œI reckon I don’t know what’s racist and what isn’t,” I said.
    â€œOkay, stick with plan A,” she said. “Ask Uncle Henry. That was a better idea.”

C HAPTER 8
    A s soon as Mom pulled into the drive, I raced inside to call Dewey and tell him about the roadkill. He was skeptical. “Did you actually hit it? Or just see it?”
    â€œBoth. I mean, we hit it and then I looked back and there it was.”
    â€œYou’re sure? ”
    â€œDewey, I’m telling you we ran over a possum. It’s splattered across Main Street.”
    I could hear him sigh through the phone. “Okay, I’m bringing my bike over. Let’s go check it out.”
    Mom stopped me on the way outside. “Where are you going?”
    â€œWith Dewey for a bike ride.”
    She did a weird thing then. She just stood there like she almost wasn’t going to let me go. “Mom, I’ll be with Dewey . On a bike .” I knew she was thinking about Carry off by herself for the day in Satsuma. I felt like telling her: I’m not going to Satsuma, I’m going down the street a mile . But I decided not to.
    With a big breath, she looked away and came to a decision. “Okay, but don’t be long, all right? An hour?”
    â€œI don’t have a watch.”
    â€œWe’ll have to get you one.”
    â€œOkay, but I don’t have one today.”
    Uncle Henry must’ve been listening from the living room where he was watching television. He came in and handed me his Timex. “Here, now you have a watch,” he said. “Please, for your mother’s sake, don’t be late?”
    His seriousness almost scared me. “I won’t,” I said. “We’re just going downtown to check