Me and Rupert Goody by Barbara O'Connor

One
    Before Rupert Goody waltzed hisself into Claytonville, I nearly always knew how my days would start and how they’d end. Could’ve bet my last nickel on nearly everything in between. That’s how I like things—predictable. That’s how come I spend my days at Uncle Beau’s.
    Let me explain right off the bat that Uncle Beau ain’t really my uncle. Ain’t no relation to me at all. Everybody in Claytonville calls him Uncle Beau. Always have, far as I know Uncle Beau’s General Store’s been around as long as Claytonville has, I reckon. Maybe longer. Anybody looking to find me might as well start at Uncle Beau’s cause there ain’t no other place I’m likely to be excepting school. It’s for darn sure I ain’t going to be at home.
    It beats me how come the Good Lord plunked me down in the middle of a family like mine—all wild and unpredictable.
My brothers are all the time saying the reason our family is named Helton is cause there’s always a ton of hell going on. Mama slaps them silly when they say that, leaving her red handprint on their cheeks. They start howling and holding their faces and she says, “Y’all hush up that bawlin’ before I give you something to bawl about.” Nine times out of ten at least one of them puts her to the test. “I swear, John Elliott, I’m gonna blister your hide,” she yells. Then she’s swatting and everybody’s ducking and carrying on and I’m hightailing it over to Uncle Beau’s.
    When I complain about my ton-of-hell house, Uncle Beau listens and nods his head and most likely he’ll say, “Well, I reckon that calls for a PayDay” Then he grabs a candy bar off the shelf and tosses it my way. I wolf down that sweet and salty treat real fast cause that’s what I’m used to, eating the good stuff fast before somebody grabs it.
    Uncle Beau always shakes his head and says, “Jeekers, Jennalee, slow down.” But he don’t have to worry about nobody grabbing food off his plate. Sometimes I peek into his little room back of the store. See all his stuff in there just the way he likes it. Nobody using his comb or getting dirt on his pillow.
    Sometimes I pretend like I live there with Uncle Beau. Like I got my own little room back of the store. Got my stuff right out on the dresser and don’t nobody take it. Even got my own bed. My ton-of-hell house is so filled up with kids that if I don’t grab the daybed behind the kitchen, I get stuck with a creaky old cot or a lumpy bed
that smells like pee, thanks to my sister Ruth. Imagine that. An eleven-year-old sleeping with a bed-wettin’ baby.
    Only way to get that daybed is to go to bed real early, which I do. That’s how come I get up with the chickens. And that’s how come I got to know Uncle Beau so good. He gets up with the chickens, too. Turns that sign around in the store window so it says, “Open.” Puts the bargain table out on the porch. Starts the coffee to brewing.
    Most of the time, it’s still dark when I head out for the store. I ain’t even to the front door good before I hear ole Jake’s tail thump-thumping on the wooden floor.
    â€œThat you, Jennalee?” Uncle Beau calls through the screen door.
    â€œNo, it’s Gravel Gertie,” I say, which sets Uncle Beau to laughing. I got no idea who Gravel Gertie is, but Uncle Beau says she used to be in the funny papers.
    I help Uncle Beau put out the doughnuts, trying not to lick my fingers cause he hates it when I do that.
    â€œYou gonna give everybody cooties, Jennalee,” he says. “Then where would I be? No customers coming in my store giving me money cause they all home sick with the cootie fever.”
    When the sun starts peeking over the mountains, Howard Harvey brings the newspapers and some bushel baskets of produce. He takes the shriveled-up squash and rotten tomatoes to feed his hogs