Me and Rupert Goody by Barbara O'Connor Page A

and I help Uncle Beau sort out the fresh stuff. I act like I don’t know what time it is.

    â€œOkay, Jennalee,” Uncle Beau says. “Time to get that head of yours filled up with something besides nonsense.”
    â€œShoot,” I say “Ain’t nothing at that school worth my time.”
    Uncle Beau tries to hide his smile, but I see it. His eyes crinkle up and his whiskery chin quivers. He points his finger at me and says, “Don’t you go gettin’ too big for your britches.” His fingers are all crooked with arthritis and sometimes I stare at them. Uncle Beau says they’re “whomper-jawed” and cusses about them. “You get old, Jennalee,” he says, “your fingers get all whomper-jawed and it’s a damn hateful thing.”
    I go on off to school to waste my time till three o’clock and then I go right back to Uncle Beau’s store. By then, there’s folks sitting around on the porch smoking and drinking soda. Ole Jake looks like he ain’t moved a muscle since I been gone, but his tail starts thumping again when he sees me.
    â€œWant me to empty the bottle caps?” I ask Uncle Beau.
    â€œThat’d be good, Jennalee,” he says.
    I take the key off the hook by the door and open up the soda machine. Uncle Beau likes bottles, not cans. “Tastes better in a bottle,” he says. I agree.
    I empty all the bottle caps into a milk carton. I take the milk carton around back to the shed. Then I go back and sit on the front steps and listen to the grownups talk. Making jokes I hardly ever get. Telling the same stories over again for about the umpteenth time. Once in a blue moon
a car pulls in, sending dust flying and making everybody stop talking and look up. If it ain’t somebody from Claytonville, it’s most likely some tourist asking directions to Cherokee, where the Indian reservation is. We stare, inspecting their car, eyeing their clothes. If there’s a kid in the car, I set my face hard and stick my chin up, acting like this is my store. Somebody on the porch always says, “Just keep headin’ that way and you can’t miss it.” As the car’s pulling away, Uncle Beau’ll holler, “Hold on to your wallet when you get there, Paleface.” We all laugh.
    Cherokee attracts tourists like a horse attracts flies. The streets are lined with shops and motels and diners. The Tomahawk Inn. Big Chief’s Cafe. Running Wolf’s Souvenir and Gift Shop. For five dollars, you can have your picture taken with a real Cherokee Indian chief. For twenty dollars, you can buy genuine deerskin moccasins.
    â€œMade in China,” Uncle Beau points out, showing me the bottom of the moccasins in his store. “All that Indian bullcrap stuff is made in China.” Uncle Beau’s got a sign in the store window says, “Why Pay Cherokee Prices? Buy Your Genuine Indian Souvenirs Here.” He’s got beaded belts and headdresses with colored feathers. Tom-tom drums and tepee salt-and-pepper shakers and wooden napkin holders with “Great Smoky Mountains, Home of the Cherokee” carved on them.
    I love that stuff. I wipe the dust off, try on the moccasins, beat the drums. Uncle Beau don’t sell much of it. I guess most folks would rather pay more to get their souvenirs
from real Cherokee Indians. Sometimes they ask Uncle Beau if he’s Cherokee. I know for a fact Uncle Beau ain’t got one drop of Cherokee blood in him. “One hundred percent pure North Carolina paleface,” he tells me. Course, that ain’t what he tells them tourists when they ask if he’s Cherokee. “Son of a chief,” he tells them. After they leave, he looks at me and says, “Chief fry cook and bottle washer.”
    At closing time, I help Uncle Beau bring in the bargain table. I turn the sign around. Closed. Uncle Beau tells me, “Button the door, Jennalee.” That means lock up. I