The Mighty Miss Malone Read online

  Also by Christopher Paul Curtis

  Mr. Chickee’s Messy Mission

  Mr. Chickee’s Funny Money

  Bucking the Sarge

  Bud, Not Buddy

  The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Christopher Paul Curtis

  Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Eva Kolenko

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of

  Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Lyrics from “Oh, No! Joe! Don’t You Kill That Boy!” and “More or Less Resigned to Crying over Angela” copyright © Sleepy LaBone. Used by permission of the author.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89736-8

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  In memory of three of my heroes:

  my uncle,

  George Taylor.

  Tuskegee Airman. Congressional Gold Medal winner.

  Hero. 1914–2008.

  My friend

  Harrison Edward Patrick. Hero. 1949–2010.

  And

  my brother,

  Herman David Curtis. Hero. 1957–2011.

  DEDICATION

  There is a small archipelago off the eastern coast of Africa whose name escapes me at the moment. The name isn’t the important part; the important part is the group of people who have inhabited these islands for millennia and developed a unique and thriving culture. Unfortunately, I can’t recall what these people are called either, but once again that’s not really important.

  What is important is the language these kind, peaceful people have developed. Linguists have noted that unlike other languages, which have developed out of practical necessity, this language is based on the description of emotions. The one word in this language that I want to focus on is the word for a Pavlovian type of behavior found in humans in which one action inevitably causes the same reaction. That word is aharuf, and it is translated as meaning the process by which the sight or thought of a particular person, place or object triggers an instantaneous lowering of the gnar (a concept most like blood pressure), a sharp rise in the Qarlo (most closely related to our understanding of endorphins) and an unavoidable beaming grin like that of the upper-paradise squink (a horselike quadruped very similar to the common American jackass).

  After a long journey, I have found my aharuf, two people whom I cannot think about without splitting my face in a joyous smile. No matter what is going on around me, all I have to do is bring them to mind and I’m transported to a better place. They are my wife, Habon, and my daughter, Ayaan.

  This book is dedicated to Habon and Ayaan in, as Miss Malone might say, internal, undying gratitude for bringing me joy and guaranteeing that at the end of each day my cheeks will be sore from far too much smiling.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter One: Journey to Wonderful

  Chapter Two: The Pie Thief

  Chapter Three: The Pie Lady’s Revenge

  Chapter Four: Stabbed in the Back

  Chapter Five: Maid of the Mist

  Chapter Six: Hershey’s Kisses and Lockjaw

  Chapter Seven: The Mysterious Smile of the Man on the Quaker Oats Box

  Chapter Eight: Jimmie Gets a Free Train Ride

  Chapter Nine: The Gary Iron-Head Dogs Meet the Chicky-Bar Giants

  Chapter Ten: A Taste for Perch

  Chapter Eleven: Pulling Myself Together

  Chapter Twelve: Mother and the Hobo

  Chapter Thirteen: The King of Spain Is a Delightful Conversationalist

  Chapter Fourteen: The Sad Truth About Jokes

  Chapter Fifteen: The Brown Bomber Hits Home

  Chapter Sixteen: Back in Lake Myth Again

  Chapter Seventeen: The Road to Crime

  Chapter Eighteen: Deza Steers on the Last Days in Gary

  Chapter Nineteen: The Malones Meet Marvelous Marvin

  Chapter Twenty: The Girl in the Mirror

  Chapter Twenty-One: Riding the Rails

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Learning How to Settle in Flint

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Jimmie Blasts Off on His Rocket Ship

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Losing Jimmie

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Back on the Road

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Settled

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Letter!

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The New Turned Leaf

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Man in the Beautiful Two-Tone Shoes

  Chapter Thirty: Father’s Feet of Clay

  Chapter Thirty-One: Jimmie’s World

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Going Back to Gary

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Quest for Jonah Blackbeard

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part One

  “… Gang Aft A-Gley …”

  Late May 1936

  Gary, Indiana

  Chapter One

  Journey to Wonderful

  “Once upon a time …”

  If I could get away with it, that’s how I’d begin every essay I write.

  Those are the four best words to use when you start telling about yourself because anything that begins that way always, always finishes with another four words, “… they lived happily everafter.”

  And that’s a good ending for any story.

  I shut my dictionary and thesaurus and went back over my essay for the last time.

  The best teacher in the world, Mrs. Karen Needham, had given us a assignment to write about our families. I knew, just like always, she was going to love mine. She’d only asked for two pages but this was our last essay for the year, so I wrote six.

  Once upon a time … in Gary, Indiana, lived a family of three very special, very happy and uniquely talented people. I am the fourth member of that family and much too modest to include myself in such a grandiose description of their exalted number. But many people say I am of the same ilk and for that I remain internally grateful.

  My mother, Mrs. Margaret “Peggy” Sutphen Malone, was born here in Gary, Indiana. She is willowy and radiant and spell-blindingly beautiful. She is also very intelligent. She has a great job cleaning for the Carsdale family. Yes, that Carsdale family! The family whose patriarch is the president of the Gary Citizens’ Bank.

  Her most endearing trait is that she is the glue holding this family together.

  “Deza?”

  I jumped and my pencil flew out of my hand.

  When I’m writing or reading a book, everything else around me disappears. Father says it’s because I’ve settled into what I’m doing, the same way my brother Jimmie does when he’s singing.

  “Jimmie! I told you not to sneak up on me like that when I’m writing!”

  He handed me the pencil. “I couldn’t help it, sis, you were so far gone. What’re you writing?”

  “My last essay for
Mrs. Needham.”

  “You know, a lot of people are saying her not coming back to teach is the best thing that ever happened at Lincoln Woods School.”

  “James Malone, if I ever give one-half a hoot what a lot of people are saying, you have my permission to slap me silly. Mrs. Needham is the best teacher in the world. Now, if you don’t mind. I never bother you when you’re singing, don’t bother me when I’m writing.”

  “But lots of people love listening to me sing, Deza, seems to me like only you, that little pest Clarice Anne Johnson and Mrs. Needham like reading what you write.”

  Jimmie is one of those people who can say something that might sound mean at first, but when he smiles and makes his eyebrows jump up and down you can’t help smiling. He gets this deep, deep dimple in his right cheek and you end up laughing right along with him.

  My dearest friend, Clarice Anne Johnson, has a horrible and completely un-understandable crush on Jimmie. She says she bets you could pour cornflakes in his dimple and eat them out with a spoon.

  I’m hoping Clarice’s taste in boys improves as she gets older.

  “Jimmie, please.”

  “Sorry, sis. I’m heading out, can I do anything for you before I split?”

  “No, thanks. Just make sure you’re back for supper.”

  I looked at Mrs. Needham’s instructions again. “What is the most annoying trait of some of your family members?”

  That was easy to come up with for Father and Jimmie, but I couldn’t think of a single annoying trait for Mother. I wrote:

  Mother’s pet peeve is that she hates the way a lot of people are mean to Jimmie for no reason.

  Her dreams are to see Father get a job where he doesn’t always get laid off, for Jimmie to start growing again and be happy and to watch me graduate from college and be a teacher.

  My father, Mr. Roscoe Malone, was born in a village in Michigan called Flint, which is geologically located 250 miles northeast of Gary. For some reason that none of us can understand he is very proud of this. He is tall and strikingly handsome, he’s also intelligent and well-read.

  He toils and labors mostly for the Company doing work in a horribly hot furnace and sometimes being a janitor.

  His most annoying trait is the way he uses alliteration every chance he has.

  I looked up from my paper. That is so true, but I wondered for a minute if I should put it in the essay. It isn’t like he can help himself.

  He always calls me his Darling Daughter Deza, and I’m supposed to answer that he is my Dearest Delightful Daddy. He calls Jimmie the Genuine, Gentle Jumpin’ Giant, and Jimmie’s supposed to call him his Fine Friendly Father Figure. Father also calls Mother the Marvelous Mammalian Matriarch, but she says she won’t respond because she refuses to play silly word games with such a “hardheaded husband who hasn’t heard how horrible he is.”

  Mother told me, “Such nonsense is in the blood of the Malones and you should be happy that so far it looks like you haven’t inherited any of it.”

  She says Jimmie is a different story.

  I tapped the pencil on my teeth. I know it’s rude and disloyal to discuss family business with other people, but Mrs. Needham says good writing is always about telling the truth.

  Father’s most endearing trait is that he is the best storyteller and poet in the world. He can come up with a poem at the most inappropriate times. His pet peeve is that even though he’s smart it’s very hard to find a job.

  His dream is to do what he was trained to do in Flint, being a carpenter.

  The oldest child in our family, Mr. James Edward Malone, is fifteen years old and has been blessed with the singing voice of a angel.

  Jimmie’s most annoying trait is that he has what Mother says is a napoleon complex. That means Jimmie is not as tall or robust as most boys his age and tries to make up for it by being as loud and full of braggadocio as he can. He also gets in lots of fights.

  Jimmie’s most endearing trait is that he loves me more than any big brother has loved a little sister since time immoral.

  Jimmie is the best big brother in the world.

  On my last birthday we had just finished eating and I could barely sit still because after supper the birthday person gets something special.

  It was my turn to clear the dishes and I stalled around in the kitchen to give them lots of time to get my surprise ready, then walked back into the dining room.

  There were two cupcakes with a candle in the middle of them sitting at my and Jimmie’s spots! A chocolate frosted one for me and a vanilla frosted one for Jimmie!

  I was speechless.

  Jimmie said, “Wow, Ma, these are store-bought!”

  Mother must’ve been putting pennies aside for a long time to buy two such beautiful little cakes.

  Father said, “James, please do the honors.”

  Jimmie closed his eyes, then settled into singing “Happy Birthday.”

  I got chills. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Jimmie’s voice or because I was so excited.

  Mother and Father joined in on the last chorus.

  When they were done I smiled so hard it felt like my cheekbones were crushing my eyeballs!

  Jimmie said, “I got you two gifts. One, I’ll wash and dry dishes for a week, and two …”

  He looked at Father and they walked into the other room.

  When they came back each one of them was carrying a heavy package wrapped in newspapers.

  They set them down in front of me.

  I said, “Flint style or Gary style?”

  Father always tells us Mother opens packages and envelopes Gary style. He says we Gary people pry and poke and pull the envelope so carefully and daintily and take so long doing it that we might as well be doing brain surgery. He says we do it that way because Indiana people are so cheap that we want to use the same envelope over and over.

  “Word has it,” he said once, “that there’ve only been two envelopes used in the whole state of Indiana since the War of 1812.”

  Then he showed us what he called opening something Flint style. It was a race to see how quick you could get what was inside the envelope or package out.

  “To be officially Flint style,” Father says, “the envelope or the wrapping paper has to be shredded into at least six different pieces. It’s got to look like confetti.”

  I glanced at Mother.

  She shook her head and said, “I suppose you can’t fight the fact that half of your blood is from Flint.”

  I tore into the newspaper on the first present and was shocked!

  It was old and tired and I had used it a million times before. How did Jimmie get this?

  Jimmie said, “The library was selling books they didn’t want anymore. Here’s the receipt for these two.”

  He handed me a piece of paper.

  He’d paid three cents for the dictionary and two cents for a thesaurus.

  Inside the first page of the dictionary someone had stamped in red ink WITHDRAWN.

  Jimmie had written underneath that, Febarery 14, 1935, happy twelve brithday sis.

  The dictionary and the thesaurus are the best birthday presents I will ever get. The best “brithday” presents too.

  I looked back over my essay.

  Jimmie’s pet peeve is when people call him Shorty, Little Fella, or worst of all, Pee-Wee.

  His dream is to start growing again until he is a six-foot-tall man who is covered with bumpy muscles. Jimmie’s other dream is to be the first boy to drive a rocket ship to the moon. He is very disillusional.

  The youngest Malone child, your devoted author of this essay, Deza, is twelve years old, which makes me the third-oldest child in my class. I didn’t flunk, but two years ago I had to sit out a year of school because Mother was struck down by a horrible disease called Tic Do La Roo. That is a French word that means “Pain of the Devil.” Her face felt like it was on fire and she needed a very responsible person to look after her all day. I did it. My teachers said I could skip f
ourth grade to stay with my class but being a year behind meant I could be in class with the dearest friend anyone’s ever had, Miss Clarice Anne Johnson. I fought to stay. And I won.

  I am neither very intelligent nor very tall. I also have not been blessed with a beautiful singing voice. I have a pleasingly even disposition unless it’s one of those times that I become very angry or scared and have embarrassing wishes to hurt someone real bad.

  In the next part of the essay I was supposed to tell about my most annoying trait. I really did try, but I couldn’t think of even one. I thought about making one up, but even with my good imagination nothing came to mind that anyone with a whit of sense would believe.

  Clarice and I had been walking home. “What do you think is my most annoying trait, Clarice?”

  She said, “Ooh, Deza, you’re not done with the essay yet?”

  “I was just having trouble with that part.”

  “You know that I don’t think you have any annoying traits, Deza, but …”

  She stopped.

  “But what?”

  “But maybe you could use some of the things other people say about you behind your back.”

  I don’t pay a bit of attention to anything people say behind my back, but Mother tells me and Jimmie that we can learn something from anybody, even from a big idiot.

  I said, “What do they say?”

  “Well …”

  I thought Clarice might have a problem coming up with something, but she held up a finger. “First, they think you’re too friendly with teachers.…”

  Her next finger went up.

  “Second, they say you think you’re so smart.…”

  Another finger came up.

  “Third, they say you think your family is so great.…”

  Another finger.

  “Fourth, they say you talk too much and that you talk all proper.…”

  Her thumb came up.

  “Fifth, they think you’ve got your nose stuck up in a book most of the time.…”

  Clarice raised a finger on her left hand. “Sixth …”

  I stopped her before we had to sit so she could take off her shoes and start counting on her toes. I said, “Maybe I do talk a little too much.”