A Thousand Never Evers by Shana Burg

could use the cash. And he said I could come too.”
    Mama’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Mr. Mudge’s actions sure speak louder than his words,” she said. “No matter what he says about Negroes, you can’t deny that man’s looking out for our family.”
    That’s when Bessie spread out her long, light fingers and rested them gentle on Mama’s arm. Then Mama wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and smiled at Bessie like she was real grateful for her kindness. And I wondered why I didn’t think of that. Why didn’t I rest my fingers real gentle on Mama’s arm? I reckon it’s because folks who are fetching, like Bessie, know when to do things like that, the same way folks who are plain, like me, know just when to hiccup or sneeze.
    Sometimes Mama and me work Saturday mornings for Mrs. Tate, so Mama had to talk over Mr. Mudge’s offer with her first. But Mrs. Tate said, “Why, of course y’all should plant the garden! Mr. Mudge wouldn’t be hiring beyond his own field hands if he didn’t think we needed the help.” And Mama was glad to hear her say that, because by planting the garden we’re guaranteed a whole day of Saturday work, not just half.
    Now I
tweet, click, click,
and Flapjack scampers down the trunk of the giant oak. Then Mama, Uncle Bump, Bessie, and me set off for Old Man Adams’s place.
    “I reckon Mr. Mudge went and changed his mind about the garden,” I say as we cross the tracks.
    “And from what I can tell, Mr. Mudge doesn’t know a thing about what Mr. Adams wrote in his will,” Bessie says.
    “Well, aren’t we gonna tell him the garden’s ours too?” I ask.
    Mama glares at me. “With Elias gone, don’t you think we’ve got enough to worry ’bout!” she says. Then she tugs Uncle Bump’s arm and the two of them hurry on ahead of Bessie and me.
    When we turn down Magnolia Row, Bessie picks up a stick and runs it across the tall fence that lines Old Man Adams’s garden. “You ready for seventh grade?” she asks.
    “Ready or not, here I come,” I say.
    “At first, Mrs. Jacks seems scary.” Bessie’s stick clicks along the fence. “But she’s not that bad once you learn how to survive.”
    “Oh.” I gulp.
    “There’s not much to it, really,” she says. “Just bake her a pan of corn bread each morning.”
    Corn bread each morning,
I say to myself, fixing the words in my mind.
    “Always do double the math problems she assigns.”
    Double.
    “And stay after school at least once a week to rub her feet.”
    Rub feet.
    My lip quivers. I knew I should’ve flunked sixth grade!
    Then Bessie busts out laughing. “Just jokin’,” she says.
    So I laugh out loud too, and while we cross through the yard of the big house, I add a couple snorts just to make sure Bessie doesn’t think I was taking her serious.
    Soon Bessie, me, Mama, and Uncle Bump meet up with the other twelve hands at the garden gate. Besides little Lydia Cook, who’s here with her mama, all these folks are Mr. Mudge’s regular help.
    As the lot of us look through the iron bars into the garden, one thing’s clear: someone got a head start on this planting. Why, there’s already a couple rows of something growing up right against the gate. “Looks like corn,” Uncle Bump says. “But them stalks is too close together.”
    After being head servant here so many years, my uncle sure knows his vegetables.
    When I spot Mr. Mudge riding toward us, all I can say is I’m sure glad that man’s on his tractor, because that means he can lay most of the seed himself. Why, with the help of his new machine, he could plant over the garden with something simple like crowder peas in just a couple hours. Of course, from what I heard Mrs. Tate say, this planting’s going to be a lot more complicated. We’ve got a whole variety of seed to lay. But still, that tractor will help.
    After Mr. Mudge steps down from it, he unlocks the garden gate with the keys that used to belong to Uncle Bump. And I reckon it hurts