Verwandte Artikel zu The Seventh Most Important Thing

The Seventh Most Important Thing - Softcover

Pearsall, Shelley

 
9780553497311: The Seventh Most Important Thing
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553497316 ISBN 13: 9780553497311
Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

This “luminescent” (Kirkus Reviews) story of anger and art, loss and redemption will appeal to fans of Lisa Graff’s Lost in the Sun and Vince Vawter’s Paperboy.

NOMINATED FOR 16 STATE AWARDS!
AN ALA NOTABLE BOOK
AN ILA TEACHERS CHOICE
A KIRKUS REVIEWS BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR
 
Arthur T. Owens grabbed a brick and hurled it at the trash picker. Arthur had his reasons, and the brick hit the Junk Man in the arm, not the head. But none of that matters to the judge—he is ready to send Arthur to juvie forever. Amazingly, it’s the Junk Man himself who offers an alternative: 120 hours of community service . . . working for him.
 
Arthur is given a rickety shopping cart and a list of the Seven Most Important Things: glass bottles, foil, cardboard, pieces of wood, lightbulbs, coffee cans, and mirrors. He can’t believe it—is he really supposed to rummage through people’s trash? But it isn’t long before Arthur realizes there’s more to the Junk Man than meets the eye, and the “trash” he’s collecting is being transformed into something more precious than anyone could imagine. . . .
 
Inspired by the work of folk artist James Hampton, Shelley Pearsall has crafted an affecting and redemptive novel about discovering what shines within us all, even when life seems full of darkness.
 
“A moving exploration of how there is often so much more than meets the eye.” —Booklist, starred review
 
“There are so many things to love about this book. Remarkable.” —The Christian Science Monitor

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

A former teacher and museum historian, Shelley Pearsall is now a full-time author. Her first novel, Trouble Don’t Last, won the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction. The idea for The Seventh Most Important Thing began many years ago when she first saw outsider artist James Hampton’s amazing work. She was disappointed that so little is known about Hampton and was intrigued that his work was brought to light by anonymous sources. It was the perfect foundation for this remarkable, inspiring novel. To learn more about the author and her work, visit ShelleyPearsall.com and follow her at @ShelleyPearsall.

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One

On a bitter November day in Washington, D.C., when everything felt metallic--when the sky was gray and the wind stung and the dry leaves were making death-rattle sounds in the alleys--thirteen-year-old Arthur Owens picked up a brick from the corner of a crumbling building and threw it at an old man's head.

It wasn't an accident. The brick didn't topple off the decrepit building. It didn't fall from the heavens. Arthur Owens grabbed the brick with his own hands. He held it for a minute, noticing the cold weight of it--and then he raised his arm and flung it at the old trash picker known as the Junk Man, who was pushing a rusty grocery cart down the street.

Lucky for Arthur Owens, it was a windy day and his ability to see things at a distance had never been good. Also, the front wheel of the grocery cart wobbled off the sidewalk at precisely the right moment. As the old man leaned to straighten the cart, Arthur's brick slammed into his shoulder, sending him crumpling to the ground and the grocery cart skidding into the street.

If it hadn't been for the wind and the wobbly cart and Arthur's bad aim, it could have been a lot worse, everybody said. In the hospital later, the Junk Man told a newspaper reporter he believed it was an act of God.

"You being saved?" the reporter asked, already jotting down the answer he expected to hear.

"No" was the Junk Man's odd reply. "Me being hit."



Those were the facts. On November 9, 1963, the story ran in all three of the city's newspapers. One headline read: THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOY ATTACKS CITY MAN. Then, in smaller type below, it said: Man Saved by Good Samaritan.

Most people didn't care much about the facts, though. They didn't care about the particular place where the crime happened--not a bad neighborhood, but not a good one either. Or how a newspaper delivery truck driver who'd taken a wrong turn spotted the injured man on the sidewalk and rushed him to a nearby hospital.

What everybody wanted to know was why.

Arthur Owens spent three weeks in the Juvenile Detention Home, better known as juvie, asking himself the same question.



Two

A lot happened during the three weeks Arthur was locked up--the worst being that President Kennedy was killed. Then the guy who killed President Kennedy was killed. And then the Thanksgiving holiday passed by without much mention in juvie or anywhere else. Arthur didn't mind missing it. Along with the rest of the world, he didn't have much to be thankful for.

Four days after Thanksgiving, Arthur was brought to the courthouse for the hearing that would decide his fate. He was seated in a long row of bad kids, so he figured it was going to be a while.

Unfortunately, the judge assigned to hear Arthur Owens's case was not a listening sort of man. Judge Philip Warner liked his billowy black robe and the sound of his own voice too much. He reminded Arthur of those big horseflies that get stuck in your window in the summertime and buzz like mad and won't quit no matter what you do.

As the morning dragged on, the temperature in the courtroom rose. If Arthur had ever wondered what the fires of hell were like, Judge Warner's courtroom was giving him a pretty good idea. People who had come in wearing their winter coats and wool suit jackets were down to their shirtsleeves.

Arthur kept his suit jacket neatly buttoned and his sleeves down. He knew it was what his mom would want.

Doing his best to stay awake, he tried to focus on the walls of the courtroom, which were covered with vertical panels of grooved wood. Arthur thought maybe the design was supposed to make the room appear sleek and modern, but the longer he stared at the panels, the more they seemed to ripple in sickening waves. He began to believe that even the walls had been designed as a kind of punishment.

The combination of all these things--the swimming walls, the heat, the sweat, and the judge's endless voice--made him feel as if he just might puke when his turn finally came.

"Arthur T. Owens, approach the bench," the bailiff called out.

It was only a few steps from his chair to the judge's bench, but to Arthur it felt like miles. He could sense the breathing, sweaty mass of people behind him the way you sense the weight of bullies right before they're about to smash you into a wall of lockers at school.

There had been a lot of bullies in juvie--it was practically a bully vacation spot.

No doubt some of the people in the courtroom were surprised to see what Arthur Owens looked like as he walked to the front. He wasn't your typical juvie thug. He didn't have meat slabs for hands, or full facial hair, or an insolent grin.

He thought he could hear a few whispers behind him. "That's him?"

Arthur Owens was slender, pale, and moody-looking. Maybe he was a little taller than some thirteen-year-olds--his father had been tall--but mostly, he was someone who wouldn't get noticed walking down the street. When his brown hair flopped over his eyes, Arthur had the bad habit of leaving it there, which drove his mother crazy. He also didn't smile much.

As Arthur glanced nervously at the long row of juvenile delinquents, he could tell he was one of the youngest of all the young criminals waiting on the judge that day. And from what he could see, he was the only person who was wearing an almost-new funeral suit that didn't fit him very well.



Three

Judge Warner took a moment to study Arthur Owens when he reached the bench. It was his way of making the kids squirm.

As the judge glared at him, Arthur tried to decide what to do with his hands and feet, which suddenly seemed to be completely useless objects. He crossed and uncrossed his arms, shifted from one foot to the other, and did his best to ignore the sickening flip-flopping in his stomach. Sweat made his undershirt stick to his back.

The judge finally spoke after glancing down at a piece of paper handed to him by the bailiff. "You are Arthur Thomas Owens?"

"Yes," Arthur thought he said.

"I didn't hear you, young man."

"Yes, Your Honor," Arthur replied, slightly louder.

"Look up at me when you are speaking."

Arthur swallowed. He hated looking at people when he was speaking. It made him feel like they could X-ray every thought in his head. Usually, he had his hair to hide behind, but that morning his mother had taken a pair of scissors to the front of it. "To make you look less guilty," she'd told him.

Arthur didn't think his hair had anything to do with his guilt, but there was nothing left now but a jagged fringe high above his forehead. He tugged at it with his fingers.

"Okay," he mumbled, glancing up at the judge's thick round glasses and oddly magnified eyes, then looking back down at his feet. There was a long pause, as if the judge was trying to decide if he was entitled to more respect than he was getting. The room was quiet, expectant.

When the judge's gaze finally returned to the paper in his hands, Arthur held back a loud sigh of relief.

"According to what I've read about your case, I understand you attacked a man named James Hampton in a vicious and unprovoked manner on November eighth. Is that correct, Mr. Owens?"

Arthur blinked, momentarily confused by the name.

James Hampton? Who was James Hampton?

It took him a minute to figure out the judge was talking about the old Junk Man. Arthur tried not to look surprised by the fact that the man had a real name.

Everybody had a name, of course, but he had to admit he'd never thought about the Junk Man having one. He couldn't recall anybody in the neighborhood ever using it--especially not a name as formal-sounding as James Hampton, which could have belonged to a school principal or somebody's grandfather.

It definitely...

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Verlag
Random House Children's Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2016
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553497316
ISBN 13 
9780553497311
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

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