He shook his head and realized Marla was looking at him still, gave a little laugh.
“Sorry, Memaw always says my mind likes to wander. So what can I do tonight?”
“I’m guessing the kitchen. You know the drill. Head on back.”
He did know the drill. Giveaway Night was held every Friday in the fellowship hall of Dahlia Community Bible Church, and people from just about every church in town came to volunteer in one way or another. Even a couple people from the synagogue over in the city drove over a few times a month to help. He liked that word, synagogue, liked to imagine Jesus speaking to the people inone, like in the picture Rev kept in his office, propped against the long row of church books on his bookshelf. Jesus was just a kid in the picture, a kid like him, and he liked to think they would have been friends, him and Jesus, or at least that he could’ve followed Jesus around a bit. Like the boy who brought fishes and loaves. He could’ve been Jesus’s helper. Mama always said it didn’t matter how old you were. Even kids like him could do big things, good things. Important things.
To the right, the far wall was lined with folding tables that held pitchers of sweet tea and that night’s dinner—tonight, chili and cornbread and big bowls of green salad. A handful of people were working in the kitchen, and against the back wall were several huge tables. There he saw Mr. Mike, who was passing out a bunch of mini bottles of shampoo and other products, and next to him, a lady in a green T-shirt and jeans was neatly stacking some clothing. Papa Toe was playing something on the big black piano, and the guests were all lined up in the front corner near the windows. In the center of the room were rows and rows of tables and chairs, people in almost every one, plates piled high.
“Hello, there, Devon,” a woman’s voice came from his left, and he waved and continued back to the kitchen, slipping on an apron and jumping right in.
Nearly two hours later, he, Marla, and Rev were relaxing at the tables with a handful of the other volunteers, the last dregs of chili and cornbread before them.
“That was Nelly Driggers’s recipe,” Marla said, spooning in her last bite and sighing contentedly.
“What’s on the menu for next Friday?” a man at the end asked.
“Spaghetti and meatballs, and a great big cake,” Rev said. “We’ll be celebrating the first week of our brand new West Dahlia Leaders Summer Enrichment Camp, thanks to Devon here, who gets all the credit for the idea and the initiative.”
Applause went up, and Devon hunched his shoulders.
“I’m proud of you, kiddo.” Marla patted his shoulder. “Thanks to you, local kids can stay off the streets and get some academic direction.”
“I hear they’re even going to do some college prep for the older kids. Helen Chastain’s got that part set,” a woman, Annie somebody, said.
At the end of the night, Rev and Marla called him out back.
“Check out what just happened to roll in here this morning,” Rev said.
And then he was wheeling out a black ten-speed bike from behind the shed. An actual ten-speed, with a basket in the back and a bell on the handlebars. It was a little beat up, but the tires looked full of air and the frame appeared straight.
Devon’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding!”
“No joke, my friend. And a lock, too.” Rev held it out to him, a shiny metal lock and chain. “The lock’s a gift from me and Marla, and the bike is all yours. Consider it a thank you for all you’ve done for Dahlia and the kids. And for this church.”
Devon blinked fast. The words wouldn’t come at first, and it felt like he had a ginormous lump in his throat. But he swallowed past it, tried to smile.
“Wow. I—I don’t know what to say.”
Rev laughed. “Thanks is fine. Now, let’s get you and your new bike loaded up. It’s too late to bike home. We’ll drop you off.”
“I—uh. Thanks.” The bike. It was his. He almost couldn’t believe it.
“You’re welcome, honey.” Marla came up from behind her husband, wrapped Devon in a hug.
When they dropped him off, T’s car was still out front. Devon’s heart thudded. As soon as Rev and Marla were gone, he planned to lock his bike out back, far from where T could see it. No tellingwhat “lesson” Uncle T would dream up if he saw Devon suddenly had a new bike.
“Did Memaw get a car?” Marla peered, squinting through the trees.
“Nah, that’s Uncle T. He’s visiting tonight.” Devon busied himself gathering his lock and the bike, then gave them a wave. “See you Sunday.”
“See you. Tell Memaw we hope she’s feeling better, and we’re prayin’ for her.”
Their car slowly backed out and down the long road, back to the parsonage.
A breeze swept through the trees, and Devon shivered. If he was lucky, T was on the phone, or even better, passed out. And crossing his fingers, he rolled the bike around back.
CHAPTER 11
