Last in a Long Line of Rebels by Lisa Lewis Tyre Page A

barely stopped the car before I jumped out. “I’m getting out of these clothes,” I yelled over my shoulder. Upstairs, I took off my dress and hung it back in the closet. I pulled on a faded pair of denim shorts and dug a dirty T-shirt out of the hamper. Some people like comfort foods; I like comfort clothes. I could already feel the anger from before being replaced with something more like sadness.
    The wavy glass distorted the scene below, but I could see Daddy and Isaac piling up scraps of cast-off machinery. I rested my forehead against the glass pane and tried to imagine living somewhere else. I pictured Benzer’s brick house with its two-car garage, and the rental cottage Patty had moved into after her parents’ divorce, complete with its beige carpeting and white walls. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see myself in any of those rooms. Sure, our front porch sagged, but when the sun shone through the gingerbread trim, it made a cool pattern against the wall. And I loved that I could sit on our roof, the part above the porch, just by opening my bedroom window and stepping outside. Sitting on the shingles, under the shade of the big oak tree, and watching as teenagers drove up and down the street on their way to the ball field was one of my favorite pastimes. How could it all be torn down? My eyes filled with tears, and I wiped them away with my sleeve.
    I looked down again and saw Isaac, sweat soaking through his T-shirt as he worked his shovel into the hard ground. Daddy was still going through the scrap metal pile, piece by piece, with a determined look on his face. He hadn’t told me about the house, but I could see he was trying hard to get the twenty-five thousand dollars to save it. I let out a long breath, letting the last of the anger out with it.
    I picked the notebook off the bed, where I’d tossed it, and hid it deep in my sock drawer. Tonight I’d write down everything I’d learned so far. Dad and Isaac weren’t quitting, and neither was I. We’d find a way out of this mess. We just had to.
    I walked through the junkyard’s gate in time to see Isaac freeing a rusty piece of metal from the dirt. His Green Day T-shirt was stained, and his jeans were dirty, but I thought he looked like those models on posters at the mall. Coach Peeler might not like his skin color, but I sure did. It was way nicer than my pasty-white color. I waved, and he took off the headphones he was wearing and placed them around his neck.
    â€œHey! What are you doing working on a Sunday?” I asked.
    Isaac leaned on the handle of his shovel. “Hi, Lou! Your daddy wants to organize the junkyard. We’re going to take this load of scrap metal to Cookeville, and he’s got some refrigerators to sell at the Crossville flea market. I’m happy to help, since I need all the money I can get.”
    â€œDaddy told me about the scholarship,” I said. “That’s just wrong.”
    â€œThanks,” Isaac said.
    â€œI overheard some people at church complaining about it. For a bunch of church folks, they were saying some ugly things.”
    â€œThey were saying some pretty ugly things at my church too,” Isaac said. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected much from Coach Peeler, anyway.”
    â€œCan you do anything about it? I don’t know, appeal it or something?”
    â€œNah, it doesn’t work that way.”
    â€œBut you’ve already been accepted at UT. You’ve got to go there—you’re their biggest fan ever, next to me.”
    â€œHey,” he said, grabbing me in a hug. “Don’t look like that, Lou. I’ve got a bunch of options. Please let me worry about it.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, okay,” I said. I pointed to the headphones. “What are you listening to?”
    â€œI made a new heavy metal playlist.” He grinned. “It goes with my moving-heavy-metal job.”
    â€œSounds