Middle of Nowhere by Caroline Adderson

didn’t he,” Artie said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Artie sat up, gulping back tears. “He tricked you! He was mean!”
    â€œReally mean,” I said. “The meanest kid I ever met. I just hope
you
never have to meet him.”
    I felt awful saying that.
    Because what I was doing to Artie? It was the very same thing Brandon had done to me.
    6
    THE NEXT NIGHT Mrs. Burt wouldn’t even answer the phone when it rang. She said, “It’s Marianne — again.”
    â€œWho’s Marianne?” I asked.
    â€œA big-shot lawyer in Toronto. In other words, a sharpie.” Then she added that Marianne was her daughter. I was surprised by the way she said it, the same way she said “telewhatsit.” “She wants to sell me out.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    â€œShe wants to put me in a home with a bunch of drooling old people, then sell this place. She’ll make a lot of money. Everybody else sold out. I used to have neighbors, but they all went to live in apartments. Then they tore the houses down and threw up these cheap places. There went the neighborhood. But I got my pride.”
    I didn’t say anything. We were living in one of those cheap places.
    â€œThe other idea she has,” Mrs. Burt went on, “is to pay some nosy person I don’t even know to take care of me. You know what I said to her yesterday? I said I had arranged my own help, thank you very much! That’s you two boys.”
    Artie beamed and started patting her on the back. But the gas stayed inside her and she finally sent him away to play in the living-room. Mrs. Burt had shelves full of china figurines — shepherd boys and girls in hoop skirts. She didn’t seem to care about them very much because she let a five-and-a-half-year-old with clumsy hands march them around on the coffee table.
    I stayed in the kitchen and listened to her complain about her daughter. No wonder she was so grumpy all the time. When she finally ran out of mean things to say, I got up to do the dishes. A couple of times I glanced back and saw her sitting there with fogged-up glasses. I felt sorry for her.
    â€œPolice car!” Artie started crowing in the living-room.
    It was his favorite thing, along with ambulances, fire trucks and taxis.
    â€œThey’re getting out of the car!” he sang now. Then he called, “Cur-
tis!
They’re going to
our
building!”
    I ran to the living-room. Across the street, two officers were buzzing at the intercom. They could have been ringing for somebody else in the building — it sure wasn’t the first time the police had come around — but I still felt panicky.
    Nobody seemed to be answering.
    Then Mrs. Burt appeared and cried, “Duck, boys! Quick!”
    We dropped down onto the sofa.
    â€œStay down,” she said. “You don’t want them to see you, do you?”
    Artie started whimpering, “Are they coming for us?”
    Mrs. Burt stuck her jaw in the air. “Help me, Curtis. I’m going over to see what they want.”
    She went out the back door so I could help her down the steps without being seen.
    â€œDo you think the landlord called them because the rent check bounced?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s what I’m going to find out,” she said, setting off on her own with the walker.
    I went back inside. In the living-room, I stepped behind one of the drapes. Artie did the same and together we watched Mrs. Burt hobble out the ABSOLUTELY NO FLYERS! gate. She did a fake double take, like she had just noticed the police. She waved and called out something to them as she crossed the street.
    One of the officers went over to her and they talked for a while. I saw Mrs. Burt’s expression change. Her glasses slid down her nose. She didn’t bother to push them up, just gave her little knitted cap a shake, as though she was sorry about something. Then she nodded to the officer and