Free The Lost Songs by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

by definition, a Yankee was filled with scorn. Doria was an exception to most rules, socially, academically and musically. But Yankee would win. A Northerner expected the South to be minor league, if not outright failure. And that was what Doria Bell would see.
    The houses in Chalk were so small. There was so much peeling paint. Everything sagged. Doors sagged. Screens sagged. Gutters sagged. And often, hope sagged.
    No driveways, just packed earth for old cars to park on. Lanes with turns so sharp and narrow, a fire truck couldn’t get through. Big trees towered above the little houses on the steep slope. Autumn leaves were bright as paint, the only color except for clothes drying on lines. On some porches men sat, half visible, drinking beer, playing cards, watching the world.
    Miss Veola said that the women and children in Chalk were the best, but the men were the worst. Lutie said, “That’s not Christian of you, Miss Veola. You can’t write the men off like that.”
    “The men, they write themselves off,” said Miss Veola. “If they could find Jesus, they’d see the fineness in their souls. But they’re too busy finding enemies. If they don’t have one, they make one.”
    Like Train, thought Lutie. He’s not on the prowl for money or drugs. He’s looking for a way to shine. Nice people are background. Violent people show up.
    Maybe Saravette had broken all the commandments, but Lutie didn’t think Train had. Not yet, anyway. Did he want to? Certainly DeRade had wanted to. And did. He hadn’t been brought to trial for that murder, but lack of evidence didn’t mean innocence in DeRade’s case.
    Lutie felt a stab of grief for sweet little Cliff, who had sat next to her in kindergarten. Here in Chalk, the statistics about young African American men and prison were on display, because the wide broom of crime was always sweeping.
    Miss Veola refused to believe that a soul could actually be lost. She was always reaching out, by voice, food, prayer, phone, trying to wrap her fingers around the kids who were sliding away. She cared how people behaved and was always coaxing them to the Lord. When Holler went back to prison (of course his real name wasn’t Holler; he was just a manwho never lowered his voice, which was how the police had caught him), Miss Veola helped his babymama and the children. (Actually, she ordered Lutie to babysit.) She gave Holler a New Testament and told him to read it.
    That was when they found out Holler couldn’t read. Miss Veola got him on the tutor list in prison, and he was reading now. Or so he said. People lied to Miss Veola to get her off their backs.
    Lutie and Doria turned a corner.
    Most white people walking into Chalk would feel a shiver of concern and turn around. But the world seemed less visible to Doria than to Lutie. Lutie could imagine Doria failing to look left and right for oncoming traffic, her mind full of music. She had certainly failed to wonder about Train’s motives. Whereas Lutie felt so wrapped up in the world, it was like a sweatsuit or sneakers she couldn’t take off. She was zipped and laced into the world.
    Miss Veola was out in her front yard, in a half circle of old plastic lawn chairs. She loved to talk, and people loved to talk with her. Little kids liked to dig through the basket she kept full of children’s toys. Sitting next to Miss Veola was Miss Elminah, wearing an amazing hat. Miss Elminah was always shaded with a wide brim. She was so old she still swept her dirt front yard.
    Racing around them were the little Waitlee boys, their mama sitting peaceful on her own porch next door, laughing into her cell phone.
    Towering above Miss Veola’s four rooms were huge oaks whose leaves just browned up and fell down, providing no autumn splendor, but could be counted on for shade through the long hot Carolina days. Beyond them was city housing—brick squares quartered into little apartments, each with its own porch. Nobody wanted the back-facing