Chapter 8: Stand Your Ground

“Alright, just don’t lose your temper and start a fight. If I really can’t handle it, you can step in.”

Knowing I couldn’t persuade Dad, I just warned him in advance.

“Mike, are you here to chat with everyone? Get to the point.”

After waiting nearly half an hour, the manager was still running around like a flea. I grabbed him impatiently.

“Derek, can’t you show your uncle some respect?”

My tone hurt his pride, and he glared at me on purpose. But those bean-sized eyes—no matter how wide he made them—were barely the size of a peanut. Not scary at all.

“Respect, respect. Hurry up.”

I nodded perfunctorily.

“Everyone quiet down!”

The manager dragged out a chair, stood on it, and shouted. The yard quieted a bit, and everyone looked at him.

“Mike, you said on the loudspeaker there’s a change in the road plan. What’s going on?”

“Mike, you called us here in a hurry—if there’s something, say it quick. We all have work to do at home.”

His two cronies, Larry White and Bill Foster, piped up on cue.

“Aren’t we building the road? Derek here doesn’t agree with the plan, so he won’t pay.”

“The road project was already decided, just waiting to start. But now, with this fuss, how can we build it?”

“So I called everyone to discuss: should we build the road or not?”

The manager shouted.

Although this was the truth, the way he said it made it sound like I was the one holding up the roadwork. A clever trick—trying to put me at odds with the neighbors.

I sneered at him, not caring at all. After all, the money is in my hands. Whether I pay or not is up to me. If I’m not satisfied, I don’t believe anyone can force me to pay.

A breeze stirred the dust, the first few yellow leaves tumbling across the blacktop where the new road ended, a good fifty yards from my family’s front gate. I glanced around at the familiar faces—old friends, school rivals, Mrs. Armstrong who once watched me after school, and now eyed me like I’d grown horns. Still, I squared my shoulders. As the manager tried to rile them up, I caught a flicker of doubt on a few faces—an old friend gave me a sympathetic nod, and I heard someone mutter about fairness. Let them talk. I knew what was right, and this time, I wouldn’t back down. Somewhere down the street, a pickup backfired—sharp and sudden as the anger in my chest. Today, Maple Heights was going to remember my name.