“Vandalism and destruction of school property are very serious offenses,” Smeed said, barely able to contain his glee as he rattled off those accusations. “And that is exactly what I will tell your parents when I call them. Now come with me to the main office.”
The hot tears I felt building in my eyes stung even more than the ones I’d had when I took the thirteen sprays of Binaca. Turns out the only thing worse than getting in trouble for something you did is getting in trouble for something you didn’t do.
“I…cannot…believe”—the muscles in Mom’s face looked like they were made of steel—“that this is the second time this year that I have been interrupted at work with a phone call from Mr. Wyatt saying that my sixth grader is involved in criminal activity at school.”
“Mom, I swear I didn’t do it!” I said as I closed the car door behind me and tossed my backpack into the back seat.
“Never mind. This is not something we are even going to talk about now.” Her words were coming out in angry spurts. She wasn’t using contractions. “We are going to wait until we are home with your father. In fact, we will not talk at all during this car ride. We will listen to music.”
Mom lunged for the power button when she saw me start to reach toward the car radio. “My music!” she yelled. It was useless. I looked out the car window.
Mom started jamming her finger at the preset buttons on the car radio, probably looking for a song that matched her anger. When she finally found one—it was called “Welcome to the Jungle”—she turned it up almost as loud as it would go and drummed fiercely on the steering wheel. If I had made the music that loud, she would have yelled at me to turn it down right away. But I knew better than to yell at that moment. I put up my hood to try to block out some of the sound. It didn’t work.
When we got home, Dad was there waiting. I saw that he had his car back, and wondered how much the repairs had cost. Another expense they’d use as an excuse to postpone buying contacts, no doubt. At least I finally had some money of my own.
“Well, Augusta, what do you have to say for yourself?” Dad said as soon as I was in the door, kicking off my shoes. “Moreover, can you tell me what I should say to my boss, since I keep having to leave work for your antics?”
“You didn’t have to leave work,” I said. “But it’s pretty funny that the only time you guys see each other is when I’m in trouble at school. Oh, or when you’re in trouble with the police, Dad.”
“I don’t think that’s funny AT ALL, Augusta.” Dad’s face was starting to get as red as Mom’s did in the car. “And I hope you’ve been saving your money from the Chens, because it’s all going to pay for supplies to clean up that school courtyard.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s my contact-lens money. I didn’t do anything!”
But Mom was quieter now. “Wait. Is that what’s going on here, Gus?” she said. “Do you keep getting into trouble so you can get Dad and me together again?”
Oh boy. “No, Mom,” I said. “I’m not a little kid. I know that’s not how that stuff works. Besides, now everyone knows you wanted to be divorced, so that would just be weird. And, like, fake.”
Mom’s voice got even quieter. “Okay. Well, does this last problem at school have something to do with Mr. Singer?”
“You aren’t listening to me! I. DIDN’T. DO. ANYTHING. Not this time. Yes, it’s weird that you’re dating Mr. Singer. It’s also weird that even though you and Dad get along most of the time, you still don’t talk to each other about things like broken seat belts, and whether or not one of you is dating my teacher! You have to tell each other that stuff. It can’t be up to me and Louie. It’s not fair.”
Mom’s face turned pink. She looked down at the floor, and then glanced at Dad out of the corner of her eye.
“But whatever,” I said, suddenly wishing I hadn’t gotten so serious about family stuff. “What I’m saying is, this has nothing to do with all that. I don’t know who painted the wall, but Mr. Smeed hates me and Nick, and he just wants to think the worst of us no matter what. But you know me better than he does. Does that really seem like something I’d do?”
Dad sighed. “No, Gus, it doesn’t. But neither did the Binaca bet, and you owned up to that. Sometimes this year we feel like we don’t really know you that well anymore.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around,” I said, glancing at Mom. “I don’t know what to say to you guys anymore. Believe what you want.”
As I headed upstairs, I was waiting for them to make me come back and get my punishment. But neither of them said anything. I didn’t hear them talking until after I was in my room with my door closed, and then it was much quieter than before.
I had to listen to my own loud rage music now, but I didn’t want Mom and Dad to hear it. I just needed to disappear into the sound and let it drown out everything else in my head.
My headphones weren’t hanging in their usual spot over my closet door. I had a pretty good idea they’d been “borrowed” by a certain sister (yes, you, Lou), and that’s when I went into your room to look for them.
I figured it wouldn’t take long to find them since your room is always so organized (unlike mine). The messiest thing in there was Iris, rubbing her doggy back on your soft rug.
But when I looked in the obvious spots—bedside table, dresser top, your L-shaped jacket hook—the headphones didn’t turn up.
Okay, please don’t be mad, but that’s when I looked in your closet. I didn’t see my headphones draped on a hanger or hanging out of a pocket or anything…so I dug deeper.
Okay, please don’t be mad again, but I looked at the shelves in the back of your closet. Right…the ones where you keep the secret things you think I don’t know about, like your journals and the baby doll you pretended you gave away in first grade. I know, Lou. It’s okay.
Okay, so please don’t be mad now, but that’s when I found it. Iris was beside me, wondering what I was doing on my hands and knees, and she started sniffing around at a particular box. A box that had a Post-it on it saying:
Louisa’s Private Property
Do Not Open
(Here’s a word of advice, Lou: If you don’t want someone nosing around in something private, don’t label it that way. Make it look really boring and no one will care. You’d be surprised what’s hiding in my room in plain sight. Writing private and do not open on something is practically an invitation for people to snoop.)
So…okay, try not to be mad at this either, but I opened it. (Come on, how could I not?) And that’s when I found your…what would you call it? Your collection? It doesn’t seem right to call it a box of dirt and rocks, because there was a lot more to it than that. I couldn’t believe the way you made something that messy so neat, with all the ziplock bags and the labels on them:
ORCHARD PARK on a bag of dirt.
LONGWOOD BEACH on a bag of sand.
BACKYARD BY IRIS’S DOG LEAD on another bag of dirt.
FINLEY’S GRAVEL on the bag of pink gravel.
I looked at the box lid again, and noticed something written on the lid under your Do Not Open Post-it. It looked like a math problem, only with names instead of numbers:
Louisa
Augusta
Mom
Dad
Iris
Finley
___________________________
Family
It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I think I knew what it meant to you. I knew because it meant the same thing to me. Somehow, in that box of dirt, sand, and rocks from all the places that were important to us, we were all still together. We were still the old us. (Plus one new fish.)
That’s when I knew I’d been getting you wrong, Lou. I thought nothing bothered you, but all along you’d been trying to find a way we could still
be together. I get that now. So I hope you aren’t too mad at me about going through your stuff. I put it all back the way it was.
I tried sneaking downstairs to look for my headphones in the living room, but Dad intercepted me in the foyer.
“Come here a minute, Gus,” he said, heading back toward the kitchen.
“I don’t feel like talking anymore.”
“Then Mom and I will talk,” he said. “Come on. I think you might like what we have to say.”
Mom was pouring herself some tea as I stepped slowly into the kitchen. “Want some?” she asked as she looked up at me.
“No thanks. What’s going on?” Whatever they had to say to me, I wanted them to get on with it. Even if Dad was saying I would like it. I’d be the judge of that.
“We believe you,” Mom said. “We believe that you didn’t do the graffiti.”
“Okaaaay,” I said. “Did someone else admit they did it?”
“No,” Dad said. “But we trust you. You didn’t lie about the gambling stuff, and we don’t think you’re lying about this.”
“Okay, well…thanks. Does that mean I’m not punished?”
“Not by us,” Mom said. “But you still have to do detention at school. And help clean up the graffiti. That was part of the deal.”
“But how is that fair? What good is it for you guys to believe me if I’m still going to be punished?”
“Well, we hoped you’d be happy just to know we believe you,” Dad said. “And we can try to talk to Mr. Smeed and plead your case. But we know he can be a tough customer, so we don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
That was something, at least. But I wasn’t just worried for myself.
“What about my friends?” I asked.
“What about them?” Dad said. “Which friends?”
“Sarah and Nick and Syd and Elaine,” I said, realizing as I said it that they all really were my friends. I mean, obviously Sarah was, but I don’t think I knew that the others were too until I actually named them for Mom and Dad.
“We can’t speak for them,” Dad said. “Besides, how do you know they didn’t do it?”
“I just know they wouldn’t! And they were with me the whole time I was in the courtyard on Friday! No one was painting anything!”
“Okay, okay,” Mom said in the voice she uses when one of us gets worked up. “We can ask Mr. Smeed about them too. I’ll call him in the morning.”
“I wish we could tell them who did do it,” I said. “He doesn’t even care about finding out the truth.”
“Do you know who might have done it?” Dad asked.
“Sarah and I have some theories,” I said. We’d been texting about it.
“Such as?”
“Well, Davis Davis has had a locker full of white paint all week for this JROTC project he’s doing.”
“Who?” Mom asked.
“Davis Davis. That’s his real name. But I don’t think it was him. I know he thinks I’m annoying, but he would never be so mean. Or break school rules that way.”
I ventured forth my real theory: “I think it was one of the Silver Sisters. So does Sarah.”
“Who?” Mom asked again.
“Yeah,” Dad said, “who are all these people?”
“These aren’t really people who matter,” I said. “It’s not like they’re my people.” Now I was talking like Ms. Barakat without even thinking about it.
“Who are your people these days?” Mom asked. “You haven’t talked much about anything all school year.”
“You know,” I said. “Sarah. Nick. This kid Elaine.”
“Nick Zambrano?” Dad asked. “He’s your person now?”
“Ugh, Dad, you know what I mean. No, he’s not my person. He’s just one of my friends. And like me, he’s in trouble for something he didn’t do.”
“Okay,” Dad said, “I hear you. And we will talk to Mr. Smeed. But you should still plan on doing detention after school tomorrow, in case we aren’t able to convince him.”
“Do I still have to pay for the supplies with my own money?”
Mom and Dad shared a quick look. “No,” Mom said. “We can take care of that.”
“Okay, good.” I started wondering what exactly was involved with getting graffiti off a brick wall. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.
“Hey, Gus,” Mom said, crossing her arms and looking at a spot on the ceiling for a second, “you were right about something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“About us,” she answered. “Me and Dad. We haven’t done the best job of communicating this year. And you’re right: it hasn’t been fair to you and Louie.” She took a deep breath. “Especially the news about Mr. Singer,” she said. “I definitely should have told Dad that first. And not asked you to keep it a secret.”
“Okay,” I said. Then I felt a little uneasy. “Is there anything else you guys need to tell each other? I mean, I don’t have to hear it; I just want to make sure.”
This time Dad sighed. “Yes,” he said. “You might as well all know. I am going on tour with Spoiler Alert next summer. I am one of their new backup dancers.”
Mom almost spit out her tea. “That is perfect for you, Matt,” she said. “I know you’ll make us proud.”
Even I had to laugh at that one. Dad can be pretty good at breaking up a tense moment.
Mom rinsed out her teacup. “I have to go pick up Louie at after-school soon,” she said, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “And I have no idea what we’re having for dinner.” Then she switched from her talking-to-herself voice to a voice that seemed more awkward.
“Do you…want to have takeout with us?” she asked, looking at Dad. I think she wasn’t sure if either of them were ready for family dinner yet after all the stuff that had happened Friday with Mr. Singer, the WOLD van, and the police-station visit.
Dad paused for a second and looked at me. “Okay, sure,” he said. “Pizza?”
“Actually,” I said, “what about Chicken Shack? For Louie? It’s her favorite, and I think it’s her turn to choose. And maybe after that we can play Garbage with her? You know she always wants to.”
It wasn’t your turn to choose the takeout place, Lou. It was my turn. And as you know, I hate Chicken Shack. But after seeing your little shoebox of rocks, sand, and dirt…well, what can I say? I was in the mood to let you have your way.
Dad looked at me like he didn’t know who I was. “Are you serious?”
“That’s awfully generous of you,” Mom said.
“Hey,” I said as I grabbed a pre-dinner apple from the fruit bowl. “I told you I wasn’t a bad kid.”
* * *
The next morning, I had a text from Layla:
Guinea pig!
She also sent a picture of her grinning and holding a little chocolate-brown ball of fluff.
I texted back:
OMG
Layla had wanted a guinea pig forever. We had talked about it so many times—and her parents had said no so many times—that it had come to feel like a silly dream, like talking about going to the moon.
Layla’s next text was Her name is Officer Nibbles. Come meet her after school!
And I wanted to. I really wanted to. I know I didn’t want to talk to Layla about schools or friends or dances or any of those things these days, but I knew where I stood with Layla on the subject of guinea pigs. She wanted one. I wanted her to have one. I was genuinely happy for her.
But of course I couldn’t go to Layla’s after school. Not that day. No, I had detention for something I hadn’t done. And more than ever, I was wondering one thing: Who did do it? Who had painted those pictures and made us all get detention from Smeed?
Those were the things I was still wondering as I stood in the courtyard after school that day wit
h Sarah, Nick, Syd, and Elaine. We’d all been instructed to bring a snack to eat before we got started. I had a granola bar; Sarah had popcorn; Syd, of course, had a tomato; and Nick had a bag of potato chips. Elaine didn’t have anything.
“I forgot about the snack,” she said quietly, and Nick and Sarah nudged her on both her elbows and offered her popcorn and chips at the same time.
“Good luck with your new job!” a voice called from the courtyard doorway. It was Addison, standing with Heidi and Marcy. She was using the kind of singsong voice I use with Ama when I’m trying to get her to cooperate.
“Sorry you have to get rid of that fantastic mural,” Heidi added.
“I can’t believe she knows the word ‘mural,’ ” I muttered to Sarah.
“I can’t believe she knows the word ‘fantastic,’ ” Sarah muttered back.
“Come on—I have to go, you guys,” Marcy said, starting down the hall away from her friends. It was the first time I’d seen her do something without waiting for Addison to take the lead. Addison waited a beat and waved at us, then went the way Marcy had gone. And of course Heidi followed.
“Okay, boys and girls, time for Graffiti Cleaning 101,” Mr. Solo said. Mr. Solo is the school custodian. I’d seen him in the hallways and the cafeteria, but had never talked to him before. He’s someone the teachers always refer to when they’re reminding us what slobs we are. (“Do not leave the classroom looking like this; Mr. Solo should not have to deal with this mess!” or “Mr. Solo is not your parent; do not expect him to clean up after you!” which is always kind of funny to me since my parents definitely don’t want me to think they’ll clean up my messes either.)
Considering how tough the teachers always make Mr. Solo’s life sound, I was surprised to discover that he seemed like a pretty cheery guy. Definitely happier than some of the teachers who yell about him.
“The first thing you will need is gloves.” Mr. Solo started handing bright orange rubber gloves to each of us. “Because we are using chemicals that you do not—I repeat, do not—want to get on your skin. I’ll be right back.”
The 47 People You'll Meet in Middle School Page 14
