First U.S. edition published in 2012 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
Text copyright © 2006 by Norah McClintock. All rights reserved.
Published by arrangement with Scholastic Canada Ltd.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McClintock, Norah.
Last chance / by Norah McClintock.
p. cm. — (Robyn Hunter mysteries ; #1)
ISBN: 978-0-7613-8311-6 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Juvenile delinquency—
Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M478414184Las 2012
[Fic]—dc23 2011018832
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 12/31/11
eISBN: 978-0-7613-9071-8 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3035-8 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3036-5 (mobi)
TO MY FAVORITE
NON-DOG-OWNING
DOG LOVER
My father was grinning. He’d been grinning ever since he had arrived at the police station. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t called him. But what choice did I have? I’d been arrested. It was either call my father, who knows a lot of cops, as well as the ins and outs of arrests and (I hoped) releases. Or call my mother, who, as a criminal lawyer, has defended all kinds of people who’ve gotten themselves into trouble with the law.
I chose my father for the simple reason that unlike my mother, he doesn’t freak out every time something unfortunate happens to me. True, he was enjoying the details of my, um, mishap far too much. But I had complete confidence that he could get me home again with minimum fuss.
Unfortunately, my friend Billy—whom I blamed for my arrest—had decided to do me a huge favor.
He’d called my mother.
My mom bustled into the police station, looking one-half lawyerly and efficient, even on a Saturday (she’d been meeting with a client), and one-half motherly and concerned. Her eyes scanned the room for me but landed squarely on my father, who is impossible to miss because he’s so tall. And, of course, there’s that grin of his.
My mother looked annoyed when she saw him. My parents broke up a few years ago. My mother says that she has moved on. My father . . . well, he’s either still in love with her or he’s perpetrating one of the longest-running practical jokes in history.
Mom shook her head before approaching the sergeant sitting behind the desk. He nodded in the direction of a grim-faced woman who was standing all the way on the other side of the room, as far from me as she could get. I didn’t blame her. My mother glanced at the woman. Then she straightened her shoulders and came toward my father and me as if she were marching into battle. “Arrested?” she said. “Really, Robyn!”
My father chuckled. “Relax, Patti,” he said, which, as usual, made my mother seethe. She hates being called Patti. She reminds my father over and over again that her name is Patricia. “It was an accident.”
“Your daughter gets arrested and you think it’s funny?” she said.
“Well, you have to admit—” my father began.
“It’s not funny, Dad,” I said, for about the millionth time.
My mother turned her eyes on me. “Tell me in your own words exactly what you did to that woman.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said. What I meant was that I hadn’t done anything on purpose. “Dad’s right. It was an accident.”
“The police don’t arrest people for accidents, Robyn,” my mother said. “What happened?”
“I was at a rally,” I began.
“A protest rally,” my father said.
“A peaceful protest rally,” I said, glaring at him. I turned to my mother. “We were demonstrating against the use of animals in product testing.”
“Peaceful,” my mother repeated. “Can you tell me why you broke a store window during a peaceful protest?”
Uh-oh. The sergeant must have given her a rundown of what had happened. Or maybe Billy had filled her in over the phone.
“Well, technically—” I began.
“The window is either broken or it isn’t, Robyn,” my mother said. When it comes to questioning, my mother is all lawyer. She doesn’t like evasion. She doesn’t like ambiguity.
“The window got broken,” I said.“But it’s complicated.”
My mother waited.
“I was trying to stop Bil—” I broke off abruptly. Maybe Billy hadn’t told her everything. If he hadn’t, I didn’t want to get him into trouble.
“You’re going to blame Billy?” my mother said. Okay, so maybe he had told her everything. Well, why not? My mother liked Billy—who didn’t?—and he knew it. He came across as a sweet-faced, gentle-natured vegan who would never hurt another living soul, two-footed or four-footed.
“No,” I said. I had thought about focusing her attention on the fact that I had gone to the protest only because Billy had badgered me and pointing out that it had all started when I tried to stop Billy from throwing something nasty at one of the security guards who worked at the office building where we had held our protest. But I could see now that it wasn’t a good idea. “It was just one of those things, Mom. We didn’t have a problem with that woman’s store. It just happens to be next door to the cosmetics company that we were protesting against. And this security guard started giving us a hard time. He was really getting rough, Mom.”
“Oh,” she said. “So you’re telling me that a security guard who was just doing his job is at fault here?”
“I don’t think Robbie is blaming anyone,” my father said. “She’s just trying to explain.”
My mother’s eyes flicked over to my father. “She’s fifteen, Mac. She doesn’t need you to run interference for her.”
Actually, I appreciated his efforts. I continued my testimony, er, explanation.
“I was holding a pole at one side of this huge protest banner that Billy and his friends had made. When I saw what Billy was going to do, all I could think about was stopping him before he got into trouble.” The look my mother gave me told me that she was finding it hard to imagine Billy in trouble. “So I lunged at him and managed to get the plastic baggie out of his hand.”
At the mention of the baggie, my father started to chuckle again. I tried to ignore him.
“I can see how it might have looked like I was pointing the end of the pole at the window. I can even see how it might have looked like I was trying to break the window. But that’s not what I was trying to do. Honest. You know me. I would never do anything like that.” She looked doubtful. “Anyway, the window got broken and then a woman came out of the store”—the store owner, as it turned out—“and started yelling at me. And I was so stunned at what had happened that I forgot that I was still holding the baggie.” My father stifled a chortle. “Then she grabbed me, which I wasn’t expecting, and well, I sort of let go of the baggie.” My father chuckled again. It wasn’t my fault that the baggie wasn’t very strong and that it hadn’t be
en securely closed, but I didn’t tell my mother that. She would just think I was trying to lay the blame off again. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Mom.”
She looked at me for a moment. Then she said, “Let’s go.”
I stared at her.
“We’re leaving?” I said. Relief washed over me. I couldn’t wait to get out of the police station.
“We’re going to talk to the plaintiff,” my mother said. “We’re going to see if we can work something out.”
“Good idea,” my father said. “Let’s see what we can do.”
“We?” my mother said, giving my father a sharp look. “I think I can handle this, Mac.” Meaning, Stay out of it, Mac.
“Are you sure?” my father said, looking over at the still-grim-looking woman across the room. “Because I’ve had a lot of experience—”
My mother bristled. “I’ve had a lot of experience too,” she said. “Come on, Robyn.”
I glanced at my father. He shrugged and stayed put. I trailed my mother toward the woman who was glowering at me.
My mother smiled at the woman as she introduced herself. The woman did not smile back. My mother nudged me, and I apologized.When I had finished, Mom explained that it had all been an unfortunate accident. The woman was not moved. I couldn’t really blame her. I think I would have stayed mad for a week if someone dropped on me what I had dropped on her.
“If you don’t press charges, Robyn will be more than happy to make restitution,” my mother said. Although it wasn’t the main part of her practice, my mother sometimes dealt with youth criminal law cases. A lot of time she ended up negotiating alternate measures. She was good at it. “She’ll work in your store. For free.”
The woman took a step backward when she heard this proposition. Clearly she didn’t want a vandal—and worse—anywhere near her store.
“Or she could do volunteer work,” my mother said quickly. To give her credit, she was trying hard to save my day. “Do you have a favorite charity? If so, Robyn would be more than happy to volunteer on your behalf, wouldn’t you, Robyn?”
I nodded. The truth was, I was embarrassed by what had happened, embarrassed at having been packed into the back of a police car, and embarrassed that the first person I’d seen at the police station was a friend of my father’s. I would have agreed to anything if it got me out of there.
Finally, mercifully (I thought at the time), the woman said yes, she had a favorite charity.
Wonderful, my mother said.
It was an animal shelter, the woman said.
I tried to keep a smile on my face. After all, the woman’s window had been broken and her clothes had been ruined, thanks to me. Well, thanks to Billy, whom I had been trying to prevent from getting arrested. And even though she still smelled faintly foul—despite having washed up and changed her clothes—she was willing to give me a break. It was only smart to appear as grateful as possible.
“You mean, an animal shelter that looks after dogs?” I said.
“Dogs, cats, rabbits, the usual,” the woman said.
“I think Robyn might prefer some other type of charity work,” my mother said in the brisk, I’m-sure-wecan-reach-a-compromise voice that’s become second nature to her since she started practicing law. “She isn’t comfortable around dogs.”
“Oh?” the woman said. “Isn’t that too bad. Perhaps she would be more comfortable appearing in court.”
My mother didn’t even look at me before she said, “But, of course, she’ll be glad to volunteer at the animal shelter anyway, if that’s what you want.”
“It is,” the woman said, adding, “I would have thought that someone who takes to the streets to demand humane treatment for animals would at least like the animals in question.”
I supposed she had a point.
My mother agreed that I would volunteer at the shelter for the rest of the summer. I groaned. Both my mother and the woman turned to look at me. I forced myself to smile, even though volunteering meant that my original rest-of-the-summer plan—three weeks at a cottage up north with Morgan, one of my two best friends—was evaporating in front of my eyes like dew on a mid-July morning. My mother quickly put the agreement in writing and had us both sign it. The woman said she would talk to the chair of the shelter’s fund-raising committee—a personal friend of hers—who would make all the arrangements. Someone from the shelter would call me later to discuss the details. And then I was free.
Free and doomed.
. . .
“You can’t come up here at all?” Morgan said when I called her to break the news. She sounded even more disappointed than I was.
“Sorry,” I said. “But either I volunteer or the woman presses charges. If she does, my mom says I’d probably end up with community service, anyway. At least this way I don’t end up with a criminal record too.”
When I told Morgan where I was volunteering, she laughed—for longer than was strictly necessary, in my opinion.
Billy, bless his heart, did not laugh. When I called him, he apologized. Abjectly. He said, “I wasn’t going to throw that baggie at the guard. It didn’t even belong to me. It was Evan’s. It was his idea. He said it was a good way to make a real splash. When I saw that he was actually going to throw it, I grabbed it from him, you know, so that he wouldn’t get into trouble—”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. I had grabbed that stupid baggie out of Billy’s hands to stop Billy from getting arrested and had ended up saving Evan Wilson instead. And I didn’t even like Evan! He’s one of those ultra-serious activists who make everyone else feel guilty about everything. “But I thought—”
“I would never do anything like that,” Billy said. “I’m not like Evan. You know that.”
Correction: I should have known. Billy would protest himself hoarse for a cause he believed in, but he would never harm another living creature—including a human being. Nor was he the type to damage property. Billy believed in reason, persuasion, and education.
“In that case, Evan is the one who should be apologizing to me,” I said.
“Actually, he thinks you’re a hero,” Billy said.
“He thinks you were going to throw it. He told me he was impressed. He didn’t think you had it in you—you know, because of your parents. He says it really made him reevaluate you, Robyn.”
Uh-huh.
“In fact, the other reason I called . . . ” He paused. He sounded uncomfortable. If he had been talking to me face-to-face, I bet he would have been flushed and would have avoided my eyes. “Evan was wondering . . . He asked me if maybe I could find out if you—”
“No way, Billy,” I said.
“But I—” he spluttered. “I—”
“If you’re trying to find out if I’d be interested in going out with Evan, the answer is no. Billy, how could you even ask?”
“I’m sorry,” Billy said. I had no doubt that he was. “Sorry about everything, Robyn. Especially about the volunteering part.”
I told him it was okay—but I only said it because he was my other best friend.
“If you want my opinion,” my father said on Monday morning, “I’d say your situation is what they call ironic.”
I didn’t want his opinion. But my father is the kind of person who is generous with his views. You never have to ask—he always volunteers them. He was sitting at the huge oak dining table in loft where he lives. The loft is located in what used to be a carpet factory in what used to be a seedy part of the city. The area is trendy now. The first floor houses a hugely popular gourmet restaurant, La Folie. The second floor consists of six apartments. Dad occupies the entire third floor. He owns the building too. He inherited it from his uncle before I was born, did nothing with it for years, and then converted it after he quit being a cop a few years ago. He could live off what he makes as a landlord. Could but doesn’t.
“How exactly is my situation ironic?” I said.
“Well,” he said, “you were protesting the use of animals
in product testing, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Specifically, the use of cats and dogs, correct?”
I nodded. I could see where this was heading.
“Take a dog-friendly cause, mix in a little dog poop, and the result?” my father said. “My dog-phobic daughter ends up being literally thrown to the dogs.”
I could imagine him telling this story to all of his friends. He’d probably even make the rounds of the tables at La Folie downstairs. According to my father, if you’ve got a good story, you practically have an obligation to share it, even with complete strangers.
“You call it irony, Dad,” I said. “I call it your fault.”
My father raised an eyebrow and lowered his cup of coffee. “My fault?”
“You’re the one who always says that a person has to stand for something.”
My father stands for law and order. Since retiring from the police department, he’s been running an enormously successful private security business. I stand for animal rights—among other things. I believe that all living creatures deserve equal consideration on our planet. That’s why I’m a vegetarian. It’s also why I’m against inhumane treatment of animals.All animals. Even dogs.After all, you can’t be against human encroachment into the natural habitats of lions and tigers and grizzly bears (which I am) and think that it’s perfectly fine to blind or even kill a dog by exposing it to high levels of chemicals used in testing hair dye or mascara. Yes, I’m afraid (terrified) of dogs. But I’m perfectly willing to live and let live. I’m just not always sure that our canine socalled friends share that philosophy.
Some people, dog lovers like Morgan and Billy and my father, think my extreme nervousness around dogs is the result of childhood trauma. They’re right. It is. They think I should get over it. Easy for them to say. They weren’t attacked by a German shepherd when they were eight years old. From what I can remember and what I have been told, the attack was unprovoked. It was also terrifying. I ended up in the emergency ward, getting stitches in a part of my anatomy that made it next to impossible for me to sit down for the better part of a week. I got into the habit of sleeping on my stomach at about that time.
Last Chance Page 1
