The Mighty Quinn

by Robyn Parnell

  Quinn and Sam stopped outside the office and peered through the window. Matt was sprawled on the orange chair.

  “Brave Master Barker doesn’t want to brave the playground with a black eye,” Sam said.

  “We’re both supposed to be here. I’m staying outside ’til Shirkner calls us. I don’t want to be around Matt until I have to.”

  “So, until you have to, what did you do yesterday?”

  Quinn grinned at Sam, grateful for the distraction. He told Sam about how he had gone with Neally’s family to Gales Creek Park, how they had picked up trash, how Neally’s dad had even scooped up dog poop.

  “You went to a park and picked up dog poop?” Sam cleared his throat. “The Universal Park Users Manual clearly states that people should go to parks to play, or have a picnic. Some kind of enjoyment must be involved.”

  “We did have a picnic. But we worked first. Neally, her mom, and I picked up trash. Her dad was the only one picking up dog poop. And he used two pairs of really thick gloves.”

  “A dog-poop, trash-pickup picnic.” Sam shook his head. “That’s my idea of a fun time.”

  “Me too.” Quinn pretended to take Sam seriously. His day at Gales Creek Park did sound funny. Funnier still was figuring out a way to describe what a good time he’d had. Yes, he picked up trash at another park, but this time was different. They did it by themselves, just because it needed doing. Nobody was there to clap for them, and there was no prize involved …

  “They do this every other week. A family of Canada Geese was in the creek, and a beaver paddled right past the goslings. The goose parents didn’t chase the beaver. They must be friends or something. Next week I’m going with Neally’s family to make lunches for a food bank. I bet you could come along. We could …” Quinn had almost forgotten where he was, until the principal tapped on the office window. Quinn felt as if an icicle had slid down his spine.

  “Quinn?” Mr. Shirkner tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. “Step inside, please.”

  “No, wait!” Neally ran down the hallway, clutching a large book to her chest with both hands. She skidded to a stop, bracing herself against the office doorframe. “Quinn couldn’t have caused Matt’s black eye,” she panted, “and I can prove it.”

  “Ha!” Matt jabbed his finger at Sam and Neally. “They’re his friends,” he snarled.

  “Friends with evidence,” Sam said brightly.

  Quinn looked eagerly at Sam, who turned expectantly toward Neally.

  The corners of Mr. Shirkner’s mouth twitched upward. “Come on in.”

  “Whaaa …?” Matt sputtered.

  “I’ll hear the so-called ‘evidence.’” Mr. Shirkner shushed Matt with a sharp look. “Then Matt, if you’ve anything to add, you may do so.”

  The principal led the four students into his office and shut the door. He directed Neally and Sam to the sofa by the side of his desk, and Quinn and Matt to the two chairs in front of his desk. Mr. Shirkner sat in a leather chair behind the desk. “All right. Ms. … Ms. Standwell, is it?”

  “Please, I hope you’ll call me Neally.” Neally smiled sweetly. “This is my colleague, Samuel Jefferson Washington. And you’ve met Quinn.”

  “Yes, I have.” Mr. Shirkner’s mouth began to twitch again. “Now, what’s this evidence?”

  “There’s no way Matt’s eye could be that color if Quinn hit him, or if anyone hit him, just this morning. I looked it up.” Neally stood up and set her book on Mr. Shirkner’s desk. “This is a medical book on skin injuries, and here’s the chapter on bruises.” She opened the hefty volume to a bookmarked page. “These pictures show the stages a bruise goes through when it heals. See how it starts out red and puffy, then goes to black and bluish-purple, and then fades to a yellowish-green? Here’s an example of the stages on a person’s leg, and here,” she turned the page, “are the stages of a bruise on a face.”

  “Where did you get this?” Mr. Shirkner asked.

  “My mother’s a professor at a nursing school. What did Nurse Parker say about Matt’s eye?”

  “Nurse Parker hasn’t seen him yet.” Mr. Shirkner stroked his fingers across his chin and looked across his desk at Matt. Shirkner did not protest when Sam and Quinn came over to the side of his desk and leaned over his shoulder to look at the book. Matt remained rooted to his chair, his arms folded across his chest, his heels kicking the chair’s front legs.

  Neally pointed at Matt’s face. “His bruise is dark purple. See around the edges, how it’s turning greenish? That means …”

  “It’s more than a day old.” Quinn traced his finger around a picture in the book. “More like two or three days old.”

  “Righty-o!” Sam snapped his fingers. “He had to have gotten it over the weekend.”

  “We saw him Thursday, after school—me and Neally and Tay,” Quinn told Mr. Shirkner.

  “Tay is Matt’s friend.” Neally stared earnestly at the principal. “You can ask Tay, and he’ll tell you that Matt did not have a black eye on Thursday.”

  “And he didn’t have it at the Scout meeting Thursday night, and he wasn’t in school on Friday,” Sam added. “He was gone all weekend. His father brought a note to class on …”

  “Yes, I know.” Mr. Shirkner drummed his fingers on the book. “All advance excused absence requests go across my desk.”

  The room was silent. Matt sat ramrod straight, his eyes full and glistening, his face the color of a bleak, wintery sky.

  “Who hit you, Matt?” Neally’s voice was quiet, but firm.

  Matt’s eyes dried up and spit cold blue fire at Neally. White bones shone through the skin of his knuckles as his hands gripped his chair’s armrests.

  “Matt and I need to speak in private. Neally, Sam, Quinn, this way, please.” Mr. Shirkner walked the three out of his office and shut the door behind him. “Carol,” he said to his secretary, “I need you to find Nurse Parker right now.”

  The secretary scurried out the door. Quinn looked up at Mr. Shirkner, realizing for the first time how tall the principal seemed when he was standing right next to you.

  “Quinn, there’s no need for me to call your parents. I’m sorry for any distress this caused you. You three go on with your day. You may return to class when recess is over, and I’ll trust each one of you not to say anything to anyone about this.”

  Quinn, Sam, and Neally nodded solemnly.

  Mr. Shirkner laid his massive hand on Quinn’s shoulder. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

  “It was like I said, I only pushed him back after he kept pushing me. But he wanted me to hit him. I could tell. It was so weird. He acted mad, but it was more like he was …” Quinn’s voice trailed off and he shook his head.

  “It was his father, wasn’t it?”

  Mr. Shirkner furrowed his brow at Neally. “What makes you think that?”

  “Who else could it have been?” Neally glanced behind Mr. Shirkner, at his closed office door. “Matt wasn’t with anyone else. He bragged about how his family does a retreat every year, and it’s just them in a motel and they don’t even leave the room.”

  Quinn’s stomach started churning with a feeling even worse than being falsely accused. “It’s sort of my fault.”

  “No way!” Neally gasped.

  “What’s your fault?” Sam asked.

  “That Matt’s dad hit him.”

  “Hold on now, we don’t know who hit Matt,” Mr. Shirkner cautioned.

  “Tay said Matt’s father was really, really mad when Ms. Blakeman called him after our field trip,” Quinn said. “I got Matt in trouble. I’m the one who saw him and Josh graffiti the …”

  “It’s not your fault.” Neally placed her hand on Quinn’s arm and looked up at the principal. Her voice was confident, but her eyes lacked their usual spark.

  “Matt’s been hurt before. I saw the marks, a few weeks ago. He had a huge bruise, here.” Neally pointed at her upper arm.

  “I promise, I will find out
who hit Matt. In the meantime, do not speculate about this with your classmates.” Mr. Shirkner placed his hands on his knees and bent down to eye level with the three friends. “And I want to tell you how proud I am of how you’ve handled yourselves.”

  30

  BUT NOT ANYMORE

  Although they were told to return to class, Quinn paused to watch Mr. Shirkner usher the nurse into his office. Alan Shirkner. He hangs out by the curb in the morning, yelling at parents who drop off their kids in the bus zone; he gives boring speeches; he passes out awards; he makes kids go to crisis resolution meetings. That’s what principals do—that’s all our principal does. That’s what Quinn had thought, up until now.

  “It’s twelve twenty-nine, I’m a-feeling fine.” Sam broke into a skip as he and Neally and Quinn approached the portable building. “The Mighty Quinn is vindicated!”

  Neally gave Sam a high-five. “This calls for celebration!”

  “Not exactly.” Quinn glanced back at the school’s office building.

  “Then what, exactly?” Neally asked carefully.

  “I didn’t hit Matt, but I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for years.” Quinn sighed. “But not anymore.”

  Three friends silently trudged up the ramp to their classroom.

  31

  CHEESY POODLE SANDWICHES

  Ms. Blakeman’s fifth graders heard the telltale click-clack-click-clack of high-heeled shoes ascending the ramp to their classroom. The school secretary delivered a note to Ms. Blakeman, and for once the teacher’s glasses stayed firmly perched at the top of her nose while she read.

  Matt Barker did not return to class. Each of Ms. Blakeman’s students stole a glance at the office when their class marched to the cafeteria and back, but there was no sign of either Matt or the school principal.

  At lunch recess, Kelsey persuaded more than half the class to join her in the gym for an all-out, wall-ball war. Quinn, Sam, Neally, and a few other students who valued their eardrums headed for the four square courts.

  “Singles or doubles?” Quinn asked halfheartedly.

  “It was right here. I was standing in line.” Neally pointed to the boundary line of the first four square court. “Remember when Matt tripped me? I should have said something then.”

  Quinn remembered the incident, and how frustrated he’d felt when he realized Neally wasn’t going to tell on Matt. It seemed like a lifetime ago, as if it had happened in the second grade. How could he feel so much older when so little time has passed?

  “But you were right,” Quinn said. “Matt would’ve lied. He’d have said you tripped over your own feet and that you were trying to blame him.”

  “No, I don’t care about that. I should have said something when I saw his arm. I grabbed his arm when I fell, and he had this bruise, this big, sore bruise, shaped like a mini-octopus.”

  “Mini-octopus bruise?” Sam waved his arms. “Does not compute.”

  “It was shaped like tentacles, or …” Neally wrapped her hand around her upper arms. “Or fingers. Oh, gross. I think I’m gonna be sick.” She plopped down on the blacktop. “You know how hard you’d have to grab someone to leave marks like that?” Neally shivered and wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “It doesn’t have to be that hard.” Teena’s flat voice hovered over the end of the line, where she stood holding a four square ball. “They just hold it and squeeze, real tight, for a long time.”

  The gym door was pushed open so forcefully it swung all the way back on its hinges, and the thunderous clank of the door hitting the brick wall echoed across the playground. Josh and Brandon stormed out of the gym and headed for the blacktop area.

  Teena dropped the ball. “Uh-oh.” She fingered a wisp of her hair and ambled off toward the swings.

  Although Josh and Brandon stationed themselves at the front of the four square line, they obviously had no intention of starting a game.

  “Nice going, Quinn,” Josh growled. “They took Matt away.”

  “What do you mean?” Quinn asked. “Who took him away?”

  “Brandon saw it. Right?” Josh elbowed Brandon.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Brandon said. “I had a hall pass for—”

  “We all know what you had a hall pass for,” Neally said.

  “Was it the police?” Sam asked hopefully.

  “No. They took him away in a government car.”

  “How do you know what a government car looks like?” Tay asked. “Did it have a siren?”

  “A siren,” Brandon smirked. “In your TV Cop-Land dreams.”

  “So, was it a cop car?” Sam persisted. “Detectives’ cars aren’t marked like patrol cars.”

  “There are ways to tell.” Brandon lowered his voice, as if he were about to reveal an undercover agent’s secret code. Besides being the best speller in the class, Brandon was a famously first-rate, if not always reliable, storyteller. “Government cars have license plates with G-O-V below the numbers. The car had a shield painted on its doors, like a police badge, with a picture of a Statue of Liberty-type lady, only she was holding scales instead of a torch, and two kids held on to her knees. There were big letters above her head: CPS.” Brandon raised an eyebrow and stared gravely at the circle of kids surrounding him. “It’s a code.”

  “CPS … Crummy Police Security?” Sam speculated.

  “Crazy Purple Snotbags?” Tay offered.

  “Cheesy Poodle Sandwiches!” Neally bounced on her toes.

  “It might be Child Protective Services,” Quinn said.

  “That sounds more official,” said Sam.

  “Cheesy Poodle Sandwiches gets my vote,” Tay said.

  “How would you know about Child Protective Servings?” Josh jabbed his finger at Quinn.

  “Child Protective Services.” Quinn pronounced each word slowly. “My mom talks about them all the time. Her company calls them when they need help for kids.”

  “Yeah, kids need help when they’ve been ratted on.” Josh glared at Quinn.

  “They help kids who need … help.” Quinn remembered the promise he’d made to Mr. Shirkner. He stood as tall as he could without standing tiptoe, and looked Josh squarely in the eyes. “Sometimes, kids need to be protected.”

  “You’re still a rat. Who’s gonna protect you when someone sets out the rat poison?”

  Neally looked at Josh with a blend of curiosity and disgust, as if he were a circus sideshow mutant with horns, a wooly chest, and three belly buttons. “You are so lucky you were born in the USA, Josh. In some countries you’d be jailed for wasting all that space between your ears.”

  “Geesh, Quinn.” Tay kicked at the blacktop. “I know what those Child Services people do. They’ll take him away from his home. Why’d you have to say … whatever you said?”

  “I don’t get it.” Quinn was so mystified by what he was hearing he forgot to be upset by the name-calling. He frowned at Josh, Brandon, and Tay. “I thought you and you, and even you, were his friends!?”

  Tay lowered his eyes, and Brandon seemed to have a sudden urge to scratch his shin. But Josh glared defiantly at Quinn.

  Quinn persisted. “Someone hurt Matt; someone’s been hurting your friend. Now, maybe he can be safe. That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Righty-o.” Sam’s voice was a little too cheerful. “Let’s get going before recess is over.”

  “The field’s dry. Let’s play tag,” Brandon suggested.

  “Not freeze tag,” Josh said. “Let’s do hop or spin tag.”

  Sam, Quinn, Neally, and Tay started to follow Brandon and Josh to the field. Josh held out his arm to block Neally and Quinn. “This is invitation-only tag. Scouts and soccer players, way. Rat finks, no way. This is rat-free tag.”

  “Unbelievable.” Neally stood with her hands on her hips, her mouth twisting with disgust as she watched Josh, Brandon, and Tay jog toward the field. When they reached the center of the field, Tay turned around and motioned for Sam to join them.

  Sam waved at Tay, but stay
ed on the blacktop. “It’s okay.” Sam winked at Quinn and Neally. “I happen to like rodents.”

  32

  MY NEW DEAD FRIEND

  What is she doing here?

  For a moment Quinn considered walking back through the school doors. His mother never came to pick him or Mickey up from school, not unless it was the storm of the century or one of them had a dentist appointment. But there she was, standing by the bus loading zone, talking with Neally’s father.

  Quinn plastered a smile on his face and waved to his mother. He’d planned on telling his family at dinner about what happened with Matt. Mr. Shirkner had said there was no need to call Quinn’s parents. Had the principal changed his mind?

  “Hello, Quinn,” Mr. Standers said. “Your mother and I were finalizing plans for a family date this weekend.”

  “All this time, why didn’t we get around to it sooner?” Quinn’s mother said to Neally’s father. “Jim and I adore Neally, and we’ve been meaning to have your family over for dinner. I’m looking forward to meeting your wife, and Mickey is always thrilled to have the opportunity to be with Neally.” She placed her hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Here’s the plan. We’ll all pile into our van and go for a picnic at the Noble Woods. You and Neally can give us a tour of your class’s project.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. Uh, Mom, why are you here?”

  “Nice to see you too.” Ms. Lee placed her hands on her hips in mock indignation.

  “Have you seen my daughter?” Mr. Standers asked Quinn.

  “Neally stopped off at the office to get the book. The one you brought to her today.” Quinn felt his face getting warm. “Thanks, thank you a lot, for bringing it.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Mr. Standers said. “Such an urgent phone call, then she’s cool as a cucumber and won’t tell me a thing, so I came back at lunch recess and spoke with Ms. Blakeman, and then with Mr. Shirkner.” He tapped his finger against his forehead. “That was some bit of thinking you and Neally pulled off this morning.”

  “And Sam,” Quinn added.

  “And Sam. You should be proud of yourself, Quinn.”

  Quinn smiled shyly. “You should be proud of Neally.”

  “Believe me, I am.” Mr. Standers turned to Ms. Lee. “Your son has quite the story for the dinner table this evening.”