Miss Sashonna’s eyes fill with water, and she pulls her knees up to her chest. She makes sounds like a kitten when it mews. Mom asks, “Sashonna? You okay?” She passes her a tissue.
“Anyways,” Sashonna says, “here come the police. They don’t even care Chaunce is run over. They slap bracelets on both of us. The only way I can tell that Chaunce is okay is he’s swearing at me up and down.
“So he gets to go to the hospital to get his leg put in a cast. I get to go to jail and sit there. Can’t believe that. I’m no bank robber! But I end up getting charged right along with him—and you know what else? I get more time than him!” She begins to count it off on her fingers. “They said I robbed the bank—so that’s a federal crime. I got reckless endangerment with a motor vehicle, I drove without a license, no registration, and I left the scene of an accident when I ran back to Chaunce after I hit that flower truck.” She shakes her head and says, “It’s not fair.”
Everything is quiet. Then Sashonna says, “Remember those questions—the ones you put in Glamour magazine, Perry? You asked me what’s the best thing and what’s the worst thing about being at Blue River.”
“I remember,” I say.
“Well, the worst thing is being in here with somebody else watching me and telling me what to do all day. I had enough of that on the outside. The best thing is Jessica—’cause she’s been a good friend. Keeps me out of trouble. I like that—even though I know she doesn’t like me so much.”
“But I do!” Mom grins. “You’re like my annoying little sister!”
“Yeah? For real?”
“You bet.”
“Thanks for that.” Sashonna takes her tissue in the heel of her hand and rubs her nose in a big upward sweep. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry I got so much snot today. Oh my God! You didn’t take pictures of that, did you, Perry?”
She laughs, and it makes all of us laugh too.
chapter forty-seven
STORM
In the History Room Zoey is reading Mrs. DiCoco’s story. (I’ve pulled it together from a quick Tuesday afternoon interview.) She wants to read them all. But I wonder if I should be offering to help her with her own Coming to Butler County project. I know a secret: Zoey Samuels has not started her assignment. I haven’t asked her why. Days go by slowly for me while I am missing Mom. But time must be racing for Zoey. Our projects are due in a couple of weeks.
“Aww . . . this is sad,” she says. “Once you know the person, well, it makes you care. Can I see her videos too, Perry?” I pass the camera to her across the dark oak table. She holds it close, tilts her head while she watches the interview.
Outdoors a storm brings flashes of lightning and heavy drum rolls of thunder. The lamps in the History Room flicker under their green glass shades. The thunder builds until it is so loud that Zoey and I can hardly hear each other. We take my notebook and camera and scrunch down side by side on the floor beneath the window.
“Mrs. DiCoco didn’t tell about her trial,” Zoey says. She taps her pencil on the page.
“She always keeps her story short,” I say. “But also, she confessed. A confession is a conviction. So there was no trial.”
“It seems like . . . she shouldn’t have to be in prison,” Zoey says with a scowl. “At least not for so long. Same for a lot of them. I mean . . . your mom? Big Ed? They made big mistakes once but would never do it again. They’d never do that recivi-di-vis—ack! What is it again?”
“Recidivism.” I say it between rumbles of thunder.
“Yeah, that.”
“Warden Daugherty calls it her goose egg,” I say. I make an O with my hands. “Her big beautiful zero, because Blue River has zero percent recidivism. She says it’s proof that the place works the way it is supposed to.”
Zoey says, “You have a really good project, Perry. Telling the Blue River Stories . . . it’s . . . important. The confessions get to me the most.” She puts her hand over her heart. “When I do bad stuff, it’s really hard to admit it.”
“Yeah. But people want to be honorable. Own up, and start taking steps away from the bad thing . . .”
“And then there is Big Ed,” she says. “Did he really even commit a crime? He said he had no fight in him. What if he had tried to defend himself at a trial? What if someone else had defended him?”
We stop talking and listen to the thunder as the storm moves nearer. I think about Mom. She confessed. She didn’t get a trial either. I think about how she looks in the viewer of the small camera—how I recognize her as Mom but how there is also something different about her in the videos. Maybe it’s like Zoey just said; it’s hard to admit a mistake.
Still, something bothers me, especially as I hear more Blue River Stories from other residents. I flip back through the notebook pages until I get to Mom’s interview. It is supposed to be finished; it’s all written out. But it feels like pieces are missing. I look at the first note I made before she even began talking. She always told me that she ended up at Blue River because she contributed to someone’s death and she told lies. Her father died. I know that now. But . . . the lies? I keep reading. Searching.
“Where’s the part about the lies?” I say it out loud.
“Perry? What did you say?” A loud boom interrupts. Zoey crouches. “Whoa!” she says. She presses her hands over her ears as louder cracks of thunder sound. The History Room walls shake.
My mind races. What did Mom lie about? Did she tell me? Is it somewhere here in her Blue River story?
There’s a flash of lightning. The sky beyond takes an enormous breath—I swear I can feel it from inside the library walls. Ka-ka-BOOM! The crack of thunder is deafening. Seconds go by. Then huge raindrops splatter against the History Room windows. They come in a rhythm like someone is throwing shovelfuls of cinders at the thick glass.
“So loud!” Zoey says, her hands still over her ears. I nod and close the notebook. I’ll look at it again tonight.
When Zoey’s mom meets us in the History Room, she says, “Tom called and begged us not to head home until this passes. I think he’s right.” She glances out the window.
The rain is still pelting the library, pelting all of David City, and probably Surprise too. It’s not hailstones today, but I think about Mom—how she said the balls of ice crushed under her feet the night of the accident. What if that storm had not come? Or what if they had not gotten in that car that night? I’m standing in the History Room trying to change history. Everybody knows you can’t do that.
In the closet at the VanLeer house I read every word of Mom’s Blue River story. I even read it backward. I watch the videos again. I find the place in the beginning where she says that she told lies. I search every note I have. I see this:
They asked again and I told them again, I was driving. And finally, I told them that I had been drinking too.
Told them. But you can tell someone anything. You can tell them something that isn’t true. I stand up straight in the VanLeer closet. I bump the warden’s suitcase, and it tips. The little reading lamp and the travel clock hit the floor. My heart thumps. Am I wrong?
But why? Why would Mom tell them she had been drinking if she wasn’t? Or driving if she wasn’t? And if Mom wasn’t the driver, who was? Her father? He was sick that night with his chest pains. Her mother? She said her parents were both in the backseat.
“Hey, Perry?” Zoey’s mom taps on the door then pops her head in. “I heard a clunk,” she says. “Everything all right?” She looks past me and sees the suitcase and lamp. Then she gives me a long look. “Perry? You okay?” she asks.
“F-fine,” I tell her. My tongue will barely make words.
“Okay.” She turns slowly. “Are you sure?”
I nod. She goes away.
I have to get back to Blue River.
I have to ask Mom about the lies.
chapter forty-eight
ERASER
On Saturday, Mr. VanLeer is still hovering after we are through the Blue River bottlenec
k. I look over the heads and shoulders of other visitors. A flash of bright pink catches my eye, like an exotic bird has flown into the common. I hear a jingle then a voice. “Hi, Perry.” I raise my hand in return but I’m confused. It’s Miss Jenrik from the school cafeteria, her pink hair in a tail and a pink motorcycle helmet tucked under her arm. She breezes by, all feathers and rings, and takes a seat across from a man with sad, sunken eyes. It’s Mr. Wendell. He’s the new intake. Not so new anymore.
Mom is waving from our corner of the common. I’m hesitating. VanLeer is sticking to my heels like a gooey piece of gum. I need to give him the slip, and I haven’t been quick enough.
About fifteen feet from me, Cici Rojas is doing that thing where she goes and stands on the linoleum by the vending machines with her arms folded across her chest. She swings her body and calls to Mr. Rojas, “You can’t get me when I’m over here.” He can’t. Residents have to stay on the carpet during busy Saturday visits.
Mrs. Rojas scolds her daughter, “Cici! Respect your papa!”
Used to be I would go talk Cici off the linoleum. I was a Blue River helper. Used to be I could deliver cookies to Miss Jenrik and Mr. Wendell. Now I am shuffling through the common, trying to get to the resident I have come to see, and I can feel Mr. Thomas VanLeer’s fingertips pressing into my back.
“Perry, my man!” Mr. Halsey slides in and greets me, palm up for some skin. I step forward and give it. He pretends to bounce a ball through his legs then weaves between Mr. VanLeer and me. I do a weave of my own and turn to put VanLeer behind me. I look Mr. Halsey in the eye and whisper, “Can you keep six?”
He bobs his head in a big slow yes. He spins back toward VanLeer and shoots his invisible basketball. He claps a hand on VanLeer’s shoulder and tells him, “Man, have I got a new game for you.”
“No, no. Thanks. I’m all set today.” VanLeer is ready with his excuse. “I’m going to move along here and sit in on Perry’s visit with his mo—”
“Naw, naw! You beat me solid last time. A gentleman lets his opponent try again.” Mr. Halsey jabs his pointer finger at the floor. “That’s sportsmanship. That is how it is done, sir!” Mr. Halsey hooks VanLeer with one arm and reaches back to ruffle my hair with the other. Then he takes him away.
I miss Mr. Halsey. We are supposed to play that game in the yard before the weather turns cold. Before he gets gated out. “Two real dudes with a real ball,” he has said. “You and me.” But there has been no time for the game. No time to sit still for Miss Gina and her scissors. Most of all, I miss Big Ed—especially our Monday night suppers. I look around the common. I want to come back home to stay. But I have a strange feeling about Blue River now. It feels like something less than home. I don’t know how that happened.
Mom eyes me as I walk up to her. I realize that I’m the one who forgets to launch for the swing-around. Or maybe it is both of us.
“Perry.” She bends to speak to me. “What’s up?” We have an awkward hug. “Is he being difficult?” She stands straight and sets her hands on her hips in a make-my-day sort of way. “Do I need to have words with Mr. VanLeer?”
“No.” I shake my head. I have got to get the lump out of my throat.
My mom, the Blue River U-Hauler, pulls our chairs close together. “What’s the matter, Perry?”
I hold up my notebook and wag it at her. “Your story,” I say.
“Okay . . .” Mom nods slowly. I feel heat in my cheeks. “Will you let me read what you wrote?”
I hand over the notebook, and she bows her head to read. This takes minutes that feel like hours. I sit and bump the toes of my sneakers together. She finishes and tells me, “Nice job.”
I ask her, “Did I get anything wrong?”
“You might be missing a comma or two.” She smiles. “But the story is right.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” I say. “I get the part about the death. I know that was your father.”
“Yes.”
“But you also said that you told lies. And I can’t find a place in all my notes or videos where you say what the lies were.”
“Right.”
“Right? Mom! That’s so bad! It’s . . . it’s like you tricked me!”
“I can see why you say that.” Her eyes pool up. “But really, I didn’t. Everything I told you is true.”
“But there is more. Isn’t there?” I say. Mom gives me a sorry look, and I know I’m right. “Is this one of those times when I have to respect your Blue River privacy?” I’m afraid she will say yes. My knees begin to jiggle. A lot. Mom reaches and puts her hands on them, holds them steady.
“Not entirely,” she says.
“Okay. Then I’m asking. What were the lies?”
“I will tell you that.” Mom draws a breath. “I lied to the police and the court.” I watch her swallow. “The truth is, I was not driving the car. And I had not been drinking.”
“But Mom! That was your whole confession!”
“Yes, it was,” she says, and she doesn’t even blink.
chapter forty-nine
JESSICA
Poor Perry. He looked like a fish hanging in midair after a daring leap from the pond. Or maybe it was she who’d turned his pond upside down and spilled it. Either way, Jessica wanted to surround him with water again, give him back everything she could that was familiar. But he’d asked that question, and she’d given him the answer. He caught his breath and asked another.
“Who was driving?”
For this, Jessica would do no more than shake her head. Sweat dampened the folds of her chambray shirt, and she began to peel a curl of skin from her own thumb.
“Were they drunk? Was anybody drunk?” He wanted his answers.
“Perry, this is the part I won’t tell you.”
“You can’t do that,” Perry said. He was on his feet—angry and maybe even panicky.
“I can do it, Perry. I’m a mom, and this is one of the things moms do. I’ve told you as much as I can.”
“No. No! You’re using that voice you use when you have to tell someone that they can’t have something they want. Like when you tell a rez that a rule is a rule and there is no discussion.” She watched him take two hurried breaths. “It’s that eraser voice. You can’t do that—not when it’s us!”
This was a seldom seen version of her boy: offended and cutting free from his Blue River upbringing by way of this outburst. It was probably as good as it was awful, Jessica thought. If Thomas VanLeer continued to stand in the way of her release, she needed her boy to have some fight in him. But it broke her heart to see Perry’s beautiful face wincing in confusion. When he cooled, would he remember that she loved him more than anything in this whole world? She swallowed, and it hurt like a throat full of toothpicks and bird feathers.
“I would never erase us, Perry,” she said. “But you are right. There is no discussion. I confessed—years ago. I had my reasons. There is no point in looking back.”
chapter fifty
WHAT THE MEADOWLARK SAYS
On the way home from Blue River I press my forehead on the window and stare out at the grassy flats. The hug my mom pressed into me is still here like a strap around my chest and shoulders. I didn’t want it. I struggled with her. But I think she put it there on purpose. Does she know that I feel like I’m gone—like I’m not made of whatever Perry Cook was made of before?
Up front, Mr. VanLeer listens to a radio show where adults tell political jokes. He laughs with the voices. I keep watching the fields.
A new thought climbs right up on top of me and sinks its claws in. For the first time in my life, I think that Mom should not be in the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility. I don’t think she committed a crime—or at least not the one she’s in for—not manslaughter.
But if Mom shouldn’t be there, where should she be? Where should I be?
How can I not look back when the truth could change history?
Out the window I see the yellow chest and black bib of a western m
eadowlark perched on the fence post. His long beak is open—probably singing. My head makes up the words:
We were just kidding you, Perry! Just kidding that your mom is a convict! We were just kidding about your whole life!
That. That’s what feels so bad. My eyes burn. The fields begin to blur into stripes and patches. Then huge sobs come up. I keep them silent, force them back, and it makes my jaw ache. I slide down into my jacket until only my eyes stick out of my collar. I do not want Mr. VanLeer to hear me choking. I have to get it together before we get back to Rising City.
When we pull up, we meet Zoey’s mom at the open mouth of the VanLeer garage. She puts up her hands as if to say stop. She has four chairs lined up on the concrete floor. There are curled sheets of used sandpaper everywhere.
When I slide out of the SUV, I think my legs might not catch me, but they do. Mr. VanLeer kisses Zoey’s mom. They stand shoulder to shoulder while she asks me about my visit. “How’s Jessica—how’s your mom today?”
“She’s okay,” I say. I can’t really look her in the eye.
“I tried to join Perry while he was with his mom today,” VanLeer says. “It would be nice to get to know her better.” He sighs loudly. “But I was invited into a card game instead.” I feel his stare, but that’s small potatoes to me today.
“What are you sanding?” Dumb. It’s so obvious, but Zoey’s mom answers me anyway.
“Random chairs,” she says. She and Mr. VanLeer laugh. “I hope they will look less random when I paint them all the same color. I’m thinking duck-egg blue.”
“I like to sand,” I say.
“Yeah? For real?”
I nod. “I used to spend Saturday mornings in the wood shop with Big Ed.”
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook Page 15
