“Well, pull up a chair—ha-ha—and be my guest!” She laughs, and I wish I could laugh back.
Sanding is the perfect thing to do with the rest of this day. I stay hidden under a dust mask. I let my ears fill with the sound of the swishing and scuffing of the sandpaper. I sand and sand because a chair has lots of parts. I rub all the paint layers away down to the wood below. It’s like Mom’s story, I think. It’s like all the Blue River Stories, the way you dig backward to find the beginning.
“Wow!” Zoey’s mom startles me. “That looks ready for some primer and a new coat of paint. How about a break, Perry? Aren’t you hungry?”
I stand back from the chair. “Not so much,” I say. My stomach is quivery like the rest of me. “Can I start another chair?”
“Are you all right, Perry?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Start another one, if you really want to. I’m going to wash up and make you a sandwich. Just a half. Sound good?”
“Sure,” I say. I guess I will have to try to eat that.
Zoey’s mom pauses in the garage. “Perry, if there is anything I can do to help you, you will ask, won’t you? It’s okay to ask for help.”
I nod. But there is nothing she can do. While I work on the next chair I think about that. I want help for Mom. I need someone to look at her story—really look. I only know of one person who might be able to do that.
Thing is, all he’s ever done for Mom so far is make a lot of trouble.
chapter fifty-one
A QUESTION FOR VANLEER
All day Sunday, I just want to get back to Mom. It’s hard to know what I know about her confession. The rezzes at Blue River talk about rising up, they also talk about reconciling with themselves. Mom has done that. But I haven’t. I hate the badness between us. I know that I was yelling at her. Now I have to wait for Tuesday when the Bucking Blue Bookmobile will take me back to Blue River before we can talk again.
On Sunday night there is trouble in the VanLeer house. Zoey Samuels has a toothache. She makes it almost through supper, but then she is moaning. “Something’s wrong,” she says, and her jaw hangs. She leaves the table and goes to sit on the family room couch. She calls, “Mom, it really hurts. It’s throbbing.”
“Ugh. I’m so sorry,” her mom says. “We’ll get you through the night, and I’ll call the dentist first thing in the morning.” Zoey’s mom gives her two pills and water to wash them down. Then she gives her a wet tea bag to bite on. I run down the hall to her bedroom and bring the pillow from her bed.
Mr. VanLeer sits beside Zoey. He’s doing some stupid Stepdad Tom stuff. He’s flapping his tie at Zoey and talking like a cartoon character. She squirms away from him and buries her face in the pillows.
“Are you kidding me?” The muffled version of Zoey groans. “This tooth is killing, and you’re bugging me.” She reaches one arm backward to swat him away.
“Oh dear,” he says. “Robyn, this really isn’t good.” Mr. VanLeer strokes Zoey’s arm. He tells her he’s sorry.
“I just want to go to bed,” Zoey says. She cups her face in her hand. “I want to sleep. Mom, what if I can’t sleep?”
“Then you’ll rest. Come on, let’s see if we can get you comfortable . . .” They head down the hall together toward Zoey’s room.
That leaves me with Thomas VanLeer.
“What do you say we tackle the dishes?” he asks. So we do that. I clear. He rinses and loads the VanLeer dishwasher. I take the damp cloth and wipe down the table. When I turn around I see that Mr. VanLeer has been watching me.
“You’ve been rather pensive today,” he tells me. “Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Yeah. You mean you see me thinking about stuff.”
“Exactly.”
“There’s a lot to think about.”
“Perry, that sounds so heavy. You—you’re young! You shouldn’t have any worries. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Maybe I can worry about it instead.” He faces me and waits.
“Well, for one thing, I’ve been thinking about what you said—that you’d help me any way you can.” VanLeer looks back at me blankly. “You said it when you were interviewed on Counting on Butler County with Desiree Riggs.”
“Oh. Right.” He blinks. He rolls his shoulders like he’s got a bug on his back. “And I will,” he says.
“You know I’m writing stories for my assignment, right?”
“Yes, you’re interviewing the prison . . . er . . . residents.”
I hesitate. “I think there is something wrong with one of the stories.”
“Well, why is that? Do you mean that you think you’ve uncovered something?” He leans at me, and I think he wants to hear something sinister. “Which story, Perry? Whose story?”
“My mom’s,” I tell him. He moves as if I have pushed a button on him—the squirm button.
“Perry, I know that you want to believe that your mom is innocent. That’s perfectly natural. And I wish it were so. But it’s not. Now, you know why she’s incarcerated, don’t you?”
“I know the charge was manslaughter.”
“Exactly. I know that must be hard. I wish you never had to know anything about her crime.”
“Well, it used to be that I didn’t need to know. But now it’s keeping us apart. I need to find out everything I can. So, I know you have a lot of files in your office . . .” It’s almost impossible to say the next thing. But I have got to do this. “I wondered if you can get my mom’s file.”
“I have her case file already, Perry.”
“You what?” I am about to fall like a post.
He begins to explain. “See, it’s my job to review her file before her parole date, and make a recommendation to the parole board. That’s what I was doing when I uncovered your situation. You being raised at that prison.”
I narrow my eyes. “But I thought . . . and Zoey thought . . . that you started looking after you heard that I lived there.”
“I had asked for many files, Perry. Your mother’s was one of them. I was pointed to it by what Zoey said.”
“Well, if you want to know, living at Blue River was fine with me.”
He smiles a little. “Well, it might have seemed fine, but it wasn’t right,” he says. “I wouldn’t try to make you understand that, Perry, because that’s the stuff we grown-ups have to sort out.”
“Are you still looking at it? At her case or file or whatever?”
“I am.”
“You’ll do it in time for her parole hearing?”
“Your mom doesn’t have a date,” he says. “Her application for parole is pending. That means it hasn’t been accepted, Perry.”
I’m staring at him, and he’s staring at me. Then I know. This is why Mom was so low just before I left Blue River. It wasn’t just that VanLeer was taking me out of there. This is why she never carries her New Start folder with her anymore. Mom knows she isn’t getting out so soon. She didn’t want to tell me. My insides begin to shake. I look around the spaces inside the VanLeer kitchen. How long, then? How long will I be here? How long away from Mom?
“You . . . ,” I say to VanLeer, “you handed her a down letter. Didn’t you?” I close my eyes for a second, but it makes me dizzy.
“I’m familiar with the term. It’s what they say on the inside. But that’s used more when it comes from the parole board at a hearing.” VanLeer speaks slowly and evenly. “This—what I’ve done—is a request for formal postponement of the parole hearing to allow time for an investigation. So a little different.”
“But it means she stays. She serves more time,” I say. I’ve seen it happen to other residents. Not often.
“It’s a postponement.” He says it again. His tone is cool and easy.
I want to run from his house. But I make myself stay, and I ask him, “When does her parole hearing get put back on the timeline?” I can hardly pull in a breath. I’m trying to hide it from VanLeer.
“That hasn’t been decided,”
he says. His eyes shift away from me now. “I have to get through her case. It’s complicated by many factors, Perry.”
“But it’s all because I was living at Blue River, isn’t it? That’s the part you care about. You got the warden suspended too, didn’t you?”
“Perry, it wouldn’t be right for me to tell you more. The adults are taking care of it,” he says. He steps toward me. I step back. “I promise,” he says, “my goal is to help you.”
chapter fifty-two
BRIAN
Zoey Samuels was up half the night with her aching tooth. I know because I was up too—boiling mad at Mr. Thomas VanLeer, and letting all the bad news chew a hole in me.
I wake up tired in the morning. I lie on the mat in the VanLeer closet and look at my timeline. Am I going to have to add to that, make it go all the way around these walls? I roll over and press my face into the pillow until my nose feels flat. I scream into it. Then I growl. I cannot stand you, Thomas VanLeer!
Zoey’s mom is letting her sleep late this morning. They’re going to the dentist later today. I tiptoe past her door and make a get-well wish for that tooth.
I walk into school alone. I look at my feet or at nothing way up ahead of me.
“Hey, Cook!” Brian Morris aims at me with both pointer fingers. His friends look on. “The one-mile run. Coming up soon. Prepare to be crushed!” he says. “For the second year in a row.”
I’ve got nothing to say to him. I haven’t been thinking about the run. I haven’t even been running. I stumble forward on tired feet. The boys laugh then scatter.
Then I see Miss Maya in the lobby coming to check in with me. She does it almost every day. I tell her about Zoey’s tooth. “Oh, misery! Tell her I hope she feels better soon,” she says. Then she asks me, “How’re you doing with your Coming to Butler County project, Perry? I tried to make it all the way around the room on Friday. But I missed checking in with you and Zoey.”
Miss Maya’s question makes me drop my head. “Good,” I say, and I manage to nod while I look at the toes of my shoes. “The stories can be hard. You know.”
“I can imagine that it’s very emotional.” She is exactly right. I don’t want to talk about the stuff I found out about Mom’s story. It feels too private. Maybe not for Miss Maya, but for the school lobby.
“I’ve got the stories written out,” I say. “I guess that’s fine. But I have some video I took, and I keep wishing I could use that too . . .”
“Oh, sure,” Miss Maya says. “That would be neat! Videography, right? You still have time. I don’t know how to help you with that myself, Perry, but did you know there is a group of kids that meets at the library? They have a video club.”
“Yeah, I know. I went to use the room once. But I don’t know . . .”
“Go again! See what they’re up to. Ask questions. Or look at the computer program on your own. There! That’s your assignment for the day,” she says with a grin. “Go check that out.” She looks at the clock, gives me a nod, and heads off to her classroom.
I spend the morning trying to take extra-good class notes to share with Zoey when I see her tonight. I wonder about her tooth, and I miss her something awful, especially when lunchtime comes. I’m one of the last kids through the line.
“It’s Perry!” Miss Jenrik says. She swipes my card with a jingle and a smile. She taps in my special code. I wonder if she will say anything about seeing me at Blue River. “No Zoey today?” she asks. She pushes her lips sideways to blow her feathery earring back from her cheek. I tell her about Zoey’s tooth. “O-o-oh! Ow!” Miss Jenrik cringes. I think she’s one of those people who cannot talk about tooth pains, the way some people cannot talk about spiders or snakes.
I take my tray past Brian Morris and his friends to get to my nook at the end of the table. It’s weird not to have Zoey across from me. I look at the spaghetti, the breadstick, and the zucchini slices on my tray. I look at Zoey’s empty spot while I eat.
It’s not long before a balled-up napkin flies my way. I sit back and ignore the first one, but the second one lands on my tray. I look at the boys. I look hard.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” one of them asks.
“It’s not his girlfriend,” another says. “She’s his sister now. He got adopted.”
“No I didn’t!” I sit up and spin to face them. “I’m not adopted! I have a mom!”
“Well then, why did you move into Mad-Zoe’s house?” The kid curls his fingers into claws. Brian Morris is being quiet. I wonder what’s up with him.
“She’s not Mad-Zoe,” I say. “She’s pretty calm now, in case you haven’t noticed.” Funny thing is, I don’t feel calm and I think my voice sounds snarly. I look at my lunch tray. I don’t want the food anymore. The napkin balls have spaghetti sauce on them—from someone else’s spaghetti. That’s a gross-out thing for me. Besides, I can’t believe they said I was adopted—and they mean by VanLeer! I want a pillow to scream into.
Miss Jenrik’s heavy boots come stepping over the bench across from me. Clunk-clunk. She jingles her way into Zoey’s place. “Okay if I take my break here with you?” She tilts her pink head at me.
“Sure,” I say.
She smiles at me while she shakes up a milk carton in one hand. She strips the paper off a straw. She looks at Brian and his friends. “Hi, guys. What’s up? How’s that pee-sketty?” she asks, and she points to the pasta on their trays.
“Good,” one boy says, and he ducks his head a little.
“Yeah? Because it doesn’t look that good.” She points her shiny black fingernail at the napkin balls beside me and wrinkles her nose. Then she grins and the boys start to laugh. “Hey, Perry, do you need your spoon?”
“No,” I say. I hand it to her. She uses the spoon to push the napkin balls back to the boys.
“Garbage,” she says. “You guys are being a little bit yucky, aren’t you?”
Brian Morris shrugs and snorts a little. “Yeah,” he says. His face is red.
“Yeah,” says Miss Jenrik. “You could probably cut that out.” She sips milk up her straw, looks right at me. Then she says, “Hey, Perry, sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you the other day at Blue River. The time runs short on visiting day, doesn’t it?”
I feel frozen because of privacy—hers, not mine. Brian and his friends already know my mom is a resident. Miss Jenrik is looking at me. She has no fear.
“Will you be there next Saturday? I’ll introduce you to my dad.”
“Your dad? Mr. Wendell?” I whisper it.
She smiles. “Mr. Wendell Jenrik.” She points to her name pin. She even turns just a little so the boys will see. “That’s my pop.” She says it plain and takes another sip of milk. “I miss him like the dickens.”
I give her a small smile. I still won’t be able to eat my lunch, and it’s not like I’m happy that Mr. Wendell Jenrik is incarcerated. But I’m sitting across from a real friend. That’s an unexpected win.
After school I walk to the library on my own. I start off in the History Room, but I only stay a few minutes. It’s lonely without Zoey. I get it into my head that I will take another look at the video-editing program like Miss Maya suggested. It’s not a Video Boot Camp day. So maybe, just maybe, one little thing could go right and I’ll find that Brian and his friends are doing something else today.
The door is open so I step inside. I look over at the computer Zoey and I used a few days ago. I am staring at the back of Brian Morris’s big head. Of course, he got in here first. I begin to turn away. But then I stop. On the screen in front of Brian, I see Big Ed. It’s a still shot that zooms slowly inward for several seconds then stops. Brian Morris taps the track pad. He hits an arrow and the shot of Big Ed slowly zooms again, this time, while soft music plays.
“Hey!” I slice the quiet. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” Brian is up out of the chair. His cheeks turn red.
“Doesn’t look like nothing. That’s my file!” I’m loud. Brian gl
ances out toward the library’s main floor, looking nervous and guilty. There must be rules about privacy and messing with other people’s uploads, and I bet Brian knows that.
“Okay, not nothing,” he says. He tries to keep his voice low. “I—I was just doing some editing to show—”
“Show what? Show your napkin-thrower friends? Spread it around for no good purpose?” A speck of spit flies off my tongue.
“No, to show you how to—”
“Where did you get that photo anyway?”
“I extracted it from your video as a still. I put music with it but you could record your voice to tell the story.” He’s talking fast—too fast—like he’s exploding with information.
“No!” I say. I must be crazy to have listened to him this long. Zoey was right about Brian Morris. I don’t trust him. “Delete it,” I tell him. “In fact, never mind. I’ll do it myself!” I barge into his place at the computer. My fingers jitter along the track pad. “Idiot,” I mutter as I click Big Ed away. I mean me; I’m the idiot for somehow leaving the videos on the computer. I don’t know what Brian thinks. I don’t care.
The computer shows me a box asking if I’m sure I want to delete the file permanently. I click Yes. I haul myself up and head for the door. I hear Brian Morris calling after me.
“Y-you could sign out the laptop and teach yourself the program. It’s easy . . .”
I’m trying to get away from him. The strap of my backpack catches and drags me backward. I yank it. I take out a chair and have to stop to pick it up. Every person from every table in the library turns to look at stupid, stupid Perry Cook.
chapter fifty-three
A CHANCE MEETING
My heart is still pounding when I reach the circulation desk. Mr. Olsen is on duty. I have special permission today to walk over to Mr. VanLeer’s office and wait there for a ride back to the house.
“Will you please sign me out?” I say.
“Leaving rather early, aren’t you?” Mr. Olsen does his signature finger pointing—curl, release—at the clock. I can’t believe it either—I’m choosing to go to Mr. VanLeer’s office well before I have to.
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook Page 16
