I have always liked Mrs. Sidley. Even if she does fix her hair like someone out of the fifties, I like the books we read in her class, and I got halfway decent grades from her. I opened my mouth to explain, but the words wouldn’t rise up. Suddenly she was shaking her head, saying, “No, no, don’t. I’m probably not supposed to ask.”
So I closed my mouth, and while Mrs. Sidley kept watch, I sat there on that chair, hugging my backpack, chewing on what was left of my poor, torn-up fingernail, and feeling myself break out into little beads of sweat.
Finally, Mrs. Fernandez came in. Mrs. Sidley gave me a “good luck” look with a lift of her eyebrows and left. The principal closed the door.
“All right,” she began, sighing and taking a hard look at me. “What’s your name?” She sounded tired.
“Claire,” I told her. “Claire Montague.”
“Claire Montague,” she repeated. I guess because she didn’t know me. “You’re new this year, Claire? Seventh grade?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m new because of the districting.”
“You mean redistricting,” she corrected me. “You got moved here from Herald Heights?”
I nodded.
Mrs. Fernandez started to shake her head, and I wondered if she thought that maybe we wanted to cause trouble because we were unhappy about the move.
“I like this school,” I quickly told her. “It’s a whole lot better than my old one. At Herald Heights there is, like, a fight every day. You can’t even take a regular backpack to that school—it has to be a clear one, you know? So they can see through to what you have in there, like a knife or something.”
Mrs. Fernandez did not react to that.
“Claire,” she continued, “often there are many sides to an incident.”
Why was she calling it an incident? Didn’t she believe Jenna?
She handed me some lined notebook paper and said very slowly, “I want you to write me a letter. Take your time and tell me everything that happened, okay? What led up to it and all the details you can remember.”
I was surprised because I had thought we’d talk about it, that she would ask me some questions.
“Do you understand?” she asked.
I told her I did.
“All right then,” she said. “Go ahead. Take your time.” And she walked out. Just like that.
I was surprised, yes. But I was also relieved that I didn’t have to talk to her about it. At that point, I just wanted to write it all down quickly and get out of there—maybe even fake a stomachache so I could go home.
After moving a couple books on the guidance counselor’s desk so I had a flat space to write on, I smoothed out the paper. Dear Mrs. Fernandez, I wrote at the top in my neatest cursive.
We had notes—Jenna, Suzanne, and I—printed on pieces of bright pink Post-its that we’d stuffed into our jeans pockets. But I didn’t need to look at those notes because I knew everything by heart.
I began to write.
4
Melody
THE RUMORS ABOUT MY DAD STARTED FAST. I eat during the last lunch on Wednesday, all the eighth-graders do, and by then I’d already been warned something had happened and that my father was involved. But I also knew he could be pretty outspoken, so I didn’t think much about it. I figured Dad had an argument with Mrs. Fernandez about why school wasn’t paying the instrument-repair bill on time. He’d been complaining about it at breakfast.
Then, on my way to class after lunch, my best friend, Annie, stopped me in the hallway and pulled me by my shirtsleeve into the girls’ room. “Melody,” she said, breathlessly, “your dad’s in big trouble.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Two kids I know . . . they were in the office . . . they heard your dad yelling at Mrs. Fernandez . . . I mean really yelling—”
“Annie—”
“No!” she stopped me. She took a breath. “Somebody else’s father—I don’t know who—he tried to take a punch at your dad.”
“What?”
“One of the teachers had to grab that guy and hold him back!”
“Annie, what in the world are you talking about?”
“It’s what those kids told me!”
I grinned at her because Annie is so melodramatic. “Come on. You know Dad. He’s always arguing with Mrs. Fernandez.”
Annie’s mouth made a tight line. You could tell she was disappointed in my reaction.
“Come on, we need to go,” I told her, glancing at my watch. “We’re going to be late.”
Annie licked her lips, studying me. “All right,” she agreed. “But promise me, Mellie, promise—if something happened, you’ll call me right after school.”
I chuckled. I actually chuckled! “I promise,” I told her, which seemed so silly because we call each other anyway.
We came out of the bathroom, and I watched Annie walk down the hallway with all the key rings jangling off her backpack. Then I shrugged it off and went to gym.
In the locker room, which is too warm, smells like stinky feet, and is full of chaos with all of us rushing to change at once, I sat down on a bench between lockers. Right when I pulled my shoes off I heard my name called.
“Melody! Melody Mattero!” our gym teacher, Mrs. Anderson, sang out over the noise.
Some of the girls held clothes up to their fronts or quickly stepped into their gym shorts because suddenly Mrs. Anderson was right there in the door to our locker room.
I walked in my Peds over to where she stood and—it seemed so strange—Mrs. Anderson told me I had been chosen to participate in some sort of a survey. She told me I had to go down to the office and answer some questions. “Others will be asked to participate, too,” she announced loudly to everybody who was staring. “You’re excused, Melody. Go ahead.”
I still didn’t think it was anything unusual. I was in SGA (the student government association), and we were always getting asked to do extra things, like organize a food drive or decorate for the dance and plan refreshments. I figured it was SGA- related. And honestly, I did not mind missing gym because we were playing lacrosse and I’m not very good at flinging that hard little ball.
After putting my shoes back on, I picked up my books and went down to the office. No sign of my dad yelling at Mrs. Fernandez or getting punched out by someone’s father. No police. See? I grinned, thinking I’d tell Annie: “You were being melodramatic again.”
Mrs. Fernandez met me and said to come on back to the guidance counselor’s office. Okay, I did think it was odd that the principal was escorting me. She was quiet, too, while we walked down the little hallway behind the main office. Usually, she asks about my sister, Song, or my brother, Cade—she really liked Cade. But she didn’t chitchat at all.
In the guidance counselor’s office, two people were waiting.
“Melody, this is Mr. Daniels and this is Miss Weatherall,” Mrs. Fernandez said. “They would like to ask you a few questions. They’re doing a survey, to make sure kids in school are safe.”
I said hi to Mr. Daniels and Miss Weatherall. They seemed like nice people. Mr. Daniels shook my hand and pulled out a chair for me. He was young and fairly handsome, I thought, a little like Pierce Brosnan, with dark hair and a killer smile. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “We won’t be long.”
I cleared my throat. “No, no. It’s fine.”
Miss Weatherall had a bit of an odd look to her. She had mountains of frizzy hair, some of which she pulled back into a clip. And she wore an old-fashioned outfit, a long brown peasant skirt and a bulky brown sweater to match, but she was pleasant. She extended her hand as well. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted me.
Miss Weatherall assured me their visit was routine. “We just want to ask you a few questions. We’ll be talking to other kids, too.”
See? When she said they would be talking to other kids, too, it did reassure me. Even then I didn’t think it had anything to do with my father. It certainly never crossed my mind that
Mr. Daniels was a police detective with a gun hidden at his side and a badge tucked into his pocket!
“Have a seat,” Mr. Daniels offered, gesturing to the chair he’d pulled out from a small round table. I sat down and adjusted my glasses. Mr. Daniels and Miss Weatherall sat opposite me. Miss Weatherall pulled out a small notebook and immediately started writing.
“So Melody,” Mr. Daniels said, folding his hands on the tabletop, “what is your last name?”
“Mattero. M-a-t-t-e-r-o.” I spelled it for him because some people have a hard time with my name. They get the a’s and the e’s transposed.
“Melody Mattero,” he repeated. “And when is your birthday?”
“January 25,” I said. “I’m fourteen.”
“And you’re in the eighth grade, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?”
I must have looked a little confused.
“Brothers? Sisters? Who’s at home?”
“Oh. Well, I have a sister in college. Out in Indiana. And a brother who’s a junior at the high school. We live with my parents. At 138 Bellevue Avenue.”
“What classes are you taking this year, Melody?”
“I’m in honors English,” I said. “Then I have honors lit. That’s literature. Then honors Spanish, honors social studies, honors algebra, health, and music.”
“Whoa, that’s quite a load!” Mr. Daniels noted. He seemed really impressed.
It was quite a load. Some nights I spent about five hours on homework. But I was doing okay, and my parents were really proud.
“How are your grades?” he asked. Miss Weatherall wasn’t doing any of the asking, but she was writing really fast.
“All A’s except for algebra,” I told him. “Math is my downfall.”
Mr. Daniels laughed. “Good ole algebra. I wasn’t good at it either.”
A pause. I smiled a little and looked back at him. I wondered if he had a list somewhere, or if he had just memorized all the questions he had to ask.
“What’s your favorite subject?” he asked.
“English,” I answered instantly. “I love reading. I love writing. I write poetry all the time.”
“You do?”
I nodded eagerly. “I wrote a poem that was in our literary magazine last fall. I’m writing another one for the spring issue.”
“That’s fantastic. What was the name of your poem?” Mr. Daniels asked.
I hesitated because I didn’t like to talk about my poems. I would rather people just read them.
Miss Weatherall stopped writing. “Does it have a title?” she repeated, waiting with her pen poised.
I felt my cheeks grow warm because my poems were personal, and I was a little self-conscious. “It’s called ‘The Secret,’ ” I said.
The dark eyebrows on Mr. Daniels sprang up, and I caught the look he exchanged with Miss Weatherall. He opened one hand. “How does it go?” he asked. “What are the first couple lines?”
“We’d love to hear some of it,” Miss Weatherall added.
As I looked from one of them to the other, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable. Reluctantly, I gave them the first two lines:
“I’m fourteen now. They call me Sam.
But nobody really knows who I am . . .”
It was enough, I decided. I didn’t want to recite the entire poem, even if I did know it all by heart—and by soul.
None of us said anything for a second.
“Could I read it sometime?” Mr. Daniels inquired gently.
“I’ll see if I can get you a copy of the last issue,” I offered.
“That would be great,” Mr. Daniels replied.
I dropped my eyes and moved the birthstone ring on my left hand back and forth against the knuckle.
They must have gotten the hint. They stopped asking about the poem.
“Melody, what else do you like to do for fun?” Mr. Daniels asked. “Movies? Shopping?”
I shook my head. “Horses,” I replied. “I take riding lessons in the summer, and I volunteer at the stables.”
“You volunteer?”
“Yes. There’s a program there—for kids,” I said. “Kids who are handicapped.”
Miss Weatherall stopped taking notes. “The riding-therapy program?”
I nodded.
“It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I had a niece with cerebral palsy who rode a horse in that program. I think she still does. Her name is Carly.”
I smiled big-time because I knew who Carly was and because the program was wonderful. It was amazing what the horses did for some of those kids.
“What do you do there?” Mr. Daniels asked.
“Everything,” I said, turning my hands up. “Feed the horses, turn them out in the pasture, do barn cleanup. When it’s time for the horses to come in, I help get them. I groom, tack up for the riders, lead them around the ring. Sometimes I’m a side-walker—those are the people who make sure the kids stay on. You know, because some of them have muscles that aren’t developed, and it’s hard for them to control themselves. I help to make sure they don’t fall off or anything.”
“I see,” he said.
He started asking about Mom then. Where she worked and when she got home.
“She gets home from the nursery about dinnertime,” I replied.
The questions got odd after that.
“Are you at home by yourself much?” Mr. Daniels asked.
“Hardly at all. I’m either at school or at the stables. I can walk there from my house.”
“Do you try not to be at home alone?”
I frowned because why would he want to know that?
When I didn’t answer, he asked, “What are the rules at home? What is expected of you?”
I shrugged. “To do my homework and keep my room clean, I guess. I wash the dishes when Mom asks me to, and my brother, Cade, takes out the garbage and mows the lawn.”
“How does your father react when you break the rules? Or when Cade doesn’t do what he’s told to do?”
What? Where was he going with those questions? I frowned and didn’t answer.
“Does your father have a temper? Does he ever hurt Cade or you?”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“Are you ever afraid of your father, Melody?”
My mouth went dry. I stared at Mr. Daniels.
“Melody, do you have pets? Do they ever get in trouble? Has anyone ever been mean to them?”
I felt myself standing up, gathering my books. I didn’t want to answer any more of their questions.
But they continued: “What happens when your parents don’t agree? Do they argue?”
“I have to go now,” I said. I could hear my voice waver.
I hoped they wouldn’t stop me as I moved toward the door.
But Mr. Daniels stood and reached for me. When he did, his jacket fell open, and I could see the gun he had tucked in a black leather holster.
“Melody,” he said, grabbing my arm, “are you afraid to go home?”
5
Claire
Dear Mrs. Fernandez:
You asked me to tell you what Mr. Mattero did and all the details so I will try. Thank you because I would be so embarrassed to be saying all this out loud. Please don’t call my parents until I tell you to because they don’t know anything about it. We have been like scared to death to say a single word to anyone.
It all began at lunch Monday. Monday is when Mr. Mattero came to our table in the cafeteria and asked did anyone in study hall want to put away Peter Pan stuff. I wasn’t in the play because of the flu. I missed six days of school because of the flu, and my mother thought I shouldn’t overdo it. But my best friend Jenna Cartwright was a pirate and my other best friend Suzanne Elmore, her and her mother helped make costumes.
So we were eating lunch. Actually Jenna and Suzanne were eating lunch. I already ate my apple and was sucking on a Tic Tac because I am on a d
iet and have lost eighteen pounds since sixth grade. Jenna said we should volunteer to help Mr. Mattero so we raised our hands and he said great did we need a note but we didn’t think so.
Last period we signed out of study hall and went to the music room, where Mrs. Reicher and another mom showed us what to do. Mrs. Reicher said to fold up the Indian costumes and tuck the wigs with braids into a Ziploc bag and put them all in one plastic box. Then she said to take the lost boy costumes off the hangers and fold each one neat and put them in another tub.
We started working. Mrs. Reicher and the other mom who I think might be Carlisa’s mother stood on the side of the room under the wall clock and Mrs. Reicher started bragging about her daughter Marcie who was Wendy in the play. She went on and on about what a fantastic voice Marcie had, blah, blah, blah, and how Marcie was having voice lessons from a music professor at the university and how she might go to a special arts high school in Baltimore.
After those mothers left, Jenna said let’s try on the Indian dresses for fun. Suzanne and I said do it over our jeans, but Jenna said it wouldn’t look right so we got undressed behind the piano in case someone came in the door.
We were halfway undressed when Mr. Mattero came back. We only had our underwear on so we held the dresses in front of us. We were really scared. Mr. Mattero started laughing. He came over and gave Jenna a hug. Then he put his arms around me too and patted me on the butt. He tried to hug Suzanne. He ran his hand up and down her back and touched the back of her bra. She said, “Please don’t do that, Mr. Mattero” and started crying.
When he walked away, he was still laughing. We were scared. We said let’s get out of there. We got dressed and went back to study hall. That is what happened.
Claire Montague
6
Melody
MR. DANIELS SAW ME STARING AT HIS GUN.
“It’s all right,” he assured me, releasing my arm. “I’m a police detective.”
I took a step backward. “But I don’t understand. Why are you asking me these questions? What kind of a survey is this?”
“Look, Melody,” Detective Daniels reached toward me again, but I took another step backward. “Like I told you, we travel from school to school making sure students are safe.”
What Mr. Mattero Did Page 3
