What Mr. Mattero Did

by Priscilla Cummings

  “Here—” Mom shoved a five-dollar bill into my hand. “Run in and get yourself a hot dog and a Diet Coke and whatever you want with what’s left. Some gum or something.”

  I took the five, but I hesitated. I knew this was sympathy money. Feel-sorry-for-Claire money.

  Mom reached over and closed my hand around the money. “Go ahead, honey.”

  I figured I deserved something for what I’d just been through, so I undid my seat belt and opened the car door. Inside the store, just like the old days, I bought myself a hot dog, pumped on some mustard, ketchup, and relish from the containers, grabbed a cold can of Diet Coke from the fridge case, and picked out two packs of sugarless gum. Even at that, there was some change, which I put in my sweatshirt pocket because my jeans were so dang tight I could hardly put anything in those pockets.

  I knew Mom expected me to eat in the van, before we got home and Corky got a whiff of it. So as soon as I got my seat belt back on, I unwrapped the hot dog, pushed it up between the pieces of bun so I’d only bite the meat part and not the bread, and started eating. When I was done, I wrapped up the uneaten roll really tight in the leftover wax paper so Mom couldn’t see and stuffed the wad deep in the trash can when we entered the house.

  At home, while Mom rushed off to pick up both of the kids, I took my soda and went up into my room to change out of my jeans. I put on some loose, comfy sweatpants and flopped on my bed wondering if Suzanne’s mother was still blubbering away in the school office and what was happening with Jenna. What was she thinking? Did she know her father would show up at school? Did he apologize to Mr. Mattero for hitting him? I shuddered when I thought of that and rolled over to hug my stuffed platypus.

  It took Mom a long time to come home. The house was stone quiet without her and the kids. I heard the mantel clock downstairs gong twice for two o’clock. I heard a squirrel scurry across the roof. I heard the heating coils under the baseboard click. I didn’t like being alone. It made me think too much.

  So I got up to put some music on my CD player and to call Jenna from the phone in my room, but no answer, so I left a message for her to call me back. I set the phone on my bed in case it rang and reached over to pick up a magazine I had dropped on the floor the night before. I was just, like, scanning the stuff on the cover: “The Sexiest New Jeans.” “Shoes, Shoes, and More Shoes.” “The Surprising New Way to Find Your Perfect Guy.” “Could a Cult Be Targeting You?” Then I started flipping through the pages and was checking out those new chrome-colored nail polishes when Mom came home and called upstairs.

  A man and woman I didn’t know were standing with Mom, Corky, and Izzy in the front hall. Corky made a beeline for me and grabbed me around the knees. “Hey, buddy,” I said. He squeezed really hard.

  “This is Mr. Daniels from the police department,” Mom said. “And this is Miss Weatherall with the child welfare department. They need to talk to you, Claire, about what happened at school.”

  It didn’t look as though I had a choice, so I pried Corky’s hands from my legs and went into the living room, where we sat down. “Where’s Care going?” Izzy kept asking (that’s what she calls me—Care). “She’s going to talk with the people,” Mom told her while she brought us glasses of water. “Who those peoples? Where’s Care?” Izzy kept asking while Mom dragged her and Corky off to the backyard.

  When they were gone, I told Mr. Daniels the same exact things I wrote down for Mrs. Fernandez. Then they asked me a bunch of questions about Jenna and Suzanne, like about how long we had been friends and stuff.

  “Don’t be afraid or worry about going back to school,” Mr. Daniels said when he was done. “Mr. Mattero won’t be allowed back until there has been a thorough investigation.”

  “He won’t?” I asked.

  “No. You’re perfectly safe going back to school,” Miss Weatherall said. She wore clothes like my grandmother would wear, only she didn’t look that old. When she closed up her little notebook, I swallowed hard. Because I was also thinking, If Mr. Mattero couldn’t come back to school, who would teach music?

  “Thanks for your time, Claire,” Mr. Daniels said.

  Miss Weatherall handed me a little white card. She said it had her phone number on it, just in case I needed to talk to her.

  “My number is on the back, Claire,” Mr. Daniels said. “You can call either one of us. You know, if you forgot to tell us something—anything. Please feel free to call. Anytime.”

  After they left, Mom came rushing back in saying she had forgotten some appointment she had for one of the kids and had to rush off. “Can you make us up a batch of chicken tenders for supper?” Mom asked. “Please, Claire, could you do that while I’m gone? Daddy’s late tonight. We’ll save him some dinner.”

  My dad was almost always late on account of his commute into Washington, D.C. Every day he got bogged down in traffic. Sometimes it took him hours to get home, and we don’t live, like, that far away.

  “Sure,” I told Mom. “I’ll make some tenders.”

  Corky was pulling on my hands because he wanted me to go, too.

  Mom warned, “I don’t want anyone over while I’m gone. Not Suzanne—and especially not Jenna. No one.”

  “Why not?” I asked her, pulling my hand free from Corky.

  Izzy ran out the door while Mom threw her purse over her shoulder and grabbed my little brother, swinging him up into her arms. He whined and struggled to get down because he hates going places. “I just want to let things calm down a little,” Mom said.

  “Okay,” I told her, but in a weak voice and secretly rolling my eyes because it irritated me, my mom’s attitude. She is always looking for an excuse why I can’t be with Jenna.

  Mom looked like she was getting ready to say something else, so I said, “ ’Bye, Mom. ’Bye, Cork. ’Bye Iz,” and closed the door.

  First thing I did, I picked up the remote in the family room and cruised the channels until I found an old episode of Hercules. Then I put the remote on the counter and went to work in the kitchen, where I could still see the TV.

  After I’d cut up all that disgusting raw chicken and cleaned off the cutting board with soap and water, I realized my mother didn’t have any flour left for me to roll the pieces in. I moaned out loud because that meant I had to like make it from scratch, the special flour Corky needs, and let me tell you, it is a pain in the butt because you have to mix up like ten different things: rice flour, soy flour, garbanzo-bean flour, tapioca starch, a whole bunch of stuff. There’s a recipe on our flour jar.

  I got it done though. I made the chicken tenders and put them in a bowl with a snap lid and stuck them in the fridge. Corky loves his chicken tenders. On chicken days he eats them with spinach and yams. I washed my hands to get that chicken and flour stuff off. Then I wiped off the counter. I knew I had saved my mother about half an hour of work.

  Still, I was feeling a little bit down over all the stuff that had happened at school and the talk with Mr. Daniels and the fact that police were involved and that Jenna still hadn’t called back. So, to cheer myself up, I turned off the TV—Hercules was over—and went back to my room to put some eyeliner on and French-braid my hair.

  8

  Melody

  POOR DAD. He slumped into the big easy chair in our living room, leaned his head back, and, with one hand holding the ice pack against his jaw, used his other hand to cover his eyes. He seemed so defeated, so completely blown away by what had happened.

  My mother refolded the letter from Mrs. Fernandez, tucked it back in its envelope, and placed it on top of the microwave. If only we could have put the whole situation away as easily.

  “What are we going to do now?” I asked quietly.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what we do next.” She glanced at the clock on the stove. “But you need to get on with things, Mellie. They’re expecting you at the barn, aren’t they?”

  “I’m supposed to help tack up at three-thirty.”

  “You’
d better go then.” She touched my arm. “Go ahead.”

  Upstairs in my room, I dropped my backpack on my bed and changed into barn clothes—jeans, a T-shirt, thick socks, and leather paddock boots. Harmony followed me upstairs and jumped on my bed, kneading the comforter until I went over and scratched her under the chin. When I came down the stairs, I saw Mom and Dad sitting together in the living room, but I didn’t disturb them. I went out through the kitchen, closed the door softly, and left.

  The pasture for the Trefoil Stables, where I volunteer, is right behind our neighborhood. In fact, the land we live on was once part of Trefoil Farm, but now all that’s left of the old farm is twenty acres and the barn. It’s like a little oasis of green surrounded by housing developments like ours, all of them pretty much the same. Rolling hills of identical rooflines. It’s that way all over Wallinsburg.

  On my volunteer days, all I have to do is walk to the back end of our lot, squeeze between the bars of the fence, and walk across the field. When I got to the barn, horses for the afternoon classes were already waiting, some of them tied to a rail outside the stable, others standing inside at cross ties in the walkway between their stalls.

  I saw Nova, the pretty bay that I rode for lessons in the summer, and stopped to give her a pat on the neck. She moved her head up and down—I hope it was because she recognized me, but probably not. There are a lot of people at the barns, a lot of volunteers like me. We all get riding lessons at reduced rates, which is the only way my parents could afford to let me ride.

  Mrs. Dandridge, the volunteer coordinator, spotted me and waved.

  I waved back but I didn’t call out hi or anything. I was still mixed up inside and didn’t know what I wanted to be on the outside. At the barn at least, no one would know about what had happened at my school.

  “Hey there, Melody,” Mrs. Dandridge said. “I’m going to have you groom and tack up Misty today. That little boy—Alexander—is coming for a four o’clock class.”

  I smiled a little at the mention of this little boy, then crossed my fingers and held them up. “Let’s hope it works today,” I said. During his first two lessons Alexander had refused to get anywhere near Misty, let alone ride him. He wouldn’t even come into the barn to see the horses. He was a cute little boy though, about four, maybe five years old, with dark hair and big brown eyes. Because he was so afraid, Mrs. Dandridge asked me to take him inside the office, where we spent his first two lessons watching videos about horses.

  Volunteers like me don’t know too much about the kids we work with. Usually just their first names and a little bit about what’s wrong with them. For example, they may have cerebral palsy, or Down syndrome. They may have suffered a traumatic brain injury, like one little girl we had who was hit by a car. Or they might be visually or hearing impaired. Some of the kids are mentally retarded, some have muscular dystrophy, and some come to riding therapy because of strokes, which really surprised me. I didn’t realize young children could have strokes.

  I wasn’t sure what Alexander’s disability was. Physically, he seemed fine. But he didn’t say much. The only thing I did know was that he loved Superman so much that the first day he came he wore a dingy old baby blanket, fastened with a big safety pin, around his shoulders. His mother said it was his “flying cape.”

  Misty, a small light gray gelding with black stockings, stood patiently waiting at one of the cross ties in the barn. I made my way into the tack room, grabbed the horse’s box full of grooming brushes, and walked over to say hello. I rubbed Misty’s nose and patted his neck. He was one of the gentlest horses in the entire barn. “You ready for your lesson today?”

  Misty hadn’t been ridden earlier, so I took the currycomb and vigorously made circular motions all over him, avoiding his face and legs, to loosen the dust and dead hair. Next, I used the curry mitt to do his face and legs. Then I pulled with a firmer brush and long, hard strokes to get the loose dirt and hair off. And I wondered as I did this: Why in the world would some seventh-graders make up a nasty story about my father? Did he do something to make them angry?

  Finally, I used a softer brush to finish off Misty’s face and legs, all the time thinking that my father must be going nuts, realizing that he would be losing valuable rehearsal time before the annual band competition. Every year he took the band down to Virginia to compete, and for the past five years they had returned with the first-place trophy.

  When the brushing was done, I returned to the tack room, ran a clean washrag under warm water in the sink, and used the cloth to wipe around Misty’s eyes and the rest of his face. Stupid seventh-graders, I started thinking. They probably made it all up—for fun! Man, if I found out who those jerks were, I would tell them a thing or two! I stopped wiping and stared at the wooden barn floor wondering just how mad I could get and what I might actually do. Grab them? Yell? Spit at them?

  The last part of grooming was to clean the hooves. I reached for the hoof pick, then turned with my back to Misty’s front and picked up one of his front legs the way a blacksmith does so I could clean out the area inside his shoes. It was when I set his front leg down that I saw little Alexander and his mom approaching the barn door. I couldn’t believe he’d already come this close to the horses. It was a good sign.

  “Hey there!” I waved to him.

  Alexander didn’t speak, but his mother smiled back.

  “Are you going to ride today?” I called over to him.

  The boy buried his face against his mother.

  Maybe not, I thought to myself, biting my lip and hoping I hadn’t come on too cheerful. While I finished the hooves, I noticed how Alexander was sneaking glances at me. And suddenly, I had an idea.

  When I took the grooming tools back to the tack room, I stopped Mrs. Dandridge. “I just saw Alexander,” I told her. “He seems really afraid, so I wondered—what about the finger paints?”

  “Great idea!” Her face lit up with approval.

  We found the paints on a shelf near the saddles, and while Mrs. Dandridge fetched water and a towel, I walked to where Alexander was watching from outside the barn door. His mother shrugged and flashed me a hopeless look.

  I smiled back. “We had an idea,” I said, kneeling down so I was at Alexander’s level. When he turned his face away, I tugged gently on his sleeve. “Do you like to finger paint?”

  Alexander kept his head turned.

  “He loves to paint,” his mother confirmed.

  “Misty wondered if you would like to paint him!” I told the little boy.

  Slowly, Alexander turned his head to look at me.

  “I’m not kidding. Misty loves to be painted.”

  Alexander peeked up at his mother, and she gave him an encouraging smile and a nod.

  I gave him the paints and told him to come with me. This meant he would have to actually step foot in the barn, which he hadn’t done yet. But it worked; Alexander followed me to where Misty stood.

  When Mrs. Dandridge appeared with a bowl of water and a towel, we moved quickly so as not to lose momentum. I opened three jars and dipped two of my fingers in red. “Watch,” I said, smearing the red paint on the side of Misty’s big gray, furry belly.

  Alexander grinned. His wide eyes sparkled. He came over and put three fingers in the jar of blue, then walked right up to the horse and made a broad blue stripe over my red blob.

  “That’s great!” I cheered. “More color!”

  Alexander dipped his fingers in the jar of yellow and made another stripe parallel to the blue one. Then he took both hands and rubbed the paint around and around, all over Misty’s side. The horse nickered softly. His big belly shook. Alexander jumped back.

  “See? He said he likes it! The paint feels good!” I told him. “It’s like getting a massage!”

  Alexander chuckled and continued painting, making huge spirals of color all over the horse’s side. A few other people in the barn came over to watch, and pretty soon Alexander and Misty had a small audience. For twenty minutes he
painted the horse. When it was over, after he had washed his hands and cleaned up, he came back to stroke Misty on the nose and see his artwork once more before leaving with his mother.

  “A definite step forward,” Mrs. Dandridge said, putting an arm around my shoulder and squeezing it. “That was the perfect idea, Melody! Now he’s not afraid. Next week, maybe, he’ll help you brush the horse!”

  “Thanks,” I said. I was pretty pleased myself with how it had turned out. I unhooked Misty from the cross ties and started to lead him out back where I would hose him off, when all of a sudden, Alexander came running back into the barn, full speed. “Hey, slow down,” I said, not wanting him to scare the horses.

  But Alexander kept running, and, when he got to me, he threw his arms around my legs. A big hug, then a sprint back to his mother.

  I led the horse back out of the barn, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my father hadn’t hugged someone at school in the same spontaneous way. Or patted someone on the back? Or, like Mrs. Dandridge had just done to me, squeezed someone’s shoulders because they had done a good job? Had my father, in perfect innocence, touched someone who turned that touch against him?

  Why? Why would someone do that to my dad?

  I stood, holding Misty’s lead rope as something else occurred to me: Would the kids at school know about what had happened? Would they think my father actually did something to those girls?

  What was going to happen to my dad?

  And what was going to happen to me—to my family?

  “Dee!” I turned around and through a warm wall of tears saw Alexander waving as he called out the last part of my name.

  9

  Claire

  WHOEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT two bombs could hit in the same day?

  What I found out about Jenna that night absolutely blew me away. It made me think I ought to be writing a script for a movie or something . . .

  Okay. Okay. Back up for a second. So I had just finished my hair, my two French braids, except that I have these stupid layers, remember, and all these wispy ends that I can’t get into the braids so they end up hanging down the sides of my face, but actually that’s sort of cool, so, really, I don’t mind. Anyway, braids were done. I had finished my Diet Coke, which was all I could have for dinner on account of the hot dog. And I was lying on my bed waiting for Mom and the kids to come home when Jenna called.