More Than Words: Stories of Courage

by Anthology

  “Dinner’s almost ready. We’re trying some new veggie burgers.” Tracy spied the CD cover beside the player. “Hey, don’t tell me that’s Britney Spears?”

  “Somebody at school loaned it to me. Is it too loud?”

  “Not for me. I like the noise. But maybe not the way she dresses.” She watched Molly stuff the quilt back under her pillow.

  “You know, you can leave that out,” Tracy said. “My younger brother took the few shreds that were left of his security blanket off to college. I understand. Nobody here’s going to toss it, no matter what shape it’s in.”

  Molly looked embarrassed, and for a moment Tracy was sorry she had spoken. But not speaking wasn’t working any miracles. Molly was still too much like a shadow in the house.

  She went to sit on Molly’s bed. “Tell me about it. Are those your favorite colors?”

  “They’re all right.”

  “You’ve had that a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “May I see?”

  Reluctantly Molly handed her the quilt. Tracy examined it, turning it over. “Quilts from Caring Hands.”

  “It’s these ladies who make quilts for kids who have, you know…”

  “Kids in foster care?”

  “Kids who have messed up lives. All kinds of kids.”

  Tracy nodded, at a loss for words.

  “It’s falling apart,” Molly said.

  Sort of like the girl’s future, Tracy acknowledged silently. No telling what the coming year was going to bring the girl or this well-loved scrap of fabric.

  “I tried to fix it once,” Molly went on, “but I don’t sew.”

  “I sew, but I don’t know a thing about quilts,” Tracy said. “You know, though, if these people are still making quilts, I bet they could tell us what to do to fix it.”

  Molly’s eyes brightened. “You think? I mean, I know it’s silly—”

  “It isn’t silly. Molly, you haven’t had an easy time of it, honey. It would be silly of us to pretend you had. And I think this quilt has helped you through the rough spots. It would be an honor to help you fix it up and preserve it. Will you let me?”

  “You don’t have much time.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. And wasn’t that sad. That something as simple as repairing this quilt seemed impossible with her crowded schedule.

  “The quilt’s a priority,” Tracy said. “Top of my list. Now come and try the veggie burgers and tell me what you think.”

  “You really won’t, you know, decide it’s no good and trash it?”

  “There is no chance of it. None whatsoever.”

  Molly smiled for the first time since Tracy had opened the door.

  Darla Chinn, Molly’s Hawaiian-born social worker, had bone-straight black hair and blue eyes in a classic oval face. Her beauty was clearly noteworthy, but her strength and intelligence were even more so. She and Tracy were becoming friends, and formalized meetings between foster mother and social worker had turned into lunch dates.

  On Wednesday they met at a restaurant near the university to munch their way down the salad bar.

  “These women get together every Wednesday,” Tracy told Darla once they had piled their plates and were back at the table. As they’d loaded up, she had started filling Darla in on her trip that morning to the Lifespring Foursquare Church to see the quilters of Quilts from Caring Hands in action. “And they’ve made literally thousands of quilts. But you probably know all that.”

  “We’ve given away a lot of their quilts,” Darla said. “And I can tell you, they make a real difference to the children. The quilt’s something to hold on to when there’s not much else.”

  “They make quilts for a lot of different agencies. They even make tactile toys and quilts for blind children.” Tracy was still impressed with everything she had seen that morning.

  The church where the quilters met—she’d counted at least thirty—had once housed the YMCA. Their regular room was cheery with shelves nearly spilling over with fabric. Tables and ironing boards and sewing machines were set up everywhere. There was so much equipment, the church allowed them to put tables in the sanctuary, too, and the atmosphere in both rooms was charged with excitement and high spirits.

  “Sounds like you had a good visit with them.”

  “It was great. One of the women took me around and showed me everything they were doing. Then she sat down with me and looked at Molly’s quilt. Pretty soon a crowd gathered. Everyone oohed and aahed and gave me advice. They handled the quilt with the care I’d give a medieval tapestry.”

  “Women whose priorities are straight.” Darla added sugar to her iced tea.

  Tracy envied her thin friend that second packet of sugar and stirred artificial sweetener into her own tea. “The prognosis isn’t good. The quilt’s in pretty sad shape. The binding at the edges can’t be salvaged. The border is threadbare. But most of the blocks in the middle are in good enough condition to save.”

  She set down her spoon. “The woman who gave me the tour suggested that Molly and I take it apart carefully, then remake it using the good blocks. We can add more—they’re really simple, and we can probably find similar fabrics—then sew some borders around it to make it big enough for a twin bed. She said we could have somebody else quilt it if we want, or do that ourselves, too.”

  Darla stirred her tea. “It sounds like a big project, and one that will take some time.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tracy knew just where Darla was going with that. “Having any luck finding a real foster home for her?”

  “At this point it’s you or the group home. Things are still going okay?”

  Sometimes Tracy wondered if Darla was really looking for another home for Molly. “She’s easy to have around.”

  “Until she starts testing you.”

  “I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  “And if she does?”

  Although she wasn’t a child psychologist or a real foster mother with a bag of tricks up her sleeve, Tracy wasn’t without experience, either. Her brothers and sisters had been teenagers, and not that long ago. “We’ll cope if that happens.”

  Darla reached for a second muffin. Tracy was still trying to rationalize a first. “I say go ahead with the quilt. It’ll be a good memory for Molly once she gets another placement.”

  Tracy couldn’t imagine herself as simply a good memory. The image was definitely unsettling. She wondered if Darla had known it would be.

  Her cell phone rang. She apologized before she left to go outside and take the call.

  Back at their table she scooped up her coat. “Remember that question you asked? The one about Molly testing us?”

  Darla lifted one sculpted eyebrow in question.

  “That was the school. They’ve scheduled a meeting in an hour with Molly’s English teacher. Molly was caught cheating on a test.”

  “Why would Molly cheat? She’s smart as a whip and her grades have always been excellent.”

  Tracy slung her purse over her shoulder. “That’s what I’m about to find out.”

  Tracy had not spent much time in guidance counselors’ offices. Her family had expected her to work as hard at school as she did at home. She had been an A student.

  But then, until today, so had Molly.

  Graham joined her in the reception area outside the door. She hadn’t expected him to drop everything and come, but here he was. He took her hand and squeezed it in greeting.

  There was another couple waiting, as well. The man, dark-haired and athletic, was dressed in a cashmere sweater and perfectly creased khakis. The blond woman looked as if she had just come from the spa, and although Tracy’s suits and dresses were of excellent quality, she and this woman did not frequent the same department stores. For that matter, Tracy was fairly sure this woman did her shopping in San Francisco or Seattle. Or Paris.

  The guidance counselor ushered the four of them inside her office. Molly and another girl were sitting
on one side of a narrow table with an older woman. Molly was looking down at the table and didn’t acknowledge them.

  Once they’d all seated themselves around the table, the counselor introduced the other woman as Mrs. Oakley. Then she introduced the expensive-looking couple as Mr. and Mrs. Carvelli, the parents of Jennifer Carvelli, the curvy blond student sitting next to Molly.

  Mrs. Oakley was middle-aged with a ruddy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair. The table didn’t hide her expansive waistline. “I’ll come right to the point,” she said, twisting her hands as she spoke. “I graded my third-period test papers this morning. There were a number of multiple-choice questions, about twenty blanks to fill in, and a short essay at the end. The test counts for one quarter of this term’s grade. I graded Jennifer’s and Molly’s papers back-to-back. Maybe if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have noticed the problem.”

  “What problem?” Mrs. Carvelli said. Her voice was low and husky, but she bit off her words, clearly annoyed.

  “Jennifer and Molly sit next to each other, and their papers are identical. Except for the essays, that is, and even those are remarkably similar, with key phrases repeated in both. Unusual phrases. There’s no way that these two tests could be so much alike unless one of the girls was cheating.”

  She handed sheets of paper to both sets of adults. Tracy saw that the papers were copies of the girls’ tests. She set them side by side on the table, glancing at Molly as she did. Molly looked miserable. Their eyes met for a moment, then Molly looked away. Jennifer, on the other hand, was examining her nails, which seemed to be decorated with perfect little flowers. Her hair was professionally streaked, and her clothes looked like a hybrid of Seventeen magazine and Playboy.

  Her expression said she had nothing to worry about.

  As Mrs. Oakley had concluded, the tests were too much alike to be anything but cheating. Tracy noted that one answer was misspelled on both papers and the essays were phrased a little differently, but the information was identical. There were even a couple of multiple-choice questions where both girls had erased or scratched out one answer and chosen the other.

  She looked at Graham. He shrugged.

  “What do the girls say?” she asked the teacher after the Carvellis had finished examining the tests.

  “Jennifer says that Molly must have copied her paper.”

  “Then it’s clear who cheated,” Mrs. Carvelli said.

  Tracy wasn’t sure which Carvelli female she disliked more at the moment. “I’m sorry, but just because your daughter says Molly cheated doesn’t mean it’s the truth. Molly?”

  Molly looked as if she wanted to shrink and disappear forever. “What?”

  “Did you copy Jennifer’s paper?”

  Jennifer spoke before Molly could answer. “She said she did. Right, Mrs. Oakley?”

  “My wife asked Molly,” Graham said pointedly.

  “You don’t want my help…” Jennifer shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

  “Molly?” Tracy repeated.

  Molly didn’t answer.

  After a tense silence, Mrs. Oakley said. “Molly did indicate she was the culprit. But frankly, I’m not sure she’s telling the truth. Molly is a superior student and doesn’t need to copy from anybody. Jennifer…” Her voice trailed off.

  “That girl tells you she cheated, and you still want to blame my daughter?” Mrs. Carvelli demanded.

  “I know your daughter’s work, and she hasn’t turned in a test paper anywhere near this perfect in all the weeks she’s been in my class.”

  “Well, I—”

  The teacher ignored her and went on. “I took the girls one by one out into the hallway and asked them questions on the material I had tested them on. Molly knew all the answers and Jennifer didn’t. Then I asked Jennifer to repeat the written test after school today, and she refused.”

  “Why would Molly confess if she didn’t do it?” Graham asked. He looked at the girl directly. “Why would you, Moll?”

  Tracy noted that Jennifer was glaring at Molly now, and Molly was all too aware of it.

  “I told the truth,” she mumbled. “I…I copied Jennifer’s paper. She’s the one with the good test, not me.”

  Tracy was one-hundred percent sure Molly was lying, and she was ninety-nine percent sure why. Jennifer, from the looks of her, was probably one of the more popular students. Molly, judging from her lack of friends, was not. Jennifer had copied Molly’s test paper, but Molly didn’t want to turn her in. Tracy could only imagine how miserable a girl like Jennifer could make Molly’s life.

  “I don’t know why you had to call us in here,” Mrs. Carvelli said. “We’re busy people. You have the cheater. She admitted it.”

  “I still believe Jennifer is the one who cheated,” Mrs. Oakley said. “But since Molly is going along with it, I really don’t have any choice here. Molly will receive the zero, but both girls will have to do a five-page essay on a subject connected with the test material. If either of them chooses not to turn it in, that will be another zero in my book.”

  “You have no right to punish Jennifer. I have close friends on the school board,” Mr. Carvelli said. “I’ll be talking to them.”

  Mrs. Oakley didn’t dignify the threat with a reply. “Parents, I hope you’ll talk to your daughters and try to get to the bottom of this.”

  “They’re not my parents,” Molly said.

  Jennifer giggled. Tracy just wanted to cry.

  Molly was staring out the window when Tracy walked into her room that night after a very quiet dinner. The girl didn’t look at her when Tracy sat down on the bed.

  “I have a bedtime story for you,” Tracy said.

  At her words, Molly turned. Her eyes were shining with tears, but her mouth was drawn in a determined line. The tears wouldn’t be allowed to fall. “I’m not a little kid.”

  “I know you aren’t. But I’m about to make up for some of the stories you didn’t get to hear when you were.”

  Molly looked away.

  “When I was fourteen, just coincidentally the same age you are, I had my first boyfriend. His name was Al, and I thought he was really hot. I thought I was really hot because he liked me, too.”

  “Hot?” Molly grimaced.

  “I know. I’m trying to be fourteen again. Just temporarily. Play along.”

  Molly didn’t answer.

  “Anyway, let’s just say that by my standards today, Al was a complete loser. But at the time, I thought he was everything good under the sun wrapped into one gorgeous fifteen-year-old body. One day Al and I were at this little shopping mall where our parents had dropped us off to see a movie. Afterward we went into a department store to look around, and Al saw a belt he liked. So he stuffed it under his coat. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never seen anybody shoplift before. I told him he was crazy, but he just walked back into the mall, like he hadn’t done anything. I went after him, trying to get him to take the belt back…”

  Tracy waited. Molly turned around. “What happened?”

  “A security guard at the store had seen him take the belt, so he came after us. When Al realized who the guy was and what he wanted, he shoved the belt at me and took off running.”

  “But the guard saw him steal it, right?”

  “Right. The man knew it wasn’t me. But when he finally caught up with old Al and dragged him back to the store, Al kept repeating it was my fault, that I’d taken it. And when that didn’t work, he changed his story and said that I’d made him do it.”

  Tracy fell silent. She waited for Molly to speak, but the teenager said nothing.

  “I didn’t take the blame for him,” Tracy said. “Because I knew, even then, that any boy who wanted me to take the blame for something he’d done wasn’t worth much.” She paused. “Which is not to say I wasn’t devastated for days after we broke up.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you took the blame for Jennifer today when you shouldn’t have. And she’s not worth it.�
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  “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I know I care about you, Molly. And even worse than that zero is knowing that you’re trying to protect somebody at the expense of your own integrity.”

  “Maybe it runs in my family.”

  Tracy’s heart beat a dozen times before she trusted herself to speak. “I know about your mom. I know she was young, scared, confused and probably not very mature when she went to prison. But I hope if you blame her for the mistakes you make, you also give her credit for all the wonderful things about you. It’s not fair to do one without the other.” She took a deep breath. “Even more, I hope you don’t blame anybody for your mistakes except yourself. But don’t blame yourself too hard. You’re a wonderful young woman.”

  “I’m going to sleep now.”

  Tracy wasn’t sure what to do. So she did what seemed perfectly natural, perfectly right. She leaned over and kissed the top of Molly’s head, then she ruffled her hair. “Sleep tight, honey.”

  She turned off the light and closed the door quietly behind her.

  Graham was waiting in the living room. They had talked about which of them should speak to Molly tonight, and Tracy had volunteered. But she knew that he had been waiting for her, hoping it went well.

  “Did she admit she lied?” he asked.

  “She’s not going to do that. She’ll stick with that story until it comes up at Christmas dinner when she’s twenty-eight or thirty-eight. Then she’ll laugh about it and tell the whole thing the way it really happened.”

  “And we won’t be there to hear it.”

  Tracy plopped down on the sofa beside him. Graham put his arm around her shoulder, and she nestled against him. “It’s not what she said, it’s whether she heard what I said,” Tracy told him.

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. I feel so bad for her. I remember how badly I wanted to be liked by the popular kids. We all did. Except you, of course. You were undoubtedly one of the popular kids, or one of the kids who was too mature to care.”

  “Maybe, but I was never as slick as Mr. Carvelli. Did you get a load of that sweater of his? And he was wearing $800 shoes. I wonder why Jennifer’s not in private school?”