by Susan Ross
And then he prayed. A short, raspy whisper that drifted softly above his head to the ceiling: “Please God—it was all my fault. I should have warned Mr. Silverstein! Please don’t let him die.”
When Jacques woke, he was lying on top of the bed, still wearing his clothes from the day before. The shades were high, and sunlight streamed through the windows. For a split second, he thought about the first soccer match, and whether he could pull out from his slump. But when Jacques lifted his eyelids, the dirty envelope was still there, laying on the pillow next to him.
An ocean of nausea rolled over him. He stuffed the envelope under the bed, took a deep breath and went into the living room.
Grandmère Jeannette was settled in a lounge chair, fast asleep. The dining table had been cleared and the wastebasket emptied.
Jacques touched her arm gently.
“What? Oh cher!” Grandmère Jeannette blinked and sat upright.
“Mr. Silverstein, is he . . . ?” Jacques lost the words. Every limb was shaking.
“He’s going to be okay.” Grandmère Jeannette rose and gave Jacques a quick hug. “He has a concussion, but thank God, the wound wasn’t deep.”
“Do the cops know who did it?” Jacques dug his fingernails into his palms.
She shook her head. “Someone hit him from behind. He didn’t see anything.”
“The policemen took Mohamed in their van!” Jacques exclaimed.
Grandmère Jeannette sighed. “Louis—Mr. Silverstein—has a heart of gold, God bless him. He was kind to that Somali boy and was trying to help him.”
“But Mohamed didn’t have anything to do with it!” Jacques pounded one fist into the other.
Grandmère Jeannette looked into Jacques’s eyes. “You have a good heart too, mon cher—but what do you know about this boy? You’ve already told me that he stays to himself, and that he gets real angry sometimes.”
“He didn’t do this! He couldn’t have! He was just working there today because he needed money for his family.”
“How bad did he need the money, I wonder?”
“No!” Jacques shouted. “It isn’t like that!” He saw the surprise on his grandmother’s face and lowered his voice. “We’ve got to help him.”
“I’m going back to see Louis after church this morning.” Grandmère Jeannette stretched and rubbed her cheeks. “Maybe he’ll remember something more. In the meantime—you keep your distance from Mohamed. I don’t need two of my fellows in the hospital.” She smiled weakly. “There, my secret is out.”
“Mohamed is innocent,” Jacques whispered as Grandmère Jeannette headed to her room.
Jacques wiped his eyes and went over to the picture of Mom on the dining room hutch. Looking at her picture made his stomach hurt even more. After slowly tracing her lips with his fingertips, he placed the photograph face down in the bottom of the drawer and closed it tight.
18
Pelé’s hind foot was thumping hard against the rabbit hutch. Jacques lifted him from the cage and rocked him in his lap as he sat on the bed, trying to think. Did the policemen take Mohamed and Kiki to the station? Had they been there all night? In a cell?
It was all his fault. He should have stopped Duane! How could he make it right? Would Mr. Silverstein ever believe that Mohamed was innocent?
Grandmère Jeannette poked her head into Jacques’s bedroom. “Time for church. I’m going to the early Mass so I can get straight over to the hospital.”
“I . . . can’t go now,” Jacques stammered. “I have to get ready for my soccer match.” He coughed loudly. “I’ll try to go later, I promise.”
Grandmère Jeannette sighed. “That’s right, your first game’s today. I wish I could be there to watch you shine, mon cher.”
“It’s okay,” Jacques replied quickly. “You tell Mr. Silverstein that I . . . that we’re pulling for him.” His tongue felt like gum stuck in his throat. “Grandmère . . .”
She leaned on the door frame, waiting.
“It’s just that . . . the truth is,” Jacques lowered his voice and looked down at Pelé, “I’m not really good at being co-captain. Mohamed’s better than me, way better.”
Grandmère Jeannette bent forward and stroked Pelé’s nose. “Nobody’s perfect! You go ahead and lead those boys the best you know how. That’s plenty enough.” She gently lifted Jacques’s chin and smoothed a curl from his forehead, then blew a kiss as she left.
There was still no sign of Dad. Jacques put Pelé back in his cage and stuck a Post-it on the fridge—Home Soon—without even knowing where he was headed. He rushed down the steps and jumped on his bike.
To the left, the police station; to the right, the hospital. Jacques glanced back and forth twice. Then, he began to pedal like mad.
He quickly reached the old apartment building where Kiki’s family lived. Laundry hung over the porch railings, and Ismail’s Ninja Turtles sweatshirt was flapping on a line. Jacques biked past the front of the building, around the block, then back again. A face appeared in the doorway, and he pulled on the brakes. In half a minute, Kiki came flying out.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless. “Is Mr. Silverstein all right?”
“He’s gonna be fine,” Jacques answered. “He has a concussion, but Grandmère says it’s not as bad as it looked.”
Kiki rubbed her cheeks and sighed. “Mohamed was so worried! He has been up all night. Me too.”
“What happened with the police?”
“They asked many questions, then they took us home.”
Jacques exhaled.
“But they want Mohamed to come back to the police station with Hooyo tomorrow after school.”
Jacques’s fingers felt cold and slippery. “Did your brother see who did it?”
“No! Mohamed was down in the basement the whole time, moving boxes. He heard something and ran upstairs, but it was too late.” Kiki’s eyes grew wide. “Hooyo is very scared. She says if Mohamed gets into trouble, we could all—they could make us go away.”
Kiki stopped and lightly traced the scar with her thumb. “My father told us we would have a safe life in America. It was his dream for our family to be safe.”
“I promise you,” Jacques said softly, “it’s going to be okay.”
“You are positive?” Kiki’s bottom lip was quivering.
“Yes.” Jacques coughed and looked away. How could he promise her that? If he told on Duane, the police would surely come for him. He could get arrested, and since Duane had escaped through the bridal shop, maybe Grandmère Jeannette would get into trouble too.
“We’ve got the first soccer match today; I better get moving.” Jacques gripped the handlebars.
“Good luck with the game.” Kiki wiped her eyes with the edge of her hijab and went back to the house.
Something was moving in one of the upstairs windows. As Jacques pushed off, he thought he saw the outline of Mohamed’s face, flickering in the glass.
19
Jacques rode his bike out toward the lake. The houses drifted away as he pounded on the pedals, trying hard to focus. He circled the lake and stopped by the small rocky beach to throw stones in the rippling water before heading back to town.
By the time Jacques reached the soccer field, the sky had gone dark. Pine trees and the spires of St. Francis stood out against black-bellied clouds. There was a distant crack of thunder, and as if on cue, Sunday church bells began to ring.
As Jacques approached the field he could tell immediately that something was wrong. A huddle of boys with grim faces stood kicking at the ground with their cleats, while Mohamed sat alone a few feet away, hugging his knees. Jacques searched for Sammy, but it didn’t look like he’d arrived yet. He’d have to do this alone.
He jogged up just in time to hear Boucher cursing. “We’re not playing with that kid! It was bad enough Coach made him co-captain, but my uncle says he’s a thief. If old man Silverstein dies, Mohamed could go to jail for murder.”
O’She
a turned toward Jacques. “Hey Gagnon, I heard you were there when Mr. Silverstein got robbed.”
“Did you see Mohamed whack him?” Boucher made a slamming motion across his body.
“Shut up, you jerk! It wasn’t him.” Jacques spit the words in Boucher’s face. “You’re nothing but a stupid A-hole!” He said it all without thinking, but the weird thing was, for the first time in two days, Jacques felt his shoulders relax.
Boucher’s eyes went blank before sinking into black darts in his head. He pulled one arm back for a punch, but Coach Morrin got there just in time to grab it.
“We got a game to play!” Coach Morrin barked. He turned to Jacques. “Get the boys on out there! It’s time to start.”
Jacques took a deep breath and stood straight. He dribbled the ball away from the huddle and over to Mohamed. “Let’s go!”
Mohamed sprang to his feet and nodded once.
The other team was from Purgatory Hills. Everybody knew their guys were tough. Someone said the captain’s brother had been kicked out of school for breaking a kid’s arm, and Jacques believed it.
As they ran onto the field, Jacques saw Sammy’s car round the corner. Sammy jumped out while it was practically still moving and flew on the field. O’Shea and the other boys glanced toward Boucher and hesitated for a moment. Then, slowly at first, they followed after Jacques.
He let out a long sigh. The boys weren’t coming fast, but at least they were coming. Boucher hung back, but with Coach Morrin pointing the way, he finally jogged to midfield, put his hands on his hips and spat.
At the very top of the bleachers, a yellow umbrella twirled against the gray sky. Lucy was sitting behind it. She lowered the umbrella and offered half a wave, so nobody else could see. Jacques relaxed his fist and wagged two fingers in her direction. He was glad she was there, he suddenly realized, really glad.
The whistle blew and the ball was in play. Purgatory scored a quick goal before Boucher got possession and weaved his way down the field. It looked like he might make it, but a huge defender overtook him. Boucher kicked the ball to Sammy, and Sammy sent it to Jacques. With a fake to the left, Jacques got the ball to Mohamed, who broke through the pack. The Purgatory boys raced forward but couldn’t catch him. Mohamed chipped the ball over the goalie’s head in a perfect arc.
As he jogged past, Jacques instinctively reached out, and Mohamed lifted his hand to knock knuckles. Man, his hands were strong.
At the beginning of the fourth quarter, Lakemont was holding its own but still losing by one point. They needed a goal to tie. Jacques got the ball and flicked it ahead of him, dodging and dancing, sprinting down the field. As he neared the goal, he felt a surge of excitement.
Suddenly, two enormous boys were behind him and closing in fast. To his far right, Mohamed picked up speed and broke ahead of the pack. In a split second, Jacques crossed the ball to Mohamed’s left foot. Mohamed jerked his leg up, and with a tremendous crack, volleyed to score. Jacques watched the ball slip past the heads of three defenders and into the goal just before he noticed a baboon-faced boy sliding in from the side. He felt his legs knocked away as he flew into the air. Jacques landed with a dead thud, his jaw hitting the ground first. It took a minute to breathe. Crap.
When Jacques opened his eyes, Mohamed was towering over him, hollering at the kid from Purgatory and pulling on his shirt. “What you doing? You bull crap do that move one more time, and I come after you!”
Jacques rolled up. At first his jaw was numb, then a searing pain beginning at his ear streaked down the side of his face. A red card was floating in the air above him.
Coach Morrin appeared, yelling at the ref, “What the hell are you doing? My kid didn’t even touch him!” His voice became a roar. “We got a guy hurt on the ground! You’re carding the wrong boy!”
“Take that one out, now.” The ref glared at Mohamed. “Or this game is over!”
Mohamed snorted, shifting from one foot to the other, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Coach took Mohamed by the elbow. “Come on.”
Mohamed hesitated, then ran over to Jacques. He bent down, resting his hand on Jacques’s shoulder. “Get to it, man!” Mohamed turned and jogged off the field alone.
Jacques pulled himself up. His chin felt tender and was starting to swell, but nothing seemed broken.
Coach Morrin loomed above him, puffed with purple rage. “You okay to play?”
Jacques’s face felt like it was being squeezed between two rocks, but he grunted, “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Annihilate those guys.” Coach flicked his fingers toward the baboon-faced boy from Purgatory, who was grinning like he’d eaten a tiger.
Jacques waved his arms as Purgatory kicked the ball into play. The players tore off, racing down the field.
Get to it.
Jacques forgot about everything in the world except the soccer ball. He pushed his cleats deep into the grass and ran, smashing the ball from side to side, down the field and into the goal. Score! Jacques quickly got possession and scored again—two quick goals before the buzzer rang out.
Behind him Jacques heard cheering. Boucher and O’Shea were tearing off their shirts and jumping on each other’s backs while Sammy and the other guys whooped and hollered. Up in the bleachers, the yellow umbrella was spinning like a top.
The ref yelled for them to get off the field. The game was over.
“Way to go!” Coach Morrin pumped both fists in the air. He motioned for the boys to line up and slap hands with Purgatory. The second he was through the line, Jacques ran for his bike.
A single shard of lightening split the clouds as Jacques began to pedal. He could see the spires of St. Francis ahead. In the distance, Mohamed was walking away from the field, his shoulders hunched as the storm moved in.
Get to it.
Rain fell on Jacques’s nose and dripped into his eyes as he bumped along the potted road. He dropped his bike on the slick lawn in front of St. Francis and rapped on the door. No answer. He caught his breath and knocked again, harder, louder.
Father Lazar cracked the door open, one arm raised against the rain. “Oh, Jacques—your grandmother was here this morning, but she’s already left for the hospital.” Father Lazar squinted as he took in Jacques’s swollen face. Jacques wasn’t sure if his cheeks were soaked with rain or tears, but it was too late to check.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about, Father. Something bad.”
“You’re getting wet, son,” Father Lazar replied softly. “Come on in.” He swung the church door wide and pulled Jacques inside.
20
“Mr. Gagnon, are you with us?” The clock behind Mrs. Sinclair’s desk was ticking so loudly that Jacques didn’t hear his name being called for Monday morning attendance. Mrs. Sinclair walked over and stared down at him. “Is anything wrong?”
He sat up and shook his head, no. When would Kiki come? He wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to say that he would go to the police station after school and explain what happened. That even if he got in trouble, he’d do it. He’d make sure that Kiki’s family wouldn’t have to worry. Even if he got kicked out of soccer, even if he got suspended from school, he would tell what happened and set things right.
Even if Kiki never talked to him again.
But where was she? The clock kept ticking, but Kiki never showed up for homeroom. As soon as the bell rang, Jacques hurried out to search the hallways. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would say to Kiki, only that he had to say it.
The hall outside the classroom was empty, but when Jacques turned the corner in front of the lockers, there was Kiki, squatting on the floor. Her head hung over her knees, and she was dabbing her eyes with tissues.
Jacques ran to her side. “What happened?”
“The police came this morning.” Kiki choked. “They took Mohamed! Hooyo went with him to the station.”
“No! No way!”
“Hooyo sent the little ones to the neighbors and told me to come to school
, but I did not want Mrs. Sinclair to see me like this. I don’t know what to do.” Kiki covered her mouth with both hands. “What if the police think Mohamed robbed the store? What if they believe he hurt . . .” She couldn’t finish.
A group of Somali girls came rushing toward them. Jacques felt like he might be sick, right there in the hallway.
“I’m going to fix this! Just hang on, okay?” Jacques’s heart was racing. He wrapped his arms around his chest and sprinted to the front of the school.
A security guard, heavy and slow, stood by the entrance. Jacques veered and ran down the opposite corridor. Sammy was leaning against the wall in front of the gym.
“Hey dude . . .” Sammy stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“I gotta get out of here, quick! But there’s a guard standing in front.”
“Try the door in the basement—it goes out by the woods.” Sammy pointed to a narrow flight of stairs.
“Thanks! I’ll tell you everything later.” Jacques bolted through a small utility door at the bottom of the steps and dashed across the school yard, through the bushes and into the trees.
When he finally slowed down, Jacques noticed that his legs were scratched and bruised. At least nobody was coming after him. Jacques took off again, running as fast as he could all the way to the Lakemont Police Station.
21
Jacques rushed up the granite steps to the station. “MOHAMED DIDN’T DO IT!” pulsed inside his head. As he pulled the heavy doors open, he nearly ran into an elderly lady leaning on a cane. Jacques jumped sideways, apologizing. But before he could enter the station, a policeman blocked the doorway.
“Aren’t you Donny Gagnon’s kid?” The policeman eyeballed Jacques. “I played football against your pop when we were in high school. He had a great arm.” The officer cocked his head, exposing the tattoo on the back of his neck. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . .” Jacques gasped. “I need to talk to somebody! It’s about the robbery on Main Street.”
