by Natasha Deen
“Fine.” I ignore the racial slight. “Then all I want are some assurances.”
“Like what?” Mary’s question comes out like a sneer.
“Like, I don’t do anything to mess with the houses. I don’t want to break any faucets or pull out drywall or anything. And I’ll steal the small items, but the big thefts are on your other crew. I’ll scope the places, make notes about the good stuff, but that’s it.”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “You don’t have the experience to do anything to the houses. You think I’m going to let you run amok and burn down a place?”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’ll take a few little things, easily missed items,” says Mary. “We’ve been doing this for a long time. You think we’re stupid?”
“No.” I take a breath. “And I’m out once the probation’s up. No calling me back—”
Mary snorts. “Kid thinks he’s Michael Corleone.” Her gaze snaps my way. “Yes, Javvan. Once you’re out, you’re out.”
And I want out. Of this office. My stress level is high, and I don’t think I can take any more. I nod at them. “Okay, that’s all I wanted.”
Mary rolls her eyes. “Get out.”
I book it out of the office, out of the building. I need to stay and make sure the last part of the plan goes off without a hitch, though, and that means moving the car. When Kevin comes out, he can’t see that I’m still here. I pull out of my parking spot and wedge myself between a van and a truck. Then I wait. A half hour later, Kevin walks out.
My friends are still there. Sammy runs up, extends his hand. He’s apologizing, saying how sorry they are, and, please sir, don’t make trouble or complain to the cops. He’s got Kevin hooked. They’re shaking hands, and after Sammy claps him on the back, he reaches into Kevin’s pocket and slips the phone out.
I take a breath and another one.
Once Kevin’s gone, I leave too. Head to the spot we agreed on and wait for Sammy and the guys to come.
They pile into the car a few minutes later.
“Here.” Sammy hands me my phone. “I made backup copies, just in case.”
I pocket the cell, then drive everyone home.
I can’t believe we’ve done it.
Chapter Sixteen
Sammy and I are almost home when his phone rings. He picks it up, says hello, then listens. Then he looks at me and gestures for me to pull over.
“Yeah,” he says as I find a safe spot to park. “He’s right here. Hold on.” He hands me the phone.
I take it. “Hello?”
“Javvan, it’s Andrea. Your number—well, your brother’s number showed up on my cell. I recognized the last name and thought, given our last conversation, that I should phone. What’s going on?”
I glance over at Sammy, then take a breath and tell her everything. When I’m done, she says, “Go home. I’m going to call my partner, Shane Quimpere. He’s going to meet you there. Tell him everything, and we’ll get this sorted.”
“Are you sure he can be trusted? Mary said there’s a bunch of law-enforcement guys involved—”
“I’ll bet money there isn’t anyone but these two yo-yos.” Andrea’s voice is flat with dislike. “They’re messing with you ’cause you’re a good kid who made a bad choice and they can manipulate you. Go home. We’ll get it sorted.”
I hang up and hand the phone back to Sammy. Then I do what she says.
By the time we pull into our driveway, the cop is already there, waiting on the steps with Dad. Sammy heads into the house. I ignore my father and tell Shane I want to talk to him alone. We head to his car and I tell him everything, including them framing me for the stolen items.
He asks me a few questions, listens to the recording, then takes the cell. “We’ll figure this out,” he says. “I promise.”
We shake hands, and then I head back to the house. Dad’s still waiting on the steps. I push past him and head inside.
Chapter Seventeen
I don’t say anything as I step past him and into the house.
“What just happened there?”
It’s the first thing he’s said to me in months. I should be mature, but I can’t help but give the smart-alecky answer. “An arrest.”
Anger flits across his face. “Why was that guy here?”
“Why do you care?”
“Don’t be smart—”
“It’s an honest question. You haven’t given a crap about me in months. Why care now?” The words rush out of my mouth. It feels too good telling him off for me to stop. “One mistake, that’s all I made. One—”
“Giant mistake, Javvan! Your future, everything your mother and I worked for—”
“And I didn’t work for my future?” I was hoping to stay in the anger, but the hurt of his silence comes through in the cracking of my voice. “I was a good son. I did my best, and I’m sorry that I’m not perfect. And I’m sorry that I made a stupid mistake. I’m sorry I made a big, stupid mistake. But I’m tired of being sorry. I’ve done everything I can to make it right, and I haven’t had any help from anyone but Sammy and Mom. So you know what? Screw your questions and your curiosity.” With that, I stomp to my bedroom and slam the door.
He doesn’t follow.
Part of me is happy I got the last word. Most of me is sorry that silence seems to be the only thing left between us. I close my eyes and wish the day away.
Mom comes in a couple of hours later, and I tell her everything. She cries when I tell her I didn’t think I could trust anyone. She cries harder when I tell her about the fight between Dad and me.
Dinnertime comes, and I go to the silent table. We pass around the dishes of naan and rice, aloo rasedar and tandoori chicken. Before I can start eating, my dad says, “I was angry. But I was also scared.” He looks at me. “Mostly scared.”
Mom and I glance at each other. Sammy eats.
“I…mishandled the situation,” Dad continues. “We both made mistakes, and I want you…I’m sorry.” He bends his head and turns his attention back to his meal.
It’s not a Hollywood reconciliation, but it’ll do.
Sammy grins at me over his cup of tea. I grin back and start eating. After a few minutes, Dad asks about what happened this afternoon. I start from the beginning, hesitant at first, then picking up speed as I register that he’s not going to start yelling. By the time I get to needing Sammy’s help, my brother jumps in and takes over the story. Through it all, my mom says nothing. She eats, and though her head is bent, I see the small smile that curves her lips.
Within a couple of weeks, it’s all over the papers. Kevin’s in trouble. Mary’s in trouble. A few kids have come forward. Plus, I have Andrea on my side. She helps me get a new probation officer, and the interviews for jobs start again. I’d hoped the judge would take pity on me, commute my sentence. Though he acknowledges the role I played in bringing down the bad guys, he says I’m still responsible for the mistake I made. It pisses me off, but deep down I know he’s right. Which pisses me off more. And kind of makes me smile.
On the bright side, he’s modified my probation so I can see my friends, and Dad’s given me back my phone. Tiffany and I have been emailing. So other than the humiliation of having to find another job and sit through all those horrible interviews, I guess it’s all good.
I sit at the computer, emailing my résumés. I hope if anyone recognizes my name, they’ll focus on the fact that I helped bring down a theft ring and not that I stole a car. The home phone rings, and Mom answers it. She listens, then hands it to me.
I take it from her. “Hello?”
“Javvan?”
I try to place the familiar voice.
“It’s Penny O’Toole. You’d applied for the bike-courier job—”
“Yes.” I frown. Mom catches my look and frowns back.
“I, uh, read about what happened in the paper.”
I don’t say anything.
There’s a long silence, and then she says, “Javvan, I�
�m sorry. I’d wanted to hire you, but after your probation officer talked to me—”
“Yeah, I know.”
More silence.
“Would you like a job?” She asks the question in a timid voice, like she’s waiting for me to get mad. “I don’t have the bike courier, but—”
“Yes. I’ll take it.”
She laughs. “You don’t know what it is yet.”
“I don’t care. The interviews are humiliating. You want me to scrub toilets or take out trash, I’ll do it. I want this thing behind me, and I’ll do what it takes.”
Silence. “Okay.” There’s understanding in her voice. “You’re hired.”
“What am I doing?”
“Working as my assistant. Someone told me there’s a difference between being a screwup and just screwing up. I figure anyone who knows that difference would work well as my assistant.”
I don’t know what to say. Instinct tells me this job will pay more and carry me farther than the bike-courier job. “Thanks, Mrs. O’Toole.”
“When can you start?”
“I’m spending today with my brother…” I have no idea why I’m telling her this, except maybe so she knows for sure that I’m a good guy. “But I can start tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“My office, 8:00 am sharp.” She hangs up.
I make a mental note to get there by 7:45 am.
Sammy comes up. “Ready to go?”
I feel like things are turning around. Like all this crap is finally going and I can let go, get on with my life. I stand, grab my jacket. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s make like a rabbit in a hat and disappear.”
He rolls his eyes. “That’s so bad, I can’t even respond.”
I laugh and follow him out the door.
Acknowledgments
With great thanks to my remarkable editor, Andrew Wooldridge, for his insights and my gratitude to Jared Tkachuk for helping me understand the nuances of the restorative justice process.
Award-winning author Natasha Deen graduated from the University of Alberta with a BA in psychology. In addition to her work as a presenter and workshop facilitator with schools, she has written everything from creative nonfiction to YA and adult fiction. She was the inaugural 2013 Regional Writer in Residence for the Metro Edmonton Library Federation. Natasha has lived in South America and the United States and now calls Edmonton, Alberta, home. For more information, visit www.natashadeen.com.
