by Susan Vaught
I scooped Sam off the ground and kissed him and petted him and kissed him some more. “Good dog,” I whispered, pretending I wasn’t crying and wiping my face in his fur. “You scared me. But good dog for coming back.”
“Good,” Springer wheezed from beside me. “Good.”
He mumbled something that sounded like “Puppy,” then threw up off to the right.
“Sorry,” he added. And then, “It’s not from the running. It’s—I thought—I worried—”
“Thanks,” I said, and I wished I could puke instead of scream and hit things when I got totally freaked out. That skill could come in handy in dealing with Jerkface and the cockroaches.
We stood together, Springer and me and Sam-Sam, until I could breathe all the way right again, and Springer stopped looking green around his mouth and eyes, and Sam had licked all the tears off my cheeks. Then I hauled my dog back up the trail to the mound where I had buried the container. Springer followed along until I set Sam gently beside the mound. Sam-Sam nosed at the dirt. Using three fingers on each hand, I slowly dug up the container, hoping he would get the idea.
He didn’t.
I opened the container and pulled out the treat and the ball.
Seconds later, Sam rolled around on the ground, joyous and bacon-treated, with a mouthful of tennis ball.
“Good, good, dog,” I told Sam-Sam again, so happy that he hadn’t vanished into the Pond River Forest forever, chasing that squirrel.
Springer sat beside me on the ground, and the smell of vomit wafted through the air. It didn’t bother me much, since I knew it meant Springer had been as worried about Sam as I was.
“I’m glad he’s okay,” Springer said, rubbing at his bruised eye.
“Thanks, me too.”
We stopped talking, and we watched Sam toss his own ball, then chase after it, and he seemed like the happiest dog on the planet. Sometime later, Springer gave a sigh and asked, “If you get him to find the treats, how will you get explosives for him to learn to smell those?”
“I don’t know. I thought about ordering some on the Internet, or making some, but I got afraid the FBI would come take me away and Sam would freak out.”
“No explosives,” Springer said. “No FBI.”
I took the ball Sam offered and tossed it for him. “Springer, why didn’t you go home last night?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulder shrug. “Figured Dad needed time to cool off after the baseball failure thing, and me getting a black eye,” he said. “Mom agreed. He came home so late from work he didn’t notice anyway.”
Sam ran over to him with the tennis ball. Springer tossed it, and the dog tore after it. “Dad wants me to hit back like you told me to do, see?” he said. “And I don’t. And he doesn’t really understand why. He thinks that means I can’t take care of myself, that I won’t make something out of myself and be successful.”
“What about your mom?”
“She doesn’t say much when Dad’s going on about how I need to toughen up if I ever want to achieve anything in life. But later she tells me I’m good, and smart, and I shouldn’t listen too much when Dad’s going through his you-have-to-do-better-if-you-want-to-succeed routine. She says I need to be my own kind of man, and define success for myself.”
I nodded. “Messy Jesse.”
“What?”
“It’s what Jerkface calls me, ’cause sometimes I come to school without a shower. Like if Dad and I were late getting up, or Aunt Gus couldn’t get the laundry done, or Sam-Sam gets hair on my clothes, or maybe we all stayed up late talking to Mom, or I just needed not to be itchy and tight-soap-skinned for just one day.” I had to stop and scratch my neck, just because I was talking about itchy tight skin. “Sometimes I feel successful just because I got myself to school, but Ryker and the cockroaches don’t understand that. Kinda like your dad doesn’t understand that there are lots of ways people can make something of themselves.”
Sam carried his ball to Springer, and I felt jealous, but only a little.
“Does your mom call you from Iraq on the phone?” Springer asked.
“She Skypes. That way we can see her. I talked to her this morning.”
“Because your dad got arrested.”
Sam brought the ball to me, and that made me feel better. I tossed it. “Yeah. Why did you follow me to my house last night?”
“I wanted to see where you lived,” Springer said. “How close it was to the clubhouse, and stuff.”
Another round of ball-throwing, and I made myself look at Springer. “Are you a serial killer or a creepy stalker, like from scary movies?”
“No,” he said.
When Sam-Sam brought back the slobbery tennis ball, I rubbed it on Springer’s jeans, even though Mom told me not to rub bacon on my friend. “There. Now you smell like bacon and tennis ball and dog drool, too.”
“I wanted to be sure you got home safe,” Springer admitted. “Last night.”
Sam nudged at the ball in my hand and wagged his tail. I held it just above his black button nose. “You wanted to be sure I got home safe because I’m a girl?”
Confusion flickered across Springer’s face. “No, because you said we were friends, and friends are supposed to look out for each other.”
I handed Springer the ball.
His face lit up, and by the time he threw the ball, he was smiling. While Sam was gone, he pointed toward the clubhouse. “You know that yearbook you gave me? When you left to go get food and stuff, I circled some people. Maybe a lot of people. And I started us some lists we can work with. But yearbook pictures make faces look weird, so technically, everybody looks suspicious. I don’t think circling pictures is the best way to start if you want to find a thief who stole money from your dad’s desk.”
“Where should we start, then?—Oh.”
Springer nodded.
“We should start at the desk,” I said.
8
Tuesday, Six Days Earlier, Evening
Dad hugged me so tight I couldn’t get a breath, but I didn’t care. I hugged him right back until I made him grunt. Aunt Gus and Sam-Sam and Charlie bounced around both of us. At least Aunt Gus didn’t pant and drool. She just kept saying, “Thank goodness, thank goodness, Derrick.”
The setting sun through the windows made our living room look like the end of a movie. Dad smelled like pee and sweat and old clothes, but he was here.
Rustly noises came from the kitchen, and I hoped Springer had the good sense to stack up the lists of teacher names and student names we had been working with all afternoon, since we couldn’t investigate the desk right away. When I leaned back from Dad and glanced toward the kitchen table to double-check, Dad seemed to notice there was someone else in the house. His grip on my shoulder got firmer.
“Who is this, honey?” he asked as Springer came into the living room holding our papers up against his chest like they might be homework assignments. “And why is he wearing one of my T-shirts?”
“This is Springer,” I said.
Dad glanced from Springer to me to Aunt Gus.
“He’s, ah—” Aunt Gus smoothed her pink shirt against her white capris. “He’s Jesse’s new friend.”
Dad’s eyes widened. He looked at Springer again. Springer fumbled with the papers, then stuck out his right hand.
Dad hesitated, then took Springer’s outstretched hand and shook it, slow-like. Dad seemed to be trying to smile, but mostly he studied Springer like he was a big piece of illegally salted pasta destined to wreck Aunt Gus’s blood pressure.
“Glad you’re home from getting arrested, Mr. Broadview,” Springer said as Dad let go of his hand. “We know you didn’t steal any money.”
“Uh, thanks,” Dad said. His gaze shifted to me. “He really is wearing one of my shirts. And the boy has a black eye, Jesse.”
“I gave him the shirt, but I didn’t hit him,” I said as fast as I could. “It was Ryker.”
“Ryker hit you at AJS, son?” D
ad asked in his teacher voice.
“No, sir,” Springer said. “He hit me at Little League tryouts.”
Dad frowned. “I see. Well, I’m sure the league has rules, and the park—and there’s always legal charges. Are your parents handling the situation?”
Springer looked confused and maybe about half freaked out, so I said, “Yes,” for him, so Dad would stop. That just made Springer look relieved and then slightly more freaked out.
Dad didn’t seem to know what to do or say next, so he went with “Jesse, maybe Springer should head home? Everything that’s been going on—this is family business, really.”
“Springer knows all about it because he’s my friend, and because he saw what happened last night.” I stepped over to Springer’s side and rescued the papers from his shaky hands. “When they took you away, he was watching. He followed me home from the woods to make sure nothing got me on the trails, because that’s what friends are supposed to do.”
“I wanted to walk her home,” Springer said. “But she got going too fast and I couldn’t catch her.”
Aunt Gus adjusted a strap on her pink sandal and said something about checking on dinner. Then she bolted around us for the kitchen, even though I was pretty sure she hadn’t started cooking anything. The dogs hopped after her, obviously expecting treats.
Dad was still staring at Springer, like he wasn’t totally sure Springer was a real boy. “You tried to walk Jesse home from Pond River Forest? Just to be sure she was safe?”
Springer nodded.
For twenty-two seconds, Dad didn’t say anything at all. Neither did Springer.
I started to wonder if they were ever going to talk or move again, but finally Dad said, “Thank you for looking after my daughter, Springer. I think I need a shower and a good meal. Will you be staying for supper?”
Before I could go to the kitchen to ask Aunt Gus, she called, “That’s fine. I’ll add more tuna to the casserole.”
“I said I needed a good meal,” Dad muttered.
“My mom says any meal you don’t have to cook is a good meal,” Springer said. Then he covered his mouth.
Dad smiled again, bigger this time. “Good point.” Then he sort of wiped the smile off with both hands, pursed his lips, and added, “But I’m sad to say, Jesse, we have some unfinished business from when you ran into the woods yesterday.”
“Da-ad,” I said. “You just said you needed a shower.”
He held out his hand.
I sighed, took my phone out of my pocket, turned it off, and plopped it into his palm.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll get the charger out of the kitchen. And now, yes, I do need to go clean up.”
As he left the living room, Springer whispered, “You can use my phone if you need one. And I like tuna casserole. Is that weird?”
“Thanks, and maybe a little.” I shrugged. “Come on, let’s put these lists in my room.”
Springer followed me without arguing, and Sam caught up with us, carrying a cloth squeaky bone that had stuffing poking out of one end. When we got to my door, he plopped on the threshold and chomped on it, making it shriek over and over as I stacked the papers on a table between my two rocking chairs.
“Can I sit in one?” Springer asked, running his fingers down the soft brown arm cover of the chair nearest to him.
“Sure,” I said. “I rock to relax. That’s why Dad and Mom got me these fabric chairs, because when I had wooden ones, I scratched the floor, and the back slats wore out.”
Springer eased himself into the rocker. He closed his eyes and rocked, and he started smiling, a lot like when he threw toys for Sam-Sam, who did not need a toy thrown for him right now, since he was squeaking his cloth bone totally to death on my bedroom floor.
“Do you have chairs like these in your room?” I asked Springer as I sat in the other rocker and pulled my weighted blanket off the floor, enjoying the pressure on my hands and legs and arms.
“No,” he said, keeping his eyes closed. “I had one for a while, but Dad said I spent too much time in it and not enough time going outside.”
Sam squeaked and squeaked his toy. Springer and I rocked for a while, and then I said, “Here, try my blanket.”
Even though I didn’t want to, I pulled off the weighted blanket and passed it over to Springer, who didn’t complain that it was bright yellow. He just ran his fingers along the satin binding, then settled it on his legs. His eyes fluttered closed again, and he rocked faster.
There. Take that, Springer’s dad.
Springer finally opened his eyes a few minutes later, sighing like he’d never been happier in his life. His gaze strayed to my dresser, to the silver frame with a picture of Mom when she was fourteen, and Uncle Jesse when he was seventeen, sitting on their front porch acting goofy. It had been taken a few weeks before he died.
“Is that guy in the photo the one you’re named after?” Springer asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Uncle Jesse and my mom.”
“They look alike,” Springer said. “The dark hair and brown eyes, and they have big smiles. You kinda look like both of them.”
I raised my fingers to the corners of my mouth, wondering if I could ever smile like that, big and not nervous and totally, completely happy. It made my brain itch to think about it too much, so instead, I picked up our lists and shuffled through them as I rocked without my blanket, feeling nervous but also sort of happy that I had shared my blanket and the picture of Uncle Jesse with Springer. Then, on the papers, I studied the names of the kids in senior high, then realized Springer had added some names from junior high, too—Ryker and Chris and Trisha.
“Why did you put Jerkface and the cockroaches on our list?” I asked. “They’re junior high like us. People would ask questions if they were in Dad’s hall—especially if they were in his room.”
“Maybe,” Springer said. “But they’re bullies, and bullies always do sneaky bad stuff.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. “Mom said Jerkface is a bully because his father never thinks he does anything wrong and pushes him to be some big sports star. She said Chris’s dad has issues, and Trisha’s along for the ride since they all live next to each other.”
“Do you think they know they’re bullies?” Springer asked.
“Maybe. Probably.” I shrugged. “They used to get in trouble a lot more than they do now. Chris has gotten detention a lot this year.”
“I don’t think I could ever be a bully,” Springer said.
Another few seconds went by. I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be mean and ugly to people all the time. If I acted like that, my parents would be unhappy. I would be unhappy. My dog probably wouldn’t even like me, and Uncle Jesse would probably show up as a ghost and haunt me. I glanced down at Sam-Sam, who was busy shredding the rest of the fabric off his exploded squeaky toy.
“It would suck to be a bully,” I said.
Springer nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’ll leave them on the list. But this is, like, seventy people.”
“Seventy-three.” Springer nodded his head as he rocked. “There are a lot more people in senior high, but those are the ones who looked the sneakiest.”
I stared at the gigantic scrabble-gabble of names, which seemed to swim back and forth, running together and pulling apart. So many letters. The first name had twelve letters all together. The next name had twenty-two letters. I could count for an hour. There were probably thousands of letters on this list. I had to close my eyes, or I’d just keep counting. Even after I closed them, my head still counted anyway. So many people. And yet—
“Well, there’s the janitors and teachers,” I muttered. “And the office staff. Like Mr. Chiba at the front desk, and Principal Jorgensen. I mean, they could come and go from Dad’s hall, and Ms. Jorgensen called the police about the money, so really, she’s the one who had Dad arrested.”
“Then she needs to be on the list,” Springer agreed. “Maybe they all do.”
“More letters,” I said as I opened my eyes. Then I wrote down Principal Jorgensen’s name, right underneath Springer’s neatly printed letters. I printed neatly, too. Sort of like echoing, only not out loud. Right as I finished, Sam jumped into my lap, spilling papers in every direction. I glared at him for exactly three seconds, then petted his soft fur. He felt warm on my lap, not very heavy, but blankety enough to make me relax. “We’ll have to go early and stay late to figure all this out. At least on some days. I’ll have to explain it to Aunt Gus, convince her somehow. Do you have to convince anybody?”
“Mom,” Springer said. “That’s easy, though. I’ll tell her I’m working on a project with you.”
“Project. Good idea.”
“Thanks. If we’re really late, we can walk home or something, right?”
“I—” I started, but stopped. Dad and Aunt Gus had never let me walk to school or walk home from school before, so that was maybe a no.
Huh.
Why hadn’t they ever let me walk to school, or walk home from school? I mean, seriously, they might flip out if I even asked—but why? They shouldn’t flip out. I was old enough. And it wasn’t like we lived in some big, dangerous place. There were some busy roads, but I knew to look both ways and all that stuff.
Sam nuzzled under my chin, and I ruffled his long fur.
“I’ll stay late after classes to help you whenever you want,” Springer said. “It’s pretty easy to walk to your house from mine if I use the trail by the clubhouse.”
I moved my cheek away from Sam’s licking and smiled at Springer. Well, at the side of his face, because he was still rocking with his eyes closed, snuggled under my yellow blanket.
My muscles felt jealous, so I rocked with Sam-Sam. “I’m not sure what to look for when we get to Dad’s desk.”
“I don’t know what to look for, either.”
I snuggled Sam into my chest. “If I were a real detective, I’d ask if AJS had security tapes, and if they did, I’d demand to see them so I could figure out who went near Dad’s classroom.”
“Security tapes would be great, but they won’t show them to us, even if they exist, and you said your mom thinks they don’t have any.” Springer stopped rocking. He opened his eyes but looked out my window instead of looking at me. “What about your dad’s lawyer? Would he tell us anything?”
