by Susan Vaught
“Fine. Springer and I were investigating who really stole that money, okay?” I tried to look at him, but I couldn’t. “We did it to keep you from having to go back to jail.”
Dad made a snorty sound, kinda like Charlie the bulldog.
Sam stirred against my ankles, and I rubbed my leg against him.
“And for this, you had to sneak out of the house, not tell us you were walking to school?” He sat in the chair next to mine. “That could have been dangerous, especially for somebody like you.”
“Somebody like me,” I echoed. I tried again to look at him in the face, but got that itchy sensation and stared at his cheek instead. His very red cheek.
“I didn’t mean anything bad by that,” Dad said, his words coming out really fast. “But you know sometimes you don’t see danger like other people. You can get distracted.”
I wanted to echo distracted so bad I had to bite my bottom lip to keep from doing it. Instead, my brain just kept repeating somebody like you in Dad’s voice, adding mean stuff to it in Ryker’s voice, then Chris’s, then Trisha’s.
Somebody like you. Not like your mom.
Somebody like you. Not like your uncle.
Somebody like you. Not like the nice kids. The strong kids. The mean kids. The smart kids. The kids who can grow up and do important things, brave things. The kids who are normal.
Somebody like you.
Somebody “on the spectrum.”
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth scraped together.
“Seriously,” Dad said. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, honey. You’re—you’re you. And that’s fine with us. I just want to be sure you’re safe.”
I rubbed the top of my jaw until I could talk, but I still couldn’t really look at anything but his cheek. “We don’t live in a war zone, Dad. It’s safe enough to walk to school. Besides, if I had asked you if I could leave early with Springer, would you have said yes?”
“No!” he said.
I flinched from the noise but kept my eyes fixed on his cheek. Dad sorta needed to shave. It was all I could do not to start counting stubble hairs. “Then to answer the question you asked a minute ago, yes. Yes, I had to sneak out of the house and walk to school without permission.”
Dad looked at Aunt Gus.
Her hands came up again. The edges of her painted nails were chipped, as if she’d bitten them. “Not in this, don’t even look at me.”
“There’s a house between here and school,” I said. “It has twenty green shutters on the front, but I don’t know how many in the back, because if I went behind the house to count them, that would be trespassing. I didn’t go around back, so see? I know how to keep myself safe.”
Dad had nothing for that one, but Aunt Gus managed a “That’s good, honey.”
“That house had a lot of cars in the driveway,” I went on, finally able to move my eyes to Dad’s chin, his other cheek, then his whole face, at least for a few seconds. “Lots and lots of cars, like maybe they’re renting out rooms or running a business or something. Do you think they need money? Do you think the bank is going to take the house away from the people who live in it?”
Dad waited before speaking. Ten seconds, then fifteen. He looked like he was trying to see the house in his head and count the shutters himself. Finally he said, “Yeah, I do know that place. And good for you, not trespassing, especially there. All those cars aren’t renters, but I do think yes, they’re running a business. Well, businesses. Probably not legal ones.”
“What do you mean?” My stomach rumbled again. That chili—I really needed to eat some. “Not legal businesses. What kind of businesses aren’t legal?”
“The police have to go to that house a lot,” Dad said. “Some of the people who live there, they’ve gotten in trouble for selling drugs and using drugs and fighting and gambling. So that’s not a place I want you to spend time around. And that’s what I meant before. The world can be dangerous if you’re out in it all alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I reminded him. “I was with Springer.”
Dad didn’t try to argue with that. Instead, he asked, “Why were you wondering about a bank taking somebody’s house?”
“Banks take people’s houses if people can’t pay,” I told him. “Springer said so.” I didn’t tell Dad the bank took Springer’s house before he moved, because that seemed like it would be telling a secret. “Will the bank ever take our house?”
“No,” Dad and Aunt Gus said at the same time.
Then Dad said, “That’s not something you have to worry about, and neither is the situation with the library fund. The police will take care of investigating the theft. It’s not that serious.”
My eyes snapped to his, no itch at all, because I had fire instead, right in my chest and my throat and my mouth. “You. Went. To. Jail. The police put you in mean metal cuffs and took you away from us and you were gone for one thousand, one hundred and seventy minutes. Do you know how many seconds that is?”
Dad blinked.
Sam licked my leg.
Charlie grunted.
Aunt Gus wrote invisible numbers on the table with her cracked-polish pointer fingernail and said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute, I got this.”
But I couldn’t wait. “Over seventy thousand! You were gone for seventy thousand, two hundred seconds and it’s a big deal, it’s a huge deal, and the police aren’t doing anything to find who really took the money!”
“Seventy thousand,” Aunt Gus sounded frustrated. “I used to be so much quicker at math, but she puts me to shame.”
“Seventy—um. Okay.” Dad shook his head. “Of course the police are doing things to find the thief, honey.”
“Did they take fingerprints?” The fire in my insides seared my eyes to my father’s. It was weird, how his darted back and forth and looked all watery in the corners. Mine were watering too. “Did they look at your donation ledger or your schedule book? Did they question anybody other than you?”
“Um,” Dad said again. “Well, I—they looked at my room, and the desk, and they took some notes.”
I pushed my picked-at crackers and cheese away from me, and immediately felt both Sam-Sam and Charlie head-butting my legs, hoping for crumbs. “Do the police know the money probably got taken while you were in staff meeting?”
“No—I mean, I don’t know.” Dad’s eyes moved away from mine, then came right back. “How do you figure that?”
And the fire left, and the itchy came back, and I stared at the ceiling. “Because of the doors.”
Silence.
Until Aunt Gus said, “Okay, you lost me. Help an old woman, Jesse?”
She had changed clothes when we came home, into her favorite tie-dyed T-shirt and turquoise leggings. I focused on the bright blues and yellows and greens. “Who has a key to your door, Dad?”
“Just me,” he said. “And Mr. Chiba keeps the master on his key ring, with an extra in the office safe.”
“So unless Mr. Chiba took the money,” I said, “or somebody took the safe key, the thief had to be somebody without a key.”
“I’m still not following,” Aunt Gus said.
I sighed. “The senior high classroom doors are locked when it’s not school hours. And Dad said the money was there that morning. And Dad and Mr. Chiba have the only keys other than the one in the safe.”
Aunt Gus nodded when I paused. “Okay so far. Keep it coming.”
“Dad probably would have noticed somebody getting in the drawer during class,” I said. “I mean, somebody could have dived in when Dad was in the bathroom or on break or something—but lots of people would have seen that. The time when the doors would have been open and the halls almost empty, when nobody would have seen—”
I risked a look in Dad’s direction, and he finished my sentence for me.
“The most logical time would have been when most everybody was in the staff meeting.” He frowned. “That makes sense.”
“Who missed the staff meeting?”
I asked him.
Dad’s brows came together, and I could almost hear his brain cells grinding together. Then his eyes went round. He blinked a few more times.
Aunt Gus and I stared at him.
“Well?” Aunt Gus said.
“I don’t really remember,” Dad said too fast, and his voice sounded funny.
“Are you telling the truth?” I asked him.
Aunt Gus patted my hand. “Honey, that’s not very respectful.”
“But it’s right,” I said, trying not to sound all whiny.
“I don’t want you investigating anything—or anybody—else,” Dad said.
“What about the students who knew how much money you had in your drawer?” I asked, getting louder with each word. “Who are KA, JS, MK, and NN?”
Dad rubbed both of his hands through his hair. “I—excuse me? What are those initials?”
I couldn’t believe my own father sometimes. “The people who donated money before everything got stolen. If you wrote down their amounts in that ledger in front of them, they would have seen the total and known how much was in your drawer. You know, the one you labeled Library Fund Donations so everybody would know exactly where to steal stuff.”
“Derrick, please tell me you did not label the drawer,” Aunt Gus said.
Dad gave her a glare strong enough to laser her words right out of the air.
“We have pictures,” I said. “Springer took pictures of the desk and classroom so we could examine them for evidence, but I remember what I saw. KA, JS, MK, and NN are evidence, or they might have evidence.” I grabbed a cracker and piece of cheese, crunched it in my fist, then dropped the mess for the dogs to vacuum. Charlie’s smacking sounded like one of those shark feeding frenzies I watched on Animal Planet. Poor Sam. He probably didn’t get much of a bite.
“She has evidence, Derrick,” Aunt Gus said, even though she didn’t usually echo.
“Don’t,” Dad warned her.
“Who are those people?” I asked my father again.
Dad didn’t answer.
Aunt Gus rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll use the yearbook to figure it out.” I got another piece of cracker and handed it straight to Sam, who took off with it, probably to tuck it into my bedcovers for later.
“The police can’t really believe I’d steal from the library fund,” Dad said. “I’ve only gotten three speeding tickets in my whole life—and I’ve worked at that school since I was twenty-three years old.” He didn’t rub his hair this time. He rubbed his face instead. “And what’s wrong with labeling the drawer? I’ve never had anything stolen at school before.”
“See? This is where Jesse gets her dreamy thinking from.” Aunt Gus folded her arms across her swirly rainbow shirt. “Her mother’s more practical. She’s a realist.”
“What’s dreamy thinking mean?” I asked. “And can I have some chili?”
“Touch coming,” Aunt Gus said, then patted my hand. “Dreamy isn’t anything bad. Just something I’m bothering your father about. And no, the chili isn’t ready yet.”
“You bother me frequently, Gustine,” Dad said, sounding sad.
Aunt Gus winked at me. “Don’t let him fool you. It’s good for his soul. Now, honey. Tell me about this . . . OBWIG your friend Springer mentioned back at the school.”
I felt myself go very still, and I swallowed. The words almost jumped out of my mouth just because she asked, but I managed to say, “It’s a secret.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Between you and Springer?”
I nodded.
“Another touch.” She feathered her fingers through my hair. “Okay, then. I won’t ask. I’m really glad you have secrets with a friend.”
“When will the chili be ready?” I glanced at the pot. Because it sure smelled ready.
“A few hours,” Aunt Gus said. “Close to six, regular dinnertime.”
“Can I go outside awhile then?” I looked at Dad. “Or am I grounded to the house?”
The surprised expression on his face told me he hadn’t planned a punishment. Yet. Or maybe this would be one of those times I didn’t get one. Hard to say. Sometimes I couldn’t figure out the difference between stuff that got me grounded and stuff that didn’t.
Aunt Gus patted Dad’s arm.
Dad sighed.
Then he waved his hand toward the back door.
• • •
I lay on the dirt, nose to nose with my sweet dog, deep in the Pond River Forest, probably somewhere dead center between all the neighborhoods in our town that circled the trees. Sam’s tail thumped as I patted the mound of dirt where I had buried his treat container this time.
“All you have to do is sniff,” I told him. “Bark at it. Try to dig it up. We came all the way down here to get away from Springer’s smell and my smell and I thought maybe you were getting confused about all the holes and stuff.”
Sam licked my nose.
He showed zero interest in the dirt mound.
I dug my fingers into the loose topsoil. “Like this, see?”
Sam glanced at my hand but didn’t move. When I realized he was waiting for me to pet him, I gave up and stroked his head. It was hard to feel so disappointed, especially when he gave me his brightest, cutest doggy smile. “It’s okay,” I told him as leaves rustled above us in the light breeze. “Sometimes it takes me a while to learn new stuff, too.”
My nose got another bath.
I dug out the container and let Sam have the treat inside. Since we were so far off our home turf, I pocketed the little ball to throw when we got back to the clubhouse. Slowly, sort of hoping Sam would paw at the dirt I messed up, I got to my feet.
Sam wagged his tail and looked at me, doggy smile blazing.
“Come on,” I told him, and held out my arms. Sam-Sam jumped into my hug, I picked up the container, and we started toward the big path that was just a few trees away.
Almost instantly, Sam went stiff in my grip and growled.
I stopped.
“You okay?” I whispered, then wondered why I was being so quiet.
Sam pointed his head toward the path, and the black tip of his nose twitched. He growled again, soft this time, like he didn’t want to be heard, either. His eyes narrowed like he could see something in front of us. Then the ruff around his neck fluffed, and that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, too.
I put the container on the ground as quietly as I could and used my free hand to gently cup Sam’s nose. “Shhhhhh,” I told him, then eased behind the nearest, biggest tree.
Sam let me hold his little muzzle to keep him from barking, but he stayed stiff, almost pointing his whole body toward the path.
Tap-tap-tap.
Shoes on dirt. Somebody walking. No, wait. Somebody running.
Sam’s growls made my bones vibrate. He was shaking. I held tight to him, my heartbeat picking up speed.
“Wait!” A guy. “Would you wait?”
Oh, great. I’d know that voice anywhere. But I made sure I stayed away from his side of the paths!
Yet Jerkface was here in the forest, and I didn’t have anything to hit him with. Worse, I had Sam. I wasn’t sure Ryker knew about Sam, but I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt my poor dog just to be a huge donkey turd.
I pulled Sam up under my chin.
If I ran the other way, Jerkface would probably hear me. But if I stayed here, Sam might bark. Dad’s voice floated through my head. The world can be dangerous if you’re out in it all alone . . .
My jaw tightened.
Sam wasn’t alone. He had me, and I’d take care of him, just like Mom and Shotgun took care of the soldiers they protected. If she could do it, so could I.
Slap-slap! The running person made it to the part of the path near my tree. I didn’t dare look out, but the person sniffed, hiccupped, and sniffed again.
Crying?
Jerkface yelled, “Please wait, Trisha.”
Double great. One of the cockroaches, too. I bit my
lip and wished I had taught Sam-Sam a command that would make him run home. I’d have to do that if he and I got out of this in one piece.
The thump-thump-thump of another person jogging up and stopping near my tree matched the thump-thump-thump of my heart. My brain wanted to start counting steps and heartbeats, too, but I kissed Sam’s head instead.
As the thumps on the path slowed, Jerkface said, “He didn’t mean it.”
More sniffing. Then Trisha spoke, her voice shaky and quieter than usual. “I hate it when he’s awful like that.”
It took my brain a few seconds to really understand that somebody had upset Trisha, and she was actually crying. Who knew cockroaches had tear ducts?
The thought of a sobbing roach made me relax a little, and Sam seemed to sense this. He kept up his whisper-growls, but he gave up alerting toward the path and snuggled in under my chin. I let go of his muzzle and scratched behind his ears to keep his attention.
“He’s just in a bad mood,” Jerkface said.
Trisha came right back with “Yeah, like all the time?”
Who were they talking about? Who on earth could make a cockroach cry by being awful? Seriously, Trisha was, like, Queen Mean. How bad did things have to get for her to go all boo-hoo-hoo?
“Nothing makes him happy anymore,” Trisha said. “Even when we play Pig or Horse, he gets ticked off and ends up bashing the ball against the garage door.”
Silence.
More silence.
Ryker said, “We went to the movies night before last, and he got us thrown out. Kept flipping popcorn in people’s hair. I mean, I get it, stuff like that used to be a lot of fun—but I paid for that movie myself, and I really wanted to see it.”
A breeze shifted the leaves, making afternoon light dance around my tree. Sam cuddled and licked my chin. And out on the path, Trisha said, “I thought it was just me he was starting to hate.”
“I don’t think he hates anybody,” Ryker told her. “I think it’s just—you know. His dad’s kinda not in a good place right now. I don’t even like to go over to their house. It’s like Chris can’t do anything right. It’s like nobody can.”
Trisha sniffed. “Does that mean he has to be awful to us?”
