Why did he love that dog park so much? Why did he steal that money? I knew Dad thought he’d win it all back and more. That was what he’d told us. But that wasn’t a good enough reason.
Gambling was so stupid!
I sat up and breathed my way to a calmer heartbeat. I definitely didn’t want to start this new day off by crying. I needed to think about something else.
I touched the note I’d written for Jenna, and that made me feel better. I’d give it to her in math class—our first class of the day together.
Since Mom was in our bathroom, I used the time to search for a Pop-Tart to give Jenna, like I’d promised in my note. Miss Genevieve was nearby, looking up at me with those big eyes. “I’ll feed you in a minute.”
There was only a single Pop-Tart left in an opened silver-foil package in the box in our cabinet. And it wasn’t even strawberry. I wondered if Georgia had grabbed the other one when she left for school this morning. There was no way a single Pop-Tart in an opened wrapper would be good enough for Jenna Finch.
Why didn’t we have a sealed double pack of iced strawberry Pop-Tarts? That would have been perfect. I still had to walk Miss Genevieve and get ready for school, so I didn’t have time to rewrite the note and take out the Pop-Tart part. I wished Mom would get out of the bathroom already. I just knew Jenna had lots of bathrooms in her fancy house and never had to wait.
I put our boring unfrosted blueberry Pop-Tart into the front pocket of my backpack and silently prayed it didn’t get too squished on my walk to school.
Mom rushed out of the bathroom, tucking the MARVELOUS MAIDS AT YOUR SERVICE T-shirt into her jeans. “Cleve, I’m going to be home late today. Got an extra job for a once-a-week cleaning at a house in the fancy part of town.”
Maybe it’s Jenna Finch’s house. “Good morning to you, too,” I said.
“Good morning, baby girl.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Have a nice day at school. Don’t give another thought to what happened at dance yesterday. That Finch girl will be fine. You hear me?”
I nodded, thinking of the note and Pop-Tart I planned to give Jenna. Maybe she’d like my peace offering so much we’d end up being friends again. She might even ask me to sit with her at lunch and share a piece of the Pop-Tart with me, and I could bring her things so she wouldn’t have to hobble around with her eggplant toe. As Dad sometimes said, This might have been a blessing in disguise.
I felt hopeful.
Mom grabbed the bagged lunch Georgia had made for her and left.
“Just you and me now.” Miss Genevieve looked at me with the brown patch around his right eye and wagged his stubby tail. “You don’t like the name Roscoe, do you, boy?” He wagged harder. “Knew it.” I wished I had time to visit Declan before school. He’d probably have a two-pack of strawberry iced Pop-Tarts that I could bring to Jenna.
But sometimes you’ve got to go with what you’ve got.
* * *
When Jenna hobbled into math class surrounded by her friends, I gasped.
She was wearing pink flip-flops with plastic flamingos on top. They were really cute. I wanted a pair. The ones I had at home cost fifty cents from the Goodwill store and cut into the space between my toes, so I mostly wore my sneakers with the holes near the pinkie toes or no shoes at all.
We weren’t allowed to wear flip-flops to school, but I was sure Jenna’s mom got her a special exception due to her eggplant toe. There was white tape wrapped around Jenna’s pinkie toe and the toe next to it. An ugly greenish-brown bruise had blossomed on the top part of her foot.
I squeezed the note into my sweaty palm. It felt so light, like it wasn’t nearly enough to make up for how bad her foot looked, even with the bonus Pop-Tart. I wondered what else I could give her. I had a used scented eraser in my backpack, but she’d only like something new.
Jenna slipped into her seat, next to mine. Before I lost my nerve, I handed her the slightly sweaty note and the open Pop-Tart package. “Sorry it got a little squished in my backpack,” I whispered.
Mr. Milot, our math teacher, tapped the keys of his computer at his desk while quickly glancing up and back down, most likely taking attendance. Or playing some Internet math game.
Jenna’s lips moved as she read my note.
My heart hammered. Please let it be enough.
She peeked into the pouch, where I knew the Pop-Tart was probably a crumbled mess.
Jenna’s face twisted, like she was looking into a pouch of poop.
Sorry. It’s all we had.
She stood, hobbled to the front of the room in her flamingo flip-flops, and dropped both my note with the pretty pink ink and the blueberry Pop-Tart into the trash can, then returned to her desk. She pulled out some antibacterial liquid in a tiny container and rubbed a squirt of it all over her hands, as though my offering had been coated in germs.
I bit my bottom lip and stared straight ahead. I would not let her know how much that hurt.
In a fake sweet voice, Jenna said, “Thanks so much, Cleveland.”
Guess we wouldn’t be eating lunch together anytime soon.
Then, in a quieter voice, almost to herself: “I don’t know why I was ever friends with you.”
Her words were a punch to the gut, but I wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t cry. All I’d done was try to say sorry. Why were people mean to me when things were already so hard?
My breathing came in short bursts through flaring nostrils.
Mr. Milot grabbed a stack of papers and stood. “Ready?”
Some students groaned at the quizzes about to land on their desks.
I wanted to groan too, but for a different reason.
I wished I were somewhere else—not sitting next to awful Jenna Finch in miserable middle school in stupid Sassafras, Florida. I wanted to be wearing a neat uniform with a pleated skirt and matching jacket with a school patch sewn onto the pocket and sitting at my desk at the American School of Paris, where students were cultured. No one would have such bad manners to make someone feel rotten for writing a sorry note and giving a peace offering, even if it was a little squished. And they definitely wouldn’t be mean to an old friend, especially when her dad was in jail.
“Clear your desks, please.”
Formidable! Wonderful! (Math quizzes seemed a good time for French sarcasm.)
My stomach erupted with an embarrassing noise. I could feel people staring at me. I was hungry. That Pop-Tart would have tasted good. Sometimes the squished ones seemed to taste better.
As I waited for the math quiz, I wondered if they sold strawberry Pop-Tarts with icing in Paris. I was pretty sure they did, but there might be so much other good stuff to eat, like chocolate-filled croissants and buttery, lemon-flecked layer cakes and madeleines, that I might not even want to eat a lowly Pop-Tart there.
I glanced over at Jenna.
She tapped her flip-flopped foot and winced.
Good! I’m glad it hurts!
But then I remembered when Miss Genevieve had a thorn in the pad of his paw. He snapped at me when I tried to pull it out. Sweet Miss Genevieve snapped at me. Pain can make you mean sometimes. Maybe Jenna’s pain was terrible, horrible, the worst ever. Maybe I should cut her some slack. Maybe she’d be nicer to me after her toe got better, like she used to be.
Mr. Milot dropped a math quiz onto my desk and rapped on the surface with his knuckles. “Eyes front, Cleveland.”
“Sorry.” As I examined the quiz on my desk, only one thought ran through my mind (in two languages, of course).
I have problems! J’ai des problèmes!
I sneaked a peek at Jenna. She was scribbling fiercely, like she was built to get an A on this quiz.
I tugged down the sides of my beret, wishing I could hide inside it until the end of, oh, seventh grade.
C’est la vie.
Visiting Day
YOU READY TO ROLL, CLEVELAND?” Mom called from the bathroom.
I leaned on the wall and slipped on my sneakers.
&n
bsp; Mom was applying makeup to her eyelids. She never wore makeup, except on visiting Sundays. She also wasn’t wearing her MARVELOUS MAIDS AT YOUR SERVICE T-shirt today. Instead she wore a pretty blue shirt with jeans and a nice pair of flats. You had to be careful what you wore on visiting day. Your clothes had to be “appropriate.” Mom had read me the rules. Shoulders had to be covered. No short-shorts. No plunging necklines. I thought those things were kind of silly, because we were only seeing Dad on a video screen.
“Let’s go, Cleve!” Mom wore pink lipstick that made her lips shimmer.
I shuffled out behind her to our car, wondering if I should have worn lip gloss or something fancier. My shorts and T-shirt didn’t seem nice compared to what Mom wore.
The drive to the town of Babcock Lakes took for-ev-er, and it was so hot with our broken air conditioner (another nonessential, according to Mom) that I felt sick to my stomach. Mom had a plastic spray bottle in the car, so we could spritz ourselves with water, but that just made me slightly damp as well as unbearably hot.
Mom reached over and patted my knee. “We’ll go out for a treat on the way home. Ice cream. Cold, cold ice cream.”
I hoped there was room in my stomach for ice cream with the big boulder currently taking up so much space in there. “Sounds good.”
Mom maneuvered Miss Lola Lemon into a parking spot at the video visitation center, between a junker and a late-model Chevy.
“I guess we’re here.” Mom pulled down her visor and checked her face in the mirror.
“You look perfect.” She really did look pretty, but Mom looked good without makeup.
“Thanks, Cleve.” She licked her lips. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Nervous? You? Why?”
Mom closed the visor and looked at me. “I don’t like coming here.”
“Really? Me neither.” It felt good to admit that.
Mom reached across and gave me a hug over the parking brake. Even though it made me hotter, it also made me feel better. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” Mom said. “It really helps.”
I hadn’t thought about Mom wanting me with her so she didn’t have to do this alone. I’d only been thinking about how difficult it was for me.
“Team Potts!” I held my palm up for a high five.
Mom high-fived me hard. “Team Potts! I can’t wait till the fourth member of our team comes home where he belongs.”
“Fifth member of our team,” I said. “Miss Genevieve counts.”
Mom nodded. “Roscoe definitely counts. Now, let’s get out of this hot car before my makeup melts right off my face.”
Mom got out and started to close her car door behind her, completely forgetting I had to come out her side. I guess Mom was nervous.
“Oh my gosh, Cleveland. I’m sorry.”
“You sure you want me here with you?”
We both laughed, but it was more from nerves.
* * *
The video visitation center had bright ceramic artwork on the outside wall, but it didn’t fool anybody. This wasn’t a happy place. Nobody wanted to be here.
Mom and I walked over to the rows of wooden benches lined up outside the visitation center door.
There were so many people already waiting. Some of the women waved their hands in front of their faces, as though that would cool them off. The sheriffs could at least let us wait inside, where there was air-conditioning.
Mom wiped her palms on her jeans again and again.
Seeing Mom nervous made my stomach tighten around the boulder. I couldn’t blame her. There were so many locked doors and uniformed sheriffs. And that was just to see your loved ones through a video monitor. The people we “visited” were in an entirely different building somewhere else. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t visit Dad in person. It wasn’t like he would do anything other than talk to us and maybe give me a hug.
The lady on the other side of Mom said, “I heard the county south of us has a different way to visit. You could visit on video from your own computer. At home!”
“Really?” Mom asked. “That sounds better.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Wouldn’t that be nice instead of driving all the way here?”
“It would,” Mom agreed. “Think of all the money you’d save on gas. And if it was someone’s birthday or something special, your husband could feel like they were there too.” Mom wiped her palms on her thighs. “Or whoever you’re visiting.”
“Exactly,” the woman said. “They could feel like they’re not missing so much at home.” The woman looked down, then talked to her lap. “I’m visiting my son.”
I recognized that dropped gaze. Shame.
“I’m sorry.” Mom patted the woman’s shoulder. “We’re visiting my husband, Cleveland’s dad.”
The woman nodded at me, and then she and Mom were quiet.
I was glad because I didn’t feel like talking. And I was sweating. Always sweating.
I’d probably never sweat in Paris.
An announcement came over the PA system: “Please line up for visitation. Form one line outside the main door and wait for instructions.” The announcement was repeated in Spanish. But not in French or any other language.
Mom patted my hand. “Let’s get in there, Cleve.”
Everyone around us got up and formed a line outside the glass doors. An older lady went into the nearby bathroom. A man waited outside for her. He wore a straw hat. I wondered if that hat was on the list of clothing that was permitted. Then I realized I was wearing my beret and hoped that was okay. I’d worn it before, so I guessed it would be allowed. Besides, I liked that Dad could see I was wearing the present he’d given me.
The man waiting for the woman in the bathroom nodded at me.
I nodded back.
Everyone waiting out here had something in common. When we were out in the world, people might not know we had a loved one in jail. But in the waiting area, we were all here for the same reason. The nice thing was nobody judged anyone, because we understood what it felt like.
A sheriff with a gray mustache unlocked the glass door, and people funneled into the building. When I approached the door, I stood behind it and held it open for the people following me. Every single person who walked through thanked me. Every one. That didn’t happen all the time when I held the door for people at school or in town.
“Come on, Cleveland,” Mom scolded.
Maybe I was holding the door for everyone to delay visiting Dad. It really did hurt to see him in there.
Mom waited in the foyer before a second glass door. The sheriff with the mustache stood beside her, holding that door open.
“Hurry.” Mom motioned with her hand.
I rushed to Mom. “Sorry.” I should have been more thoughtful and stayed beside her.
Inside the main room were three rows of video monitors, the screens black mirrors, and a wall with a big window, behind which a couple more sheriff deputies stood, pacing and watching. I wouldn’t want that boring job.
Mom had to show her ID and a copy of my birth certificate, and then a sheriff with a ponytail checked to make sure our video visitation appointment with Dad was on the list. “You’re at computer number fourteen.”
Mom sat on the chair in front of the screen, inhaled deeply, and brushed her palms on her pants. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were holes forming in them by now. I stood behind her. There wasn’t much room or any privacy. We were sandwiched between other computers and other people sitting in front of them.
I saw another kid about my age with his mom. I wondered if his parent was in for more or less time than Dad. Then I thought about how cruel it was to keep kids away from their parents. How was I supposed to go seven whole months without a hug from my dad? In-person visits would be better than video visits. Mom explained that this system was created because they were trying to keep people from sneaking things in. Whatever! It was flat-out cruel. What if a kid had only one parent and that parent was in jail? Who took
care of them? Who would take care of me if something happened to Mom? Probably Georgia; she was old enough, but she had other things to do, like prepare for the University of Vermont next fall. I realized things could be a lot worse, but being this close to Dad and not being able to hug him or have him come home with us at the end was miserable. And because we only saw him on a screen for such a short time, I couldn’t work out the parts where I was still so angry with him for taking my money and breaking my trust. It was all terrible.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” Mom reached up and grabbed my hand.
I squeezed back. “I’m okay here.”
The ponytail sheriff rattled off a bunch of directions about what we could and couldn’t do during our video visit, and then the screen turned on. We were looking at a room with an empty chair. A large timer on the wall in front of us started to count down. We were allowed a one-hour video visit twice a week, but we were only able to come on Sundays. And then, only when Miss Lola Lemon decided to run. Mom was her saddest self when our car wasn’t working and she couldn’t fix it in time for our Sunday visit. She tried to come every single week with either me or Georgia, depending on my sister’s work schedule. She might not have liked what Dad had done, but she sure loved him.
Before all this… they’d always hold hands when they went out somewhere and would be sure to kiss each other goodbye before heading to work, no matter how late they were running. Before Dad’s gambling took hold and went from an occasional hobby to a desperate obsession, my parents were grossly affectionate with each other. I kind of missed it.
“That timer makes me nervous,” Mom said quietly.
“They shouldn’t start it until Dad’s already there,” I whispered into her hair. “It isn’t fair.”
Mom nodded.
Then there he was.
The Paris Project Page 6