N–O, Teddy spells out.
I think about Hannah, who pushed my hand away the other day when I was trying to take Totally Rad Barbie and she only wanted me to have Chemical Engineer Barbie, who’s not as good.
No! says Teddy, a lot louder.
So I say no, too. I don’t want to go to Children’s Prison.
“All right, Mr. Scott, you can come back in now,” calls Miz Lady. “Eva did a great job answering all my questions, didn’t you, Eva?”
I guess I did. I don’t know. I look over at Uncle Donny to see if he knows, but he looks like he doesn’t know either. Nobody has called in the scary men yet.
“Okay,” I say. “Can I go play now?”
“Aoife, be polite,” says Uncle Donny. I don’t see what was so rude about that. I don’t like Miz Lori or Miz Carrie. I want them to leave.
The dark-haired one looks at me. “We’re almost done here, sweetheart,” she says. She takes out her clipboard and turns to Uncle Donny. “Now, as you know, our last visit with the Scott family was just under three years ago.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve never seen her before.
“At that time, there was no evidence of sufficient abuse or neglect to proceed with a safety plan for Aoife.”
“You said this was an independent investigation,” says Uncle Donny. “We’re not reopening all that stuff. This is specific to the present.”
“Of course, Mr. Scott.”
“I have to apologize,” says Uncle Donny. “You see, I’m an attorney, so I understand how … difficult the law can be to navigate, for the average citizen, given the inherent bureaucracies of county agencies.”
“Of course, Mr. Scott. Our purpose is to strengthen Michigan families by providing access to services, that’s all. We’re not trying to make things more difficult.”
“I’m sure.”
Teddy has crawled off my lap and is lying in the big sunbeam from the front window like a kitty cat. I wish I could lie down there and take a nap with him.
“Now, this is a second investigation, independent of the first. I’ve had a phone call with Aoife’s teacher, and her report was positive, but she did note some concerning signs.”
“You talked to Sister Mary Celeste?” I say. I looove Sister Mary Celeste. She is the nicest of all the sisters and is my favorite.
“Chill out for a minute, Aoife,” says Uncle Donny, taking me onto his lap and bouncing me up and down. “Let us finish this conversation so the nice ladies can leave, huh?”
I would like that. I try to chill out.
“Now, at the moment we’re most concerned about Ms. Scott’s ability to provide sufficient supervision.”
“Siobhan barely lets the kid out of her sight,” says Uncle Donny. “She’s a great mom.”
“Yeah!” I say. Mama is the greatest.
“Nobody is saying she isn’t doing her best, Mr. Scott. But in cases in which a preponderance of evidence of child abuse or neglect is not found, the department must still assist the child’s family in voluntarily participating in community-based services commensurate with risk level determined by the risk assessment.”
I don’t know what any of that means. “I miss Mama,” I say quietly. That’s what I know.
“I bet you do, sweetheart,” she says. “Hopefully you’ll be able to talk to her soon.”
But Mama said “soon” before, and that was ages ago.
“I think that’s enough,” says Uncle Donny. “Are we done here, ladies? Because I for one am feeling pretty done.”
The ladies all stand, too. “Remember, Mr. Scott, nobody here is trying to get anyone in trouble,” says the light-haired one, in a voice like Mama uses to call the next-door cat. It’s okay, kitty kitty, don’t be scared.
“I understand perfectly,” he says.
“Aoife, thank you very much for talking to us,” says the dark-haired one, putting away her notes.
“You’re welcome,” I say. Please don’t take me to Children’s Prison.
Uncle Donny takes my hand, and we show the Lori/Carries back to the door. They shake Uncle Donny’s hand goodbye and then they shake my hand, too. I try to shake it real nice, like a grown-up. But I hold on real tight to Uncle Donny with the other hand. The Lori/Carries drive away, and then it’s just us again. I say a special thank-you to all the saints.
“Well, that went just great,” says Uncle Donny, rubbing his forehead. I think he does not feel like it went great.
“Can I go play outside?” I ask. I still need to tell Hannah about what Mac said, and how I hope he’s not Theo’s murderer because he’s my father now. Hannah will explain it to me. She can explain things much better than I can.
“I guess you’re not hungry for dinner yet,” says Uncle Donny, looking at his watch.
“Nuh-uh. We had Dippin’ Dots and hot dogs and a snow cone.”
“Great,” says Uncle Donny, but not in the way that really means great. He clears his throat. I don’t think he’s going to let me go play just yet.
Uncle Donny kneels down in front of me. “Listen, Aoife, it’s really important that you never, ever get into a car with someone unless your ma or I say it’s okay,” he says. “Even if you know the person, okay? You should still have called me to ask.”
That doesn’t really make sense. I get in cars with people all the time—the church van, the bus to the YMCA, Hannah’s mom’s car when she wants to take us out for ice cream. Uncle Donny is silly. Plus, if I hadn’t gotten in the truck with Mac, I wouldn’t have learned about Theo’s father. So I’m not quite as sorry as Uncle Donny wants me to be. But I nod anyway.
“Did Mac really tell you he’s your father?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.” Everyone else is so impressed, I’m beginning to realize this is a really big deal. But I’ve got too much to think about already. I still need to solve a whole mystery to bring Mama home. “That’s what he said.”
“Well, I don’t want you to put too much stock in what Mac says, okay? Anybody can say anything; it doesn’t make it true. And Mac is—well, I don’t think you should be listening to him, okay?”
“You don’t like Mac,” I say.
“Not especially, no. I know he can be … He can seem like he’s fun sometimes, but he is not a good person for you to be around.”
“Is it because of how he broke Mama’s plate from the Old Country?”
Uncle Donny frowns. “That’s the kind of thing I don’t like about him. There are things about Mac that—well, it’s hard to explain.”
“You mean when he yells,” I say.
“Does he yell at you?” Uncle Donny drops down to look into my face. We have the exact same eyes. It makes me want to tell him one of my secrets.
“He yells at Mama late at night sometimes,” I whisper.
“But he’s never hurt you? Never raised his voice at you?”
I look at Uncle Donny’s face. He’s got a good, kind face. His skin is so soft you could pet it. I put my hand on his scratchy cheek to see. You have to get away from the stubble, but then it’s smooth and clean.
“I love you, Uncle Donny,” I say.
“I love you too, kiddo. So much. That’s why I don’t ever want to see you get hurt. Nobody should ever yell at you or hurt you.” Uncle Donny puts his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into his neck, which smells good. I close my eyes.
“Mama yelled at me. She told me to get away from her.”
I feel Uncle Donny’s breath blow out hard. “Oh, Aoife,” he says. “I know she did. And I bet she is really, really sorry for yelling at you. I know she didn’t mean it.”
So maybe Mac didn’t mean it either.
If I close my eyes and try to remember, I can just barely picture … I remember us hiding because someone scary was downstairs. The two of us, me and Theo. And Theo put his arm over my shoulder, just like Uncle Donny is doing now. And I never remembered that before, but all of a sudden it came into my head because I was trying to remember being shout
ed at.
And I remember how the plate from the Old Country broke into a million pieces when it hit the wall.
“Aoife, what is it?” asks Uncle Donny.
“What’s what?” I say.
“You zoned out on me, kiddo. Couldn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No,” I say. “But I hear you now. Can I go play?”
“Uh, okay,” says Uncle Donny. “Sure, go play. I’ve got a phone call to make. But stay within sight. I don’t need another heart attack.”
So I say I won’t give him another one on purpose.
As I cross the lawn, I can hear Uncle Donny yelling on the phone inside. Mama told me that sometimes lawyers yell at people. I don’t know who he’s talking to, but he sure sounds mad. I’m glad he is not yelling at me.
I can’t wait to tell Hannah all the things I’ve figured out in our case. She’s going to be really impressed. I wonder if she’s solved anything while I’ve solved so many things!
I knock on her door, but her mom says she’s out at a birthday party and isn’t back yet. So Teddy and I play in the sprinkler out on the front lawn. We keep close to the house because I don’t want to make Uncle Donny sad.
I can’t wait to ask Hannah to do the name-searching thing on her dad’s computer, and look up JOHN MACMILLIAN COREY. Hopefully we can prove that Mac didn’t kill Theo. I can’t do the name-searching thing myself. You have to be a big girl to use the computer. Plus you have to be able to read words even when they are little or there’s lots of them or they’re boring.
Teddy and I are running through the water when Hannah comes home from her party.
“Hi Hannah!” I say, waving as she gets out of a minivan I’ve never seen before. But there are people in the car that I don’t know, so I stop waving.
Two moms come out, too, with two girls about Hannah’s age. I’ve never seen any of them before, so I don’t go over. They’re older than me, and have smooth hair, tied up in ponytails with ribbon. Hannah’s mom was working in the front yard, and she comes down the driveway to chat with the strangers.
I’m still wearing my play clothes, but I’m sprinkled wet all over. Hannah’s wearing a real dress like I would only wear to church.
Teddy thinks the girls all look stupid in their dresses. He doesn’t like shiny shoes because he likes to bite shiny things. He doesn’t even like it when I get dressed up for church, because he knows we’re not going to the park to play. He makes faces at all the girls and Hannah as they stand around on the sidewalk waiting for their moms to finish talking.
They’re looking at me, but I don’t say hi again, because Hannah didn’t answer me the first time and I guess she doesn’t want to play in the sprinkler in her party dress.
“Who’s that?” asks one of the girls. The feeling of their eyes on me makes me hot all over.
“That’s my neighbor, but she’s only six,” says Hannah. She waves at me, but not with a lot of enthusiasm. I know better than to do more than wave back. Instead I turn off the sprinkler, because I don’t want to jump in the water while all the bigger girls are watching.
“M-o-o-o-m, come on!” says one of the girls loudly. She stamps her foot, but the moms are talking and not paying attention.
“Why don’t you tell your mom to hurry up?” asks one of the girls, to Hannah.
I know why she doesn’t ask—it’s because Hannah’s mom is a sharp lady who says we need to act respectful when we talk to grown-ups. Mama says we are lucky to have such good neighbors, but we’re all a little afraid of Hannah’s mom anyway.
“I’m sure she’ll be quick,” says Hannah.
“She’s slow,” says the other little girl. “Like you, Hannah.” The other girls both laugh. When I look up, Hannah is all red in the face, looking at her shoes.
It doesn’t even make sense, because Hannah runs much faster than me. Whenever we race anywhere, she always wins.
“Is that why your daddy left?” asks the other girl. “Because you and your mom are so slow?”
“Because they’re fat,” says the other girl.
“My dad didn’t leave, they just got divorced,” says Hannah loudly. “I still see him every month.” Even I can tell that this answer is not going to impress the other girls, who are still laughing together.
“You probably don’t even have a dad,” says one of them. “Where is he right now?”
“I’m going to get my mom,” says Hannah. She walks up the driveway, and when she gets closer to me, she frowns in my direction. “Why are you listening in on me and my friends?” she says angrily.
“I’m not listening,” I say, which isn’t true. I was listening.
“Well, nobody like nosy little girls, so go home,” says Hannah. She hurries up the steps to the house and shuts the door. She didn’t even go get her mom like she said. All the moms are still talking, not paying any attention.
Hannah’s friends are right—Hannah’s mom is bigger than the other mothers are. I guess she does walk more slowly, too.
I picture Mama standing here talking to these other moms. She doesn’t look like any of them. The other moms, even Hannah’s, all have short hair and bangs. Mama has long hair all the way down her back. And the other moms wear regular clothes, but Mama only wears dresses and long cardigans.
Even though they’re both wearing nice jewelry, my mama is thinner than both of these new moms. She’s the best mama.
I look back at the other girls, who are still standing on the sidewalk laughing together. They are both thinner than Hannah, and they look better in their party dresses. I guess they make fun of Hannah because there’s two of them and only one of her.
When I’m in the third grade, I hope I look like them instead of round like Hannah. Then maybe they won’t make fun of me, since my father’s not around, either.
“I’d better go see what’s gotten into that girl,” says Hannah’s mom, looking towards the closed front door. “She’s always so sensitive.”
“All right, well, you girls have a good afternoon,” says one of the new moms. They both smile big, their mouths painted with lipstick. I don’t like how it looks.
“Bye now.”
The girls all get in the car and their moms pile in with them.
Teddy blows raspberries at them while they drive away.
I don’t go knock on the door right away because I know Hannah is going to change out of her fancy dress and her shiny shoes, and then we can talk about the mystery. Instead, I turn the water back on, and Teddy makes me laugh by chasing after the drops from the sprinkler and trying to catch them on his tongue like raindrops.
Finally Hannah comes out of the side yard. Her face is puffy and red, and her voice sounds stuffed up. I turn the hose off at the wall. She looks up the road where the van drove away, but it’s gone.
“Don’t talk to my friends when they come to my house,” says Hannah.
“I won’t,” I promise.
She sniffs.
“Do you want to talk about the mystery?” I ask. Because I have a lot to tell her.
But Hannah says, “No, not now.”
That makes me confused. How else are we going to look up the name-searching thing?
“Do you want to do cartwheels?” she asks. I don’t really want to, but it seems like Hannah does. So the two of us practice cartwheels for a while. Hannah’s still wearing a skirt, just not a party dress, so it’s funny when her pale legs stick up. But neither of us goes all the way over. Teddy can turn cartwheels all day long—he rolls over and over, like a brown furry ball—but neither of us has the trick to it.
Mama knew the trick. I try to picture the way she looked, turning one on the sidewalk when we were practicing last week. Push with your arms, Mama said. Kick your feet up.
So instead of putting my hands forward, I keep them up above my head. For a while my feet stay on the ground and I bend sideways. Then all of a sudden, everything turns over on itself. I’m only on my hands for a second, but it’s easy to balance that way,
and then my feet come back on the other side and I fall over. But I could have stood up.
“I did it!” I say.
“That doesn’t count,” says Hannah.
I stand up and do it again, thinking sideways, sideways instead of forward, forward. This time my feet know to stay planted for just the right amount of time and then they’re up in the air, and my hands are as strong and as steady as legs. It’s still fast, but this time I’m ready, and my feet keep going forwards until they’re right-side-down again, and now suddenly I’m standing again. I feel a little dizzy, my brain all weighed down from flipping in circles, but it feels good, and I laugh and laugh.
But Mama isn’t here to see it. It doesn’t really matter, if nobody but Hannah knows.
Hannah still can’t do it. She gets the start right, but she’s not moving fast enough to get her feet off the ground.
“Keep trying,” I say. “Go sideways, not forwards.”
“This is stupid,” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. “Cartwheels are for babies, anyway.”
“They’re not for babies! My mama does cartwheels.”
But Hannah is already brushing off her hands and turning away. “They’re dumb,” she says. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I shake my head. “You’re just mad because you can’t do it and me and Teddy can.”
“Teddy isn’t real,” says Hannah. “He can’t do a cartwheel anyway because you made him up.”
Teddy is going to untie the bows on Hannah’s sneakers. “He is real! He’s right there!”
“You’re crazy,” says Hannah. “That’s what everybody thinks, but they’re too scared to tell you the truth. You’re crazy, just like your mom.”
That’s not true. Nobody thinks that about me and nobody thinks that about Mama. Hannah is a liar.
“You better just be quiet,” I warn her.
“It’s true,” says Hannah. Her face has gotten all red, her bangs sticking to her face. “Your mama is locked up in a mental ward because she’s insane, and you’re just like her. In fact, your whole family is crazy, so there!”
All That's Bright and Gone (ARC) Page 12