The Graham Cracker Plot

by Shelley Tougas

  Those are the dumbest answers I’ve ever heard. Judge Henry, you’re old and hairy and you growl when you talk, but you never use fake words to make something seem better than it is.

  Today I got to ask the ex-Chemist the same question.

  Unlike the visiting center, this room looked like a real prison. The walls were cement, and you had to squint on account of the low light. Two metal chairs faced each other. The ex-Chemist sat with his back to the door.

  Aaron said, “This will be a copy room in a few weeks. We’re remodeling.” As if it mattered to us. “Remember. Fifteen minutes. Don’t waste it.” The door shut. I walked around the ex-Chemist and sat in the other chair. The ex-Chemist looked blank and thin. His hands squeezed the armrests like he was handcuffed to them, only he wasn’t.

  Fifteen minutes. Not enough time for nice.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  Fifteen minutes. Not enough time for waiting. “Why? Answer me.”

  “You’re so young. So young.”

  “When were you going to tell me? When I was, like, thirty or something?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “There wasn’t a plan, Daisy. Just day by day. That’s how you survive here.”

  “Bull crap. How do you think I survive out there?” Since he wasn’t looking at me, I didn’t look at him, either. He stared at one wall. I stared at the other. “And why were you making drugs? This guy came to our school and talked about getting addicted and stealing and once he left his baby in the car while he went to buy drugs. And one time he took drugs and thought he was a time traveler and walked through a window and cut himself all up.”

  “I wasn’t really a dealer. It was quick cash and bad timing. Just quick cash, that’s all. It wasn’t going to be a career. I was looking for a job, a decent job, you know. I really was.”

  “If you make drugs, and they’re not the pharmacy kind, then you’re a drug dealer.”

  What else was there to say? I twirled my hair around my finger. Finally he looked at me. I could see his face turn out of the corner of my eye.

  “Disappointing you is the worst. Worse than being locked up. And if you decide you don’t want to be my daughter anymore … I guess I’d understand, but I’d be lost. Like really lost.”

  His voice shook and he gulped a sob. Tears shined up his cheeks. “I’m losing the best years of my life. I’m losing the best years of your life.”

  “Are these really the best years? Really? Right now? The best?”

  “In your case, not so much.”

  Aaron poked his head in the door. “Finish up, okay?”

  “I got three things to say.” My father cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I got mixed up in drugs. I’m sorry I lied about it being an accident and convinced Grandma and your mom to lie, too.

  “When I get out of here, it’s going to be different. I swear.”

  I believed that he believed it. So I nodded.

  Then he said, “The third thing—Daisy Bauer, don’t you ever, and I mean ever, do anything that stupid again. Ever.”

  “Same goes to you. Ever to infinity.”

  “Deal.”

  He stood up and held his arms out for a hug. Was he sorry? Really sorry? I stuck out my hand for a handshake. When he shook my hand, I could see that his eyelashes were wet.

  Aaron opened the door. “Best I can do, guys. Time to go.”

  I walked around the ex-Chemist. I needed a hug, so I rushed to Aaron. He didn’t look like a guard then. He looked like a big teddy bear waiting for a kid to squeeze his belly. He leaned down, squished me with his big arms, and said, “Six months before you see him again. Six months until another hug.”

  For a second, I thought, Six months isn’t long enough! Immediately I started shaking, like someone put a quarter in my back and pushed the cry button. The ex-Chemist was behind me. He pulled me back against his chest. He squeezed me and kissed the top of my head.

  “Will you write me lots of letters? Long ones, with lots of detail, so I know everything that’s going on with you? Can you do that? Would you?”

  “Yes, I can write letters,” I said. “Real long letters.”

  I didn’t say anything about my letters to you, Judge Henry. The ex-Chemist thinks all judges are mean and unfair, but he’s been wrong about so many things. You look mean and unfair, Judge Henry, but I notice you nod when people talk. I think you’re really listening. I think you’re really reading. I think you’re nodding right now.

  DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

  Your timing stinks! You missed everything in the courtroom today because you had that secret meeting with the County people. We waited and waited while you were “in Chambers,” as you called it. Why do you have a Chambers? Isn’t that where kings and queens drink tea? I asked Alex about Chambers, and he said it’s like your office or something. That’s why people are scared of judges. You bang on your desk with a hammer and say weird things like “Chambers” instead of “office” and “juvenile” instead of “kid.”

  Anyway, while you “chambered,” someone lit a fuse and it was dynamite central. Remember the old cartoons where cats and roosters set bombs, fall off cliffs, and hit each other with hammers? That’s what happened.

  Mom, Alex, Grandma, and me sat in the first bench. Behind us were Kari, Graham, and Ashley, who had on her red wig and bright red lipstick. She leaned over the bench and hugged me. “Hey there, flower girl,” she said. “Hey there, dancing queen,” I said.

  When you left, Judge Henry, Mom said to Alex, “Chambers? See what the County does with our tax money?” Grandma snorted and said, “The County should use our tax money to teach parenting skills.”

  BOOM!

  Alex told Grandma my mom is a wonderful mom, and Mom told Grandma she raised a crappy son who deserved to be in prison, and Grandma told Alex to mind his own business, and Mom yelled at Kari for being a terrible babysitter, and Kari yelled at Mom because Graham would have never done something so terrible on his own, and Grandma said I’m a wonderful child who’s never been in trouble so it’s Graham and Ashley’s fault, and Kari said leave Ashley out of it because she can’t be held responsible.

  And on and on it went.

  Graham still had stitches in his forehead, and the color on his face was more green than purple. He motioned me to come to the end of the bench. He said, “Your mom ith blaming everything on me.”

  “Sounds like your mom is blaming me.”

  “Well, it wath your idea.”

  My eyes about popped from my face. “My idea? Me? Who wanted to go to Canada?”

  “Who wanted to break out the Chemith?”

  “Who couldn’t read a map? Who pushed over the refrigerator? Who stole a pony?”

  “Not a pony. A horth. I borrowed a horth.”

  My temper boiled up my insides. “I said everything was messed up, but you—”

  “You thaid I was Thuperman and Harry Potter and you hugged me all thupid.”

  “I would never ever ever call you Superman or Harry Potter. Maybe Stupidman or Harry Snotter. You’re too weak and dumb and weird for a superhero.”

  “Your dad wath too chicken to run! Big dumb chicken!”

  In my mind, he didn’t mean the ex-Chemist was chicken. Graham meant drug dealer. I saw it on everyone’s face, all day, every day. The checker at the grocery store. The guy who delivered our pizza. Frank the Creeper. I could read their thoughts. Everyone who looked at me was thinking, She’s the daughter of a drug dealer.

  I screamed, “You only wanted to run away so you could have my dad as your own, you freaky dad thief!”

  He looked at me, lips pinched, eyes all sad and mad.

  I jerked back my fist and just as I was going to wham-bang his head, two arms circled around me and pulled me across the floor. I could tell by the hair on his arms it was Alex. He pulled me toward the door, and the whole time I screamed, “It’s all his fault! Graham Cracker! It’s his fault!”

  Suddenly we were out in the hall. Mom, Alex, and me. Mom didn
’t even yell. We sat on a bench, and she hugged me and stroked my hair.

  Ten minutes later, a guy in a uniform told us to go home, the judge rescheduled the hearing. Again.

  “Why?” Mom asked.

  “Who knows?” The uniform guy shrugged. “Maybe the social worker forgot some paperwork. Heck, maybe Judge Henry’s getting lunch for a change.” He thought about it. “Put your money on the paperwork. The judge never has time to eat.”

  THE PART WHERE I’M SUPPOSED TO WRITE TO YOU

  DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

  At court last week, you told me to write the letter to you. You want me to explain responsibility and what I’ve learned and what I’m sorry for. Mom said I’ll learn my punishment later.

  So I’m writing. I am COOPERATING. It’s late at night, and I’m still writing.

  At first, I didn’t want to write anything. But once I started, everything burst out, like my pen caught fire. The story is burning inside me, and nobody can stop it. Not with a garden hose, not with a fire hose, not with rains from a hurricane.

  BACK TO THE FINAL PART. AGAIN.

  DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

  The kids at school haven’t heard about Club Fed. Here’s how I know: Jesse Ellman and gang haven’t called me Alcatraz Bauer or Jail Breaker or Crazy Daisy. But they’ll find out eventually. Secrets are the only things that escape Club Fed.

  Graham doesn’t have to worry about Jesse anymore. His new school doesn’t let kids mess around—at all! He had his final meeting in court. His punishment is raking leaves for old people this fall and working at the food shelf all winter. And he’s on probation, which I think means no more chances. Lucky for Graham, the County paid for him to get fake front teeth.

  I wish I knew my punishment. The waiting is making me chew my fingernails, and Grandma won’t paint them until they grow out. Just tell me whether I’m raking leaves or whatever. Why are you taking so long? Why can’t you just decide?

  Mom and Alex think it’s because I didn’t have any law trouble before this and you don’t want to be too mean but you also don’t want to be too nice. Plus Mom said my County person is on her honeymoon and everyone needs her report. Mom sneered when she said that.

  Maybe we have the same problem, Judge Henry. You aren’t sure if I’m really sorry. Just like I’m not sure if the ex-Chemist is really sorry.

  But don’t you do this all the time? Aren’t you like a lie-detector machine? You’re a judge!

  Every day, you look at people’s eyes and wonder, Is he really sorry? And that lady … is she telling the truth? And him … does he really understand he did a bad thing? And him … the skinny guy who used to clean carpets, the one with the daughter named Daisy … how’d such a great guy turn into a drug dealer?

  And that great guy, the ex-Chemist, did he look into the eyes of his judge, or did he stare at the floor? I wonder. Did his eyes say, Guess who I was before this. Guess.

  DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

  I haven’t seen Graham for a long time. Kari drives him to his new school. He doesn’t even wave. Just stares straight ahead.

  I’m sorry. Two little words. How hard could it be for him to spit ’em out? Mom says I should apologize. I wish Graham would say he’s sorry first, because he did the first lie. I think. It’s hard to remember exactly. If he said he’s sorry, then we could hang out again. He could show me how he pulls out his new front teeth. I’ve been wondering how he does it.

  “You know how many times I told your father I was sorry and never meant it? Trust me, it ain’t hard,” Mom said as she lit a cigarette. We’d just finished eating hot dogs for dinner, and the taste of ketchup was still in my mouth. How could she cover up that deliciousness with stinky smoke?

  I coughed and waved smoke from my face. “Why’d you do that? If you don’t feel sorry, why say it?”

  “So he’d shut the hell up,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t do that to Graham.”

  “Do what?”

  “Lie about being sorry.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Are you sorry? Or not?”

  I stared at our dirty, brown carpet. “Everyone at school had been so mean to him for so long. I thought I was okay because I didn’t join in. So I feel like a big turd for that.” I stopped a second to chew on my thumbnail. “Then, in the courtroom, I said some pretty rotten stuff.”

  “Does that mean you’re sorry?”

  “When I think about those mean words and just about Graham being Graham, my stomach flops. There’s this whole awful mess, but I guess what I’m most sorry about is Graham. But I don’t want to see him because he’ll yell at me and say he hates me.”

  She stared at me, reading my face for something. When she thought she’d found it, she grabbed my shoulders tight. “Don’t you dare tell that judge you’re most sorry for Graham. I mean it, Daisy. You tell him what he wants to hear or else. You tell him you’re sorry you broke into a house, you stole, you vandalized, you caused a prison lockdown!

  “If you’re sorry about being a rotten friend, then go talk to the friend. But this judge doesn’t care about your social problems, understand? And neither do I! I care about you cleaning up your act! So leave Graham out of it. Apologize for the damn crimes.” Her voice cracked. “Crimes. I used the word crimes with my own kid.”

  I rubbed her back until she stopped crying. Then I got a wad of toilet paper so she could blow her nose.

  * * *

  After school, I knocked on Graham’s door. His face didn’t light up like I hoped.

  I asked, “Do you want to throw me in hot lava?”

  “Kinda.”

  My arms crossed themselves even though this was a peace mission. “So you want to see me burn up like a French fry?”

  “I’d give you pain medicine so it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  I looked over his shoulder. Kari and a woman sat at the table looking through papers. And that woman wore a blazer. The County lady! It had to be. No wonder his mood was bad.

  I lowered my voice. “How’s your new school?”

  “Stupid. A couple guys asked me how I got the forehead scar, and I said I was breaking a friend out of prison and a guard pounded me, and now everyone’s afraid of me because I’m so tough. No more bullies.”

  “Now you’re the scary one. But no friends, either, right?”

  He shrugged. “I’d rather be scary than scared.”

  That guy cannot catch a break. I took a breath so peace would fill my lungs and I could blow good feelings between us. I said it fast. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded.

  “And?” I said.

  “And what?”

  I squinted at him. I told myself, I’ll count to ten and if he doesn’t say it, I’m leaving and never speaking to him again. OneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSeven—

  “How come you don’t go to the play dump anymore?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The play dump.”

  Before I could answer, he jumped off the steps, missing a puddle by an inch or so. He jogged to the play dump and plopped into a swing.

  “You can’t just walk away!”

  Graham yelled, “Just come here, would ya?”

  I stared and kicked rocks.

  “C’mon, Daisy. Just swing for a while.”

  So I sat on the other swing and pumped hard to catch up. Graham dropped his shoulders back and stretched his legs. He looked like he could fall asleep. The apology must have been stuck in his throat.

  Whatever. Mom and me were probably moving into Alex’s house. I’d live on the other side of town. Once kids stopped being afraid of Graham, he’d make some friends. Maybe his friends would never know his “scholarship” comes from being an at-risk kid. Mom says at-risk means the County’s afraid he’ll drop out of school and become a thief and an alcoholic or worse. I knew worse meant drug dealer.

  Did the County think Graham would be a fed-mate someday? Graham was a pest and a pain and,
sure, we did break the law, but we thought we had a good reason. The Graham I know, the Graham who dreamed about horses and Canada, would never end up in Club Fed. But what about a thirty-year-old Graham who didn’t have a job and couldn’t pay child support and spent his nights at the Rattlesnake Bar and Grill?

  Come to think of it, I was probably an at-risk kid, too. The bad-influence kid. The kid all the parents figured would turn into a drug dealer, like her father, and an alcoholic, like her mother. The kid with a record and I don’t mean the Beatles. I mean a record with you, Judge Henry.

  That’s when I saw it.

  In the bottom of the sandless sandbox was a bunch of long, fat pretzels, just like the ones we ate at the farmhouse. Only these were shaped into something. I dug my heel in the sand to slow down. The pretzels formed words. And the words said:

  Sorry Daisy from Graham

  Queen and King

  of River Estates

  He stopped swinging, too. “Do you know how many days I’ve been writing in pretzel? You never come out here after school, and by the morning, it’s messed up because raccoons and cats eat it. Sometimes it’s totally gone. Yesterday it was part gone. Yesterday it said: Frog ham kin ates.”

  I laughed so hard it turned into a cackle.

  “I had to buy ten bags of pretzels, Daisy. Ten!”

  “Queen and King of the River Estates Mobile Home Park,” I said. “It could be worse. We’re not going to live here forever like Frank the Creeper. We’re only here for temporary.”

  “Right. We’re only here for temporary.”

  After that, we pumped as high as the swings would take us. Not talking, not joking. Just listening to the squeak-creak of the swings until our moms called us in for dinner.

  THE ACTUAL FINAL PART

  DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

  I think I’m actually going to miss writing to you. You’ve been a good listener. I bet you’re not so scary when you’re wearing tan pants and a golf shirt. Maybe you can visit someday and Grandma can cut your hair and wax your brows.