All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook

by Leslie Connor

  “Anyway, it seemed like he just dropped it. Nothing happened. School started, and I thought it had all blown over.” She waves a hand in the air. “Then last Friday night comes, and—”

  “Perry!” Maya Rubin pops into the little room inside the nurse’s office. “I just heard what happened.” She stoops down in front of me, lifts my bangs, and takes a look—more into my eyes than at my nose, it seems. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. “Hey . . . um . . . Miss Maya,” I say. I quack at her because I’m still pinching my nose. “Did you get a chance to make that call?”

  “I did.” She smiles. “Everything and everyone is fine at Blue River. But you are sorely missed.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Somehow, I feel glad about that.

  chapter twenty

  CLOSET LANDING

  The plan for after school has changed on account of my slamming my nose on the lunch table. Zoey and I were supposed to walk to the library together, do our homework, and try to choose an after-school program to join. Instead, Zoey’s mom cuts her workday short and comes to get us.

  At the VanLeer house I stand in the room where I got no sleep. I let my backpack slide to the floor. Someone has moved the warden’s suitcase with all my things in it into the closet. I roll it back out.

  I stare at the high bed with its chocolate-colored covers. I remember that Zoey said I could move things in this room. I grab up the comforter and a pillow, or maybe it’s more than one. I hug the bundle, walk it into the closet, and drop myself on top of it on the closet floor. I don’t do much arranging. I’ve landed in my favorite sleep position—the running start—half on my belly with one leg tucked up. My head is on a pillow. I close my eyes and cup my hand to my sore nose and breathe. The warm air returns with each breath. Before long, I am drifting.

  Big Ed sits in the armchair by the window at the front of the Blue River Common. A new intake sits across from him. I keep walking around them. The sun is coming in. But it’s that dusty sort of light. Like fog. I squint. Weird. I can’t see the new guy’s face. He might be the new guy named Wendell. But I feel like I know him better than that.

  Big Ed is talking about his Mottos for Successful Residents.

  “Seek to succeed,” Big Ed says.

  I know what he will say next; I know it by heart.

  “Whatever it was that got you put in here, it’s not the only thing that you are about. You’re here to rise up. Go to work. Go to your meetings. Clean up your soul and feel honorable again. Believe it or not, you can be successful here.”

  I keep circling.

  Big Ed moves on to the next motto. “Eye on the end,” he says. “Keep a clear vision of how you want to emerge. If you’re smart, you’ll make a . . .”

  “Timeline,” I finish the sentence for him. My voice sounds far away and filled with bubbles.

  “Give purpose to each day. Make goals. Whether you’ve got ten months or ten years . . . plan for that day you walk out.”

  “Here’s the one for right now,” Big Ed says. “Seek to understand before you seek to be understood. Keep your head down. Get to know others before you reveal yourself.” Big Ed sits back like he is done.

  “There’s one more motto,” I say, but now, I can barely hear my own voice. “Big Ed,” I try to call out. “You forgot to tell him about Win-Win. You forgot . . .”

  “Perry? Hey, Perry? It’s just me.”

  What is Zoey Samuels doing in the Blue River Common? Wait . . . We’re not in the common . . .

  I open my eyes and lift my head. Zoey is kneeling at the closet door. She holds two mugs by the handles and a stack of cookies in her other hand. I see tall boots just behind her. I look up.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Zoey’s mom says.

  I sit up and look at the scramble of bedding all around me. “Oh. Sorry.” I try to unpaste my sleepy lips. “I—I know the bed is really nice and came from an old farmhouse and . . .”

  “No matter.” Zoey’s mom shakes her head and flaps her hand. “Do you mind if I try to improve on your new setup? Just a hair?”

  “She’s good at this stuff,” Zoey assures me.

  “Aw! Thanks, honey! But it’s really more like I can’t stop myself.” Mrs. Samuels laughs. She reaches behind her and shows me a thin, rolled mattress. “This is for camping, really, but it’ll put a little padding between you and the floor. Give it a try. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to start dinner.”

  When she turns to go I see her stop and glance at Warden Daugherty’s suitcase. I think she’s going to ask me to move my clothes into the dresser, but she doesn’t.

  Zoey sets the mugs down carefully and slides one toward me. She offers me a cookie, and I take it. Silently, she settles herself in the doorjamb with her cocoa cup on her knees. I sit cross-legged and promise myself I won’t spill on the bed cover, even though it might not show if I do. Warm cocoa is the perfect thing to wake me up. Once I have a few sips in me, I can talk to Zoey.

  “You’re right,” I say.

  “About . . .”

  “I am mad. But I’m not mad at you. I’m glad you wanted me to come for dinner. I don’t think you could’ve known that your stepdad would decide to get me pulled out of Blue River. And anyway, it wasn’t a secret that I was living there. Everybody knows. Even though nobody talks about it.”

  “I guess . . .”

  “I’m sorry if it seemed like I was being mean. I’m not happy . . . about . . . all this . . . stuff.” I swallow hard. I figure I don’t have to explain that to Zoey. “And I really was super-tired,” I say.

  “Sorry you didn’t sleep well,” says Zoey.

  I shrug and lean down to take another sip of the cocoa.

  “And sorry you smashed your nose,” she adds.

  Now I’m sipping cocoa and cracking a smile at the same time.

  “And flipped your lunch. Everywhere.” Then she blurts, “Made you laugh!” Then I do laugh, right onto my mug. I nearly spray cocoa across the closet. That makes Zoey laugh. We both have to steady our mugs.

  “Well at least I get to,” I say.

  “Get to what?”

  “I get to eat dinner at your house.”

  chapter twenty-one

  JESSICA

  Halsey Barrows put both his arms full around her right there in the common where everyone was coming in from the workday. The crowd concealed them. It was the first time Jessica had seen Halsey since Perry had been taken away the evening before.

  “Come on,” he said. “Be strong. You’re going to be all right,” he told her. “Perry too. Because you raised a great boy.”

  Halsey smelled sweet from his day in the woodshop, a scent that reminded Jessica of the tree she’d played under in the yard of her parents’ home outside of Lincoln. That was the only home she’d ever had besides this one. There’d been nothing ideal about either place. But at least Perry had been here. She wanted him back so much her throat ached. A few curled wood shavings clung to Halsey’s Blue River chambray. She caught them between her finger and thumb.

  Halsey was apparently willing to risk an infraction ticket for extended contact. Foreman Joe was around. Somewhere. But with Perry gone, Jessica felt weary of all the rules. Unfocused. There seemed less reason to toe every line now that Perry wasn’t right beside her where he could see her receive a reprimand. Why not just accept this one comforting hug? Maybe Halsey’s big heart beating in her ear would reset her somehow, and get her through the evening. But what about him? He had a date for his parole hearing. He didn’t need trouble.

  It might have been a kiss, that gentle pressure she felt on the top of her head just before she backed away from him. Or maybe it was just a brief chin-plant caused by their height difference. Whichever, it meant he understood how she was feeling.

  Jessica stood in front of him, arms dangling at her sides. She sighed and said, “Thanks, Halsey.”

  chapter twenty-two

  WIN-WIN

  As the n
ew intake at the VanLeer house, I do what new ones at Blue River do. I find someone who has been here a while, and I follow her. When Zoey’s mom asks her to set the VanLeer table, I’m on her heels.

  “Napkins on the left, fork on top,” she says.

  Easy enough.

  While we work, I remember my sunny, dusty dream. Win-Win. That’s Big Ed’s other motto for being a successful resident. The first “win” means you count all small good things that happen to you every day. It takes me a second. Then I think of Miss Maya making the phone call home for me, and Miss Jenrik with her “baloney code.” There was Zoey with the cocoa, and Mrs. Samuels showing up at the closet door with that camp mat. So, a call, a code, a cocoa, and a camp mat. Four pretty good things.

  The second “win” means you do things that bring victories to others. I’ve heard Big Ed say it at least a hundred times. “No matter where you live, you have a community of some kind. And you can be a contributor.”

  New intakes sometimes roll their eyes at all of this. But the ones that try to follow his advice, well, it just goes better for them. I’ve seen it a hundred times.

  I decide that setting the VanLeer table with Zoey is a start at contributing. There is a fork, a knife, and a spoon at every place on this table. Zoey shows me how each piece goes. Tomorrow night, I still won’t be home where I want to be; I’ll be here. But at least I will already know that the blade of the knife is supposed to face the plate.

  At dinner I keep practicing the mottos. I listen. I try to understand what the VanLeers like to talk about at suppertime. I listen to how they spend their days. There is steamy golden stew in the bowls that sit on top of our plates. Fat pieces of chicken, carrots, and potatoes float there. I wonder why I have the plate, and I wonder why I have the knife and fork. I look around the table. All anyone is using is the spoon.

  I listen. I learn that Mr. VanLeer goes to the courthouse in David City every day, and he has an office across the street from it. Neither is far from the new middle school, and the library is in between. I learn that he had a pastrami and provolone sandwich on an Italian roll at lunch.

  That sounds fancy. Eggy-Mon wouldn’t be able to get that. He calls our sandwiches “meat and cheese on white—all right.” Or “PB and jelly—sticking to your belly.” He does the best he can with the Blue River kitchen budget. People miss the meals they used to eat on the outside. So he runs contests. Residents can make up food poetry. If Eggy-Mon likes your poem, and if he can get the ingredients, he’ll put it on the menu. Some rezzes try for something too fancy. Like Mr. Krensky, who always seems like he’s trying to stick it to people anyway. Once he asked for “tilapia fill-aze in honey-mustard glaze.”

  Eggy-Mon flapped a spatula at him and said, “Nice poem. Big ask. Too big.”

  Then Mr. Krensky crabbed at him in that voice that nobody really likes to hear. “Question is . . . are you up to making it happen?” He stuck his pointed chin at Eggy-Mon.

  Eggy-Mon drew his bread knife through a bun. He held the bun up in both hands and made it talk like a puppet. “How about a day-old roll for the Blue River troll,” the bun said. Eggy-Mon thumped it onto Mr. Krensky’s tray.

  Eggy-Mon probably can’t get tilapia—whatever that is. But when Mom came up with “Curds on wheat, with a fresh-fried tweet,” we got the best toasted egg and cheese sandwiches ever.

  Oops. I’m not listening to the conversation at the VanLeer table. Following Big Ed’s advice is going to be hard when my mind keeps wandering back home.

  I tune back in just in time to hear Mrs. Samuels talking about taking a trip to Lincoln tomorrow where she’s going to pick up a dresser for the Lund family and cart it back to town. Mrs. Samuels helps people and businesses with their places and spaces. Her job is about paint colors, fabrics, furniture, and flower beds. I’ve already heard her say that she doesn’t have enough work in these little towns.

  “Wasn’t the dresser pickup scheduled for this afternoon?” Mr. VanLeer asks.

  “Well, it was going to be, but then when the school called, well . . .”

  I realize that she’s gotten to the part about changing her schedule because of my bloody nose.

  “. . . with the sun shining, it turned out to be a great day to stay in town and clean out flower boxes and do fall plantings. I did the Higgins and Hansen porches in gold and white mums,” she says. “And then it was kind of nice to come home and start dinner early.”

  “Thank you,” I say—or, more like, I blurt it.

  All the VanLeer and Samuels heads turn to look at me.

  “This dinner is good,” I say. Then I think it to myself: this dinner is a win.

  chapter twenty-three

  IN THE HISTORY ROOM

  When Friday gets here, I am psyched. I’m one day away from Saturday. That’s all I’ve been thinking about. Mr. Thomas VanLeer will drive me back to Blue River for the entire afternoon. Tomorrow.

  Mom and I have so much catching up to do. Little things, big things, new things. I need to tell her about the VanLeer house, the meals, the busted shower, and the bed inside the closet. I want her to know I made a timeline and taped it to the closet wall. I’m marking my Xs through days that are done. I’m trying to keep my eye on the end. Trouble is, I’m not sure exactly when that will be. I am all about the day when Mom will be paroled and I will get out of the VanLeer house.

  There is a whole week’s worth of assignments from the new school to tell her about. Mom always keeps up on what I’m doing in my classes. Just today, Miss Maya Rubin told us about a whopping long-term assignment—the kind that causes me trouble. I really need to talk to Mom about that. I want to leave time to hear what’s been going on at home; who is new, who’s been gated out, who had something good happen, and who is hanging in there at Blue River. I wonder if we can get everything said on a single Saturday afternoon. I will need a list, and Mom and I will need a corner of the Blue River Common to ourselves. That’s a tall order. Saturday is the busiest visiting day.

  Zoey and I walk to the library. We’ve done this each day after school—except Monday when I had the bloody nose. It’s just two and half blocks, but I secretly feel very grown-up walking on our own. We’re allowed to eat snacks in the library, and so far, we’ve been remembering to pack something in the morning at the VanLeer house. If Zoey forgets, I remember. If I forget, Zoey is on it. Mr. VanLeer says we are a remarkable team. This morning he told Mrs. Samuels, “They’re like a brother-and-sister act, huh, Robyn?” He chuckled. He chuckles all the time. He thinks he has to fill in the quiet parts.

  Mrs. Samuels was quiet this morning after she heard that brother-sister thing. Zoey showed me an eye-roll from behind the pantry door where the granola bars are. For me, what Mr. VanLeer said feels like a little piece of something caught in the arch of my shoe. I don’t know what it is. It’s nothing much. But it hits a tender spot every once in a while and I wish I could knock it out of there.

  At the library, we choose the History Room. We sit on spindly wooden chairs and hook our ankles on the rungs. It is not the most comfortable room in the library. That makes sense to me because Mom sometimes says that history is not always comfortable either.

  We eat the granola bars and start our homework. There is a grandfather clock that tick-tocks at us in a serious sort of way. I lean forward to tell Zoey, “If that thing had fingers it would be shaking one of them at us.” She squelches a laugh.

  There’s supposed to be no talking, no noise in the History Room. (Somebody forgot to tell that clock that.) The rule makes this room unpopular with most kids. Zoey and I whisper and nobody kicks us out. But we are not invisible. Mr. Olsen, who runs the after-school program, spots us. He knows that we have not signed up, and we are supposed to.

  “Uh-oh,” Zoey whispers. She barely moves her mouth. She sings to me, “He’s looking at us . . .” She crumples her granola bar wrapper and stares down at her rainforest workbook.

  I try not to let Mr. Olsen see that my eyes are seeing him. But of cour
se that quadruples all this seeing that is going on. He comes right over to our table. He’s got his clipboard tucked against his chest.

  “Hello-odles, mighty eyeballers,” he says. “Me again. It’s the end of the week. You two haven’t chosen a program. I’m here to apply pressure.” We must be giving him twin looks, because the next thing he says is, “What a pair of pouts!” Then he laughs loudly right there in the History Room.

  “All right, all right,” he says. “I get it. Joining up isn’t your bag. But listen to these fine offerings.” He refers to his clipboard. “Board Games is very uncrowded. Young Watercolorists, now that’s a noninvasive species.”

  I look at Zoey. She is biting her bottom lip.

  “And there’s still room for one—but I will make room for two—in the fiercely popular Computer Video Boot Camp.” I think our faces must be blank. He draws a big breath. “Or . . . or . . . if you really want to be revolutionaries, you could be in my brand-new group called . . . Library Volunteers!” He sags. “Okay. I should be more creative about that title,” he says. “Anyway, the volunteers schlep and shelve books, among other thrilling tasks. Or they will. When they start. If you start. Oh, please say you’ll start,” he begs. “We could use the help.”

  Zoey and I are silent.

  “Puh-leese!” Mr. Olsen groans.

  Zoey squirms from side to side. “Well, since Friday is already half over, can we give you an answer on Monday?”

  “Deal!” he says. He retucks his clipboard, gives us a wave, and strides away.

  When he is out of sight I whisper, “Do you think there is anyone else who hasn’t signed up?”