All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook

by Leslie Connor

“What motor? Where’s the motor?”

  Everyone is in fits. Mr. VanLeer slumps back onto the couch, sighing. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh . . .”

  “Boy, we stink.” Mrs. Samuels lets her pen fall onto the table.

  “Victory!” Zoey says as we high-five. She stirs the scattered drawings with her finger. She picks one up and shows it around. “Spit. Now that’s a classic.”

  “One for the fridge,” says Mrs. Samuels.

  “Put it next to the bubby,” says Mr. VanLeer, and there is more laughing.

  “I bow to the winners,” says Zoey’s mom.

  “Good match,” I say.

  Mr. VanLeer sits forward with his elbows on his knees. “Isn’t it great spending a Saturday night like this?” He tilts his head at me. I think he’s looking at me like I am a Pictionary sketch. Time stretches. Mr. VanLeer scoots forward. “Perry, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? This has to be a pretty awesome change for you, huh? I mean, you’re really in a better place these days, finally living outside that prison.”

  An enormous beat of silence pumps through the room. Zoey lets a seething sort of breath through her teeth.

  “And then . . . he does that,” she says. Her nostrils flare.

  Mrs. Samuels clears her throat and shifts in her seat.

  Zoey gets to her feet.

  For some reason my eyes meet Mrs. Samuels’s eyes. I’m wondering if she is wishing what I am wishing; that a big old hailstorm would come right now. She blinks and speaks to Zoey.

  “Tom just means that we’re enjoying Perry’s company—”

  “That’s not what he said.” Zoey’s face has turned from pink to red.

  VanLeer squints at her. “Zoey, sweetie.” He turns his palms up. “What is it? What’s the matter?” He looks to Mrs. Samuels for an answer.

  “Look, it’s all okay,” Mrs. Samuels says. She comes close to her girl. “Zoey, please don’t—”

  “No. No, Mom!” Zoey steps back. She looks at her mother but she points at Mr. VanLeer. Her voice gets loud. “He—he does that all the time. Just when everything is going fine, he has to say something about it. He kills it.”

  “How?” he asks. “How do I ki—”

  “You say stupid things!” Zoey yells. “You say too much! You never just let things be!” She loses a breath, and I feel a hollow fill my own chest.

  I know she’s trying not to cry.

  “Mom, don’t you know what I mean? Don’t you hear him do it?”

  I’m afraid she’s going to ask me next. I get how she feels, but I don’t want to have to say it right here and now.

  Mrs. Samuels puts her face close to Zoey’s. She speaks softly. “Okay. What do you need to do here?” she asks.

  Zoey swats at a few stray tears. She takes a shaky breath. “I’ll separate,” she whispers.

  Mrs. Samuels strokes Zoey’s shoulders. “Okay. Good job. You go, and I’ll come by your room in a little while. We can talk.” She gives her a hug.

  Zoey nods. She leaves without looking at me. Of course, I am trying not to stare at her. I help Mrs. Samuels box up the game.

  Mr. VanLeer watches. “That’s too bad.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were having fun. Zoey gets so upset sometimes.” I realize he is telling this to me. “But we work on it. We work it out—”

  “Tom.” Mrs. Samuels interrupts him, and it’s like a karate chop. She gives him a hard look. He stops talking.

  “Excuse me,” I say. I think about telling them that if they want me, I’ll be in the closet. Instead I thank them for supper.

  Later, I am thinking about the way Thomas VanLeer is. I remember the ring he bought for Zoey—the one from their summer vacation. It was a gift. That’s nice. But then he sort of told her how to like it instead of just letting her like it. Now, VanLeer thinks I should like being out of Blue River. But I miss home. I guess I don’t get Thomas VanLeer. He doesn’t get me either.

  When I step into the hall on my way to the bathroom, Zoey’s bedroom door is cracked open just the littlest bit. I hear talking.

  “. . . now he did it to Perry, Mom. He’s trying to force him to feel good here,” Zoey says. “But Perry wants to go home. So would I. Why doesn’t Tom get it? Why does he think he can decide how everyone should feel?”

  I wait, but Mrs. Samuels doesn’t seem to have an answer for that.

  chapter thirty

  SPRAY!

  There is a gurgling, sucking noise. Then a whoosh! I jump back, and nearly take the shower curtain with me. A full spray is falling from the VanLeer showerhead. Big Ed was right. He told me to look for a little pinlike thing, or a lever or a handle. He said, “Push it in, press it down, or lift it up. Experiment a little,” he told me. “Show it you’re the boss.”

  I step into the shower. In seconds, I am wet from head to toes. Ahh . . . finally. The best thing about a shower is the think-time. It’s short, but you have it all to yourself. I need this time to think about the interviews.

  There’s a hard truth about the residents. I have heard Mom say it to her groups: “None of us is in here because we got caught sneaking sugar packets out of the diner.”

  The residents of Blue River have done some bad things. They’re not murderers or kidnappers. Some are drug dealers; some are embezzlers. Some wrote bad checks or didn’t pay child support. Sometimes I hear about it. Sometimes they tell me. I never ask. I rarely speak about what any of them did when I am on the outside. But now, I really want to. I know some rezzes would like to have their stories told. Then again, some have and probably wish they hadn’t.

  Mr. Krensky is Blue River’s most famous resident. He perpetrated a colossal Ponzi scheme, which means he took a lot of other people’s money. He pretended to invest it. But he really stole it. He bought himself boats and mansions and probably a whole lot of those tilapia fillets with honey-mustard glaze. Lots of rezzes are in for money crimes. But Mr. Krensky made the national news. By the time he got to Blue River a few years ago, we all knew who he was.

  He arrived with the best-fed belly and the tidiest fingernails I’ve ever seen. He’s thinner now, his hands are roughed up, and his hair has grown out into two poofy white clouds that sit just above his ears.

  The first week he was at Blue River, I accidentally stepped backward onto his toe in the supper line. He swore and called me a little piece of . . . well, something nobody wants to be. Then he told me to get the hell out of his way, and I did. But Big Ed was right there. He caught me in a one-armed hug, pulled me close to his side.

  He told Krensky, “Even the guilty recognize innocence when they see it. But you, Krensky, you must be in a place of ugliness all your own. Not going to be easy to rise out of that.”

  Even though he’s famous, an interview with Krensky doesn’t interest me. He’s no friend; he’s a Cold One. The only reason to talk to him is if you need help in the law library. Mom has Mr. Rojas for that.

  I pour VanLeer shampoo into my hand and smell mint. I slap it on my wet head and lather up. My eyes are closed, my scalp is tingling, and I think my brain is coming wide-awake. This is the way to scheme. I go at it. I scrub hard.

  I’ll need permission first. That’s a given. Then I’ll make a page for each rez I’m going to write about. I’ll start with what I know, then check facts and fill in details on Saturday interviews. If I’m going to tell these Blue River Stories, I’m going to tell them right.

  Blue River Stories.

  I like the way it sounds. If someone doesn’t want to talk, I’ll have to scrap the story. But Big Ed already said yes. Mrs. DiCoco has always told it like it is. She hurt her back and got addicted to painkillers. “After a while, I couldn’t afford them, so I stole money from the foundation I worked for. I’m an addict and a thief, but I’m putting those days behind me.” That’s how she tells it.

  I think Mr. Rojas will talk to me about getting caught for his gambling ring. I’m not sure about Mr. Halsey. Miss Sashonna will want in because that’s just how she is. But Miss Gina is t
he opposite. She won’t want to tell, and I won’t hurt her feelings by asking. Of course the story I want the most is Mom’s story—the whole thing. She’ll tell it to me now. She has to.

  I realize that I’ve been scheming under the spray of the shower for quite a while. At home, our showers shut off after five minutes. I suddenly worry that Mr. VanLeer will rap on the bathroom door and speak to me about hot water usage. I kill the spray—exactly the reverse of what I did to get it going. Yes! I’m the plumbing boss!

  I rub myself dry with a VanLeer towel, which feels as big as a bed blanket. When I wrap it around my waist it drags on the floor. I hike it up under my armpits. Fo-Joe would laugh if he could see me. I always cross the Upper East Lounge on my way back to my bedroom wearing a Blue River towel around my waist—only those towels are thinner and lots shorter. Fo-Joe likes to tease me. He makes his voice go high and says, “Pretty skirt, Perry.”

  I smile when I think how he held up Thomas VanLeer at the bottleneck so I could run to Mom. Fo-Joe has to walk a tough line with the rezzes. He has to be in charge. But you can always tell that he wants to see everyone rise up, the same way you would want that for a friend. I know he likes his job. So does the warden. I’ve watched them all my life. I realize something. They have Blue River Stories too.

  In the steamy bathroom, I keep scheming. If I am going to do these stories, I am going to need more time at Blue River. I’m not sure how that’s going to happen, especially when Thomas VanLeer’s idea of a Saturday visit is, well, short. I slump inside the big towel. How am I going to get all the stories and still have time with Mom? I have a lot to figure out, and I’m going to have to do that without help from all the people who usually help me.

  I open the bathroom door and a cloud of steam follows me into the hallway. I hear Thomas VanLeer’s voice.

  “Whoa there, Perry! Looks like we forgot to tell you to run the fan in here.” He flicks a switch inside the door. The fan hums. “There. That’ll clear the steam.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “We don’t have that at home.”

  I see him wince but I’m not sure why. He puts on a grin, rubs his hands together. “I bet a hot shower feels good, huh?” He looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he just nods a lot.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He starts to go on his way, and I head for the bedroom I’ve been staying in. Then I stop. “Mr. VanLeer?” He turns back from the end of the hall to look at me. “I was wondering . . . could we plan for me to have more time at Blue River?”

  He tucks his chin in. “Well, I . . . uh . . .” He looks at the floor and shakes his head.

  “There’s a school assignment,” I say. “I need to talk to some of the residents for it.” A silent moment stretches between us.

  “For school, huh?” He makes a sideways sort of smile. He chuckles and looks at me like I’m some old liar. “Perry, the thing is, when you have a family, weekends are pretty darn precious. The workweek is long. This is when we do things together.”

  I wonder why he thinks he needs to tell me that. Mom works all week long at Blue River and she runs weekend meetings too . . .

  Seek to understand before you seek to be understood.

  “I-I don’t mean to use up your family time.” I say it quickly. “Maybe you could drop me off. You can come back here to your family and just get me later. Whenever you can. Also, Saturday is the main visiting day, but there are other hours—”

  “I know when visiting hours are,” he says. “But you’re talking about multiple trips, Perry. That’s more time away from home.”

  I look at Thomas VanLeer. Feel furious is probably not a good motto. I swallow hard. I stick to facts.

  “The school assignment is real. You can check,” I say. “I need a little more time at home. At Blue River.” Then I say, “Please.”

  Behind him, Mrs. Samuels pokes her head around the corner. I wonder how much she has heard.

  “We’ll see, Perry,” says Thomas VanLeer. “We’ll see.”

  chapter thirty-one

  LIBRARY VOLUNTEERS

  It is Monday. Zoey and I are library volunteers. Mr. Olsen is smiling.

  “This is splendid of you,” he says. “Check it out.” He flashes his clipboard. There’s a long list with boxes next to each item. “I’m a fan of charts and graphs and boxes to check,” he says.

  I get that. I like drawing Xs through the days on my timeline in the closet.

  “Now, I would never overwhelm a library volunteer. So, one task at a time, and never toil more than thirty minutes a day. Come. I’ll get you started.”

  We weave past people who are bent over books or leaning toward screens. Mr. Olsen points things out. Really points things out. He swings his arm up until his elbow meets his ear. Then he drops his forearm across the top of his head and uses his index finger like a directional signal. “This way to periodicals,” he says. His finger straightens and curls, straightens and curls. He adds a sound. “Meep-meep.” He takes a sharp turn.

  Zoey twists her mouth to hide a smile. “Why is he meeping?” she whispers.

  “He’s trying to make it fun. He knows we have signed up for the lamest after-school program ever.”

  Zoey muffles a laugh and gives me a shove. I bump into a revolving rack of paperbacks, and I have to hug it to keep it from going down. Then I change a step to a skip to catch up while Zoey grins over her shoulder.

  We reach the periodicals in their cloudy plastic bindings. The sight of them makes me homesick and happy at the same time. I know all these magazines because Mrs. Buckmueller brings the old ones to Blue River.

  Mr. Olsen says he needs them organized. “Face-out in the racks. In order,” he says. “Most recent month in front. Six deep. Anything older than six months gets shelved right around the corner.” His arm goes up; his finger points. “Meep-meep.” He shows us a long shelf piled with back issues. I figure this is where Mrs. Buckmueller picks from.

  “You can sort on the wide table.” He points again. “Remember, this is a remedial effort.”

  Zoey looks at me. She mouths the word. “Remedial?” I shrug.

  “Every box you check will be a victory,” Mr. Olsen says. “Thank you!” He leaves the list with us and we begin.

  We make one giant heap of the magazines, then begin to sort into stacks. It’s like a game of cards. Zoey asks me, “Got any Consumer Guides from June or August, Perry?” She flaps July at me.

  I tell her, “Go fish.”

  Soon, we get into a contest, slapping the plastic binders into stacks. We call out titles and months. I reach across Zoey. She pushes in front of me. Slap. Slap. A man looks up from his laptop to shush us.

  I whisper to Zoey, “He has no idea, the sounds of progress.”

  “Yeah. And this is just one task. How are we going to get through everything on that list?”

  “Not all at once,” I say. “Mr. Olsen said remedial. Isn’t the root word remedy?”

  “Guess so. This is a sick old library,” Zoey says. “And the remedy . . .”

  “. . . is us.” We say it in unison then start to laugh. The shushing man shushes us again.

  Zoey fans herself with an issue of Sports Illustrated. “Seen any of these? I can’t find August?”

  “Oh, Sports Illustrated. That’s Mr. Halsey’s favorite,” I tell her. Zoey stops fanning to look at the cover.

  “Oh yeah?” she says. She knows who Mr. Halsey is, that he’s a friend.

  “Yep. He grabs it up and goes through it cover to cover.” Zoey is looking at me, and she’s being very quiet. I tap a finger down on the September issue of Modern Gardener. “And this is Mrs. DiCoco’s favorite.”

  Zoey thinks for a second. “She’s the grandmother, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is there a lot of time for reading? At Blue River?”

  “Well, after the workday. The magazines are supposed to stay in the common, but the rezzes sneak them back to their rooms for the evening.” I go back to
sorting. “Money Matters. September,” I say. Then I can’t help adding, “I know a guy who got his picture in this one. But not for anything good.”

  “Oh . . . Are you going to write his story?” Zoey asks.

  “Nope!” I shake my head. “That’s Mr. Krensky. He’s unfriendly. He’d never give me his story. Besides, it’s already been everywhere. I just want stories from people I’ve been close to.”

  I hear Zoey breathe out. “I hope you can get them, Perry. Mom thinks Tom should’ve let you stay longer on Saturday. She didn’t say it. But she was super surprised when you got back so early.”

  I shrug. Now that I am living at the VanLeer house, Zoey and I don’t talk about Stepdad Tom like we used to. I’d like to tell her that I’m sorry about the Pictionary game going all sour, and that I thought she was right and he was wrong. But it seems best not to complain about anyone that you have to live with—even if he is the person who seems to be ruining your life, and your mom’s life, and making trouble for Warden Daugherty. I wonder what is happening. Will the warden get yelled at, or will someone dock her pay? Or make her pay a fine? I don’t really know what kinds of trouble a warden can be in.

  Oops. I realize I’m not helping Zoey with the periodicals. I try to erase my brain for now. It’s all going to work out soon. It has to. I turn and drop six months’ worth of Sports Illustrated into the rack with a satisfying thunk.

  When I turn back again Zoey is holding Mr. Olsen’s list in her hand.

  “Look.” She leans toward me and reads, “Buckmueller for BR. And there’s a question mark after it. She’s the book truck lady, right? And what does BR stand for? Book run?”

  “Or Blue River,” I say. “Because she always takes requests from the residents.”

  “Exact-o-mento!” Mr. Olsen has come up behind us.

  The shushing man heaves a sigh through the air and it lands on us. He closes his laptop and gets up.

  “Oh. Terribly sorry! Did I disturb?” Mr. Olsen asks. “Oh dear. Try the History Room. It’s quieter . . . ,” he calls after the man. Then he looks at us. “So, Blue River. That’s a no-go this week. But it will be critical next week and always ever after.”