“It sounds like there was trouble over the weekend.”
I nodded.
“So you’re aware of the situation.”
I nodded.
“Charlotte, I want you to understand my goal is to help kids who get into trouble, not to hurt them. I want you to understand that I didn’t call you in here to yell at you or frighten you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“It’s a small town, and people talk. The best way to stop the talking is to settle the mystery. People have short memories. Life returns to normal quickly. Does that make sense?”
It made zero sense, but I nodded again.
“People understand that kids make mistakes. Adults understand that kids don’t have the wisdom and coping skills to deal with intense feelings. Make sense?” His voice sounded soft and reasonable, but his energy was still big and angry and mean.
“I guess so.”
“Why were you angry at the museum ladies?”
“I was angry, but I didn’t—”
“One step at a time. Let’s just focus on the museum. Did you manage to get a key to the museum door?”
“I don’t understand.”
“A reasonable person might wonder if the pipe sprung a leak or if it was intentionally loosened. I’m not making conclusions, but it’s a reasonable question, don’t you think?”
I saw where this was going. They thought I’d spray-painted the building and caused the flooding. I shivered from my head to my toes. There was a knock at the door, and before Mr. Crenski could answer, Mrs. Newman stepped inside.
“Is there something you need?” Mr. Crenski asked.
“I came to see if Charlotte’s mother was here, and the secretary told me she hasn’t been called. So I thought it would be appropriate, perhaps, for me to be here.” She didn’t use her fake smile, or her fake-nice voice.
“I appreciate your offer, but you need to be in your classroom.” Mr. Crenski didn’t fake smile, either.
“This district has a policy that kids cannot be questioned about a crime without a parent present. I assigned my other students silent reading time, and Mrs. Vinton has first hour free, so she agreed to keep an eye on them.”
“This district also has a policy that teachers shouldn’t be insubordinate with the principal.”
“Martha Lake needs to be here.”
Mrs. Newman was standing up for me—me, Charlotte Lake, the new kid, the kid she knew would be gone in a blink. The kid who lied to her. And didn’t do her assignments on time. She knew, and she confronted Mr. Crenski anyway.
“This isn’t a formal procedure,” he said. “I’m simply letting Charlotte know that telling the truth is important, and the consequences of admitting a crime are not severe. The consequences of not admitting a crime, however, are severe.”
“I see.” Mrs. Newman let the silence draw out before saying, “We also need to let Charlotte know that it’s a lie to say you committed a crime just because adults are pressuring you to do so.”
Mr. Crenski’s face burned red. “Obviously.”
“As Charlotte’s teacher, I would like you to do one of two things. Call Martha Lake and speak to Charlotte in her presence, or send Charlotte back to class with me.”
Mr. Crenski shuffled some papers on his desk before clearing his throat. “Very well. Charlotte may return to class.” The tone in his voice said he was madder at Mrs. Newman than at me.
I followed Mrs. Newman back to the classroom. She stopped outside the door to talk to me. “Did you bring a lunch today?”
“No. I figured you wouldn’t let me.”
“If you’re willing to stay in the classroom and talk, I’ll have the cafeteria bring us trays. I have something to show you.”
Then she turned on her heel and led me back to class.
* * *
When everyone left for lunch, Mrs. Newman got on her phone and ordered two lunch trays. She pulled a piece of paper from a folder and handed it to me. It was a letter from my teacher in Lexington.
To Whom It May Concern:
I rarely write a formal letter to include with a student’s records, but in the case of Charlotte Lake, I believe it’s warranted.
Charlotte joined my classroom in November. Her test scores from her previous districts were average as were the assessments completed by my district. Her classroom work met minimum standards. She had no discipline problems. She did not participate in classroom discussion unless she was required to do so.
My students are required to keep a free-writing journal. They are given time to write each day and encouraged to write at home as well. They can write about anything they want, from poetry to short stories to reactions to classroom lessons or current events. I don’t read the entries or grade them, because the purpose is simply to encourage private writing and reflection, but I do occasionally check to make sure they’re writing.
At the end of the year, I discovered Charlotte’s journal in her desk. I was astounded by what I read. Charlotte, my most average student, could write far beyond her grade level. She wrote poetry, short stories, and reflections of life at home and school. I was impressed by not only the quality of the writing, but also the depth of her thinking. For example, we studied Kentucky’s government and had a discussion about the importance of voting. That week, Charlotte wrote her reaction to the discussion. She made a compelling case that the emphasis on “getting out the vote” was misplaced. She argued that voters should be urged to learn about the issues and the candidates. If the voters weren’t willing to make informed decisions, she said, they should be urged to not vote.
Charlotte came to me late in the year. I had thirty-two students and no assistant in my classroom, not even a single parent volunteer. It’s with deep regret that I’m about to use a cliché: Charlotte slipped through the cracks.
I hope you’re able to do what I was not: connect with Charlotte and tap her potential.
Sincerely,
Jane Alton
I had to read it twice to believe it. I’d figured if Mrs. Alton thought of me at all, and I was sure she didn’t, it was because I sat by Big Nose Girl, who didn’t speak English well. Mrs. Alton always had to help her, and the room was crowded. Mrs. Alton could barely squeeze between our desks, and she always apologized for bumping into me. To her, I was Girl in the Back Row.
Who knew teachers were so observant?
I gave the paper to Mrs. Newman. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”
“I want you to know there are people in your corner.” Her eyes were softer.
“Are you going to ask me what happened at the museum?”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
A lunch lady came in and put trays of tater tot hot dish in front of us. Mrs. Newman wrinkled her nose when she took a bite. I said, “I was snotty to Gloria and Teresa, but I didn’t damage the pipes, and I didn’t paint on the building. I overheard them saying bad things about the project I’m doing.”
“So you’re guilty of rude behavior?”
“Very guilty,” I said. “But now it looks like I have a reason for vandalizing the building.”
Mrs. Newman nodded. “In television shows they call that a motive.”
“I know I wrote a negative essay, but I was mad when I wrote it. I’ve spent a couple months in Laura’s world. I like her. I gave my family cups, sticks of candy, and pennies for Christmas, just like the Christmas in Little House on the Prairie. Maybe the person who did it doesn’t even hate Laura Ingalls. Maybe they just wanted to destroy something that makes other people happy.”
“Unfortunately, there are people like that in the world.”
I put a mushy tater tot in my mouth. I could barely swallow it. I’d only eaten a few bites of a granola bar that morning, but my stomach felt as full as Thanksgiving.
“I’d like us to discuss the Trail of Tears article this week. Would you be up for that?”
“During lunch?”
“Sure.” She sighed. “But you will have to
face the kids at some point. The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be. And if they don’t hear anything from you, they’re going to jump to conclusions.”
“Okay.”
“This hot dish tastes as bad as it looks.”
“You should try the hamburgers. They’re the worst.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
There was something I wanted her to know. “Mrs. Newman?”
“Yes?”
“My mom and I drove by the museum and saw the spray paint, and I can tell you this: I can spell Laura. The person who did it can’t.”
She nodded. “Excellent point.”
* * *
As soon as the bell rang, I raced to my locker, grabbed my stuff, and bolted out the door. I couldn’t look into the eyes of my friends—or anyone. I put on my winter gear when I got outside of school and ran all the way home. Mrs. Newman was right. I’d have to face everyone eventually, but I was going to put it off as long as possible.
Mom had a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me. “How did it go?”
“It could’ve been worse. I stayed in class for lunch.” I thought about telling her about Mr. Crenski but decided to hang on to that information. Mom might call and yell at him, and it could be worse for me.
She squeezed my shoulder like she was preparing me for news, apparently because she was. “Honey, you need to know the police officer stopped by and asked if I would consent to a formal interview with you at the sheriff’s office. Then he gave me this.” She handed me a piece of paper. My Laura Ingalls essay. The essay that described why Laura Ingalls was ruining my life. “This doesn’t help your case.”
“Are they even considering it could’ve been someone else?”
She took a deep breath. “I want to make sure you understand that you can tell me anything, if there’s anything to tell, and I will help you.”
“You want to know if I did it? You said you believed me!” I stood up so fast I knocked my chair over and stormed into my room, but she was right behind me.
“Charlotte, I do believe you. But it’s important for you to know if you do something wrong—this weekend, next year, when you’re thirty years old—I’ll be there to support you.”
I flopped onto the bed. “Whatever.”
“Look, I think you agree that you were rude to Gloria and that other woman.”
“Teresa.”
“It’d create some good will if you wrote them a letter apologizing for your behavior.”
“They should apologize to me and Julia. They’re not going to pay her. Is that fair?”
“No, it’s not. Even so, you should react to an injustice in a way that demonstrates the beautiful heart I know you have.”
“Are you sure my heart is beautiful?”
“I see it every single day.”
I started to cry. “I’m afraid.”
Mom couldn’t find any tissues, so she brought a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom. I cried and wiped tears and blew my nose until I didn’t have anything left. I leaned against Mom and fell asleep and didn’t wake until morning.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
We had a substitute teacher Tuesday—an old lady named Mrs. Lester. Her eyes and face were so mean she made Mrs. Newman seem like a puppy. Mrs. Lester looked like she had once had plump cheeks, and they’d drooped over time and hung like water balloons against her neck. She said she retired from teaching “a long, long time ago,” which told me she wasn’t old enough to have known Laura Ingalls, but she was definitely from the time when teachers smacked kids with rulers. Obviously she wasn’t the kind of teacher who would eat lunch with me. Mrs. Newman had picked a terrible time to be sick.
I got my folder out of my desk, and someone had taped a piece of paper to it that said, Sorry about the note from yesterday. Ethan. Weird. This new note probably had nothing to do with me. He probably meant to give it to someone else and put it in my desk by mistake. There’s no way Ethan was admitting he wrote the mean note and was actually apologizing for it.
Right?
I mean, why would he do that?
I crushed the paper into a ball and stuffed it in my pocket. I kept my eyes locked on the front of the room. I was afraid to look at Bao and Emma, because if they weren’t giving me sympathetic looks, if they didn’t smile at me or sigh or shake their heads like I’m so sorry, my heart would explode.
Mrs. Lester looked at Mrs. Newman’s class notes and said, “It appears you’re supposed to be working in teams on a science project.” She shook her head. “Children, this business of group work means one thing: a couple of good kids do all the work, and the rest of the lazy ninnyhammers do nothing. If we’re going to break into teams, we’ll drill with math flashcards.” She looked at Chuck and said, “Where are the math flashcards?”
Like the Asian boy should know?
Chuck shrugged.
“Never mind.” She sighed. “I’ll think of something else. Everyone can read until I come up with an appropriate lesson plan.”
I felt eyes looking at me all morning, and I swore I heard Obviously Popular Girl—those popular girls are meaner than snakes—whisper my name to Greasy Hair Boy. I watched Mrs. Lester all morning like she was the only person in the room. Making eye contact with Obviously Popular Girl would be an invitation for her to strike.
After everyone left for lunch, I got my sandwich and returned to my desk. I knew she’d send me to the lunchroom, but it was worth trying. Sure enough, Mrs. Lester said, “What are you doing?”
“I always eat lunch in here and get caught up on work.”
“I’m going to the teachers’ lounge. You can’t stay here alone. Take your lunch to the cafeteria.”
She was holding a ruler, so I didn’t argue. I took my lunch to the bathroom and ate my cheese sandwich in a stall. I heard the door open and a couple girls talking. It sounded like Tallest Girl in Class and Obviously Popular Girl.
The water turned on and off, and Tallest Girl in Class said, “It’s totally unfair. It’s not Mrs. Newman’s fault.”
“Do you think she’ll get fired?”
“I don’t know. My mom said suspended. Is that the same as fired?”
Suspended? Fired? Mrs. Newman wasn’t sick?
“All because of Charlotte. I hope she’s happy.”
What the heck?
What did I have to do with any of this?
It took a few seconds for it to sink in.
Mrs. Newman wasn’t sick. She was in trouble for helping me with Mr. Crenski! The cheese sandwich gurgled in my stomach. I felt like puking. The door opened, and their voices faded away. Now there were two people in trouble—Mrs. Newman and me—and neither of us had done anything wrong. Mom was right. The cops weren’t looking for other suspects. They had me, and their work was done. As far as I could tell, there was only one way out of this mess.
I had to figure out who did it.
But who would be mad at the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum?
Me, of course.
But who else?
Think, Charlotte, think!
Suddenly Julia’s face flashed in my mind. Saturday afternoon I told her they’d trash-talked our project and that she wasn’t getting paid.
She wasn’t getting paid! At least I wasn’t losing money. Logically she should be even madder than me. And she probably knew her grandparents had spray paint in the garage.
All the pieces of the puzzle snapped together. I waited for the hall to clear out after the bell rang. Then I marched to the office. I was going to tell Mr. Crenski to give his little speech about honesty to Julia. I’d have a hundred apologies by the end of the week. Red Fred’s popularity would be secure. People wouldn’t judge my single mom. They’d judge Julia and her single mom.
They’d judge Julia and her single mom.
I stopped with my hand on the office door. I heard Mom’s voice. Assume good things.
I had thought Julia was fake-nice. But she was actually nice.
<
br /> I had thought Julia was Nellie Oleson. But she was the anti-Nellie.
Julia was proud of our work—too proud to do anything to the museum. She was kind and funny. Most of all, Julia was my friend.
I knew Julia. After the trouble when her dad had robbed Shorty’s gas station, there’s no way she’d risk …
Wait a minute!
Her dad!
Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?
Her dad was a criminal. He was visiting Julia that night. He had access to the garage. As for a motive, well, obviously Julia had told him the museum ladies weren’t going to pay her. And he got mad.
Everything made sense. Julia’s dad was a thief and a vandal. His guilt would be hard for Julia. She’d be the source of gossip again, but Emma, Bao, and I would have her back. Besides, she hated her dad. She didn’t even want to visit him. It’s not like she’d be surprised.
Without another thought, I went into the office and asked the secretary if I could talk to Mr. Crenski. Five minutes later, I was in his office.
Mr. Crenski clasped his hands together. “So you have something to tell me.”
I swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to say anything before because Julia is my friend, and she’s the nicest girl in school, but—”
“Charlotte, you need to think long and hard before you tell me Julia Ramos vandalized the museum.”
“No! Not Julia. Her dad. Did you know he robbed the gas station?”
“Everyone in Walnut Grove is familiar with her father.”
“He was visiting Julia the night the museum was vandalized.”
“You had spray paint on your fingers.”
“It was ink!”
I knew then he’d already made up his mind about me. If I didn’t act fast, I was going to be the guilty one. I opened my mouth and let the words tumble out. “In the middle of the night, I heard noises coming from the garage. I tiptoed up the stairs and when it was quiet, I opened the door. The garage was empty, so I figured it was just my imagination. Just to be sure, I went to the door that leads to the driveway. There’s a small window in that door, so I looked outside and saw Julia’s dad getting into his car, and he was holding something that looked like a can. I didn’t know what it was. I figured it was no big deal, so I went to bed.”
Laura Ingalls Is Ruining My Life Page 15