by Susan Ross
Even Boucher seemed impressed. “At least we’re a lock for the championships.” He laughed with a ragged edge in his voice.
After practice, Coach Morrin found Jacques standing in the shade, wiping his dripping forehead.
“You need to take a few more risks out there, buddy.”
Jacques cast his eyes on the ground. “I get it.”
Coach Morrin sighed and patted him on the shoulder, but that didn’t make Jacques feel better at all.
14
Jacques pushed a bowl of cereal back and forth along the dining room table, his stomach slowly churning. He finally shoved the bowl away and walked into the kitchen where Grandmère Jeannette was washing dishes.
“There’s something I gotta tell you.”
“Okay, shoot.” Grandmère Jeannette kept scrubbing.
“The thing is, the first soccer game is Saturday, and I’m co-captain and everything, so I can’t come help you at the shop.” Jacques cleared his throat and added, “Sorry.”
Grandmère Jeannette glanced up, frowning. “That’s our busiest day! But I know the first game is a big deal. I suppose I can manage.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “How’s it going, anyway, with the Somali boy? Mohamed, isn’t it?”
“I can’t talk; I’m late for school.” Jacques’s stomach felt sick and better at the same time. He grabbed his backpack to leave.
“One more thing,” Grandmère Jeannette called after him. Her voice sounded strangely high. “I might be going out to the speedway on Saturday evening, so you and your father will have to cook for yourselves.”
“Oh . . . okay.” That was odd. Usually Grandmère Jeannette invited him to go along to the speedway, and usually he said no; he’d rather watch TV or hang out with Sammy. And to be honest, he didn’t really want to be seen at the race track anymore with his grandmother. But this time she hadn’t even asked.
Jacques hurried home that afternoon after practice. Grandmère Jeannette wouldn’t be back from the shop for another half hour, and ever since the church party, Dad had been coming home late nearly every night.
As soon as Jacques reached the apartment, he checked that all the rooms were empty. Then he grabbed the phone and dialed quickly, before he had the chance to chicken out.
A girl answered.
“Is Duane there?” Jacques croaked.
“Wait a minute,” the girl replied. “Duane! Du-ane . . . !”
Jacques’s heart started beating like it might burst from his chest. “Keep away from my grandmother’s shop. I won’t do it!” he repeated silently.
The girl got back on the phone. “He’s out somewhere.”
“Can you take a message?” Jacques asked.
“I guess so,” she replied.
“Tell him that Saturday is off. Definitely off! Tell him I won’t be there.”
“Okay.” The girl hung up.
Jacques realized that he’d never even given her his name. Still, his heart was slowing to a dull thump. He felt better, sort of.
The front door squeaked open, and Jacques leapt away from the telephone.
“What’s wrong?” Grandmère Jeannette walked in, carrying groceries.
“Aren’t you kinda early?” Jacques exclaimed.
“Young people shouldn’t be so jumpy.” She set the bags on the table. “It was slow toward the end of the day, so I closed up and stopped at the Save-and-Shop.”
Grandmère Jeannette placed two cartons of milk in the refrigerator. “By the way, I ran into your Coach Morrin while I was shopping. He says he don’t really need you on Saturday.”
“What do you mean?” Jacques was suddenly short of breath.
“The game is on Sunday. You must of heard him wrong. You’ll have to miss some of practice, but he says he can spare you.” Grandmère Jeannette folded the bags and stuck them under the counter. “You better come by the shop at one, and I’ll have you lock up at five.”
“But Grandmère . . .” Jacques began.
“But nothing,” Grandmère Jeannette cut him off. “You’ve done it before; it’s easy. I’d ask your father, but the truth is, the way he’s been acting these days,” she lowered her eyes for a moment, “I trust you more—though don’t you ever tell him that!” She blinked and nodded. “It’s all settled.”
Jacques clenched his jaw. It didn’t seem fair that he always had to worry about Dad. Still, Jacques didn’t say a word. He knew it wasn’t his grandmother’s fault that after Mom died, his father had never been able to pick himself up and move on.
15
The rest of the week was a jumble. Mohamed dominated every practice, scoring effortless goals from impossible angles, while Jacques barely held his own. Jacques prayed he might come down with something catchy by the weekend, but on Saturday morning he woke up feeling perfectly well. He could always say he had a stomachache and get by with Dad, but he knew that he could never fool Grandmère Jeannette.
Jacques cut out of practice early and dragged his feet along the sidewalk on his way to the bridal shop. He paused at every cross road and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a skinny kid in a hooded jacket standing in front of the library. As soon as the kid turned, though, Jacques snorted with relief; it was just a weirdly tall girl from sixth grade.
When Jacques passed by the Army Navy Store, Mr. Silverstein waved to him through the display windows. Jacques waved back but wondered why Mr. Silverstein was wearing a bow tie to spend the day selling cargo pants and hoodies.
By the time he reached the bridal shop, Jacques felt better. The sun was shining through lazy clouds. It was just an ordinary Saturday. Duane was all talk, and always had been. How a kid like that could ever get a girl like Monique to marry him was impossible to figure.
Jacques went to check that the alley-side door was locked, then settled into tidying the showroom and hanging up gowns. He only twitched a little when the front bell jingled.
Grandmère Jeannette smiled broadly as she stepped forward to greet Mrs. Labelle, who walked in with Lucy right behind her.
“Bonjour Jeannette, comment ça va?” Mrs. Labelle offered enthusiastic air kisses. “My niece is going to a wedding next month, and she needs a pretty dress. I told my sister you could find us a nice bargain.” Mrs. Labelle whispered the word bargain while Lucy rolled her eyes. “It’s gonna be first class. They’re having a band up from Boston.”
Jacques looked at Lucy, who immediately turned the other way and stamped one foot.
“C’est bon!” Grandmère Jeannette exclaimed. “Of course we’ll find somethin’ real special.” She glanced sideways at Jacques as she took Lucy to the sales rack. “I have just the perfect dress for you, chérie.”
“I’m going to get a Coke,” Jacques blurted out. “My throat hurts wicked bad.”
Jacques fled through the door and onto Main Street. Yvonne’s House of Pizza was a block and a half away, next door to the library. Jacques hadn’t had any lunch and couldn’t remember whether he’d eaten breakfast. He plunked down at the cracked Formica counter in front of the restaurant window and ordered two slices. Across the street, a group of Somali kids were coming out of the library. When he spotted Kiki on the steps, Jacques jumped from the stool and hurried outside.
“Hey,” Jacques called over. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh hi! The library has free tutors today.” Kiki smiled. “But to tell the truth, they are not as good as you at explaining math.”
“You want something to eat?” Jacques pointed to the pizza place.
Kiki licked her lips as she shook her head. Two Somali girls stood in the doorway behind her, staring.
“What about later?” Jacques asked.
“Mohamed has a job with Mr. Silverstein, and I am supposed to meet him at the mosque when he is done.” She nodded toward a simple storefront on the side street behind them.
“Your brother is working at the Army Navy Store?”
“Only for today,” Kiki replied. “Mr. Silverstein asked him at the chu
rch party. He will help move some heavy things. Hooyo has not found work yet, so the pay is good for us.” Kiki motioned toward the Somali girls, who were beginning to giggle between whispers. “The tutor will start again soon. I should go back.”
Jacques shuddered as he turned away. Mohamed at the Army Navy Store? What if . . . ? He bent over his knees and sucked air. It was a good thing, maybe. There was no way Duane would try anything now. No way at all.
When he walked back into the bridal shop, Jacques was whistling.
“You feelin’ better?” Grandmère Jeannette stood at the cash register counting bills.
“I’m sorry. I, um, forgot to eat lunch.”
“Hmmm . . .” Grandmère Jeannette lowered her glasses. “I was wondering if Betty Labelle’s pretty niece was the reason you were so shy about coming here today?”
Jacques shrugged.
“You haven’t made that girl any promises you can’t keep, have you?”
“Grandmère!” Jacques exclaimed. “Lucy is just a friend!”
“Aha, I see. . . .” Grandmère Jeannette’s lips curled slightly as she closed the register.
Three or four ladies came in to browse, but there were no more sales. Still, Grandmère Jeannette smiled and hummed as she dusted the counters and fitted plastic covers over the gowns. At exactly four o’clock, she disappeared into the ladies room. When she returned, she was wearing a different blouse and dangling earrings.
“I’m going to the bank now. All you need to do is lock the doors at five, and you can go on home.” Grandmère Jeannette picked up her purse. “Make sure your father eats somethin’ for dinner, okay?”
Jacques nodded. Then his pulse began to race. “Grandmère . . .”
“Yes?” She paused by the door.
Jacques gulped. “Be careful at the speedway, that’s all. Lots of creeps hang out there.”
Grandmère Jeannette smiled and blew him a kiss. Her cheeks were rosy, and her lips looked especially pink.
The door closed, and the shop went quiet. Jacques glanced through the windows up and down Main Street, but there was nothing to see. He sighed and wondered whether he could close up early. With a yawn, Jacques turned and squatted next to the pile of half-made boxes on the couch.
The front door jingled, and Monique walked in.
“Oh—it’s you.” Blushing, Jacques sprang to his feet.
Monique’s hair was pulled back to one side in rows of tiny braids. Her nails were black and shiny. “I figured I’d come find something I like.” She touched the small silver cross around her neck.
“Yeah, sure.” Jacques motioned toward the rack of wedding gowns.
“Maybe more like this one.” Monique pointed to a mannequin wearing a short red cocktail dress. The mannequin’s golden hair was twisted in elaborate curls, and her skin was the color of chalk.
“Can I ask you something?” Jacques glanced at Monique.
“I seem kind of young to be getting married, is that it?” Monique didn’t look up as she ran her nails over the silky fabric.
“No, of course not! It’s just that you’re really—I mean, you’re pretty and you’re smart and everything. . . .”
Monique didn’t answer, but her eyes opened wide when Jacques said the word smart.
The phone started ringing in the upstairs office.
“I’ll be right back.” Jacques bounded up the stairs wondering if Grandmère Jeannette was calling to remind him about something important. He also wondered whether Monique thought he was the stupidest kid in middle school.
There was crackling on the line, and then a strange nasal tone. “This is Maine Premier Bank calling. I must inform you of a serious delinquency on your mortgage.”
Jacques covered the phone with his hand, which was starting to tremble. Before he could think what to say, he heard a sharp rap from the back of the shop.
Monique’s voice cut the air: “Duane! What are you doing here?”
16
Jacques dropped the phone and raced down the steps, but it was too late. Monique had already opened the alley door.
Duane stood inside the doorway grinning, a wild look in his eyes. His hair was slick with sweat, and his arms were wrapped around a camouflage backpack.
Garth stood behind him panting and cradling one fist. Jacques could see that his knuckles were bruised red and purple.
“Anyone else in here?” Duane’s grin hardened into a sneer as he pushed Jacques aside.
Jacques shook his head. “You need to go! You have to leave right now.”
“We’ll be gone soon enough.” Duane motioned for Jacques and Monique to stay quiet. After checking that the dressing room was empty, he crept into the showroom and crouched by the front door.
Jacques tried to follow Duane, but Garth’s good hand landed squarely on his shoulder. Jacques and Monique stood back with Garth, a few feet behind Duane. They could see through the display windows to the street.
“What’s going on?” Monique glanced sideways at Jacques’s flushed face.
There was some kind of commotion outside. A policeman ran by with his radio flashing, and people were gathering in a circle on the sidewalk.
Duane reached up and cracked the front door open. Suddenly, a muffled scream rose from the crowd: “Call an ambulance! He’s hurt bad!”
Jacques could barely breathe; his heart was pounding think! think! think! Maybe he could bust out and yell for the police, but Garth’s fingers were deep in his shoulder, pressing to the bone. If only he had closed the shop early, turned Monique away . . . or warned poor Mr. Silverstein that Duane was planning something terrible.
“Do you hear an ambulance?” Monique whispered. The sirens were faint at first, but getting louder.
Duane took a stained envelope from the backpack and tossed it on the couch. “We’re outta here.” He grabbed Monique by the wrist.
Garth smacked the side of Jacques’s head before slipping out the door. “You keep your trap shut, understand?”
“Leave him alone!” Monique exclaimed as Duane pulled her into the road. Her face was pale and her blue eyes were fluttering, scared. They disappeared down Main Street, away from the crowd.
As soon as they were gone, Jacques stuffed the envelope in his jeans and ran outside.
A man was lying on the sidewalk, blood pooling beneath his head.
Jacques cut through the huddle and fell to his knees beside Mr. Silverstein. His head was matted and swollen, but at least Jacques could see that he was breathing.
Mr. Silverstein’s eyes opened slowly, watery and bloodshot. “Jacques . . . would you tell Jeannette that I’m sorry?” he whispered.
“It’s gonna be okay!” But Jacques had no idea how badly Mr. Silverstein was hurt and whether it would ever be all right.
The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics jumped out. “Stand back! Give us room.”
As Jacques rose, he noticed Mohamed in front of the Army Navy Store, shaking his head wildly. Two police officers were with him. A block away, from the direction of the library, Kiki was coming toward them. She was walking fast, her long skirt swinging. Then she broke into a dead run.
Jacques felt someone behind him. He turned and swallowed hard when he saw Grandmère Jeannette’s stricken face.
“You go ahead home now. Lock the shop and go home.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Jacques began. “I heard the sirens and . . .”
“I’ve got to get to the hospital. You go back home to your father.” Grandmère Jeannette hurried to where the paramedics were preparing to load Mr. Silverstein into the ambulance. She bent forward and smoothed his lips with her fingertips.
So there it was. Grandmère Jeannette and Mr. Silverstein.
Jacques’s hands were shaking as he locked the door of the bridal shop. A police van pulled up, and he watched as Kiki and Mohamed climbed in.
Jacques jammed the key in his pocket and ran as fast as he could toward home.
17
“Da
d! Dad . . . ! Quick!” Jacques burst into the apartment yelling.
Dad sat at the dining room table, holding a can of beer. A pile of bills lay scattered in front of him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Silverstein was robbed and hurt bad! Grandmère Jeannette went with him to the hospital. We gotta go right away.” Jacques’s limbs were shaking.
“Sit down.” Dad motioned to the table. “Take a seat and tell it to me straight.”
Jacques gasped for air, but stayed on his feet. “We have to help! The police might have arrested Mohamed.”
“Whoa—what? Who are you talking about?” Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean the Somali kid from the soccer team?”
“Yes . . . Mohamed was working for Mr. Silverstein today. Someone broke into the Army Navy Store, and Mohamed didn’t have anything to do with it, but Mr. Silverstein got hit in the head, and now he’s in the hospital.” Jacques’s eyes were beginning to swell.
“Slow down a minute.” Dad grabbed Jacques by the arm and pulled him into the chair. He wiped his lips with the back of one hand. “Listen buddy, I’d go over to the hospital right now if I could. But I don’t suppose I’m in any shape for driving.”
Jacques glanced behind his father to the wastebasket in the corner. It was full of empties.
“There’s no reason to be worrying. Your grandmother can always get a cab home.” Dad paused and took a long swig of beer.
“What about Mohamed?” Jacques demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. He ran into his room and buried his face on the bed.
“Come on back here!” Dad hollered, but Jacques ignored him.
Jacques pounded the pillow with his fists, then pulled the dirty envelope from his pocket and peered inside: there were five crumpled twenty-dollar bills. He felt the tears come in waves, over and over, until he fell into a fitful sleep.
In the middle of the night, Jacques thought he heard the front door open. Turning onto his back, he listened, but the air was silent; maybe it was only a dream. Jacques squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of soccer combinations, his favorite players—anything, anything besides the terrible thing he’d let happen.