by Susan Vaught
After I put down the pen, I decided to open the drawers. The top left drawer had lesson planners and boxes of pencils, and a small stack of blank white paper. Bottom left had stacks of opened mail, some bags of little candy bars, and three board games—It Was a Dark & Stormy Night, Bookopoly, and Trivial Pursuit, Book Lover’s Edition. The thin middle drawer had pens, pencils, paper clips, scissors, change, and a funky broken ruler with a feather on it labeled HALL PASS. In the top right drawer, I found peanut butter, crackers, and a partially eaten sleeve of Oreos.
The bottom right-hand drawer had nothing in it but a ledger and an empty lidless box. I started to reach for the ledger, then stopped. “Springer, do you think the police took fingerprints from this drawer already?”
“Nah,” he said from behind me, spooking me so badly I almost fell out of Dad’s chair.
“Sorry I scared you,” he said. “I don’t think fingerprints would help on that drawer. There would be too many, you know? And the police couldn’t make everybody in the school give them fingerprints to try to match.”
“They could if it was a murder,” I said. “They’d fingerprint everybody who was even near the school that day.”
“Maybe, but this wasn’t a murder. It was a theft. They won’t take it as seriously.”
I pulled the ledger out from beneath the empty box. “It’s really serious to me. To my family. I wish they would do a real investigation. Um, whatever that would be.”
“OBWIG is investigating,” Springer said. “That’ll have to be enough.”
“OBWIG,” I said.
He smiled. “OBWIG forever.”
As I thumbed through Dad’s ledger, Springer pulled out his phone and snapped pictures of the desk from different angles.
“At first it looks like Dad or Ms. Jorgensen made deposits every week,” I said, scanning through the ledger pages, “but this last year, it’s more like every month.” I ran my finger down the last page of the record, noting BAKE SALE and a total, and WRAPPING PAPER AUCTION and another total, then DONATION a bunch of times, with different initials by each one. The donation lines were small numbers, just a dollar, or a few dollars, like maybe people gave Dad their spare change.
So many numbers. I could spend hours adding them. I’d need to rewrite them in neater columns. But the thought of spending hours with the ledger made me dizzy, in a happy sort of way.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there comparing the size of 5s and 4s and 6s Dad had written when Springer put his finger on the ledger and carefully slid it away from me.
I blinked.
He smiled at me.
“You were counting out loud,” he said. Not mean or anything.
I smiled back at him. More an echo of his expression than a real smile, but that was okay. He didn’t mind. When he was sure I wouldn’t grab all the numbers back from him, he photographed the page I had been looking at, then the few pages before it.
“So,” Springer said as his phone went click-click-click, “we know the theft had to happen during regular school hours, or your dad’s door would have been locked.”
All the numbers that had been swirling through my mind went poof, like popped balloons. “Yeah. You’re right. And we know it would have been pretty easy to swipe the cash, since Dad labeled the drawer where the money was. Sheesh. Oh, and Dad said it happened in the afternoon, so he would have been in this staff meeting.” I pointed to the calendar, then the blue Post-it. “I made a note for us to check that all the other senior high teachers went, because if they were at the meeting, we can take them off our list.”
“Good thinking!” Springer snapped a picture of the Post-it. “Too bad the police won’t take your father off the list if he was at the meeting.”
“They think he did it.” I shrugged. “The police would just say the money could have gone missing anytime.”
“Yeah,” Springer said, studying the page through his phone camera. “Guess they wouldn’t take his word for the last time he saw it in the drawer, like we’re doing.”
“I wonder if he writes down the little donations right when people give them,” I said, my eyes going back to the ledger. “Because if he does, these last few people would have seen how much money was in the drawer.”
Springer moved the phone aside and leaned toward the ledger. “KA, JS, MK, NN.” He raised the phone. “I’ve got the snapshot, so we can use a yearbook to figure out who these people are, if there aren’t too many with those initials.”
I wrote down Match initials to students in the yearbook on my Post-it, just so we had backup in case Springer got grounded from his phone, too. Too bad we hadn’t seen RM, TP, or CS. That would have made life easier for basically everyone in the universe.
“Can I see your phone?” I asked Springer.
“Sure.” He handed it to me.
I got out of my chair and stood next to the donation drawer. I raised the phone and snapped a picture of the door from the angle the thief probably would have taken to get into the drawer, after they snuck into the classroom. “If the door was open,” I told Springer, “I’d be able to see into the hall from here, and people in the hall could see me—but not many. I wonder if anybody in the other classes could see me right where I’m standing?”
“Let’s find out.” Springer went to the classroom door and pulled it open.
I raised the phone to take a snap of the view, but as the door swung wide, a crowd of people surged inside.
Click.
Aunt Gus’s great big eyes and open mouth.
Click.
Ms. Jorgensen, pulling at the ends of her scarf.
Click.
Mr. Chiba, looking worried.
Click.
My father, red-faced, arms folded, all of a sudden standing really close to me.
The phone’s battery died, which was probably a good thing. A few more seconds of Dad’s laser glare might have cracked its screen.
• • •
We got marched straight out of the senior high back to the building where we belonged. Ms. Jorgensen had an office in both places, and Mr. Chiba had a desk, too. For now, at least, we had the junior high office to ourselves. Sort of. It had big glass windows with words like STRENGTH and HONESTY and EFFORT stenciled on the glass in white paint that looked like silver frost. I couldn’t help thinking as I sat next to Springer under KINDNESS that the words didn’t hide very much. As they walked by on their way to class, every kid in our grade could stare at us sitting in the chairs in front of the main desk, and most of them did.
Or maybe they were staring at my father, who was pacing. Or at Ms. Jorgensen, who was sort of following Dad. Or at Aunt Gus, who was sitting on my other side wearing a cherry-red zip-up bathrobe and matching red house shoes. Her hair was tied back with a red scrunchie, and she didn’t have on makeup, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing Aunt Gus with no lipstick, unless she had just gotten out of bed—never mind being out in public in her pajamas. Poor Mr. Chiba was definitely staring at Aunt Gus while he sat at the desk trying to call Springer’s parents.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was staring at me.
“Jesse, of all the irresponsible, impulsive . . .” Dad ran his fingers through his hair as he marched up and down in front of where we sat. He had on last night’s jeans and a blue T-shirt, not his khaki senior high stuff. Before he ever finished his sentence to me, he started hollering at Ms. Jorgensen. “And you—my child is being bullied. Her friend Springer here, he’s being bullied, too. Look at his eye. What are you doing about it?”
Ms. Jorgensen stopped walking and leaned against the main desk with arms folded. She spared a glare for me and Springer, too, before she nodded to my father. “It’s a problem. But that eye didn’t get punched at school, from what I’ve been told.”
“So?” Dad and Aunt Gus and I swear Mr. Chiba, too, said at the same time.
“I can’t address what doesn’t happen here,” Ms. Jorgensen said. “But honestly, Jesse and Springer came out on the bett
er end of the deal in this morning’s scuffle.”
“This morning’s scuffle,” Aunt Gus grumbled.
“It wasn’t just a scuffle.” Dad’s voice got louder. “That was full-blown bullying. Those three have been at it for years, and they need some consequences.”
“As do these two.” Ms. Jorgensen nodded toward Springer and me. Her gaze came to rest on Springer’s black eye, which still had a little purple in it, and her sure-of-herself principal smirk turned down at the edges.
Springer’s head drooped, and that was more than I could stand even if I got grounded forever. “He didn’t do anything,” I said as loud as I could manage given my sore throat. Ignoring Aunt Gus’s hand on my knee, I stood. “I hit Jerkface and the cockroaches with the water bottles. Springer threw his over everybody’s heads to get us some help.”
“The boy came to school early with you just to do—whatever it was the two of you were up to,” Ms. Jorgensen countered. “Neither of you should have been on the senior high side.”
My mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right? We had to investigate. Besides, Jerkface and the cockroaches came to school early, too, and they were at the senior high.”
“They had to ride in with family,” Ms. Jorgensen said. “They have permission, mornings and some afternoons. And investigate? What are you talking about?”
I started forward, but Aunt Gus grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked me back into my chair. I thought about getting up again, breathed through it, and said, “My dad didn’t take that money from the library fund. Somebody has to clear him. Yeah. Clear him. That’s what police detectives on television say.”
Ms. Jorgensen’s eyes narrowed, then went wide. A lot of the color faded out of her face, and she straightened herself, walking away from the main desk as Mr. Chiba plugged one ear with his finger, pressed the phone against the other side of his head, and said, “Hello?”
My eyes darted to Mr. Chiba and the phone as Springer covered his eyes with his hands. My stomach cramped as I wondered what kind of trouble I had gotten him into. No doubt his cover story to his mom didn’t include launching water bottle missiles in the senior high.
Don’t start yelling, I reminded myself. Yelling never helped anything. One, two, three, four—
“I know your dad didn’t take the library fund money, Jesse,” Ms. Jorgensen said.
That snatched my attention straight back to her. “I—you—what?”
“Your father is an honest man.” Ms. Jorgensen nodded at Dad, who finally stopped pacing. “That’s why I didn’t suspend him longer than a day. But policy is policy. He had charge of the library fund, and a substantial sum is missing. I had no choice but to report it, and law enforcement made their own choices after that.”
“Wait.” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “So you didn’t press charges against Dad? The school didn’t?”
“Of course not.” Ms. Jorgensen looked genuinely surprised. “I know it seems bad right now, but this is just—” But I couldn’t let her finish.
“It’s not just nothing—or whatever you were going to say. Police put my dad in handcuffs. I had to watch them take him away to jail! You knew that, right?”
“I did, yes.” Ms. Jorgensen’s voice dropped, and her expression shifted to something a lot like sadness, or maybe . . . guilt? To Dad, she said, “I’m sorry, Derrick. You know this will get cleared up really soon.”
“I hope so,” Dad said. “My kid needs me.”
The look on Ms. Jorgensen’s face got even weirder, and I wondered if Springer saw it, too, but Springer still had his head down.
The room got very quiet as Mr. Chiba said, “No, no, Springer’s not suspended. No, not injured, either. He’s a smart young man, and he did a very good job getting staff’s attention, and—oh. I see.” He glanced at Springer, then at me. “A project. Yes, I understand he’s new to the area and the school. Of course, Ms. Regal. I’ll explain the boundaries to him again. If you don’t want to come get him, he’ll be home at the regular time.”
Springer’s chin lifted off his chest a few inches. His eyes seemed glazed, but I caught a hint that he was coming back to himself as he—as both of us—realized that Mr. Chiba had been talking to his mom, not his dad. Even better, he hadn’t told Springer’s folks there was no project we were working on together before school. Springer wasn’t suspended. Mr. Chiba had complimented him, even. Maybe he wouldn’t get in trouble so bad he wouldn’t be leaving his house until next November.
My gaze moved from Springer to Ms. Jorgensen. “Am I suspended?” I asked her. “Because suspending people for defending themselves would suck a lot.”
“Jesse,” Aunt Gus warned.
But before anybody could answer, Dad stared down Ms. Jorgensen and asked, “Can we talk briefly in your office? Alone?”
Ms. Jorgensen’s weird expression got really, really strange. She sort of looked like her face got pinched and she couldn’t relax it again. Before I could ask her what was wrong, she gestured toward the little corridor behind the main desk, and she and Dad headed into the principal’s office.
“You think she ate something bad for breakfast?” Springer asked me in a whispery-but-really-too-loud voice.
“You saw the pinch-face?”
Springer’s right eyebrow lifted. Aunt Gus put a hand over her mouth and coughed, and Mr. Chiba cleared his throat a few times.
“Was his mom mad?” I asked Mr. Chiba. “Because really, Springer didn’t do anything.”
Mr. Chiba seemed to be trying to look all stern and proper, but his hand slipped up to scratch a spot behind his ear, and the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled more. “I think she was fine. Just worried about her boy.”
A coolness filled my chest, something like relief. I sat back in my chair, mushing the fingers Aunt Gus had wound into the back of my shirt. Ignoring her grunt as she pulled her hand away from me, I turned to Springer. “I’m glad you’re not in trouble. I was worried.”
He patted his chest. “Me too. Now you need to be out of trouble, and everything will be fine.”
“Not gonna happen,” Aunt Gus offered, massaging her knuckles.
Springer frowned. “She packed a backpack full of food and stuff so we’d be okay walking. She had maps. She even kept me from stepping out in traffic when I got distracted. I think she did a good job—and . . . and we figured out a lot of things.”
“You kept him out of traffic?” Aunt Gus asked me, sounding impressed.
A few seconds later, Mr. Chiba said, “What things?”
“Sorry,” Springer told her, very seriously. “You’re not part of OBWIG, so we can’t tell you.”
Mr. Chiba looked at Aunt Gus.
“It’s not you,” Aunt Gus reassured him. “I have no idea what OBWIG means.”
“Do you keep records of who goes to the staff meetings and who doesn’t?” I asked Mr. Chiba.
“Yes,” he said, before he noticed Aunt Gus giving him a frantic cut motion and shaking her head no so hard her brains probably rattled.
The office door banged open behind her, and we all jumped.
Dad strode out, looking half-ticked, half . . . I don’t know. Rumpled. Maybe sleepy. He pointed at me.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going home.”
“She’s suspended?” Aunt Gus stood so fast I was afraid she’d go storming to the principal’s office.
“Touch coming,” I warned, and grabbed her robe just like she had grabbed my shirt.
“No,” Dad said. “Just a voluntary cooling-off day. Excused.”
His fierce expression turned on Springer, who had also gotten to his feet. “You—er.” Dad wiped his hand over his face and managed to look nicer when he finished. “You okay, son?”
Springer’s ears turned red, but he nodded.
“Okay, then.” Dad clapped Springer on the shoulder.
Springer staggered sideways into Aunt Gus, but that was okay, because I pulled her robe hard enough to keep her from falling.
<
br /> Dad looked at his hand, then at Springer. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, sir,” Springer said. “I don’t have good balance.”
Dad nodded. “Thank you for getting help when those bullies went after Jesse.”
“I needed help as much as she did,” Springer said. “It was really for both of us, but you’re welcome.”
Dad acted like he wanted to say more, but in the end, he walked to the junior high office door and pulled it open, holding it so Aunt Gus and I could walk through.
“Tell Sam-Sam hello,” Springer called as it closed behind us.
When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw him standing with Mr. Chiba. He had his arm around Springer’s shoulders.
12
Wednesday, Five Days Earlier, Afternoon
Dad paced past the kitchen table and turned to me again. “What were you thinking?”
I picked at my cheese and crackers and managed not to groan or even roll my eyes. “How many times can he ask me that? ’Cause I’m counting seven. Or maybe eight.”
“Don’t look at me.” Aunt Gus raised both hands, then smacked them back down on her knees. “I’m not in this.”
A pot of chili bubbled on the stove behind her, filling the air with garlicky, tomato-y smells. My stomach rumbled. The cheese and crackers compared to that delicious stuff—yuck. Not hitting the spot. I moved my foot until I felt Sam’s fur against my ankle, then rubbed my leg against him. He snuggled into me, happy to sleep on the floor as long as we were together.
I had gone with exploring the universe, having time with my new friend, taking time to smell the flowers and look at yellow houses, and asserting my independence. I had used that one several times, in fact. All of that was true, at least a little bit. It just wasn’t the whole story.
Dad positioned himself right beside my chair. “I’m going to ask you why you walked to school without permission one more time, Jesse. I expect an answer. A real one. No more of this asserting your independence stuff.”