All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (13 page)

B
efore class on Tuesday morning, Zoey Samuels is in the school office dropping off an updated health form. It's taking forever. From the hallway I see a blob of blurred kids behind the pebbled glass door. I have think-time, and what I am thinking about is driving.

Last night after Zoey's mom abandoned her cooking project, she drove us to the Rising City Grill. We ordered burgers and fries and small milk shakes, but then Zoey's mom told the waitress, “Make them large.”

We punched a whole bunch of songs into the jukebox at our booth and played a hilarious game of changing the lyrics—no teams, no losers. We stayed a long time. Then, instead of heading back to the VanLeer house, we took the rest of our giant milkshakes with us, and Zoey's mom drove
way out on Route 92 past the turn for David City. Then at no particular place in the road, she turned around to head back to the VanLeer home.

I've heard of people driving in circles. But last night I realized that we can't really do that here in our part of Nebraska. We could drive in squares, I guess. But we'd have to choose either very small ones or super big ones. Mostly, it's long straightaways.

Anyway, there was a serious argument in the VanLeer house last night. It started with low, low voices in the kitchen. Mr. VanLeer asked Zoey's mom, “Do you know what went through my head when I came home and saw this? My whole family gone and no note? No phone message? Robyn, I was scared to death.”

“For that, I am sorry,” she told him. “I am.”

“Was this some sort of stunt?”

She said, “Stunt? You want to talk about a stunt? Come with me.” The fight moved into the VanLeer master bedroom.

I don't know a lot about this kind of arguing—the wife-and-husband kind. At Blue River there's no getting married. I stood in the VanLeer family room with Zoey, both of us silent. Looking left. Looking right. Shuffling feet. It didn't feel right to stand there. But I wasn't sure where else to be. The new intake. “What do we do?” I asked Zoey. She shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“Hmm. Homework. Reading. Or just go to bed. It's
almost time anyway.” So Zoey went on into her room, and I went on into the one I stay in. I sat in the closet looking at my timeline. I put an
X
on the day. Done. Through the closet wall, I could hear little bits of arguing, but all the words were fuzzed. I know that Mrs. Samuels was mad because Mr. VanLeer mentioned me on the television.

I found out that there is something sad about the way a fight fills up a house. They were fighting about me. I kept thinking about how they are Zoey's family, and how much things need to be good for her. All that food from the Rising City Grill lay in my belly and turned into a monstrous heap that didn't feel so great. I wanted that fighting to stop.

“Hey!” Brian Morris is standing in front of me outside the school office. I stare back and wonder how he got here. His tall friend looks on. “Saw you on the TV last night with Desiree,” he says. His body waggles.

“No you didn't,” I say.

He fluffs his hair like Desiree might, and I have to wonder, does everybody want to be Desiree? “The boy from the prison,” Brian quotes her.

“That's you.” His friend speaks and points a finger at me.

“I wasn't on the show.” I say it plainly.

“Brian.” Miss Maya comes out of the crowded hallway. The whites of her eyes gleam. “I'll just bet that you have somewhere you're supposed to be.” She gives him a light touch on the shoulder, spins him toward the stairs. He gives
me one more Desiree-type wiggle on his way out. Miss Maya sends his friend along too. She lets out a puff as she watches them go. The two of us step into one of the alcoves.

“How's everything, Perry?” Miss Maya asks, and I want to say that everything is ridiculous because of Brian Morris. “You know, I love having you in class this year, but boy, I miss our rides to school,” she adds.

“It seems like a long time ago,” I say. I think of the two weeks' worth of
X
s on my timeline inside the VanLeer closet. Part of me thinks that should not seem so long. But that's half a month, and a month is long. “Miss Maya,” I say, “I was at Blue River on Saturday. I didn't see Warden Daugherty.”

“Yes.” Miss Maya waits. Then she says, “My aunt's schedule there has changed.” She pauses in that more-to-that-story sort of way. There is something she cannot tell me.

“Miss Maya . . . I already know that the warden is in trouble. She told me herself. She said it the day they told me I had to leave Blue River. And I know it was because of me.”

Miss Maya has something on the tip of her tongue. But I can see her choosing something else to say. “Perry, if ever in your life you believe something for sure, let it be that my aunt wouldn't change any of the choices she has made. Especially not when it comes to you.” She smiles and pushes back her long braids. It's a sure sign she's going to change the subject. “So, I heard you are at the library after school these days.”

“Yeah,” I say. I tug the straps of my pack. I've got my Blue River questions folded into my notebook in there. “It's been
okay. I'd rather go home because . . . well, I've just always seen my mom right after school.”

“Of course,” says Miss Maya.

Here comes a wicked wash of homesickness. It's been like this the whole two weeks. I'm fine, and then suddenly there's an ache in my face, and I know the corners of my mouth are turning downward. My eyes start to tear. It takes me a few seconds to get rid of that. I look back up at Miss Maya. “But at least I get homework done at the library. I've been working on my Coming to Butler project,” I say.

“Ah, good!” She pumps two little fists as if she likes that a lot.

“And today Zoey and I are helping Mrs. Buckmueller . . .” I shrug. Only Zoey Samuels knows my plan, and I decide not to mention it to anyone else—not even Miss Maya.

“Well, they're lucky to have you.” Miss Maya looks at the clock. She gives me a sideways hug and says, “You're one of my favorite people in the whole wide world, Perry Cook.”

“P
iece of cake,” Zoey whispers to me. She brushes her palms together.

I swallow a little harder than usual. We've done it; we secretly planted my questions inside the periodicals. It was easy because Mrs. Buckmueller sent us off to gather the magazines on our own. Together, we heft the loaded bins for Blue River onto Mrs. Buckmueller's rolling cart.

“Oh dear, oh lordy. I could not have done this today without you,” Mrs. Buckmueller says. “Thank you, Perry. Thank you, Zoey. You both have such . . . such wonderful young knees!”

Zoey and I steer the cart toward the elevator. Mrs. Buckmueller leads, hiking one leg along as she goes. I catch just a glimpse of her knee brace. It looks like part of a bike
frame or a lawn chair. It must be hard to have such a piece of equipment on you all the time. Mrs. B sighs. “I hope I won't need my bionics forever.” She mops a little sweat from her forehead.

“Mrs. Buckmueller,” I say, “can you drive? I mean, with your bad knee?”

“Oh yes!” she says. “That's when I forget all about it. I love to drive! It's the grunt work that's so difficult. I'm exquisitely grateful to have you two along today.”

It sounds a little funny the way she says it, and Zoey gives me a squish-faced look. But we are along, I suppose. We push the cart into the library elevator. Zoey and I suck in our bellies and scoot the cart close to us to make room for Mrs. Buckmueller. She pulls her bionic knee inside. The doors close. It's a loud and jiggly ride down. The cart wobbles and so do we. Zoey Samuels is laughing out loud.

We are bending a lot of rules this afternoon.

For one thing, the old chugging elevator is for library employees only—so says a faded paper sign on the inside back wall. Second, we are not supposed to walk out of the library until five p.m. when a parent or guardian signs us out. Yet here we go—out to load the bookmobile. Finally, that bit of sneaking we did is on my mind. But it's just a page of questions.
And
a few notes, like the one I scribbled to Mr. Halsey saying I still want to play that game of one-on-one with him.
And
one to Miss Gina about my needing her to cut my hair again.
Suddenly the notes seem a lot like pieces
of mail. All the mail that comes to Blue River gets opened and checked before the rezzes get it. Oops. Another bent rule.

Outside, the cart bangs over every crack in the sidewalk, and we have to steady the bins. “Just head for the truck!” Mrs. Buckmueller calls calmly.

That's fine . . . until the sidewalk slopes. Suddenly the book cart seems heavier. It rolls faster. We are heading for the parking space that is marked with a sign that says Loading Zone. We are heading straight for the bookmobile. Zoey and I look at each other with wide eyes. We grunt. We grip. But we can't hold the cart back.

“Let it go!” calls Mrs. Buckmueller. We do. We can't help it. The cart thumps into the back bumper of the Bucking Blue Bookmobile. It's a miracle the bins don't go flying.

“Oops,” says Zoey. She looks at me with serious sideways eyes.

“That's how it's done,” Mrs. Buckmueller says. “That's what all that rubber is for.” I see that the bumper has been padded up with strips from old tires. The bookmobile is an old ragtag mail truck that someone spray-painted blue—and missed a few spots.

Mrs. Buckmueller says, “Now then. This next part has to be done properly. You must secure all bins to the wall with the straps.” She coaches us. “Hitch them in. That's right. Now tug each one to double-check. Perfection! Now, pull the cart in behind you, and secure it with the floor ties so
it won't roll. Can't have that, especially with you two in the back.”

Zoey scrunches her face at me. I scrunch back. We must be thinking the same thing; the book cart won't roll unless the truck is rolling. We'll be long out of there by then. Pulling it in behind us seems wrong. It's tight back here in cargo. We're going to have to climb out through the front cab. Still, we do what Mrs. Buckmueller asks. She rolls down the door at the back, and we hear it latch. I look at Zoey. She looks at me. We are blank as can be.

The truck wobbles. A spring squeaks. Up front, Mrs. Buckmueller is scootching herself onto the driver's seat. She pulls her bad leg in and turns backward to speak to us again.

“There you go, right there on the wall.” She points with a flapping hand. “You have to pull them down.”

“Pull them down?”

“They're called jump seats. Funny name. Couldn't tell you the etymology there,” she says.

Zoey sees it first. She pulls. A little seat unfolds from the wall. She looks at me, her mouth in a big
O
. She turns, sits back like a duck, and settles onto the little square cushion. I look behind me and sure enough, I find my seat in the wall. I sit right across from Zoey Samuels.

“Buckle up!” Mrs. Buckmueller calls back.

We dig to find our seat belts. We click in and tighten the straps. Zoey still looks surprised, and I figure I do too. She calls up front, “We're in!”

“All aboard!” Mrs. B hoots.

The truck starts up with a few shakes and knocks. I lean forward in the tiny space behind the cab and whisper to Zoey. “I think we're going to Blue River.” She wiggles and makes her feet do tiny stamping movements on the floor of the truck. I am sure I am matching Zoey's totally goofy grin.

Mrs. Buckmueller shifts. The truck bucks through its gears.

Soon we are on the road to the biggest thing you'll find in teeny-tiny Surprise, Nebraska.

W
hen we reach Blue River, Zoey and I are on a mission. We are out of our jump seats in a flash, unstrapping book bins and loading them back onto the cart.

“We're going
inside
Blue River, aren't we?” Zoey says.

“It sure seems like it.”

“But will they really let me? Am I allowed?” she asks.

“I think so. You're a volunteer.”

By the time Mrs. B and her bionic knee make it around to raise the rear door we have the cart ready. She sees it and says, “Oh lordy! Amazing! Come! Let's roll.”

With just a little more luck and good timing on this crazy rule-bending day, I might get to see Mom. I might even get to introduce her to Zoey Samuels.

We roll up to the great glass doors. Zoey looks to me for
what comes next. I hit the silver call button, which is a little like ringing the bell on my own front door. I face the cam and wave to whomever is on duty. “They'll see us,” I explain to Zoey. “Then they'll buzz us in.”

“The door stays locked? All day?” she asks. I nod back.

There is no Blue River bottleneck on a Tuesday afternoon. Every foreman knows Mrs. Buckmueller, and the guy on duty today calls out “Perry!” as soon as he sees me. He logs us in and gives us badges. Zoey looks at hers before she clips it to her jacket. Then we push the heavy, clacking book cart on through.

Zoey's eyes are wide. She looks all around the inside of the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility. “Stick with me,” I say. I want to show her everything that I've ever told her about the place. But in the quiet common she stops and looks at the red-railed stairway. Her eyes follow it upward to the Upper East Lounge and to the small door at one end. “Your room,” she says. I nod. Blue River must look plain to her—even ugly. But I love the feeling that this is a place that
I
know. Zoey Samuels is in my house.

We set to filling the Pleasure Reading stacks. Few residents come through the common because this is an in-between time. But I know how Blue River works. Word can get around fast. Anyone who sees me will want to tell Mom that I am in the building. It's possible that by the end of the workday, everyone will know. I'm a
mouse in the house
. That's what they say when a kid comes to visit.

With Mrs. B directing, Zoey and I empty the carts quickly. We give each other sly eyes as we shelve the periodicals.

“Can you believe it, Perry?” Zoey whispers as she hands me an issue of
Sports Illustrated.
“You could've delivered the interview questions yourself.”

“What a twist.” I say it quietly and barely let my lips move. “But this is still the best way because I'm not sure who we're going to see today. But I do know who's going to pick up each one of these.” I pat the last magazine into place.

Mrs. B is looking at the gray clock. “You've done all my work. What will I do with myself now?”

“Take a load off,” I say. “I mean, sit and relax!” I push a chair over for her.

“I accept,” she says. “I'll gladly rest this bad old knee. The residents can do a self-checkout today. Lovely,” she says, and she settles with her own book to read.

Zoey and I stand around. I twist and look over my shoulder. Surely a rez will come through soon . . .

Mrs. B sighs. “Hmm. Not much more for you two to do now, is there? I don't like to see a bored child . . . much less a pair of them.” She looks around the common. “Hmm,” she hums. “I'd say you're free to roam . . .” She lets that last word float as if it has a little tiny question mark on it.

Zoey is waiting for me to take charge. I know that visitors are supposed to stay in the common. But the rules are different for volunteers, and we
are
library volunteers. Still,
we can't go running the halls. I am trying to think where Mom might be this time of day. She's not up on the balcony in the Upper East Lounge. I can see that. So she's probably in a meeting room . . .

Suddenly, I hear the bin—the laundry bin—that muffled sound the wheels make on the thin carpets in the block corridors. It's coming . . . coming up from Block A. It rolls a little louder as it hits the linoleum at the front of the common.

Let it be someone I know . . . oh, please let it be . . .

“Mr. Halsey!” I call to him, then I cover my mouth. I wave my arm in the air. He sees me. His eyes and mouth open wide. I hesitate. I glance at the foreman who is studying a clipboard, probably doing a count.

I look at Mrs. B, and she is looking back at me. She has sly eyes too now. “Hmm . . .” She hums. Then her humming turns into words. “You know what time the truck leaves . . . and you know where I am if you want me . . .” Mrs. B adjusts her glasses and opens the book on her lap. She tucks her chin to read.

I grab Zoey's arm, and we head for Mr. Halsey, who is egging us toward him with hand circles. We reach him, and he pushes the laundry bin to one side.

“Perry!” He catches me in a messed-up cross between a high five and a sidearm hug. But it doesn't matter. “Well, damn! I mean, darn! Didn't my day just get brighter.” He laughs.

“Mine too!” I say. “This is Zoey,” I tell him. “She's my
best friend on the outside.” I'm talking fast. I can't help it.

“Double bright, this day!” He gives Zoey a wide smile.

“Hi,” she says. She smiles, but she ducks her chin and looks shy. “We brought you a new
Sports Illustrated.
” She pokes her thumb back toward the stacks and manages to add, “Don't miss it.”

“Love that!” he says.

“Mr. Halsey, do you know where Mom is?” I'm low-talking.

“Sure I do!” He looks left and right. “I'll take you to her.”

“Well . . . I'm not sure what the rules are,” I tell him.

He cranes now to look at the foreman, who is still busy. “It's not like you and I haven't done this before,” he tells me. He offers me his arm, and I do what I've done since Halsey Barrows first came into Blue River. I jump and grab it. I pull up my knees, and he lifts. He deposits me into the empty laundry bin. He looks at Zoey and says, “Come on, girl, jump it up there!” And she does.

Zoey and I crouch in the bin and watch the ceiling go by above us while Mr. Halsey zigs us and zags us. Zoey has her hands clapped over her mouth holding in her laughter.

We come to a stop. Mr. Halsey puts his finger to his lips. Zoey and I stay low. We are just outside the main meeting room. I hear Mom's voice. “. . . so continue making deposits and build up that bank account. You'll be the better for it when you are relea—”

Mr. Halsey knocks on the open door and pops the bin
right over the threshold. “Hello, ladies!”

“Halsey? What are you doing here?”

I can hardly stay down. I'm dying to see Mom. Zoey is grinning from ear to ear.

“I must have gotten lost,” he tells her.

I hear Mom sigh and the women laugh. “You are taking a wicked risk for a guy about to be paroled—wandering around the women's wing where you don't belong. Here it is, ladies,” Mom says, “an example what you
do not
want to do.”

“Come on now, Jessie, I just want to leave something off with you,” Mr. Halsey tells her.

“What?”

“No, no!” I hear Miss Sashonna now. “We don't need a bunch of dirty laundry in this old meeting room. Already smells like bad cheese in here.”

“Well then, how about seventy-five pounds' worth of a special delivery?”

“Seventy-five pounds?”

“Times two,” he tells them.

I pop up, stand tall in the bin. Mom's jaw drops. The women gasp.

“Perry? Oh, Perry! How did you get here?” Mom is on her feet.

“We came on the Bucking Blue Bookmobile,” I say.

“You're kidding. What do you mean
we
?”

Zoey Samuels shows herself.

“Oh look, a little girl!” Mrs. DiCoco claps her hands
at the sight of Zoey. “Seventy-five pounds times two! Oh, Halsey! Get them both out of that old bin!” she orders.

Halsey laughs and lifts us out the same way he put us in. I make a beeline for Mom, and she wraps me in a hug. “You're here!” she cries. She swings me in place then lets me go only so she can take both of Zoey's hands in hers. They smile at each other. “Zoey Samuels . . .” Mom sighs. “Boy, have I ever been dying to meet you.”

“I've wanted to meet you too, Mrs. . . . uh . . . C-Cook . . .” Zoey suddenly stammers and blushes a little. She doesn't know what to call Mom.

“Jessica is fine,” Mom tells her. Mom starts to thank Zoey for my camera and for being a friend but Mr. Halsey interrupts.

“Psst! I've got to go! Nobody tell!” He puts the laundry bin in reverse. “The mice are yours now,” he says. I see Mom mouth a big thank-you his way. He nods, puts his hand up to wave, and whispers, “Later!”

“Well. Does anyone mind if we cut our discussion a few minutes short?” Mom asks. She is looking at a group of women who are sitting down at the far end of the table. They look at us, unsmiling. “Is everybody okay with some free chat time?” Mom asks.

Finally, one says, “Yeah. We don't care!” They start their own conversation.

Mrs. DiCoco reaches for Zoey. “Here, right here, honey. Come sit beside me. I'm Callie DiCoco, but you can call me
whatever sweet thing you want. Now are you the same age as Perry? I have two granddaughters . . .”

I sit on the skinny arm of Mom's chair and feel tall as a king in his court. Zoey sits with Mrs. DiCoco. We tell about being library volunteers and stuffing the magazines with interview questions for my Blue River Stories.

“And after all of that, we ended up with a surprise ride to Surprise!”

Zoey tells Mrs. DiCoco, “We put a copy of
Modern Gardener
into the stacks. Especially for you,” she says. “So make sure you see it.”

“I will.” Mrs. DiCoco glows. “And I'll look through it very carefully,” she whispers, and winks. “Perry, you already know you can tell my story.”

“I'll tell you mine! I will!” says Sashonna. She is being loud. But Miss Gina is very quiet. She keeps her eyes down, and I know that she doesn't want to tell her Blue River story. That's okay by me. I won't ask. Sashonna says, “Put those questions in a copy of
Glamour
, Perry.” She pokes her pointer finger at me. She catches herself and curls it back into her fist. “Um . . . please,” she says.

“Already done,” I tell her. Part of me wishes I had my notebook and my camera with me now. But Zoey and I left our things back in the David City Public Library. I look at Zoey sitting with the women who are my family. I lean into Mom and say, “I can't believe I'm at Blue River today.”

We know I'm not here for long. We start to talk back and
forth. We barely come up for air. This is how it goes ever since I had to move out. I remind Mom that it's her story I want most of all. “Can we do that on Saturday?” I ask.

“Saturday,” she says with a nod.

Miss Gina braids Zoey's hair all the way around her head in a circle. “If you can get them, tuck flowers into the weave.” Miss Gina blinks her dark eyes at Zoey. “It's easy.”

Zoey pats the braid lightly with her fingers. “Wow! It feels so perfect.”

“Gina's good! That won't come apart on you, little girl,” Sashonna says.

“Don't say ‘little girl.' Her name is Zoey,” Mrs. DiCoco says.

“Okay! Zoey. Sheesh!”

Softly, Miss Gina says, “You can sleep in that braid tonight and wear it to school in the morning. I make them so they hold.”

Mom is watching the clock. It's nearly the end of the workday at Blue River. When the halls fill it will be easy to sneak us back to the common. “I will have no problem showing my gladness today,” she jokes. “I am
supremely
glad! I wonder . . . since the bookmobile comes every Tuesday and Friday, are you going to come with it? Two short but sweet visits midweek?” Mom asks. “I'd
beg
if it would make it happen. We could meet down in the common if the temp will just let me make a change to my meeting schedule—”

“The temp?” I ask.

“Temporary warden,”
Sashonna blurts. “That's what Foreman Joe is now. Just while Warden Daugherty is suspended.”

“Suspended?”

Sashonna looks at Mom. Mom looks at Sashonna.

Sashonna says, “Oops.”

Suddenly I understand how much trouble the warden is really in.