All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (8 page)

W
hen Friday gets here, I am psyched. I'm one day away from Saturday. That's all I've been thinking about. Mr. Thomas VanLeer will drive me back to Blue River for the entire afternoon.
Tomorrow.

Mom and I have so much catching up to do. Little things, big things, new things. I need to tell her about the VanLeer house, the meals, the busted shower, and the bed inside the closet. I want her to know I made a timeline and taped it to the closet wall. I'm marking my
X
s through days that are done. I'm trying to keep my eye on the end. Trouble is, I'm not sure exactly when that will be. I am all about the day when Mom will be paroled and I will get out of the VanLeer house.

There is a whole week's worth of assignments from the
new school to tell her about. Mom always keeps up on what I'm doing in my classes. Just today, Miss Maya Rubin told us about a whopping long-term assignment—the kind that causes me trouble. I really need to talk to Mom about that. I want to leave time to hear what's been going on at home; who is new, who's been gated out, who had something good happen, and who is hanging in there at Blue River. I wonder if we can get everything said on a single Saturday afternoon. I will need a list, and Mom and I will need a corner of the Blue River Common to ourselves. That's a tall order. Saturday is the busiest visiting day.

Zoey and I walk to the library. We've done this each day after school—except Monday when I had the bloody nose. It's just two and half blocks, but I secretly feel very grown-up walking on our own. We're allowed to eat snacks in the library, and so far, we've been remembering to pack something in the morning at the VanLeer house. If Zoey forgets, I remember. If I forget, Zoey is on it. Mr. VanLeer says we are a remarkable team. This morning he told Mrs. Samuels, “They're like a brother-and-sister act, huh, Robyn?” He chuckled. He chuckles all the time. He thinks he has to fill in the quiet parts.

Mrs. Samuels was quiet this morning after she heard that brother-sister thing. Zoey showed me an eye-roll from behind the pantry door where the granola bars are. For me, what Mr. VanLeer said feels like a little piece of something caught in the arch of my shoe. I don't know what it is. It's
nothing much. But it hits a tender spot every once in a while and I wish I could knock it out of there.

At the library, we choose the History Room. We sit on spindly wooden chairs and hook our ankles on the rungs. It is not the most comfortable room in the library. That makes sense to me because Mom sometimes says that history is not always comfortable either.

We eat the granola bars and start our homework. There is a grandfather clock that tick-tocks at us in a serious sort of way. I lean forward to tell Zoey, “If that thing had fingers it would be shaking one of them at us.” She squelches a laugh.

There's supposed to be no talking, no noise in the History Room. (Somebody forgot to tell that clock that.) The rule makes this room unpopular with most kids. Zoey and I whisper and nobody kicks us out. But we are not invisible. Mr. Olsen, who runs the after-school program, spots us. He knows that we have not signed up, and we are supposed to.

“Uh-oh,” Zoey whispers. She barely moves her mouth. She sings to me, “He's looking at us . . .” She crumples her granola bar wrapper and stares down at her rainforest workbook.

I try not to let Mr. Olsen see that my eyes are seeing him. But of course that quadruples all this seeing that is going on. He comes right over to our table. He's got his clipboard tucked against his chest.

“Hello-odles, mighty eyeballers,” he says. “Me again. It's the end of the week. You two haven't chosen a program. I'm
here to apply pressure.” We must be giving him twin looks, because the next thing he says is, “What a pair of pouts!” Then he laughs loudly right there in the History Room.

“All right, all right,” he says. “I get it. Joining up isn't your bag. But listen to these fine offerings.” He refers to his clipboard. “Board Games is very uncrowded. Young Watercolorists, now that's a noninvasive species.”

I look at Zoey. She is biting her bottom lip.

“And there's still room for one—but I will make room for two—in the fiercely popular Computer Video Boot Camp.” I think our faces must be blank. He draws a big breath. “Or . . . or . . . if you really want to be revolutionaries, you could be in my brand-new group called . . . Library Volunteers!” He sags. “Okay. I should be more creative about that title,” he says. “Anyway, the volunteers schlep and shelve books, among other thrilling tasks. Or they will. When they start. If you start. Oh, please say you'll start,” he begs. “We could use the help.”

Zoey and I are silent.

“Puh-leese!” Mr. Olsen groans.

Zoey squirms from side to side. “Well, since Friday is already half over, can we give you an answer on Monday?”

“Deal!” he says. He retucks his clipboard, gives us a wave, and strides away.

When he is out of sight I whisper, “Do you think there is anyone else who hasn't signed up?”

“I get the feeling it's just us,” Zoey answers. “We have to
choose. What do you want to do, Perry?” But before I can answer she adds, “I'm
not
doing Video Boot Camp. Brian and the line-butting lunchroom boys are all in there.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” I say.

The truth is, I would've liked to do it. I can only shoot short videos with the camera Zoey gave me. I would like to find out how to put them on the computer and string them together. But when I saw the swarm on that first day of sign-ups, I backed off.

A scraping sound tears through the quiet History Room. We hear a bump and a crash. A few feet away, a book cart has plowed down a pair of the spindly chairs. The books in their slippery bindings fall from the cart.
Fwap. Fwump. Fwap-fwap. Fwump!

“Oh dear! Oh lordy!”

I know who says that. I pop out of my chair, calling, “Mrs. Buckmueller!” Then I realize that it's Friday. She should be in the Bucking Blue Bookmobile on her way to Blue River.

Fwap-fwap. Fwump!

The books keep sliding. Mrs. Buckmueller leans her whole self across the top of the cart. She looks like a chicken that's fallen down on its chest trying to protect its eggs. I get to her just in time to catch a book midfall. Zoey comes along and saves another.

Together, we pick up books and set them back on the cart. Mrs. Buckmueller gathers them, tucking them underneath her chest with her hands and elbows. When she finally
stands straight again, the books are in a few short, perfect stacks almost as if she has hatched them.

“Phew!” She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. Then she hoots. “Thank you, thank you!” Her voice fills the History Room air. “That was harrowing.” She pats her rosy cheeks. For the first time, she looks right at me.

“Oh, Perry! My darling!” says Mrs. Buckmueller. “I didn't even realize that was you. I never see you in the library after school. I only ever see you over at the . . . uh . . .” She glances at Zoey. “At the . . . uh . . .”

“At Blue River.” I say it for her.

“Over in Surprise!” She nods.

“I got taken out of there,” I tell her. Meanwhile, I pick up one of the toppled library chairs and set it back on its skinny legs.

“Oh dear! Oh lordy!” She scrunches her brow. “Now, is that why they were all looking so down in the dumps over there on Tuesday afternoon? And here I thought it was the lack of contemporary titles I was hauling.”

“By the way, this is my friend Zoey,” I say.

“Hi there, darling,” says Mrs. Buckmueller. “Thank you for the help.”

“Anytime,” says Zoey.

I look at the grandfather clock. The hands point to 3:50. “Hey, Mrs. Buckmueller, aren't you going to be late getting to Blue River?” I ask.

“Yes! Already am,” she says. She gestures at the clock.
“Old Gramps there is a little slow. It's closer to four o'clock. I've been hunting down titles for the Leisure Library all afternoon. The bookmobile is a bit much for one person. But, lordy, I hate to disappoint, especially when the weekend is coming,” she says. “On that note, I had better go load up.” She pats her pocket, and I hear the truck keys jingle.

The tip of Mrs. Buckmueller's tongue sticks out and curls up on one side in a thoughtful sort of way. Carefully, she starts the book cart rolling. Carefully, she steers her way out of the History Room. She's going to Blue River, I think. I watch until I cannot see her anymore.

O
utside the Blue River Co-ed Correctional Facility, I'm craning and straining. The line of visitors is deep and thick. We're all trying to see in, and the residents are all trying to see out. I'm sure that Mom is waiting near the glass window with everyone else. I wish that I could get closer.

I've never been on this side of the Blue River bottleneck before, but I know it well. There are two sets of doors, and in between them, the security check. You have to get a badge, and you have to be counted. Blue River needs to know its numbers. It all takes a while. This is why I wanted to get here earlier.

I glance up at Mr. VanLeer, who is right next to me. He was in no hurry this morning. I was ready. I slept in my clothes right down to my sneakers. I made the bed in the
closet, tucking the corners under, then the sides and the end. I like it neat. He made blueberry pancakes for everyone. He washed out the batter bowl and wiped the counters. Then he sat down with a tall stack and read the newspaper.

“Well, Perry, do you see your mom?” he asks. He clucks and chuckles as he looks around at the crowd. He acts as if he's brought me to a carnival. I am feeling ugly toward him. I push that aside. It's Saturday. I'm going to see Mom.

“It's quite a line,” he says. He rubs his hands together then claps me on the shoulder. I fake a shoelace problem and slide away. I lean out of the line. I can't see far ahead of me, so I look behind me. Cars are still pulling into the lot. A scooter hums in; I watch the driver in her bubblegum-pink helmet. She leans into the turn then balances her way into a parking space. Who's that? I think to myself. But the truth is, I don't know all the visitors. Three more cars roll in. Well, at least we are not the last to arrive. There are plenty of families that come from farther out.

“Hello. Hi.” VanLeer greets people who are waiting in line with us. He nods and says, “How are you this morning?” He doesn't get much for answers. I look all around. I pretend I'm not with him.

I spot Mr. DiCoco, well up in front. He'd never be late. He has flowers for his wife. He brings some every time he comes. Mrs. Rojas has brought her two little girls, Cici and Mira, and they all come running up holding hands.

“Perry!” Mrs. Rojas gives me a hug, and her purse swings
into Mr. VanLeer because he won't get out of the way. His lip curls. He stares. “The girls saw you from the back. We just wanted to say hello.” Her voice dips. “We heard what happened. Jaime says he misses you so much!” She means Mr. Rojas, and I tell her that I miss him too.

The Rojas girls hold up their hands and say,
“Dame cinco!”
We high-five.

Mrs. Rojas laughs. “See you inside!” She rounds to the back of the line.

“Phew! I'm glad they didn't try to wedge in here,” VanLeer says.

I look up at him with one eye closed. “Mrs. Rojas? She would never,” I say.

I focus back on the big window. I can almost see inside. There is shadow and glare. I shade my eyes.

Mom!
I nearly shout out. Her face breaks into a wide smile, and I know she sees me too. She covers her mouth with her hand. I grin and wave. She waves back. I see Miss Gina and Miss Sashonna wiggle and bump up against Mom. It feels good to know that they are probably saying, “He's here! Did you see? Perry is back!”

Big Ed stands near the women. Halsey towers behind them all, looking serious, like a bird on the hunt. It's unusual to see him in the common on a Saturday; Halsey doesn't get visitors. Maybe he wants to see me today. I face forward, jiggle at my knees, and mutter to myself, “Come on, line. Come on.”

VanLeer and I finally make it to the doors. Fo-Joe is doing check-in, and when he sees me, he shoos me on through—doesn't razz me for one second. I don't even get a badge. VanLeer thinks he can follow, but Fo-Joe is stern with him.

“Whoa, whoa! Not so fast,” he says. He blocks him with one arm and draws out the random scan wand. The wand will detect metal, like a pocketknife or a big clump of keys. You're not allowed to bring those things into Blue River. The random part means Fo-Joe decides to check VanLeer for no particular reason. Well, except to hold him up. I look over my shoulder and see Thomas VanLeer standing with his wings open. His face turns red while Fo-Joe sweeps the wand, slowly up one side of him then slowly down the other.

I am through the Blue River bottleneck. I dodge the crowd and sprint. Mom has moved into an open space. I hope she remembers . . . I hope she is ready . . .

And she is!

Six days with no practice, but she lifts me off my feet for a swing-around. I am twirling in the Blue River Common. I hear Big Ed calling, “There he is! There's my Morning Son!”

Through this long, long week, all I have wanted to do is fly—just like this.

W
e all talk at once. We laugh, we cry a little. Mom and I share a chair. She holds me around the shoulders, squeezes me like she is making sure that I am made out of the same thing I was when I left six days ago. Miss Gina, Miss Sashonna, and Big Ed are with us. There are a hundred versions of “I missed you!” and “So good to have you back!”

Big Ed says I'm skinnier. Miss Gina thinks I have grown taller. Mom wonders if I need a haircut, and Sashonna wants to know if I've brought digital pictures. But I tell her not this time.

I feel rushed to get things said. I haven't even brought out my list yet—and VanLeer is out there in the common. Somewhere. I figure he'll be in our faces in no time. He'll try
to listen in like a bird on the line. I know that Fo-Joe can't hold him up forever.

“Don't worry about the district attorney, Perry,” Big Ed says. (He can read my mind.) “We're keeping six for you,” he adds in his under-mumble. “Keep six” at Blue River means you keep watch or create a distraction. Big Ed nods in the direction of the game tables.

I look and see tall Mr. Halsey steering Mr. VanLeer around so his back is to us. I can't hear them over the hum of visiting day, but Halsey is opening a chessboard. He shoves a chair into the backs of VanLeer's knees. He gives him a nice, friendly shoulder pat to help him sit down. When VanLeer tries to turn around to see where I am, Halsey spills out the chess pieces and sends a few into VanLeer's lap. Oh yeah. He's going to keep him busy.

Mom runs her fingers through my hair and asks me to tell her about life in the VanLeer house.

“First of all,” I say, and I lean way forward, “did you know he's Stepdad Tom? I'm staying at Zoey's house!”

“I did hear that,” says Mom. “I hope that's been all right.”

“Shock of the century,” I say. “But now it's the best part of this mess.”

“Well good!” Sashonna pipes up. “'Cuz it's not fair, him not telling you that. He could have destroyed that friendship. Right, Jessica? Right?” Sashonna is repeating something Mom has said, I can tell.

I tell them all, “Zoey is still my best friend.”

“Yeah, but that man”—Sashonna's arm punches upward—“that Mr. DA VanLeer, he should have been straight with you—”

“Shh-shh.” Miss Gina pulls Sashonna's arm back down. “Let Perry talk.”

“There's an idea. Let the boy tell his story,” says Big Ed. Sashonna gives him a hiss. Mom looks down at me, gives me another squeeze.

I try to tell it right, but I go jumping from thing to thing.

“I couldn't sleep on the bed so Zoey's mom put a camp mat in the closet and that's lots better. But, Mom, there is no clock. I really need a clock . . . and then there is the shower. That thing is broken!” I say. “Nothing comes out up top and it's hard to get an armpit under that bath spout.” I make a chicken wing with my elbow, and they laugh. “And trying to get your head wet? Forget it!” I'm talking so much my lips are sticking.

Mom listens. So does Big Ed. He is scrunching his fuzzy gray eyebrows and puzzling over that shower. Miss Gina flutters her inky lashes, which means that she is listening. Sashonna slithers around the back of our chairs like a gecko. She creeps around front then makes the trip again. Mom doesn't seem to mind. It's like it has always been. I'm her kid, but I kind of belong to everyone at Blue River.

When I hit a lull, I reach into my pocket. I pull out my list and turn to Mom. “These are the things I can't forget to talk to you about.”

“Right,” she says. “We should hit that before this day melts away.”

Miss Gina gets up. “Come on, Sashonna. We're going to let Jessica and Perry be by themselves for a while.”

“By themselves? Look around you. It's visiting day! You can't tell me to get out. I can be in the common. This is no infraction!”

“Shh . . .” Miss Gina pats Sashonna's arm. “Remember what I promised? I'm going to give you a makeover. How about a little glamour in the slammer? Smokey eye shadow with Midnight mascara? Want lip gloss too?”

“That Pink Pearl one?” Miss Sashonna asks. “Yeah, I want that . . .”

They go, and so does Big Ed. He wanders the common during visiting hours. He's another one nobody comes to see. It's hard to understand because he has made a lot of friends at Blue River. He says that's how he was before prison too—lots of friends. But he's far, far away from the old ones and it's been a lot of years. I see him sit down with the DiCocos. He tucks his nose into her new flower bouquet.

Mom sighs. “So, Perry. My Perry. Are you really all right? Tell me the truth.”

I think for a second. I will tell her the truth. I just want to be sure what that is, and I want to give her the truest part first.

“I don't like it,” I say. “I want to come home to Blue River. It was definitely the worst week of my life.”

“Mine too! A godawful week,” she agrees.

“Five minutes out of here, and I threw up in his SUV,” I say. I jab a thumb toward the chess players.

“You got sick?”

“Yeah. And I had a bloody nose at school too.”

Mom gasps. “Somebody should have told me!” She squeaks when she says it.

“There were some bad things,” I say. “But look at me.” I try to be funny, tapping my thumb on my chest. “I'm okay! We aren't going to love me living at VanLeer's. Not ever. But it's not forever. Remember all the people who have come through here?” I count a few off. “Mr. Mayer, Mrs. Cruz, Mr. Washington, Miss Dasha, Miss Jenn, and Mr. Solomon.” I could go on and on. “They had catnaps to serve. Four or six months or something like that? And doesn't it seem like they weren't here very long?”

“But you shouldn't feel like you're serving any sentence, Perry. Always remember that you did nothing wrong.” Mom's eyelids turn pink. Her nose is a little bit runny. Mrs. DiCoco would say she is weepy. I get it. She feels everything at once. She is sad and mad, but she's glad I am okay, and it's a relief to think we will be together again before long.