Whatever (5 page)

Mom was talking to the circle, but I hadn't been listening.
She suddenly burst into tears and Mrs. Barrett reached under a chair and pulled out another tissue from the box. She handed it to Mom. “Take your time, Mrs. Patrick.”

“I don't know how Darrah could do it, I really don't,” Mom sobbed. “The last few months, she's been different. Her grades went down and she spent all summer in her room, on her laptop. Oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah, oh . . .” She put her hand on my shoulder. I tried to shrug it off.

“Mr. Patrick, do you have anything to add?”

“My wife's explained things pretty well. Darrah's a responsible girl, always has been, except maybe not so much lately. I don't know why she did this.”

“Thank you all. Unless anyone has anything else to say, we will now discuss what sanctions should be imposed on Darrah so that this matter can be resolved. But before we begin that stage of the circle, I'll ask again. Darrah, is there anyone in this room you would like to say something to?”

I shook my head without looking up. Mom poked me in the ribs again. “Manners,” she whispered.

Finally I understood. I took a deep breath, made my eyes go wide and sad. “I'm sorry you got hurt, Mrs. Johnson. I beg you, from the bottom of my heart, please forgive me. I didn't mean to harm you.” I was staring at the floor as I said that; I couldn't face the old lady.

“Look at Mrs. Johnson and say that again please, Darrah,” said the facilitator.

No way! That was a great speech, but I couldn't do it again,
not with a straight face. But I lifted my head and looked at the woman, trying to make my eyes go blurry and sad at the same time, so I couldn't really see her. She stared back through her thick glasses.

“Um . . . ah . . . I . . .” My tongue was thick and my eyes wouldn't stay unfocused. She kept staring at me, waiting. “I'm s . . . s . . . sorry,” I stammered.

Mrs. Johnson nodded at me, but didn't say anything. Mrs. Barrett was still looking at me expectantly. “Anyone else?” she asked.

This was a test. Mrs. Barrett had that same look on her face as Mom does when she asks me one of those trick questions. Like, “When was the last time you did your laundry?” after she'd probably already seen my overflowing laundry hamper, or the stains on my jeans. There was a right answer to Mrs. Barrett's question, and I'd better come up with it fast. What was I supposed to say?

“Oh, Darrah,” breathed my mom and began to cry again.

Got it! I turned to her. “I'm sorry Mom. And Dad. I didn't mean to put you through this. I'm so sorry.” I was acting again, doing a great job, not really thinking about what I was saying.

“Oh, Darrah,” Mom grabbed my hand.

Then, to my surprise, I burst into tears. Real tears, not stage ones. Mrs. Barrett produced another box of tissues and handed it to me. Mom hugged me, and Dad patted me reassuringly on my back.

“I'm really, really sorry, for everything,” I said through my tears. “I didn't mean to hurt anyone.”

“Thank you, Darrah,” said Mrs. Barrett.

“Good,” said Mrs. Johnson. “She's said she's sorry, so let's go home.” She shifted in her chair and reached for her cane, getting ready to stand up.

“Not yet. The circle isn't finished. Would you like me to take you to the handicapped bathroom again before we proceed, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Don't need to do any more proceeding, far as I'm concerned. The girl apologized. That's good enough for me. Let's wind this up.”

I was solidly with Mrs. Johnson on this point. Let's just forget any sanctions and go home. But no one else spoke up to agree.

“We're nearly done. But first, Darrah, have you thought about what you might do to make amends for your actions?”

I stopped crying immediately. The sanctions were how I would pay for my actions. Mrs. Barrett had said that sanctions weren't punishment, and I shouldn't think of them that way. “It's doing whatever you can to make things as right as they can be.” She'd asked me to think about what I could do, like community service, something that helped others.

“I thought about writing letters, apologizing.”

“Who would you write to?”

“Mrs. Johnson. The hospital, too, I guess.”

“The representative from the hospital suggested a letter,”
added the constable. “After he finished talking about the inconvenience and Darrah's irresponsibility and—”

“Thank you, Constable, we don't need to hear anymore. I had a conversation with the same person, and much of what he said about Darrah is judgmental and must not be repeated here.

“What do the rest of you think about Darrah writing two letters of apology as one of her sanctions?”

Everyone nodded.

“All right, that's decided. Mr. and Mrs. Patrick, will one of you take responsibility for making sure Darrah does this and go with her to deliver them in person?”

“I'm sure my wife can find time for that,” said Dad. “And I will proofread the letters and make sure they're sincere.”

“Is that agreeable to you, Darrah?”

“Can't I mail them?”

“No,” said my father, “I think you should deliver them yourself. And apologize in person as well.”

Thanks Dad. Thanks for making this harder for me. I glared at him, then nodded and mumbled, “Sure.” What choice did I have?

“Good.” Once again Mrs. Johnson reached for her cane to get up. Mrs. Barrett pretended not to see her.

“Darrah, at our pre-circle interview, I told you that sanctions often are time spent helping in the community. Have you thought about helping out in the soup kitchen or charity thrift store on the weekends?”

“Last year Darrah was very involved with her school's drama program,” said my father. “She often had to rehearse on the weekends. We think it would be good for her to participate again this year.”

“I don't understand,” said Mrs. Barrett. “I thought Darrah missed her chance to be in the play.”

“That wasn't a school play I was auditioning for, that was amateur theatre, real theatre, nothing to do with the school,” I said. “I didn't get the part and there won't be another chance to audition for anything until after Christmas. I don't mind weekends.”

“Isn't the school doing
A Christmas Carol
?” asked Mom.

“I didn't audition.”

My father looked surprised. Then he said, “Andrew will be playing soccer again soon.”

My mother's turn to look surprised. None of the doctors had said anything about Andrew going back to soccer, as far as I knew.

“Excuse me?” said Mrs. Barrett, “I'm not sure what your son's soccer has to do with this circle, Mr. Patrick.”

“We like to watch his games as a family; I'd prefer it if Darrah could be free on the weekends, so she could come.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Barrett. “Perhaps it would be best if we keep your weekends open, Darrah.”

“Can I get the sanctions done by Halloween?” I asked.

“It's unlikely,” said Mrs. Barrett.

There went my chance of going to the Halloween party. I
was grounded until after the sanctions had been done, my parents' Consequence Number One.

“Then it doesn't matter to me. I'll work in the soup kitchen if I have to,” I said.

“I'd rather we found something else she could do,” said my mom. “I think there are some . . . some dangerous people who go there. Street people.”

“She'd be supervised and quite safe,” assured Mrs. Barrett. “But if you don't like the idea, then of course she won't be placed there. These sanctions are your decision, all of you.”

“What can she do on weekdays?” asked my father.

Mrs. Barrett was flipping pages again. “Not much. If it were summer, she could help at the community garden or serve lunches at the seniors' centre. But as it's now the middle of October, there won't be any work in the community garden until spring. The seniors' centre closes at three, before Darrah could get there after school.”

“I told you, I'll work at the soup kitchen. But not the thrift store.” Handling all those old, smelly clothes, ugh.

“Let's see if anyone else has a suggestion. Mrs. Patrick? Do you have any ideas?”

Mom shook her head. “Maybe one of the churches . . .”

Mrs. Barrett shook her head. “I suspect that helping at a church would also involve weekends. I can probably find something else, but I have to do some research to see what's available this time of year.”

“Something else?” I didn't like the sound of that, either.

Dad had a suggestion. “Maybe she could bring up her marks?”

“That's up to Darrah, Mr. Patrick, and outside the ability of this circle to enforce. However, I'm sure she will—”

Mrs. Johnson coughed and Mrs. Barrett jumped, “Oh, Mrs. Johnson, I was supposed to ask you for your input right after I asked Darrah. I'm so sorry I skipped you. Do you have a suggestion?”

“I don't need a letter,” said the old lady. “She said she was sorry, that's good enough to me. But this sanction thing, I've been thinking. There's a caregiver that comes in and helps me shower and makes sure I have my meals, but I could use help with other chores around my place. Those potatoes have to be dug up before they freeze, and there's other things I can't do right now. Would her giving me a hand fit the rules of this circle?”

Mrs. Barrett nodded, then spoke to my parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Patrick, would you agree to Darrah helping Mrs. Johnson after school for a few hours a week?”

“I don't want—” I began, but Mom's voice was louder.

“That's a good idea.”

My father agreed. “Darrah's a very capable person. She could be a lot of help.”

“Constable?” asked Mrs. Barrett.

“Works for me,” answered the constable.

“Darrah, how do you feel about that?”

I opened my mouth to object, then shut it and took a deep
breath. “I want to make things right,” I said. Which didn't really answer the question. I did not want to dig up potatoes, mess around with mud, worms and maybe spiders. Besides, I don't know how to dig up potatoes. I didn't want to do housework, either, but there didn't seem to be much point in disagreeing.

“Good. We now need to discuss how many hours Darrah will spend with Mrs. Johnson.”

Mrs. Johnson held out for me working for her every school afternoon until Christmas! “My cast can come off in a few weeks,” she said, “but the doctor said my leg will be weak and I have to do exercises and take it easy until the muscles get stronger. I'll need help for a long time.”

Mom suggested twenty hours, an hour every school day for a month; Dad said he thought Mrs. Johnson should have help longer, maybe a hundred hours. Mrs. Barrett, as the facilitator, wasn't allowed to suggest anything.

After a time, everyone agreed on fifty hours, two and a half hours every Monday and Wednesday.

Finally, Mrs. Barrett turned to me. “Darrah, do you think this is fair?”

For a moment I didn't say anything. I thought about saying I thought it was completely unfair and I wasn't going to do it. Then I thought about standing in front of a judge and having to go through all of this again and maybe getting a punishment worse than helping with housework. Besides, I was already grounded until the sanctions were over. What
else did I have to do after school except do homework and watch more
Star Trek
? I shrugged.

“Whatever . . .” Mom glared at me so I went on, “Whatever you think. I just want to get this over with.”

“I will now ask you all if you are satisfied with the agreement we have reached.” Mrs. Barrett went around the circle again and solemnly asked everyone. I nodded. Mrs. Johnson said that would be fine; Mom and Dad both looked relieved when they said were they were happy with the sanctions; the constable added that she thought it was satisfactory. Of course she thought it was “satisfactory.” She wasn't the one who would have to dig up all those potatoes. She grinned at me, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Now, I will ask you all to sign this agreement.” Mrs. Barrett passed it to me first. At the top was some formal language saying I had participated in a Family Group Conference on this day and agreed to complete the sanctions that Mrs. Barrett had written in a space below. The agreement form didn't say “or else” but it might as well have.

Once we had all signed the agreement, Mrs. Barrett said, “Before we conclude this circle, thank you all for your patience. I am a newly trained facilitator, and this has been my first circle. I was quite nervous.”

“Me too.”

She smiled at me. “I know you were, Darrah. But there's a big difference between us. I plan on attending many more circles; I'm sure this will be your only one. Now, I've brought
juice and cookies. Please, everyone, help yourself.”

I sat on my chair, not wanting to get up and join the adults who were chatting as they gathered around the food table, as if they were all suddenly best friends.

Mom brought Mrs. Johnson a cookie and a glass of juice then went back to talk to the others.

Mrs. Johnson sipped her juice and stared at something over my left shoulder. I looked, but no one was there. That seemed strange.

“Is this going to work?” she asked.

“What?”

She turned her head and peered directly at me through her thick glasses. “How about it? Are we going to get along? I know you don't want to do this, but I can use the help.”

I shrugged. “Whatever.”

She laughed. “You owe me, girl, and don't you forget it. Think you'd get off so easily if I told the real story of how I fell on those stairs? We both know you bumped into me.”

My hands suddenly went cold, and my heart began racing. “Why didn't you tell them?” I whispered, afraid the constable would hear and change her mind about not sending me to court. But Constable Markes was busy munching on a cookie and talking to Mrs. Barrett. “Why didn't you tell them I made you fall?”