The Graham Cracker Plot (16 page)

When you left, Judge Henry, Mom said to Alex, “Chambers? See what the County does with our tax money?” Grandma snorted and said, “The County should use our tax money to teach parenting skills.”

BOOM!

Alex told Grandma my mom is a wonderful mom, and Mom told Grandma she raised a crappy son who deserved to be in prison, and Grandma told Alex to mind his own business, and Mom yelled at Kari for being a terrible babysitter, and Kari yelled at Mom because Graham would have never done something so terrible on his own, and Grandma said I'm a wonderful child who's never been in trouble so it's Graham and Ashley's fault, and Kari said leave Ashley out of it because she can't be held responsible.

And on and on it went.

Graham still had stitches in his forehead, and the color on his face was more green than purple. He motioned me to come to the end of the bench. He said, “Your mom ith blaming everything on me.”

“Sounds like your mom is blaming
me
.”

“Well, it wath your idea.”

My eyes about popped from my face. “My idea?
Me?
Who wanted to go to Canada?”

“Who wanted to break out the Chemith?”

“Who couldn't read a map? Who pushed over the refrigerator? Who stole a pony?”

“Not a pony. A horth. I
borrowed
a horth.”

My temper boiled up my insides. “I said everything was messed up, but you—”

“You thaid I was Thuperman and Harry Potter and you hugged me all thupid.”

“I would never ever ever call you Superman or Harry Potter. Maybe Stupidman or Harry Snotter. You're too weak and dumb and weird for a superhero.”

“Your dad wath too chicken to run! Big dumb chicken!”

In my mind, he didn't mean the ex-Chemist was
chicken
. Graham meant
drug dealer.
I saw it on everyone's face, all day, every day. The checker at the grocery store. The guy who delivered our pizza. Frank the Creeper. I could read their thoughts. Everyone who looked at me was thinking,
She's the daughter of a drug dealer
.

I screamed, “You only wanted to run away so you could have my dad as your own, you freaky dad thief!”

He looked at me, lips pinched, eyes all sad and mad.

I jerked back my fist and just as I was going to wham-bang his head, two arms circled around me and pulled me across the floor. I could tell by the hair on his arms it was Alex. He pulled me toward the door, and the whole time I screamed, “It's all his fault! Graham Cracker! It's his fault!”

Suddenly we were out in the hall. Mom, Alex, and me. Mom didn't even yell. We sat on a bench, and she hugged me and stroked my hair.

Ten minutes later, a guy in a uniform told us to go home, the judge rescheduled the hearing. Again.

“Why?” Mom asked.

“Who knows?” The uniform guy shrugged. “Maybe the social worker forgot some paperwork. Heck, maybe Judge Henry's getting lunch for a change.” He thought about it. “Put your money on the paperwork. The judge never has time to eat.”

 

 

THE PART WHERE I'M SUPPOSED TO WRITE TO YOU

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

At court last week, you told me to write the letter to you. You want me to explain responsibility and what I've learned and what I'm sorry for. Mom said I'll learn my punishment later.

So I'm writing. I am COOPERATING. It's late at night, and I'm still writing.

At first, I didn't want to write anything. But once I started, everything burst out, like my pen caught fire. The story is burning inside me, and nobody can stop it. Not with a garden hose, not with a fire hose, not with rains from a hurricane.

 

 

BACK TO THE FINAL PART. AGAIN.

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

The kids at school haven't heard about Club Fed. Here's how I know: Jesse Ellman and gang haven't called me Alcatraz Bauer or Jail Breaker or Crazy Daisy. But they'll find out eventually. Secrets are the only things that escape Club Fed.

Graham doesn't have to worry about Jesse anymore. His new school doesn't let kids mess around—at all! He had his final meeting in court. His punishment is raking leaves for old people this fall and working at the food shelf all winter. And he's on probation, which I think means no more chances. Lucky for Graham, the County paid for him to get fake front teeth.

I wish I knew my punishment. The waiting is making me chew my fingernails, and Grandma won't paint them until they grow out. Just tell me whether I'm raking leaves or whatever. Why are you taking so long? Why can't you just decide?

Mom and Alex think it's because I didn't have any law trouble before this and you don't want to be too mean but you also don't want to be too nice. Plus Mom said my County person is on her honeymoon and everyone needs her report. Mom sneered when she said that.

Maybe we have the same problem, Judge Henry. You aren't sure if I'm really sorry. Just like I'm not sure if the ex-Chemist is really sorry.

But don't you do this all the time? Aren't you like a lie-detector machine? You're a judge!

Every day, you look at people's eyes and wonder,
Is he really sorry? And that lady … is she telling the truth? And him … does he really understand he did a bad thing? And him … the skinny guy who used to clean carpets, the one with the daughter named Daisy … how'd such a great guy turn into a drug dealer?

And that great guy, the ex-Chemist, did he look into the eyes of his judge, or did he stare at the floor? I wonder. Did his eyes say,
Guess who I was before this. Guess.

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

I haven't seen Graham for a long time. Kari drives him to his new school. He doesn't even wave. Just stares straight ahead.

I'm sorry
. Two little words. How hard could it be for him to spit 'em out? Mom says I should apologize. I wish Graham would say he's sorry first, because he did the first lie. I think. It's hard to remember exactly. If he said he's sorry, then we could hang out again. He could show me how he pulls out his new front teeth. I've been wondering how he does it.

“You know how many times I told your father I was sorry and never meant it? Trust me, it ain't hard,” Mom said as she lit a cigarette. We'd just finished eating hot dogs for dinner, and the taste of ketchup was still in my mouth. How could she cover up that deliciousness with stinky smoke?

I coughed and waved smoke from my face. “Why'd you do that? If you don't feel sorry, why say it?”

“So he'd shut the hell up,” she said.

“I wouldn't do that to Graham.”

“Do what?”

“Lie about being sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you sorry? Or not?”

I stared at our dirty, brown carpet. “Everyone at school had been so mean to him for so long. I thought I was okay because I didn't join in. So I feel like a big turd for that.” I stopped a second to chew on my thumbnail. “Then, in the courtroom, I said some pretty rotten stuff.”

“Does that mean you're sorry?”

“When I think about those mean words and just about Graham being Graham, my stomach flops. There's this whole awful mess, but I guess what I'm most sorry about is Graham. But I don't want to see him because he'll yell at me and say he hates me.”

She stared at me, reading my face for something. When she thought she'd found it, she grabbed my shoulders tight. “Don't you dare tell that judge you're
most
sorry for Graham. I mean it, Daisy. You tell him what he wants to hear or else. You tell him you're sorry you broke into a house, you stole, you vandalized, you caused a prison lockdown!

“If you're sorry about being a rotten friend, then go talk to the friend. But this judge doesn't care about your social problems, understand? And neither do I! I care about you cleaning up your act! So leave Graham out of it. Apologize for the damn crimes.” Her voice cracked. “
Crimes
. I used the word
crimes
with my own kid.”

I rubbed her back until she stopped crying. Then I got a wad of toilet paper so she could blow her nose.

*   *   *

After school, I knocked on Graham's door. His face didn't light up like I hoped.

I asked, “Do you want to throw me in hot lava?”

“Kinda.”

My arms crossed themselves even though this was a peace mission. “So you want to see me burn up like a French fry?”

“I'd give you pain medicine so it wouldn't hurt so much.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No problem.”

I looked over his shoulder. Kari and a woman sat at the table looking through papers. And that woman wore a blazer. The County lady! It had to be. No wonder his mood was bad.

I lowered my voice. “How's your new school?”

“Stupid. A couple guys asked me how I got the forehead scar, and I said I was breaking a friend out of prison and a guard pounded me, and now everyone's afraid of
me
because I'm so tough. No more bullies.”

“Now you're the scary one. But no friends, either, right?”

He shrugged. “I'd rather be scary than scared.”

That guy cannot catch a break. I took a breath so peace would fill my lungs and I could blow good feelings between us. I said it fast. “I'm sorry.”

He nodded.

“And?” I said.

“And what?”

I squinted at him. I told myself,
I'll count to ten and if he doesn't say it, I'm leaving and never speaking to him again. OneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSeven—

“How come you don't go to the play dump anymore?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“The play dump.”

Before I could answer, he jumped off the steps, missing a puddle by an inch or so. He jogged to the play dump and plopped into a swing.

“You can't just walk away!”

Graham yelled, “Just come here, would ya?”

I stared and kicked rocks.

“C'mon, Daisy. Just swing for a while.”

So I sat on the other swing and pumped hard to catch up. Graham dropped his shoulders back and stretched his legs. He looked like he could fall asleep. The apology must have been stuck in his throat.

Whatever. Mom and me were probably moving into Alex's house. I'd live on the other side of town. Once kids stopped being afraid of Graham, he'd make some friends. Maybe his friends would never know his “scholarship” comes from being an at-risk kid. Mom says at-risk means the County's afraid he'll drop out of school and become a thief and an alcoholic or worse. I knew
worse
meant
drug dealer
.

Did the County think Graham would be a fed-mate someday? Graham was a pest and a pain and, sure, we did break the law, but we thought we had a good reason. The Graham I know, the Graham who dreamed about horses and Canada, would never end up in Club Fed. But what about a thirty-year-old Graham who didn't have a job and couldn't pay child support and spent his nights at the Rattlesnake Bar and Grill?

Come to think of it, I was probably an at-risk kid, too. The bad-influence kid. The kid all the parents figured would turn into a drug dealer, like her father, and an alcoholic, like her mother. The kid with a record and I don't mean the Beatles. I mean a record with you, Judge Henry.

That's when I saw it.

In the bottom of the sandless sandbox was a bunch of long, fat pretzels, just like the ones we ate at the farmhouse. Only these were shaped into something. I dug my heel in the sand to slow down. The pretzels formed words. And the words said:

Sorry Daisy from Graham

Queen and King

of River Estates

He stopped swinging, too. “Do you know how many days I've been writing in pretzel? You never come out here after school, and by the morning, it's messed up because raccoons and cats eat it. Sometimes it's totally gone. Yesterday it was part gone. Yesterday it said: Frog ham kin ates.”

I laughed so hard it turned into a cackle.

“I had to buy ten bags of pretzels, Daisy. Ten!”

“Queen and King of the River Estates Mobile Home Park,” I said. “It could be worse. We're not going to live here forever like Frank the Creeper. We're only here for temporary.”

“Right. We're only here for temporary.”

After that, we pumped as high as the swings would take us. Not talking, not joking. Just listening to the squeak-creak of the swings until our moms called us in for dinner.

 

 

THE ACTUAL FINAL PART

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

I think I'm actually going to miss writing to you. You've been a good listener. I bet you're not so scary when you're wearing tan pants and a golf shirt. Maybe you can visit someday and Grandma can cut your hair and wax your brows.

I'm glad the big hearing is over. Finally.

I was listening, in case you were wondering. You said I will spend the summer picking up trash in the parks and pulling weeds on city grounds. Those jobs are exhausting. Who knew the city had so many grounds? I also have to talk-talk-talk to a County lady about my problems. That's going to be worse than picking up garbage!

So this is the part where I write about my feelings and stuff.

The County lady says I should make two columns. One column should be “My Remorses.” (Yeah, I had to look it up, too. It means sorrys.) The second column should be “Things I Learned About Responsibility.” Like I told you, my mom says I should just say whatever you want to hear. And Grandma said, “Aren't you done with that thing yet? I've never read a book that long!”

I'm just going to say what's what and that's that. Some of it you won't like, but I want you to know I'm not listening to the County lady or Mom. I wrote all this stuff myself. Nobody helped except the dictionary. I guess you know me by now, Judge Henry. You'll be able to tell if I'm yanking your robe.