All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (24 page)

T
he first week of November slides by quietly. The frostier days remind me that Mom was supposed to be out weeks ago. Things are standing still. I don't know how to make them move. I keep my promise; I hold on to Mom's secret.

On Sunday evening I walk into the chocolate-colored bedroom I am using in the VanLeer house with Zoey on my heels. When I see Mr. VanLeer standing there, I stop so fast Zoey bangs into my back.

“Umph!”

VanLeer turns quickly. He's got the warden's suitcase—my suitcase—wide open on the bed I never sleep in. My short stack of shirts is spilled out on the bed.

“Tom?” Zoey is advancing to have a look. “What are you
doing? Whoa! Are you packing up Perry's things? Are you unpacking them?”

“I . . . uh . . . no.” He folds his arms across his chest.

I know what he's doing. He's looking for something, and I'm scared cold that he may have found something else. I think of Mom. My breath turns shallow.

“Everything is okay here,” VanLeer says. He presses both palms out in front of him. His hands are empty. That's good.

“But why are you in Perry's stuff?” Zoey says.

VanLeer lets out a sigh through his nose. “Zoey, would you please leave us alone a minute? Perhaps longer, actually. Perry and I need to talk.”

“Why can't I stay?”

“Zoey.” He says her name sternly.

“Okay, okay. Whatever.” She shows me wide eyes on her way out.

I head for the bed and my suitcase. I lift the stack of shirts back inside. I secretly brush my hand along the baggy inside pocket. I feel the watch. I close my eyes and breathe in relief.

Mr. VanLeer shuts the door behind Zoey. There are two small hard chairs in the room. He lifts them high and sets them facing each other. He motions for me to sit, and I do. He sits across from me.

He leans forward, out-turned elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together. His face is in my face. Anybody would want to back away. I hold steady. I see him like I saw
him when he was on the television, on
Counting on Butler County
with Desiree Riggs. I see the tiny pepper dots on his skin—the places where his whiskers grow from. I watch his upper lip. It shines.

“Perry,” he says, and I feel the pop of his breath on that letter
P
. It hits me right between the eyes. “Do you know why I'm in here? Do you know what I'm looking for?” He doesn't wait for me to answer. “There is something missing from my office—an award that was on my wall.” He pulls at his chin with his hand. “I think you know the one.”

“The Spark Award.” I say it.

He nods. His eyes narrow. “Perry . . . did you take it? Because it's okay if you did. This can be made right. I-I want you to know that I understand—”

“I didn't take it,” I tell him.

I'm not going to listen to him tell me how much he understands me—how I grew up around bad influences at Blue River. I won't let him talk dirt about the people I care about. I look him in the eyes. I see his whites and the few tiny red vessels that sit like little curls of red thread there.

“I moved it,” I say.

“Y-you moved it?”

“Yes.” I swallow and my ears pop. “I needed to know something. That was the only way I could find out.”

He tilts his head at me. “I don't understand. How does stealing—or moving something—give you information? What do you think you found out?”

“That I can't count on you.”

“What? Perry . . .”

“You said you'd look into my mom's case.”

“Yes! Perry! That file is in my office right now.” He turns up his palms.

“I know it is. But your word is no good.” I don't like saying it to him. “You said you'd look at it. But for three weeks now, you haven't touched that box.”

“What? I-I absolutely have . . . done . . . that . . .” Mr. VanLeer draws his chin back so hard his chair squeaks. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“If you had looked at my mom's file—inside the box in your office—you would have found your award,” I say. I watch one of his eyebrows tick upward just a little. “That's where I put it. Three weeks ago.”

He lets out a noise—a huff or a gulp. He covers his mouth with his hand. Then he's out of his chair and crossing to the door.

“I know you're really busy,” I say. “But time is important to me. I couldn't wait for you any more. I want to be with my mom. So I had to try to do something to help her.” I stand up and start to refold my clothes. “Check the box that says COOK,” I tell Mr. Thomas VanLeer. “I'm sure your Spark Award is still in there. You can hang it back on your wall.”

I fill the suitcase and pull it back into the closet. When I turn around, Mr. VanLeer is gone.

I
t happens at the end of a Blue River Tuesday. I'm packing up the book bins with Zoey and Mrs. Buckmueller and worrying that if Mom doesn't come down in the next minute or two, I'm going to miss her. She's running so late. All the residents are coming in to the common, even the ones who should have been in her meeting. They shake hands, show their gladness, and the sweet smell of wood shavings surrounds us.

“Perry! Hold up!” Mom waves from the balcony in the Upper East Lounge. She comes down the stairs so fast her feet barely touch down. “Hi! Hi!” Mom hugs me, then Zoey. She touches Mrs. B's hands and begs her, “Can I have Perry for just a couple of minutes? Please! It's important.”

“Of course. Perry is
yours
!
”

Mom hurries me to a spot beside the window. We plop into the chairs with a little table between us. She reaches
across and takes hold of my hands.

“The date came through,” she says. “My parole hearing is scheduled.”

“Wha—”

“I know. All of a sudden!” she says. “Well, all of a sudden after all this waiting.” She laughs and tugs at my hands. “I don't know why, but it all jiggled loose.”

“Whoa, Mom! This is the best news! How soon?”

“It's this Thursday, in the morning.”

“Thursday, the day after tomorrow? That Thursday?”

“Yes, yes! I couldn't wait to tell you.” She takes a big breath now, and I see that she is hiding her worry behind the smile. “I'm hopeful, Perry. But I think we have to be prepared. We might not get the news we want. Because that dirtbag—sorry, District Attorney VanLeer—knows how to make a strong case for what he wants. He thinks it was wrong that I got to raise you here. And he wants to make a big loud point about it.”

“He wants someone to pay,” I mumble. I remember what Mr. Krensky said. “But he's not the only one who gets to speak to the parole board, right? Warden Daugherty will be there?”

“And you, Perry.”

“Me? I can come?”

“Open to the public! Anyone can come.”

“But what if VanLeer says no? What if he won't bring me?”

“I took care of that,” she says. “I just got off the phone with Robyn. She promised to bring you herself.”

“Her word is good,” I say. “Mom, you're shaking.” I squeeze her hands.

“I can't help it,” she says. “You know that not much scares me, Perry. But the unknowns do.”

“Unknowns?”

“Like what VanLeer will say. And I'm terrified just thinking about the things I haven't thought of!” She lets out a tiny laugh. She whispers, “Like . . . how after all these years, a long-forgotten swim watch is still out there . . .”

I shake my head no and give Mom a small smile. I let go of her hands, and I reach into my sleeve. I pull the watch out from under the elastic cuff.

Mom blinks when she sees it. “Oh . . . Perry . . .”

I slip the watch under her hand. She curls her fingers around it. “Sorry I didn't tell you. I was trying to keep it safe. But you can keep it safer,” I say.

“I love you, Perry Cook.”

“I love you back.”

O
n Wednesday afternoon I stand at the door to the video room at the library. I have been scheming. Now I have to get my guts up.

“Please,” I say, and Brian Morris looks back at me with a blank stare.

“Yeah, please,” says Zoey. She's right behind me—my support person for all things difficult.

“I need to make a video,” I say. “I have some . . . pictures of old pictures to use. And words.” I rattle a piece of notebook paper in my hand. “I need to extract a couple of shots from videos like you did. And I'd like to do that voice-over thing.”

“What's the project?” Brian asks.

“My mom's story. Actually, it's my story. Both.”

“But what are you going to do with it?”

It's a fair question. Everybody knows the Coming to Butler County project is over with. I might as well tell him
the truth. “I'm going to use it to get her out of jail.”

Brian's eyes pop open.

“It's true,” says Zoey.

“All right!” Brian Morris is so on board he's falling over the furniture to get us set up. “Nothing like the power of video.” He says it officially, like he's about to film the Desiree Riggs show.

“Brian, there's one more thing,” I say. “It has to be finished today.”

“Like,
today
, today? The whole thing?”

“Right. She has a public hearing tomorrow.”

“Oooo-kay . . . ,” says Brian. “Then we better do this thing.”

We put three chairs in front of one computer. Seconds later, my camera is connected. Zoey and I bring up a photo of my room off the Upper East Lounge. At least we know how to do that much. “I want to start here,” I say.

Brian is all business. “Okay . . . fuzzy photo . . . here. Let's enhance.” He shows me where to click. I do it. The picture gets much sharper. “Do you have a script?”

“He does,” says Zoey. She turns to Brian and says, “It's going to be great.”

Brian plugs in a mic, draws out the skinny cord, and hands it over. “Click to record when you're ready. Count one-one-thousand, before you speak.”

I do like he says. I put my lips close to the tiny mic and say, “Good morning. This is Perry at sunrise.”

T
he large meeting room is filling up. The parole board is two men and two women. They aren't part of Blue River. They're community people who serve on the board. They take their places at a long table up front. The parole candidate—Mom—will sit across from them. Members of the public will sit in rows of chairs behind Mom. That's where I am. I'm here with Zoey and her mom and Mr. VanLeer. I have put my name on a list; I am a member of the public, and I wish to speak.

Everyone is watching as the foremen add chairs. I thought it would be just a handful of people. The top of my head is cold and airy. I feel myself tilting in space, which is the way I felt the day Thomas VanLeer came to take me away from Blue River. I threw up that day. I tell myself that can't happen here.

I'm trying not to pull at my crisp collar. Zoey's mom
bought me a button-down shirt and a tie for today. This morning in the hallway of the VanLeer house, she straightened my tie, then VanLeer's. There wasn't much talking.

I'm watching for Mom to come in the side door. The library laptop is under my chair. Zoey Samuels is beside me with the little projector. We're both crossing fingers that we will remember how everything works. Zoey's mom is right beside her, and Mr. VanLeer is next to me. He's pinching a set of papers in his hands. Every once in a while he cranes his neck to see the arrivals. Then he straightens his arms forward. I hear his elbows crack each time.

Mom finally comes in. She is dressed up for this day. No blue chambray. Her hair is in a Miss Gina twist, and her lips are extra pink. Big Ed is at her side. She stops to hug me. She greets Zoey and her mom. She skips Mr. VanLeer at the end of our row. I don't blame her. Who knows what he's going to say, VanLeer with his fist full of papers.

He leans across me and tells everyone within earshot, “I know these hearings are open to the public, but I didn't expect a circus.” He smiles as if we are all in this together.

Big Ed says, “Circus, huh? Step right up to get your peanuts.”

Mom whispers to me, “How are you doing? Are you all right?”

“I am. Are you?”

“I'm trying to be.” She smiles. Her hands are in a nervous knot. She breaks them apart to give me one more hug. Then
she goes to her chair, and I can only see her back. I hear Big Ed whispering, reminding her to breathe.

Fo-Joe makes an announcement. “Slight delay. We have an unexpected bottleneck today, folks.”

I look up and see it on the security feed. He's right. It's busy. I squint. Someone looks familiar—someone fancy. But who do we know that's fancy?

“We'll get started as soon as we get everyone in,” Fo-Joe says.

“Perry,” Zoey whispers, and she points toward the door. I look back and see Mrs. Buckmueller and Mr. Olsen coming in together with two other librarians. It makes me wonder who is left to man the circulation desk. Behind them, I see Miss Maya with two teacher friends and Miss Jenrik from the cafeteria. Then Warden Daugherty!

“She's here!” I nudge Zoey. “The warden is here.” I want to go greet her, but Fo-Joe is pressing everyone—even the warden—to please find a chair.

“And look!” Zoey says. Her eyes are wide. “It's Desiree Riggs from the TV!”

That's who is fancy! “Oh my gosh!”

Mr. VanLeer has seen her too. He drops his head and mutters, “Oh . . . that woman.”

Some of the rezzes have permission to attend, and some who probably don't have permission have lined up in the hall to watch and listen through the glass. Miss Sashonna dips, wiggles, and melts when Desiree walks by. She looks
in at us and gestures wildly. She points at Desiree. Then she covers up her finger and melts some more.

Then all is quiet. The chairwoman of the parole board speaks. She tells why we are here. She asks Mom some questions about her time at Blue River. But they already know what's up. They've seen a report and of course they know about Thomas VanLeer's great discovery—me.

“All right then,” the chairwoman says. “Let us begin.”

Thomas VanLeer is the first on the list. He rises off his chair and clears his throat to speak.