Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy (11 page)

“You think he could be looking for us?” I asked Peavine.

“What would he want us for?”

“No idea.” I choked back a giggle. “But let's see what he does.”

I stood up fast, before Peavine could talk me out of it.

“Footer!” Peavine jumped up too, and a bunch of kids throwing a football nearby stopped to look at us.

The guy across the street saw us too, and he got real still. His eyes locked on mine, and I was pretty sure his eyebrows went up. My heart thumped and thumped, and all of a sudden I didn't feel like laughing anymore. I started smelling smoke.

Oh, no.

The front part of my brain tried to shove away any thought of fire before I flipped out on the playground again and got myself kicked out of school or sent to a hospital or locked in a room with Stephanie Bridges. The back part of my brain started screaming. Red lights stabbed into my eyes, blinking and swirling, and a loud noise made me flinch.

“It's the police,” Peavine said from what seemed like a quadrillion miles away from me. He sounded awed.

How was he seeing my hallucinations? That wasn't even possible. He couldn't—

Oh.

The police. The red lights, the noise—a police car had pulled into the parking lot across the street from the school, and two uniformed officers I didn't know got out. Both of them walked toward the creep in plaid, who raised his hands like he was saying,
Easy now
, or
I got no gun
, or
I'm a nice guy—don't arrest me
.

The officers stopped in front of the guy. Both of them had short hair. They were wearing sunglasses, and their arms were crossed. If I were the creep, I'd be
nervous, because they really didn't look friendly.

“Footer,” somebody said, and I realized Ms. Malone had snuck up beside the bushes while we watched all the action across the road. Her tone didn't sound friendly either. She had on sunglasses, and her arms were crossed just like the police's were.

I didn't smell any more smoke, and I didn't feel the least little bit silly. I didn't even feel like kissing Peavine again, for the moment.

“Ms. Perry needs to see you,” Ms. Malone said. “Now. And after that, you and I, we need to talk.”

From the Notebook of Detective Peavine Jones

Interview of Nadine Perry, Twelve Days After the Fire

Location: Ms. Perry's Fifth-Grade Classroom

This is proof that I am brave enough to be a detective.

Me: Thank you for agreeing to do this interview about the fire.

Ms. Perry: Young man, I am only doing this because Ms. Malone asked me to keep you busy while Fontana Davis serves her detention, since she has to ride home with you and your mother.

Me: She likes to be called Footer.

Ms. Perry: That is a ridiculous nickname.

Me: Um, yes, ma'am. Sorry.

Ms. Perry: I have no problem with you, Mr. Jones. You take your work seriously, and you try to be a decent influence on your sister.

Me: Um, thank you, ma'am. About the fire, can you tell me where you were the night the Abrams farm burned?

Ms. Perry: I was out to a nice dinner with Mr. Drake.

Me: The librarian?

Ms. Perry: [Says nothing. Looks pretty scary.]

Me: Um, okay. So, do you have any thoughts about what might have happened to Cissy and Doc Abrams?

Ms. Perry: They died in that fire, of course. No doubt Fontana has filled you full of silly notions about them surviving. She has more intelligence than any child needs, but she squanders her potential. How she can bring any topic back around to walruses and serial killers—it beggars the imagination. Look at her writing her sentences. I'm positive she's thinking about marine mammals and murderers instead of how to
treat her schoolwork with more seriousness.

Me: Yes, ma'am. I mean, no, ma'am. I'm sure Footer is taking this very seriously.

Ms. Perry: I think she's the biggest challenge I've faced in thirty-three years of teaching social studies. I fear she's headed down the same path as her mother.

Me: [Detective is silent. Are detectives always supposed to know what to say?]

Ms. Perry: Mr. Jones, your friend attacked a younger boy on the playground. I know you all say the other boy started it, but I think both Fontana and the boy should have been suspended. Without discipline and structure, Fontana will never learn to face life on life's terms. She'll wind up just like her mother, living more in fantasy than reality.

Me: [Detective remains silent.]

Ms. Perry: For example, her latest insistence that a “creep” has been watching the school's lunch recess gave me no choice but to call the authorities. No doubt some law-abiding citizen will be harassed and questioned because a little girl read too much about serial killers and scared herself. She has been much worse since that terrible fire, and I understand that her mother has been hospitalized again. It would not surprise me at all to learn that Adele Davis has to stay in the hospital a very long time. Maybe that's what needs to happen.

Me: Um, about the fire again. There are other suspects. Like the creep, or Captain Armstrong. What do you think about—

Ms. Perry: I understand that Fontana's father took her to see her mother. [Suspect shakes her head.] I think that's too
much stress for Fontana. I'm glad that DCFS authorities have gotten involved. Maybe they can bring some order in Fontana's life before it's too late for her.

Me: Thank you for your time, Ms. Perry.

Reflections on Respect and Following Instructions

Footer Davis

Lunch Recess Detention

Ms. Perry

Page 10 of 10

90. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

91. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

92. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

93. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

94. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

95. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

96. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

97. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

98. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions.

99. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions, unless the instructions involve walruses.

100. I will treat my teachers with respect and follow instructions, unless the instructions involve walruses (or serial killers).

Captain Armstrong:
Who are you, and why is Footer in your car?

Stephanie Bridges:
I'm Stephanie Bridges. I'm with DCFS, and I offered to drive her home because Ms. Jones needed to meet with Angel's teacher and I have to do a home visit.

Captain Armstrong:
You got some ID? Stephanie Bridges: This is my name tag. Here, take a look.

Captain Armstrong:
Lady, this world has gone totally [censored] insane. Anyone can have that kind of crap made. I want to see something official.

Stephanie Bridges:
All right. Let me get my
wallet. Here we go. My official identification card.

Captain Armstrong:
Guess you're legit. You okay in there, kid?

Me:
Yes, sir.

Captain Armstrong:
I'll let your father know she's here and that I checked her out.

Me:
Thanks, Captain Armstrong.

Captain Armstrong:
You know, Ms. Bridges, these people have enough problems without you making everything worse.

“You with me there, Footer?”

I wound my way back from the numb conversation snapshots and made myself look at how the afternoon sunlight twinkled off Stephanie Bridges's blond hair as she got out of her car in my driveway. Keeping her eyes on Captain Armstrong as he ambled back up the street, she came around and opened my door for me, since she had me child-locked inside.

As I climbed out, she asked, “Is that man okay?”

My heart bounced against my ribs because she seemed genuinely worried, which worried me and made me hate her a little less and made me hate her a little more. “He's a veteran like my dad,” I told her. My gaze drifted to Captain Armstrong as he got to his own yard, and I couldn't help smiling. He looked all big and scary, but he
was so nice to me, and to everybody. So he had a pair of black serial-killer stalker-creep tennis shoes. That didn't make him guilty.

Did it?

“He put his number in my phone so I can call him whenever I want,” I added so Stephanie Bridges would understand how he helped me and anybody who needed him. “He's great, so you just leave him alone. I don't want him disappearing like Dad's guns.”

She leaned against her purple car and frowned at me as I sat down on one of Mom's stone landscape walls. “I can tell you're angry with me. It's because of the guns, right?”

“Captain Armstrong even took my BB gun, and Dad says we can't go get it right now.” I folded my arms and tried to look as mean as the police who questioned the guy in plaid. “Dad and I won't be able to go shooting this weekend, Stephanie Bridges. Are you happy?”

She sighed. “You can call me Steph. That'll be easier than saying my whole name every time you talk—and surely you and your dad can find safer activities than target shooting?”

“Like what, soccer? I broke my arm playing soccer two years ago.” How was I supposed to call her Steph? She was older than me. People older than me were Mr. or Ms. Besides, I didn't like her enough to call her Steph.

“Dad can't play soccer with me because he has bad knees,” I went on, not having to work at looking mad. “I
like football, but I can't play it. I suck at baseball, I've never gotten a basketball through a hoop in my life, ever, and I hate NASCAR. That pretty much leaves target shooting as stuff I can do with a dad in Mississippi, and you took that away. Thanks. Why do you hate guns so much, anyway?”

She looked at the ground near my feet. “I—well. It's not that I hate them, exactly. It's just, even when I was just a student learning to be a social worker I saw guns do a lot of bad things.”

“Bad people do bad things,” I said. “Not guns.”

“Guns make it a lot easier for bad people to be bad.”

I knew I wasn't going to win this argument, so I quit trying, which made her look worried.

“You could go hiking, maybe?” she asked. “Or canoeing?”

“I'm clumsy when I'm learning new stuff, and you'll put me in foster care if I turn up with a bruise.”

Stephanie Bridges—Steph?—said, “So, you're scared I'll take you away from your mom and dad.”

I unfolded my arms. “Well, yeah. Isn't that what you people do?”

“Sometimes.” She seemed to shrink into the car. “We have some very good foster parents, but that's never our first choice. Usually we just help families who are having problems.”

“By taking away BB guns?”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“Don't lie to me.” I got off the wall and stalked toward the front door. “Lying brings bad luck, and I hate it when people lie to me.”

“Okay, I'm not sorry.” Stephanie Bridges hurried after me, her voice getting closer with each word. “My very first case with DCFS, the father shot the mother right after I left from a visit. Guns make me nervous. All guns.”

I fished my key out of my pocket, crammed it in the lock, then shoved open the front door. “That's stupid. He was a bad man. It wasn't the gun's fault.”

“You're entitled to your opinion.” She followed me into the house.

“Your opinion is the only one that counts.”

“It counts some, but your father's opinion counts more. He chose to give the guns to your neighbor rather than take any chances with your safety.”

I went all the way to the kitchen before I stopped and turned on her again, glaring up into her wide brown eyes. “So what are we supposed to do about the next poisonous snake? Hack it to bits with a rake or something? That'll be
soooo
much safer.”

She looked miserable, but she didn't say anything.

I walked away from her and headed for my afternoon snack.

“Why did you write a paper about serial killers, Footer?” she asked as I opened the pantry, her words so quiet, I barely heard her.

I wanted to bang my head on the top shelf, I really did. I also wanted her to finish her inspection and go away. “Why do I always have to answer questions? Why don't you answer a few, like what's the real color of your hair?”

“It's brown, lighter than my eyes, kind of like a field mouse,” she said without any hesitation at all. “I never liked it.”

Great. Now I felt like a butthead. I really needed not to be mean to Stephanie Bridges. And where were my drinks? My brownies? I pawed through the pantry's few boxes and cans of soup. Dad and I bought a bunch of stuff at the store yesterday. Where was it? No way I sleep-ate
that
much in a single night.