In Too Deep (15 page)

Most of us signed the contract and kept our commitment.
Posters were put up everywhere, and students painted huge murals with drug-free themes in hallways all over the school. My favourite one is a dark scene with a ghostly figure slumped in a dark alley. Over the top it says “Users are Losers.”

The schools and the community started holding special events where anyone who was suspected of using wasn't allowed in, or got thrown out. Before long, it was the users who were in the minority. Peer pressure became a powerful tool as it got behind the idea and swelled.

The schools both adopted a zero tolerance policy on drugs. Anyone who was found using or carrying on school property had a five-day suspension for the first offence and a suspension for the rest of the school year for a second offence. If a student was suspected of being high in class, parents were called and informed of the school's concern.

Every once in a while the police dog, Spotter, came for a “visit.” It wasn't long before students realized that they might be able to hide drugs from everyone else, but they couldn't hide anything from Spotter. He's amazing. I've seen a few panic-stricken faces in the hallways when he'd appear, padding along beside his human co-officer. When he'd smell something, he'd stop suddenly and bark, his tail sticking straight out behind him. Whether he was standing in front of a student, a locker, or a bookbag, someone was busted!
Spotter did more to help clean things up than everything else put together.

Of course, there are still a few potheads around, but in general the campaign was incredibly effective.

So, you can see that the idea that the robberies might be drug related didn't make sense. I couldn't figure out why that thought had come along with the others, but then I didn't see the connection of the other things either. Probably, none of it had any significance or importance. It certainly didn't give me any ideas about who had committed the crimes.

Still, when I'd finished the dishes I got a sheet of paper out and made a list:

Think about the thefts that
didn't
happen at school.

I felt silly writing that one. What help would it be to think about something that hadn't even occurred? And for that matter, how could I possibly know what the thief might have tried to take and couldn't, for one reason or another?

The key. The police will think Amber's mother is protecting her?

Someone with the initials A. C.

Drug addicts steal to support their habits.

I felt a bit foolish when I read back over the list. “There's nothing here that means anything at all,” I said aloud.

You're missing something
.

The thought that I was missing something came like an accusation. It was so frustrating! I almost crumpled up the paper and threw it in the garbage, but on the off chance that even one item on the list actually meant something, I put it in my room instead.

Greg wasn't working Sunday night, though he'd been on the job most of the weekend. He'd mentioned that he had a paper to finish writing for English class, so I knew he'd be home working on that. After arguing with myself over whether or not it was fair to disturb him when he had so little time to get his assignment done, I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

He answered on the fourth ring, which increased my guilt.

“Greg, I'm sorry to bother you when you've got homework to do.”

“Don't ever apologize for calling me,” he laughed. “I love … hearing from you.”

My heart did a little flip-flop. Could he have been about to say he loved me? It almost made me forget why I was calling.

“Anyway, the paper's almost done. I've been writing it in my head all weekend, at work. Now it's just a matter of putting it on paper.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Amber.”

“Sure. What's up? Is there something new?”

“Not exactly, but there were some things that came into my head a while ago and I just can't seem to make sense of them. I thought maybe if I talked to you, you might have some ideas.”

Then I went over the list of things I'd written. They sounded even sillier than ever.

“Okay, so what you have are bits of information that don't
seem
to be related, right?”

I agreed that was the case.

“But they must mean
something
. Obviously, you've been spending time thinking about the whole robbery situation. I think you should look at your list as clues. Even if the things you've written down aren't related to each other, they're probably all somehow related to the robberies.”

“But how?”

“I don't know. But it's in your head, and you must be getting somewhere with it, even if you feel that you're not. I'd say just relax and let other thoughts come out; keep writing them down. It's like a puzzle, and you've got some of the pieces there. You just need more to get the whole picture.”

I felt encouraged by that. Then he made another suggestion.

“You know, babe, the robberies all happened within the last few months. Maybe it would help to write down everything you can remember that happened during that time period. Even things that don't seem related in any way. Something might jump out at you that you'd otherwise overlook or miss.”

It seemed like a big job, and one that would probably be a waste of time. In spite of that, I got out a couple of notebooks, one for each month, and began to jot down notes.

After all, two months was not such a long time. And that was how much time Amber had left before her trial.

Amber was back at school on Monday. By the end of the day she looked absolutely defeated. From the short time I'd spent with her in the cafeteria, I knew what she'd endured. It was as if there was a sphere of tension surrounding her, penetrated by regular comments from the other students. I heard the word “thief” tossed in her direction a few times, and the glares of hostility were impossible to ignore.

“I don't think I can handle this much longer,” she whispered to me in the schoolyard when classes had been let out for the afternoon. “Everyone hates me.”

“They don't hate
you
, Amber. They hate what
they think
you did. Once they find out they were wrong, things will get better.”

My words didn't seem to cheer her much, even though she made an effort to smile.

“And when do you suppose that will happen?” Her voice was flat and emotionless as she asked this, as though she had little interest in the answer.

I wanted to promise her it would be soon, that this would all be over and she could look forward to a normal life. Instead, I admitted that I didn't know.

My heart was heavy as I watched her walk away. She looked so alone and lost, a tiny form making its way through a town that had judged her.

“I don't suppose I might get to spend a little time with my girlfriend this evening.”

Turning, I saw Greg standing behind me.

“Oh, Greg. We have to
do
something.”

“That's what I was suggesting.”

“I mean about Amber. She's really down. I'm worried about her.”

“Now that sounds like a romantic evening.” His teasing remark was betrayed by the cloud of concern in his eyes.

Consider the timing.

I must have looked startled as this odd thought popped into my head because Greg leaned forward slightly, a question on his face.

“I just had a strange thought,” I explained. “It came out of nowhere, like the others I had yesterday.”

“What was it?”

When I told him, he nodded, as though it was something important.

“Let's take a walk after dinner tonight,” he suggested. “Just wander around and relax. Maybe something else will come to you. At the very least, we can talk about the whole thing.”

I agreed, glad at the thought of being out of the house. It seemed I'd been indoors almost constantly in the past week.

He arrived to pick me up at six o'clock, while Mom and I were doing the dishes.

“I'll just be a few minutes,” I told him, but Mom insisted that she'd finish up herself.

I grabbed my jacket and we headed out, walking aimlessly through town. Before long I was thirsty, and we stopped to get bottles of water at the One Stop convenience store.

“You two are friends of that crook, aren't you?” the woman behind the counter asked accusingly. Her hands clasped her blouse nervously, as if she was afraid we were going to pull out a gun and rob her.

“No, ma'am,” Greg said politely. “We
are
friends of the girl who was charged, but she's innocent.”

“You
say
,” she sniffed. “You think her parents sent her here for no reason? I bet she was in trouble with the law where she came from.”

“We didn't come in here to argue,” Greg's voice stayed calm and civil. “We just want to make our purchase and leave.”

“Make your purchase somewhere else,” she snapped. “This is a respectable store, and the likes of you aren't wanted here.”

“Our money is as good as anyone's,” Greg said softly. His arm slid around my waist, steadying me. The shock of being talked to that way made me feel as though I'd been kicked in the stomach.

“Not everything is about money! There are other things that are more important, like reputation.” Her chin rose and she shot us withering looks, as though our very presence was defiling the store. “Now, there's the door. Get out.”

Greg shrugged, took the bottles of water back to the cooler and put them back on the shelf. We walked out of the store.

“When this is all cleared up,” I said angrily once we were back on the street, “I'm going to go in there and demand an apology.”

“An apology that's demanded is hardly ever sincere,” he answered. “It would be better to go in and just be nice. That would be more likely to make her feel genuinely sorry and ashamed of the way she treated us.”

“How could she talk that way, ordering us out of the store as if we were some kind of criminals?” I
seethed. “She doesn't know anything about us.”

“It's just fear. People want to protect what's theirs. With all the crazy stories going around, she saw us as some kind of a threat.”

“Yeah, we're a
big
threat.” I mimicked her nasty words. “Not everything is about money. There are other things more important, like reputation.”

“I think she was overreacting there,” Greg sighed. “It's not as if our presence in the store was going to ruin the business or anything.”

“Well, I don't know how you stayed so calm and polite to the old witch.”

“That's because of a simple lesson I learned from my dad,” he smiled. “He always told me, never let someone else decide how you're going to act. Anyway, let's talk about something else.”

“Okay, but I'm still thirsty.”

“Right. Well, if we cross through the back of the bus stop property it will bring us out to Broderick's and we can get you your water there. I don't think he'll throw us out.”

So we did, and then continued along. He took my hand as we walked, and before long his calming presence had made me feel better.

“That idea you had earlier, about timing. Have you given it any more thought?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “Well, I did think about
when each robbery had taken place, but there's no relation. One was on a Sunday, the other was on a Thursday. Aside from the fact that both happened at night, there doesn't seem to be any real connection.”

“Sunday and Thursday,” he repeated slowly. “I can't think of anything there either.”

We talked about the other things I'd written down, but after reviewing them we were no closer to arriving at any sort of conclusion.

When I got home I added “Timing” to my list of “clues” and looked it all over again. There's something here, I thought, why can't I see what it is?

By the time I got ready for bed that night I was exhausted from straining to think about the whole subject. As I was drifting off to sleep, the last thought that came to me wasn't about the robberies at all, or at least it didn't seem to be. Instead, the woman from the store's words drifted through my head.

“Not everything is about money! There are other things that are more important, like reputation.”

It all seemed hopeless.

It was still partially dark outside when I woke up the next morning. I turned to the clock on my night table and half groaned to see that it was barely past six. For a few minutes I lay there trying to get back to sleep but soon realized that wasn't going to happen. I was vaguely aware that I'd been awakened by a dream. Little snatches of it flitted through my head and I made a futile effort to catch it before it slipped away completely. There was no sense in that, as I well knew. The harder you try to remember a dream, the faster it disappears completely.

I slid out of bed after lying there for about ten minutes, washed up, and got a glass of orange juice from the kitchen. My parents wouldn't be up for nearly an hour so I tiptoed past their door on the way back to my room, careful not to disturb them.

Deciding to read for a while until everyone was out of bed, I went to my desk and glanced at the books on the shelf above it. Then I noticed Jane's last letter sitting beside the lamp and remembered that I still hadn't answered it. This would be a good time to do that.

I always read through a letter while I'm answering it, to make sure I don't miss any questions or forget to comment on anything important. Well, I was halfway through writing when part of a sentence in Jane's letter leapt off the page at me.

“Most mothers would do anything they had to do, to protect their children …”