Okay for Now (26 page)

I looked at him.

"My brother didn't do anything," I said.

He sighed, like it was him that was in some sort of pain. "Principal Peattie has spoken with the

police about this," he said. "Your brother stole merchandise from the Tools 'n' More Hardware store.

He almost certainly was the one who robbed the store last fall as well. He probably is also the one

who robbed Spicer's Deli last fall."

"You don't know anything," I said.

"The sooner you face the facts—"

"Here's a fact," I said. I might have been yelling, but I'm not sure. "That bird belongs back in the

book it was stolen from."

Principal Peattie looked sort of startled. He turned around to the Brown Pelican, and then he

looked back at me. "That plate was a gift from the Education Committee when Principal Peattie

assumed the responsibilities of being the principal of this school," he said. "It was not stolen. And

Douglas, it has nothing at all to do with the problem you and Principal Peattie are talking about."

"I have an idea," I said.

Principal Peattie sighed again.

"When the police figure out who the thief really is, and it isn't my brother, then you have to give the

bird back to the library."

Principal Peattie considered this for a long time. A long time. Then he nodded, like he'd decided

something, and stood. "All right," he said. "All right. Principal Peattie will take a chance. He will do

that. Meanwhile, you, Douglas, have to promise to attend all of your classes without missing a single

one."

"And I get to stay in Advanced Algebra."

He considered this, then nodded again. "But you still have three days of After School Detention,"

he said.

I held my hand out.

He held his hand out.

We shook.

Over us both, the noble Brown Pelican watched, keeping his balance like it was no trouble at all.

***

Bysshe Shelley that she was sure I would enjoy. "'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the

desert,'" she said. "'Near them, on the sand...'"

I really will punch him right in the face.

It was late in the afternoon when I finally got out of school on the third day of detention, and even

though it was a pretty nice spring day still, I was a whole lot colder than I wanted to be because, if

you remember, I didn't have Joe Pepitone's jacket anymore. Which is why, I think, Mr. Ballard

stopped when he saw me while driving past. He leaned across the seat and rolled down his window.

"Hey! My partner!" he called.

I waved.

"Get in," he said. "I'll drive you home—unless you have time for a few horseshoes."

I got in. I looked out the window. We drove a few blocks.

"Horseshoes always help me think things out," Mr. Ballard said.

Another block. The Dump came in sight.

"I guess I have time," I said.

Mr. Ballard turned toward the paper mill.

***

he got them from behind the door—you should have seen the orchids blooming with all that sunlight

coming in—and we went down to the horseshoe pits. The ground was still pretty soggy from the

winter, and the sand around the stakes was all wet through. "It'll be a practice round," said Mr.

Ballard.

I threw the first shoe. Way over.

He threw the next one. It clanged the post and bounced off.

I threw the next shoe. Way over.

He threw the next one. A leaner.

And that's pretty much how it went, until it got too cold and we went back to the mill.

Here are the stats for that practice round:

Shoes way over: About fifty for me. Two for Mr. Ballard.

Shoes thrown short: None for me. Four for Mr. Ballard.

One-pointers: Three for me. About fifty for Mr. Ballard.

Leaners: None for me. Four for Mr. Ballard, which he said was unusual.

Ringers: None for me, which he said was unusual. Twenty-three for him, which wasn't

unusual.

"Did you have a good game?" said Mrs. Stenson when we brought the horseshoes back up.

"It was a practice round," Mr. Ballard said.

He went into his office and set the horseshoes behind his door. Then he came back out. I was

standing by the window. All that sunshine.

Mr. Ballard stood next to me. He picked up an orchid, put it back, and chose another that was in

fuller bloom. It was all purple and white and yellow, like some artist had designed an impossible

bloom without worrying about composition, like he went wild and let it all go. "This is for your

mother," he said, and handed it to me.

And suddenly, I felt like I was going to cry. Right there in the middle of the office of the president

of Ballard Paper Mill. Just start bawling like I was four years old or something. Holding this orchid

for my mother.

"It's all right," said Mr. Ballard. "Things will work out." I looked up at him. "Things always do."

I didn't want to tell him that he was wrong. I had seen the Black-Backed Gull. I didn't want him to

start crying too.

"I'll drive you home," he said. "Give me a minute." He went back into his office. Mrs. Stenson

smiled at me, which was probably her trying not to laugh, me standing there about to cry, holding a

flower. Then Mr. Ballard came back out of his office. He handed me a jacket. "This doesn't fit me

anymore," he said. "I'd be glad to have someone use it."

I took it. You won't believe what kind of jacket it was.

And no, it wasn't a Yankee jacket.

Even though a Yankee jacket would have been terrific.

It was a flight jacket. I'm not lying. A flight jacket. Dark leather. Lined on the inside with this soft

flannel stuff. Deep pockets. Turned-up collar. A flight jacket. Like you'd wear if you were an

astronaut on vacation walking around Marysville before you were going to blast off to the moon.

"Try it on," he said.

I did.

"It's a little big," said Mrs. Stenson.

"It's perfect," said Mr. Ballard, and he looked at me with eyes like the Brown Pelican's.

I drove home with him, wearing the flight jacket, carrying the orchid.

I don't think I need to tell you what my mother did when she saw that orchid.

But I do need to tell you what Lucas said when I told him I had a new flight jacket: "Would it fit

me?"

"Not in a million years," I said.

He started to laugh. "I guess you're right," he said, and laughed some more.

You know how good it was to hear Lucas laugh?

It was even better than wearing this flight jacket, which—unless Joe Pepitone's jacket turns up—is

the only thing I own that hasn't belonged to some other Swieteck before me.

On Saturday morning, Mrs. Mason said that my flight jacket looked "snazzy" and she wondered if

someone who wore such a snazzy jacket would still like a chocolate doughnut or if he was too grown

up for that. I said I would love a chocolate doughnut, and she gave me a glass of cold milk so I could

dunk it.

Mr. Loeffler said my new flight jacket reminded him of something, and he went up into his attic so

he could find it while I brought the groceries in. I waited, and when he came back, he was wearing—

I'm not lying—a flight jacket! Its brown leather was all creased and soft, and it had a yellow woolly

collar and yellow woolly stuff at the ends of the sleeves. "Mr. Loeffler," I said, "that's terrific!"

"Lieutenant Loeffler," he said, and pulled the jacket trim around him. "Not bad. Not bad at all after

thirty-five years."

He was right. It wasn't bad at all. So I brought my feet together and my hand up, and I saluted him.

Just kidding around. But you know what? He got this serious look on his face, like we weren't just

kidding around in his kitchen. And he snapped his legs together and got straighter than I had ever seen

him, and he whipped his arm up, and saluted back. His hands weren't shaking. Not at all. And it sort

of startled me—not the salute, but because of his eyes.

I think you can probably guess what they looked like.

Ben, Polly, Joel, Davie, and Phronsie loved the flight jacket. They all wanted to try it on, and I let

them, even though Joel almost disappeared in it, and Davie and Phronsie could both have worn it

together and still had plenty of room.

Mrs. Windermere said my flight jacket made me look like Errol Flynn.

"Who?" I said.

"Errol Flynn. The actor. At least, he thinks it's acting."

I shook my head.

"Never mind," she said. "I've been trying to write Mr. Rochester's dialogue all day, and every time

he speaks, he sounds like Errol Flynn. It's driving me crazy." She looked at the packages of groceries

I was putting away. "What kind of ice cream did I order?" she said.

"Pistachio," I said.

"Pistachio?"

I took it out of the grocery bag and showed her.

"I hate pistachio," she said. "I would never have ordered pistachio. It's ... green."

"That's what Mr. Spicer packed."

Mrs. Windermere raised an eyebrow. "Skinny Delivery Boy, Mr. Spicer is not infallible."

I shrugged.

She looked at the pistachio ice cream. "Go get two spoons," she said. "And take off that jacket. I

don't want to write with Errol Flynn and I don't want to eat ice cream with him either. Even if it is

only pistachio."

When I got to the library that afternoon, Mr. Powell and Lil were already upstairs, and Lil had a stack

of books that, she said, she got out for both of us because we were supposed to be working on a

project about New Zealand for Mr. Barber and did I remember that we were partners and the project

was due in two weeks?

I'm not a chump. I said I remembered.

Then Mr. Powell said I looked great in my flight jacket.

Lil said I looked great too, only the way she said it made it sound a whole lot better than the way

Mr. Powell said it.

She smiled and opened up one of the books on New Zealand. You know how pretty someone can be

when she opens up a book? Especially if she has brown hair the color of the pelican's feathers?

"Mr. Swieteck," said Mr. Powell, and we got to work.

***

unstable."

"Stable and unstable," I said.

"Let's say that you were going to draw Lil sitting by that table, working on the project that you

better get going on as soon as we're done here. Let's say that we draw the table with its legs on the

floor, and Lil with her feet on the floor, and maybe the drawing will be wider than it is high so we can

show the whole table. That painting would be stable. Why?"

"Because nothing would look like it could fall over," I said.

"Exactly. A stable composition is fixed firmly to the ground."

"So in an unstable composition, I could have Lil floating away to New Zealand."

Lil smirked at me.

"Yes," said Mr. Powell. "What else?"

"Maybe the table could be slanted and the right legs up in the air."

"In such a painting, do you see how much more tension there would be?" said Mr. Powell. "You

don't know where anything is headed."

"The Brown Pelican is stable," I said.

And after a moment, Mr. Powell said, "Yes, he is."

He is, you know. It might look like he isn't, standing mostly on this one leg on a curved branch that

looks pretty rotten. But he is. He wouldn't move if a hurricane blew in. That's what makes him so

noble.

I drew the Forked-Tailed Petrels again, from scratch, because that's what Mr. Powell said I needed

to do. They weren't smiling. The water was going every which way beneath them, and the wind was a

storm blowing so bad, they could hardly control their wings.

"You sure can't tell where they're headed," said Mr. Powell.

And he was right.

Afterward I got to work on the New Zealand project—alone, since Lil left because she had a

stomachache. But she made sure to leave all the books with bookmarks at the right places. She could

hardly wait to see what I came up with, she said from the stairs.

Terrific.

The first of April was a gray and half-rainy day that still thought it was early March. After school, Lil

and I walked over to the Ballard Paper Mill to bring Mr. Ballard a note from my mother about the

orchid and to maybe throw a few horseshoes. You know how good a flight jacket feels on a cold day

like this? You know how good it felt walking with Lil to throw horseshoes, even though it was half

rainy? Even though everyone in stupid Marysville thought Christopher was...

I went into Mr. Ballard's office and he was talking with Mrs. Stenson and when he saw us he

called, "My partner!" and I introduced him to Lil and they shook hands. I gave him my mother's note

and he said thanks and he hoped that my mother liked the orchid. I told him that she turned it every

morning in the sun so that it would grow evenly, and when she watered it, it was like she was feeding

a baby. He laughed and asked if we wanted to throw some horseshoes, and Lil said we did, and I got