What Mr. Mattero Did (5 page)

 

 

6

Melody

“It's all right,” he assured me, releasing my arm. “I'm a police detective.”

I took a step backward. “But I don't understand. Why are you asking me these questions? What kind of a survey is this?”

“Look, Melody,” Detective Daniels reached toward me again, but I took another step backward. “Like I told you, we travel from school to school making sure students are safe.”

“It's true, Melody,” Miss Weatherall chimed in. “That's all we're doing.”

But I wasn't sure I believed either one of them anymore. “I'm safe,” I declared. “May I go now?”

Mr. Daniels dropped his hand. “Of course,” he said, but he sounded frustrated. “You can go, Melody.”

Suddenly, Miss Weatherall was on her feet, too, reaching into her pocketbook and offering me a small white card. “Do not hesitate to call if you want to talk.”

“Wait a minute.” Mr. Daniels—
Detective
Daniels—snatched the card before it was in my hand. “I don't have my cards with me.” He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and wrote on the back of it. “That's my cell phone number. You can call me, too. Anytime.”

I accepted the card, then I hustled myself out of there. Last period was almost over, and already the office secretary was coming on the intercom with end-of-school announcements.
“The girls' lacrosse team should go directly to their bus for the away game. Boys' lacrosse report to the field for practice.”

A few kids were moving into the hallways, but most were still in class awaiting the final bell. I was glad I had a head start.

Some days, if I stayed late for play practice or the magazine, I rode home from school with my father. But Wednesdays, when I volunteered at the stable, I always took the bus. So I headed to my locker for my jacket and to grab the homework books I needed.

Cindy Jarmon and I arrived at our side-by-side lockers at the same time. When we were little, Cindy was in my Brownie troop. I used to go to her birthday parties. But she is Miss Popularity now, a cheerleader, too. I try not to hold that against her, and usually we get along fine. We even say hi to each other in the mornings. Then we get our stuff and go our separate ways. But that day, while I stood spinning the dial to my combination, she asked me what had happened.

“What do you mean?”

She screwed up her face. “Like, what happened to your dad?” I was still confused by the session I'd just had with Detective Daniels and Miss Weatherall, and it annoyed me that Cindy was being so nosy. Quickly, I pushed the small white card I'd just been given into my jeans pocket. Even if my dad
was
in some kind of trouble, Cindy didn't care; she just wanted to gossip.

“Nothing happened,” I said. As far as I knew, that was true.

The announcements continued:
“There will be no jazz band practice or instrument lessons after school today.”

Why no jazz band? I wondered. Dad would never cancel jazz band a week before the competition!

Startled, my lips parted in surprise. I looked at Cindy who was staring at me. But I pulled myself together fast, reached into my locker for my jacket, slammed the metal door shut, then spun around and raced for the bus.

I took a seat near the back and was grateful when no one else sat beside me. Our bus wasn't crowded, thank goodness. After we turned out of the school driveway and headed down the highway, I reached into my pants pocket for the little white card I'd just been given. Glancing around, I saw that no one was looking, so I took my time reading it.

 

 

Her phone and Fax numbers were listed. On the flip side was Detective Daniels inked-in cell phone number.

Frowning, I stared at the card. Why would these people want to talk to
me
? Were they worried about something happening at my school? Were they worried about someone in particular? Was this somehow connected to Dad? It was such a bizarre day. See? I still hadn't figured it out.

 

 

At the end of Bellevue Avenue, I got off the bus with three other kids who live in my neighborhood and walked up the sidewalk toward home. It was a warm spring day. Almost every yard I passed had some bright yellow daffodils blooming. One of my neighbors was even out mowing his lawn, a welcome sound, even if it was kind of early. But I wasn't in a mood to enjoy a beautiful afternoon.

When I crested the hill on Bellevue Avenue, I could see ahead to our house and how Dad's old red Mercury Cougar was parked in our driveway beside my mother's ancient orange Volvo station wagon. Things were getting more and more strange. Why was he home? Mom, too. She worked Wednesdays at the nursery. I quickened my pace.

When I opened the side door to our kitchen, my dad's loud, angry voice carried clearly from the back of the house. “I don't know! I have absolutely no idea!”

Mom's purse and car keys were on the counter. I set down my backpack and walked softly to the doorway of the family room, where I could see both of my parents outside on the back deck. The sliding doors that opened onto the deck were cracked open. Mom sat in one of four chairs at the umbrella table while Dad paced back and forth, his shirttails hanging out, his tie askew. He was running a hand across his head fitfully, the way he does at band rehearsal when he's frustrated because we're not playing together. His other hand held something against his face.

“Fred, take it easy,” Mom said, motioning for Dad to slow down. “Go over it one more time. What, exactly, did Helena say to you?”

Helena is the first name of Mrs. Fernandez, our principal, but Dad has known her for years. Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez have even come to our house for dinner.

Dad stopped pacing and sat down in a chair in front of my mother. I could see that it was an ice pack he pressed against his jaw. Neither one of my parents knew I was home. Quietly, I took another couple steps forward.

“Beginning of third period, Helena called me down to the office,” Dad started explaining.

“Why didn't she wait until those girls were out of school?” my mother interrupted. “You wouldn't have gotten slugged if she'd gotten them out of there first!”

Pausing, Dad looked at her. “You asked me what happened, Mary.”

“I'm sorry, Fred,” Mom apologized in a soft voice. “Go on. Tell me. Helena called you to the office.”

Dad took a deep breath and let it out. “Right. So she called me down. She said we needed to talk. I was in the music room with Mellie, and I was thinking to myself, ‘Oh, boy, what did I do this time?' And the only thing I could think of is that I gave that kid, Brett Johnson, a detention for not showing up at band practice last week. He was really ticked off about it, you know? But it's less than two weeks before the competition in Virginia, and he knew I needed everybody there.

“When I got to the office I asked Helena, ‘Is it that kid, Brett Johnson?' She said, ‘It's worse than that. Have a seat, Fred.' So I sat down. She was having a hard time getting it out. Finally, she said that three girls, three seventh-grade girls, had come to the office and complained that I had touched them inappropriately in the band rehearsal room on Monday.”

“Monday. Two days ago?” Mom asked.

“Yeah.”

“In the band rehearsal room?” Mom repeated.

“That's right. She said she separated them right away and had them write down everything. She said their stories matched, that they were identical.”

Dad sighed, and there was a moment when neither of my parents said anything. They were turned away from me, and I couldn't tell if they were even looking at each other or not. Harmony, our black and white cat, rubbed up against my legs, but I didn't reach down to pet her because I was straining to hear.

Calmly, my mother asked, “Fred, what did the girls say you did?”

Dad started shaking his head.

“Fred, what did they say?” Mom pressed.

“They said they were undressed in the rehearsal room, trying on some
Peter Pan
outfits, and that I walked in on them, hugged them, rubbed one of them on the back, and touched another on the . . . on her behind.”

There were a few more seconds of silence. Then my mother asked in a soft voice. “Did you do it, Fred?”

Just then, Harmony jumped up on the counter beside me and knocked over a plastic tumbler. I grabbed for it, but it clattered to the floor.

“Mellie! You're home!” Mom exclaimed as both my parents rushed to the doorway.

“Yes,” I said, standing up and placing the tumbler back on the counter. I scooped up Harmony and held her close.

Dad wasn't holding the ice pack against his face anymore, and I could see how the area around one eye was kind of red and puffed up.

Mom looked from me to Dad and back to me. “Were you listening?”

I nodded. “Dad said some seventh-graders accused him of something.”

Mom's eyes slid sideways, to look sadly at my father. “And an angry parent hit him in the face.”

Dad held up the hand that wasn't holding the ice pack. “Look, Mellie,” he said. “I didn't touch those girls. I have no idea what's behind this!”

“Then we have nothing to be afraid of,” my mother said calmly. “Everything will be all right.”

 

 

But everything was not going to be all right. Not by a long shot. The next thing we knew someone was ringing the doorbell, and it turned out to be Mrs. Fernandez.

Mom invited her in and asked her to come sit in the living room, but my principal came only as far as the umbrella stand in the front hall. “I'd better not,” she said, handing Dad an envelope.

My father took the envelope, but didn't open it right away. “Fred, listen,” Mrs. Fernandez said, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. “I don't know what has happened, or what is going to happen, but you know as well as I do, the school system has a policy. They have rules. And I need to follow the rules.”

“But I didn't do anything, Helena!” Dad exclaimed, suddenly coming to life. “I can't deny I was in the rehearsal room with those girls—I
was!
I asked them to put the costumes away. But nothing happened in there. Nothing!”

“Fred, please understand. I am not casting judgment. I am following procedures.”

The way she said that, we knew we couldn't ask her for more.

Mrs. Fernandez pulled her hands out of her pockets, held one up to say good-bye, and left.

As soon as the door closed, we turned to Dad. He ripped open the envelope, unfolded the letter inside, and we crowded around him to read it silently, together:

7

Claire

“What did he do to my baby? My poor baby! I can't believe this!” she cried. She had folded her arms around Suzanne—she practically smothered her—and she was making one heck of a giant racket, if you ask me. I was embarrassed for Suzanne, I really was. What a spectacle. And
her—
Suzanne—not saying a word, just standing there like she went mute or something.

This was before Jenna's dad stormed in and took a swing at Mr. Mattero. But it's not like Mr. Mattero was looking for a fight. All he did was walk by the guidance office, where we were standing with our parents, and someone whispered, “That's him—that's Fred Mattero!” Jenna's dad bolted out of the door like lightning and took after him down the hall.

We spilled out the door to watch. Even Suzanne freed herself from her mother so she could see. It wasn't a very pretty sight. Kind of scary, actually, the way Jenna's dad grabbed Mr. Mattero from behind and hit him in the face with his fist. Mr. Mattero fell against the lockers and groaned. He put his hands up on his jaw while Jenna's dad stood there, hollering at him, “You pervert!” It looked like he was getting ready to punch him again, too, only two teachers, Mr. Saunders and Mr. Fellows, came running up behind Jenna's dad and grabbed his arms just in time.