Time Off for Good Behavior (37 page)

“
Hey, Kace. PlayStatio
n broken again?
”

Kacey didn
’
t even look up. I could tell from her stiff movements that she was upset. I walked over and sat down next to her, being careful not to step on any random parts. I gave her shoulder a gentle shove with mine.

“
Kace, I
’
m sorry. Rea
lly. I wasn
’
t thinking. I had some stuff I needed to deal with.
”

She turned her face toward me a little.
“
We didn
’
t know where you were.
”

“
I know,
”
I said, feeling like a teen who
’
d been out past curfew.

“
You could have been dead on the side of the road.
”

“
I know. I know. I
’
m sorry.
”

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and examined my face for signs of true regret. I must have passed the test, because a moment later she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. I put my arms around her little bo
dy and squeezed. She released me and gave me a sharp pinch on my arm for good measure, then smiled.

“
Alex is in his room. He
’
s been pretending not to be worried, but you should go tell him you
’
re here.
”

I ruffled her hair and headed up the stairs. The door
to Alex
’
s room stood closed like an ominous barrier at the end of the hall. I
’
d never been in the inner sanctum before. I rapped twice on the door.

“
Alex? It
’
s me.
”

I heard some shuffling, then,
“
Come in.
”

I opened the door. He was sitting cross-legged at the head of his bed, his back slumped against a husband pillow. There were a few crumpled pages on the floor, and a pen was resting by his foot. The edge of the leather journal I
’
d bought him hung out of a
hastily shut drawer in his desk. I smiled.

“
Just wanted you to know I was home safe.
”

He shrugged.
“
I knew you would be. The girls were all freaking out.
”

Ah.
The girls.
I withheld my smile and sat down on the corner of his bed and glanced toward the desk.

“
So... you been writing in that journal?
”

His eyes widened a bit. Busted. He regained his cool and shrugged again.
“
A little.
”

I nodded.
“
Anything good?
”

He shrugged.
“
‘
Sokay.
”

“
Would you let me read it?
”

His posture straightened a bit, but that was all I
got, aside from a barely perceptible nod. We sat for a second in silence. I stood up.
“
Well, I
’
m sorry if I worried you.
”

“
I wasn
’
t worried.
”

I was at the door when I heard my name. I turned around. He was holding the journal out to me.
“
I wrote a play fo
r your stupid puppet show.
”

I raised my eyebrows.
“
Is it good?
”

He shrugged.
“
Kids might like it.
”

I took the journal and grinned at him.
“
Think you can help me get a performance together by Christmas Eve?
”

He shrugged again. I sat back down on the bed.

“
L
ook, Alex, let me tell you something so you don
’
t end up wasting a bunch of precious time. If there
’
s something you care about, just own up to it and go for it. If you get hit by a bus tomorrow, do you want to die knowing the only thing you ever did was p
r
etend you didn
’
t care about anything?
”

His eyes widened.
“
You
’
re getting preachy in your old age.
”

I smiled.
“
There. An actual statement of opinion. We
’
re getting somewhere. Now, back to my original question: do you give enough of a shit about what you wr
ote to help me put a show on?
”

He smiled.
“
You said
‘
shit.
’
”

I held up the journal.
“
I
’
ll read it tonight. Meantime, I want you at the Santa Station every day after school, okay? I
’
ll clear it with your mom.
”

“
Okay,
”
he said. I squeezed his foot and stood
up, almost out of the room before he called my name again.

“
What?
”
I said, turning around.

“
I
’
m glad you
’
re home,
”
he said.

I smiled.
“
Me, too, kid.
”

***

I closed the journal after reading Alex
’
s play and stared at the ceiling in my apartment. The kid was a writer. There were some rough spots
—
he had a couple of grammatical issues
—
but he was a writer. His story was funny, his characters were sharp, and his dialogue wasn
’
t half-bad.

He was a writer.

I gave a short chuckle, staring down at the journal clutched in my hand.

“
Hmph,
”
I said to no one.
“
Who knew?
”

I leaned over on my side and looked at my wall. Just five stickies left.

Go see parents.

Do something meaningful.

Identify phantom music.

Figur
e out what I want.

Tell Walter.

I flipped through Alex
’
s journal, looking at the chicken scratch. I reached over, pulled
Do something meaningful
off the wall, and threw it into the garbage can. Cuddling Alex
’
s journal to my chin, I fell asleep, smiling.

C
hapter Twelve

I
’
d been lying on my bed for an hour since getting home. As Christmas approached, things at the Santa Station had been getting out of hand. I
’
d been dragging that damn train full of kids all day. My back hurt. My legs throbbed. My eyelashes
were tired.

And I was still hearing that damn phantom music.

There was a small knock at the door. I didn
’
t move.

“
Come in!
”

Kacey opened the door, her arms loaded with a tray carrying two glasses of milk and a plate of what smelled like fresh-baked chocola
te chip cookies. I sat up.

“
You are the best kid on the planet,
”
I said, getting up to help her with the tray. We settled on opposite ends of my bed, digging into the cookies and milk, addressing priorities before we bothered with small talk. It wasn
’
t unt
il Kacey was well into her second cookie that I heard her humming.

My tune.

“
Kace?
”
I said.
“
Why are you humming that?
”

“
Hmmm?
”
She looked up at me, the tiniest trace of a milk mustache on her lips. I smiled.

“
The song. My song. You were humming it. Have y
ou heard it recently?
”

She sighed.
“
No. That
’
s the problem.
”

“
What do you mean?
”

She leaned forward, tossing up her hands in exaggerated preteen frustration.
“
Wanda, I
’
ve listened to everything. Wagner. Berlioz. Tchaikovsky. I
’
ve been to the library. I
’
ve
borrowed stuff from my friends
’
parents. Brittany
’
s grandfather plays in the symphony, and I hummed it for him and he didn
’
t know it. I couldn
’
t find it. I
’
m sorry.
”

I opened my mouth, came up with nothing, closed it again. I stared down at the crumbs swim
ming on the surface of my milk. I could feel my eyes filling with tears as I looked back up at her angelic little face.
“
Thanks, kid.
”

Her eyes widened.
“
What
’
s the matter with you?
”

I shrugged and tried to catch my breath as the tears came faster.
“
Nothin
g... just... you... that you would do that... for me...
”
I threw my hands up in the air and went into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper, blowing my nose and tossing the crumpled mass into the garbage can, then sat on the bed again.

Kacey laughed.
“
You
’
re weird. Why wouldn
’
t I do that for you? You
’
re family.
”

“
Stop!
”
I said, fresh tears sprouting.
“
What are you trying to do, kill me?
”

She shook her head.
“
Grown-ups cry over the strangest things, don
’
t they?
”

I laughed and nodded.
“
Yeah. Sometimes.
”
I looked up at her and managed a quivering smile.
“
Really. Don
’
t be freaked out. I
’
m fine. It
’
s just...
”
I waved my hand in front of my face, trying to fan the emotion away.
“
I love you, kid.
”

She laughed and hopped over to my side of the bed, throwing he
r arms around my neck.
“
I love you, too, Wanda.
”

As I wrapped my arms around her, I got my first glimpse of the unconditional love parents feel for their children. It was a quick snapshot, an intense burst of emotion that radiated through me, and I knew th
at I would step in front of a train for her without thinking twice. I would kill anyone who ever tried to hurt her. And if she ever strapped herself to the back of some loser
’
s Harley, I would never stop loving her, no matter how many stupid mistakes she
m
ade.

I gave her a quick squeeze and grabbed the roll of toilet paper again, wiping my eyes and trying to put on a brave face for her.

“
They
’
re happy tears,
”
I said.

“
Yeah,
”
she said as she stood up.
“
I think you
’
ll be okay.
”

“
You know what, kid?
”
I said, p
utting my arm around her as I walked her to the door.
“
I think so, too.
”

I sent her back downstairs and sat on my bed, staring at the four stubborn stickies left on my wall. I pulled down
Go see parents,
staring at the letters on the paper, wondering at ho
w a bunch of marker squiggles on some processed pulp could hold so much power. I stuck it back on the wall with the others and called the airlines to get rates for a trip to New York City for Saturday morning.