Kiki and Jacques (10 page)

When he finally slowed down, Jacques noticed that his legs were scratched and bruised. At least nobody was coming after him. Jacques took off again, running as fast as he could all the way to the Lakemont Police Station.

Jacques rushed up the granite steps to the station. “MOHAMED DIDN'T DO IT!” pulsed inside his head. As he pulled the heavy doors open, he nearly ran into an elderly lady leaning on a cane. Jacques jumped sideways, apologizing. But before he could enter the station, a policeman blocked the doorway.

“Aren't you Donny Gagnon's kid?” The policeman eyeballed Jacques. “I played football against your pop when we were in high school. He had a great arm.” The officer cocked his head, exposing the tattoo on the back of his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . .” Jacques gasped. “I need to talk to somebody! It's about the robbery on Main Street.”

“Oh yeah?” the policeman stopped smiling. “What's the problem?”

“It's just that . . . I might have seen something,” Jacques stuttered.

“What'd you say?” The officer's walkie-talkie was
buzzing. He put one finger to his lips and moved aside to answer.

Jacques waited on the step, staring at his sneakers and trembling. He heard the door swing open again and did a double take; Monique walked out.

She stopped short and grabbed his arm. “You don't need to be here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke to the police already. I told them everything.”

Jacques held his breath. “Are you sure?”

“Duane and Garth confessed. They pled guilty right away so they could get a lighter sentence.” Monique leaned close to Jacques's ear. “And believe me, after what Duane did, I won't be needing that wedding gown anymore. You were right. I
am
too young to be getting married.”

“What will you do instead?” Jacques asked. With her face that close, Monique looked just like a kid.

“Community college.” Her eyes lit up. “I might even study fashion design.” Jacques felt the tips of Monique's fingernails graze his cheek. “You be good, okay?” She bounced down the steps without looking back.

“What were you just saying about the robbery?” The officer put the walkie-talkie back in his belt and tapped Jacques on the shoulder.

“Um, well . . .” Jacques covered his mouth and coughed hard. “I was really . . . you know, my dad was worried about Mr. Silverstein. He's a friend of my grandmother's. Kind of a good friend, actually. She's alone a lot in her store.”

“Oh, that's right,” the policeman said. “Your grannie has the bridal shop a couple doors down from the Army Navy, correct?”

Jacques nodded quickly.

“Listen, you don't need to be concerned about your grandmother's safety. We caught the punks responsible.” The policeman snorted. “Believe me, there won't be any more robberies.”

“Thanks, officer. My grandmother will be glad.” Jacques turned and started down the steps.

“One more thing,” the policeman called after him.

Jacques froze.

“You tell your pop that I'll see him at the next reunion game, okay?”

Jacques flashed thumbs-up. He walked a few feet away and looked over his shoulder to make sure the policeman had gone back into the station. Then he dropped his head below his knees and drank air. He felt relieved . . . though not exactly better.

A minute later the doors opened, and Mohamed came out with his mother behind him. Mohamed raised his hand when he caught sight of Jacques. He left his mother standing by the bottom of the steps and jogged over.

“Hey,” Jacques said.

“What you did at the game, in front of the other kids . . .”

“It was nothing.” Jacques shook his head. “Boucher's been a jerk since preschool. He had it coming.”

“Boucher is not so smart, but he kicks the ball hard.” Mohamed's lips curled into a crooked grin.

Jacques cleared his throat. “There's something else.” His voice squeaked as he forced the words out. “Your sister and me are friends. Just friends—that's all.”

“I talked to her.” Mohamed nodded. “I know you been okay with her. You showing her respect.”

Jacques took a deep breath. “So . . . we good?”

“Yeah. We sure good.” Mohamed reached forward to high five. “I have to go home with Hooyo. I see you at practice.”

Jacques glanced at the woman waiting by the steps. She was wearing a long black hijab, and in daylight she didn't look as much like Kiki as she had at the church party. Her forehead was lined, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. But when she looked up at Mohamed, her face shone with the same bright smile.

“Your school called. They said you skipped class yesterday. What's that about?” Grandmère Jeannette peered at Jacques over the top of her glasses while she poured a second cup of coffee.

“That's weird,” Jacques replied. “I swear I was there.” Jacques crossed his fingers under the dining room table. “I better finish breakfast so I won't be late.”

Grandmère Jeannette grunted with an I-dunno-what-you're-up-to look and took a long sip from her mug. “Well, there's somethin' else. Louis wants to see you.”

“What?” Jacques spit out two Cheerios.

“Mr. Silverstein asked that you come to the hospital.”

“But I'm a kid; they won't let me in there.”

“First off, you're nearly a teenager now.” Grandmère Jeannette added more cereal to the bowl. “And anyway, they let everybody visit. You go on over there this afternoon. Tell him I'll swing by at the end of the day after I close the shop.”

Jacques opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Finish eating and scoot. I don't want to hear about any more missed school. Understood?” Grandmère Jeannette pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and began clearing the table.

Jacques dropped the bowl in the sink and went to his bedroom to get his backpack. Why did Mr. Silverstein want to talk to him? Had he seen something? Did he know about the money? He shivered and dropped to the floor. Pulling the envelope from under the bed, Jacques counted five crumpled bills. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket; it felt heavy as stone.

At school Kiki was pacing in front of the blackboard. Her tongue darted back and forth between the gap in her teeth. Mrs. Sinclair made everyone quiet down early.

“We have Communication Time for homeroom this morning, and I've asked one of your classmates to present something special. She's a tiny bit shy, so please give Kiki your full attention.” Mrs. Sinclair put one finger to her lips and stepped out of the way.

Kiki came to the front of the room. She was holding a piece of yellow lined paper. “My family came here from my country, Somalia. It's in the east of Africa. There was a terrible war, and we heard that America was a good place, so we came to get away from the fighting.” Kiki glanced down at the paper. “This is a poem that I wrote. With Somali people, poems are a
big thing for us.” She cleared her throat, and Jacques noticed that the paper was shaking slightly.

“My people are strong
,

My brothers are strong
,

I am strong
.

We make our path, we struggle
,

To live together in peace.”

Kiki paused for a minute and lowered the sheet. She gazed above the desks and toward the ceiling as she continued by heart in a loud, steady voice.

“My father is gone now
,

His bones are mixed with sand
.

I see him in my dreams
.

Oh country, oh father!

Do not cry for us
.

In this new place, our new country
,

We do not forget
,

We keep your strength
,

We are your strength; you protect us all.”

Kiki stopped and exhaled. The room was silent.

“That was wonderful—thank you.” Mrs. Sinclair's voice cracked a little.

A boy on the opposite side of the room put his hand in the air. “What did your father do? I mean, what was he?”

“He was a doctor,” Kiki replied.

Lucy spoke up. “Do you want to be a doctor too?”

Kiki cocked her head, thinking. “Yes, I do. Or maybe even a writer.”

The bell rang, and everyone gathered their stuff to go. Jacques followed Kiki into the hall. “I didn't know you could write poems like that.”

“You got your math, and I got my words.” She grinned.

Jacques waited until all the other kids had passed. He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I've been wondering about your dad. . . . I mean, did he die in the war?”

Kiki paused, twisting the end of her hijab. She looked up and down the empty hallway, took a long slow breath and nodded. “Three soldiers came to our house in an old truck. I was in the yard playing with our goat when I saw them. I did not know why they were there, but I could tell they were angry, so angry. Two of them had rifles, and one held a long knife.” Kiki closed her eyes. Her fingers reached to the top of the scar and slid to her lips. “The goat ran away, and the soldier lifted the knife. He was stabbing something, and then I . . . I couldn't see. I heard my father come running out from the house to stop them. But the soldiers took my father instead. They carried him into the truck, and he was gone.”

Jacques felt like his own chest had been torn apart. “That's horrible.”

“It's okay.” Kiki's eyes opened wide. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Sometimes, I wish I was as brave as you,” Jacques whispered.

Kiki shook her head and smiled. “I think you are already.”

By the time Jacques made it to the hospital, it was nearly four o'clock. Maybe Grandmère Jeannette had been wrong. . . . Maybe kids weren't actually allowed to visit. Or maybe visiting hours were already over, and they'd turn him away. But the lady behind the reception desk pointed to the elevator, and when he got off at the fourth floor, a nurse brought him down the hallway to a bare white room with two beds.

Mr. Silverstein was sitting in the second bed, reading a newspaper. Jacques passed by the other patient, asleep and snoring softly. The top of Mr. Silverstein's head was bandaged, and his forehead was several shades of blue.

“Hello Jacques! I'm glad you came, very glad.” Mr. Silverstein gestured toward the small chair beside him.

Jacques sat down, one hand deep in his pocket, fingering the envelope with the hundred dollars inside. “Why did . . . I mean, Grandmère said you needed to see me?”

Mr. Silverstein dropped the newspaper onto the
nightstand. “I'm going to get straight to the point, okay? You and I both know there is something we have to talk about.”

Jacques's head felt light, and the walls of the room turned fuzzy. “I . . . I'm sorry—really sorry!” he blurted out. “I never wanted any of this to happen.”

Mr. Silverstein leaned forward. “Listen, I know things are difficult, and I see how much your grandmother depends on you. But I've been doing a lot of thinking, and this whole incident has made me realize something.”

Jacques flinched, eyes cast down, prepared for Mr. Silverstein's anger. What would the punishment be?

“I've known your grandmother for a good many years now—you too.”

Jacques glanced up. What was Mr. Silverstein talking about?

“To be perfectly honest, Jacques, it's been lonely since my wife died, very lonely. My daughter lives far away, in New York. Seeing your grandmother smile is about the only thing I look forward to these days.” Mr. Silverstein hesitated and maybe even blushed. “I guess I've said too much. But man to man, I want you to know that I care about your grandmother, and that I hope you and I will be friends—good friends.”

Jacques squirmed. “Was that . . . that's why you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” Mr. Silverstein chuckled softly. “I guess that's all.”

The door was there, so close by. The other man was
snoring. Jacques could walk out and down the corridor, right there and then, and Mr. Silverstein would never know, nobody would ever know what he'd done. He could throw away the envelope so there'd be no fingerprints, and even if Duane said something, Duane was a thief, and he was going to prison—nobody would ever believe him.

Jacques's breath came in short jerky waves as he glanced at the open doorway. Slowly, he pulled the envelope out from his pocket and placed it on the bed in front of Mr. Silverstein.

“I'm sorry. I tried to stop Duane, but he wouldn't listen to me.” Jacques shrugged. “But I
didn't
stop him, so I guess it's all my fault.”

Mr. Silverstein lifted the envelope; a twenty-dollar bill peeked out. He was quiet for a minute, his brow in knots, staring at the money. “You'd better tell me the whole story, son.”

Jacques began as far back as far back as he could remember, when he was just a kid at church with Mom. He told Mr. Silverstein how Duane would steal his weekly charity money, and how he was afraid to say anything because Duane's aunt was Mom's friend. And later, how Duane tried to get him to sell pot at school.

Finally, Jacques told Mr. Silverstein about Duane's plan to rob the Army Navy Store—that Duane had threatened him, but had also thrown a hundred dollars on the couch for him to keep.

“Mohamed had nothing to do with it.” Jacques's head hung low. “Please believe at least that much.”

“I only wish you had said something.” Mr. Silverstein's furry eyebrows arched below the bandages. “Before all this happened, I mean.”

Jacques pressed his palms into his forehead. His face was burning, and his eyes stung. He didn't care anymore what the punishment would be; he deserved whatever he got.

“It happened to me too, once,” Mr. Silverstein said softly.