Whatever (2 page)

A dim memory of a yelp on the stairwell. “Me?”

“Please,” begged Mom, “is there any way to settle this without Darrah going to court?”

Dad added his plea. “Can we pay for anything, do anything to keep this from becoming public knowledge? My employers . . .”

The constable looked at my parents, and shook her head. “No, sir, ma'am, this is a serious offense. There is no way for your daughter to avoid consequences.”

“I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“You're lucky it was just one person who was hurt,” said the constable. “It only took a few minutes for the hospital staff to realize it was a false alarm, so they didn't have to evacuate a patient in the middle of open-heart surgery or the really sick people who couldn't be moved without risking their lives.”

“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to . . .” I yammered like an idiot, then I burst into tears. “I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. I didn't think.”

“Oh, Darrah, oh, Darrah,” said Mom, but she moved closer to me and put her arm around me.

The constable looked at us—me and Mom weeping, Dad all but on his knees begging her to make this go away. She thought for a moment, wrote something in her notebook, closed it and was silent for a while longer.

“At first I didn't think you would be a good candidate for the program, Darrah, but you now seem genuinely sorry for what you did. So I will suggest an alternative to you and your family. There is a way that you can make amends without going to court, which could easily happen.”

“How?” Mom, Dad and I all spoke at once.

“It depends in part on Mrs. Johnson, the woman who was hurt. If she's agreeable, I will recommend that you go through
the Restorative Justice program instead of appearing in court.”

“Darrah'll do it!”

“That's up to your daughter, Mr. Patrick. Not you.”

My choice?
I thought for a moment. “What will I have to do?”

“First, you have to take full responsibility for your actions.”

“Like a confession? I already did. I said I was sorry.”

“During the Restorative Justice circle you must do it publicly, in front of others.”

“Others?” Dad was nervous again. “Who else will be there?”

“Who do I have to say it in front of?”

“A representative of the hospital, Mrs. Johnson, your parents and perhaps the principal or counsellor from your school.”

“I can't do that.”

“It's hard, but that's what you'll have to do.”

“Can't I phone everyone and tell them I'm sorry?”

Dad nodded in agreement, he liked my idea.

“No, the circle is a necessary part of the community justice process. You, the offender, and the people you have harmed, the victims, will sit in a circle and face each other.”

“Can we turn the lights off? So I don't have to see them?” And they won't see me either, I thought.

The constable smiled. “I don't think that's ever been done, but you can request it.”

“Then what happens? What else does Darrah have to do?” Mom pulled me closer.

“She will have to explain what she did and why. Apologize to those affected by her actions. Then everyone discusses what her sanctions will be.”

“Sanctions?” I didn't like the sound of that word. “Like how much time I have to spend in jail? Or in one of those juvie places?”

“A circle doesn't administer that type of punishment, Darrah. Sanctions are other ways for you to pay back society for the harm you have done.”

“What other ways?”

The constable's radio crackled, she bent her head to her shoulder where it was clipped and spoke softly into it. “Sorry, I've got to leave. Here's my card. Let me know if you and your parents want to go the Restorative Justice route and I'll see if a facilitator can be found for your file.”

Mom grabbed the card and looked at it. “Thank you, Constable Markes.”

“How soon can we do this circle?” asked my father.

The constable shook her head. “The decision to participate in a RJ sanctioning circle is Darrah's, not yours, sir. Discuss it with her.”

“What's a facilitator? When will this circle happen? Do I have to . . .”

But Mom was already ushering the constable out. “Thank you so much for the chance to solve this without going to court. Thank you, Constable, thank you.” She was positively oozing gratitude. But she wasn't the one who would have to
look a strange woman in the eye and apologize. She wasn't the one who would have to do sanctions, whatever they were. Mom wasn't the one who . . .

“You've been lucky, Darrah.” Dad sounded relieved. “Maybe we can keep this in the family. Although I still don't understand why you—”

I shrugged. “Whatever.” I pushed past him and went up the stairs to my room. I was going to cry, but I didn't want him to see. I'd already cried in front of my parents once today, I wouldn't do it again.

This wasn't even my fault. It was Mom's. And Andrew's.

Why was I being blamed for something that wasn't my fault?

Chapter Two

EVERYONE LEFT ME
alone until dinner. I cried for a bit, then washed my face and gave myself a pep talk. I could handle this circle thing; I'd act contrite and be apologetic about what I'd done. I'd even cry, if I thought it would help. Last year our drama teacher taught us how to cry real tears anytime we wanted to. It was easy to start and easy to stop, so you didn't have to sob until your nose got red and drippy. Maybe I could make everyone so sorry for me that they wouldn't give me any “sanctions” at all.

I was a good actress, I would con everyone. Besides, what could they do to me? The constable said the RJ circle couldn't
send me to jail or somewhere else nasty. How hard could this be, anyway?

When I went down for dinner, I began to find out just how hard. Mom and Dad sent Andrew to his room while they talked to me.

“But I'm hungry,” he complained, moaning, grabbing his stomach and making a big dramatic deal out of having to wait a few minutes for his food.

Once he left, Dad began, “No matter what sanctions the circle imposes—”

“I haven't decided if I'm going to do the circle.” “You will,” said Mom.

“You definitely will,” said Dad.

“It's my decision,” I reminded them.

“So it is, Darrah, but I think you'll agree that it's a wise choice to go that route. However, regardless of what happens, you've upset your mother on a day when she had all the stress she could handle with Andrew's seizure. You've disappointed us both. Also, your mother and I will have to spend more time on your problem before it can be resolved. You know how pressed for time we both are. So here are your home consequences—”

“Consequences? But, the constable said . . .”

“The constable doesn't control what happens in our home. Your mother and I have decided on several consequences as a result of your actions. First, no cellphone use until after this circle happens. You may take your phone to school, but it is
only to be used to call either your mother or me. Once you get home, you may not use it. Close your mouth, we're not done. Second, minimal computer use, for school work only, monitored by me or your mother, until you have completed the sanctions, whatever they will be. We will inform the school that you are not allowed on the school computers except for word processing or research. No games, no Facebook, no whatever else you spend so much time doing online.”

“But Dad . . .”

“You're also grounded until the sanctions are completed,” added Mom. “No after school activities, no dates—”

“You know I haven't had a date for months.”

“Your mother wasn't finished,” said my father. “Don't interrupt again.”

“No movie dates with friends, no sleepovers, no social activities of any kind,” Mom went on. “That's number three.”

“What about Halloween? I've already got my costume.”

“No Halloween party, unless the sanctions are completed by then.”

“That's not fair.”

“Perhaps you should think of the old lady who's in hospital because of you. Is that fair? Or of how much stress your actions have caused your mother and me. Is that fair?”

I remembered my pep talk to myself. Act, act, act. Pretend. Get this over with as easily as possible.

“Yes, Father, I mean, no Father,” I said meekly and looked down at my folded hands. “I agree.”

“You agree! You're kidding, right?”

Andrew hadn't gone far, he had been hiding in the kitchen. The sneak, he'd heard every word.

“None of your business! You're not supposed to be listening, crawl back into your cave.”

“Andrew, you were told to go to your room!” said Dad.

Mom shrugged, “Oh, well, I suppose it's all right; he is part of this family. Although he was told to go upstairs.”

“He never does what he's supposed to, and you two don't even notice!”

“Andrew,” warned Dad.

“Okay, okay, I'm going.” He moved out of sight, but I knew he was still listening.

I started to say something else about how Andrew could get away with anything, but changed my mind, shut my mouth and stared meekly at my folded hands. Was there to be a Consequence Number Four?”

Apparently not.

My mother stood up, announcing, “I'm glad that's taken care of. Now let's put this behind us and have a nice family dinner.”

Sometimes I wondered what universe Mom lived in. It wasn't this one, that was certain. “A nice family dinner?” Not a chance.

We sat down and opened up the Chinese takeout. Silence. More silence except for the occasional, “Is there more soy sauce?” or “Andrew, put the chopsticks down, you know
you'll just make a mess with them.” Andrew's always quiet after a seizure, and I didn't have much to say, nor did Dad. Finally Mom began chattering. I guess this was her attempt at a “nice family dinner.” Dad didn't respond to her, his eyes kept slipping sideways to me, worried.

I cleared the table, Andrew stacked the dishwasher. “You are both to go to your rooms,” said Dad. “Darrah, I'll be up in a minute to move your laptop to the kitchen, where it will stay, understood?”

“Andrew, I'll come with you, dear,” said Mom. “You need to take your medication and get ready for bed.”

“I don't need to go to bed so early; I slept all afternoon.”

“Listen to your mother, Andrew. You know how tired you will be tomorrow. You always are after . . . after . . . go on, up-stairs with you.” Dad didn't like to say the words “seizure” or “epilepsy.” Maybe he thought the disease would go away if he didn't give it a name.

“You can bring your marks up,” Mom told me in her cheerful voice, “since now you won't be wasting so much time on that Facebook stuff.”

Upstairs, I wrote a quick Facebook post. “Grounded, no phone, no computer, no life. Call me on land line.” I added the family number, thought for a minute, then erased the entry instead of hitting “post.” I wasn't ready to talk about what had happened.

I watched Dad confiscate my laptop and reluctantly handed over my phone. Once he had gone back downstairs, Andrew
stuck his head in my door. “What stupid thing did you do now?”

He had been asleep when the constable was here. He always sleeps after a seizure, so he didn't know what had happened. “I bet it was really dumb. But, no computer, ouch. Hey, if you want me to . . .”

“Shut up. It's none of your business.” I almost added, “Anyway, it's your fault,” but something made me hold the words back.

“They didn't keep me long in the hospital,” said Andrew, assuming I cared. “They told Mom not to bring me back there unless a seizure lasted more than five minutes or I hurt myself or had a whole bunch in a row.”

“The doctors told her that last time.”

“Oh.” Then, “What about rehearsals? You got the part, didn't you? Will they let you off being grounded to go to rehearsals?”

“I . . . I . . . oh, go away.” I buried my head on my arms. “Get lost,” I said through my sleeve.

“Dar? You crying?”

“Leave me alone!”

I heard Andrew take a few steps into the room and stop. I bit my arm, trying to muffle the sobs that were sneaking up on me.

“Dar?”

“Go away.”

He left, shutting the door behind him and I was alone with my tears for the second time that day.