One for the Murphys (6 page)

I
t is my sixth day here. My first day of school.

Mrs. Murphy, the boys, and I all pile into the car. I hold the lunch that Mrs. Murphy made for me, relieved that there are no smiley faces drawn on the bag. The boys are making up disgusting ice cream flavors as we pull into the Smith Middle School driveway. I wonder if the feeling in my stomach is from the thought of ant juice and broccoli ice cream or starting school.

I look up. Way nicer than my old school. Pillars the size of cars. Huge lawn with a row of perfect trees. All the same size. No leaves.

Mrs. Murphy turns to me. “The office is right inside the front door. Would you like me to walk you in?”

I’d kind of like her to, but I glance into the backseat and imagine two boys running in circles around us, and decide I’d rather be more invisible than that. “No, thanks.”

As I get out, Michael Eric yells, “Bye-bye, Carley. See you after school!”

The wind whips as I walk, staring at my reflection, toward the glass doors of the school; I am unfamiliar to myself in my new clothes. I head into the office. “Hi. I’m a new student here? Eighth grade?”

I give the secretary my name; it’s kind of nice talking to a secretary who doesn’t know who my mother is. She shuffles some papers and smiles. “Looks like you’re all set, Carley! Welcome to Smith!”

I am not breathing funny anymore by the time I find that the combination to my locker works. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe this will be okay.

“You’re kidding me!” the girl next to me yells, hitting her locker. “What a simp I am. I can’t believe I left it at home.” She leans her forehead against her locker, straightens, and then turns to me. “Can you believe what a simp I am?”

She takes off a very cool black jacket with scenes from New York embroidered on it. Her shirt reads
WICKED
and has a small green witch on a broom.

“Well?” she asks.

“Well what?”

“Can you believe what a simp I am?”

This is a test, but I don’t know what to say. I’m not standing in my own skin.

She leans in. “You don’t know what
simp
means, do you?”

I lean back.

“As in
simpleton
?” she asks. “Or is that too long of a word for
you?” She laughs. Her eyes get smaller and stare until I look away first. She swears and says, “What do you pathetic clones know, anyway?”

“What are you even talking about?”

She shifts her weight and then motions toward me. “Nice getup. Why, you’re a real trailblazer.”

I’ve always been fast on my feet in situations like this, but I just stand there. I look down at myself. I’ve wondered all morning if I’d be accepted more because of these popular clothes.

She slams her locker door and storms away, ranting about whatever it was she’d forgotten.

My breathing is funny again.

First period is social studies. I walk in and the teacher smiles at me. “Welcome. I’m Mr. Ruben. You know, like the sandwich?” He covers his stomach with one hand and waves the other in the air. “However, thou may address me as Sir Ruben.” He takes a deep bow and I notice he’s wearing orange Converse high tops. “You must be Maiden Carley Connors?”

“Uh-huh.” Talk about a screw loose. He must be the original wing nut.

“Why don’t thou takest a seat?”

I want to ask where I should
takest
it, but I see there is only one empty desk.

Unfortunately the seat is right next to the girl I met at the lockers. Talk about unlucky.

She rolls her eyes. “You have
got
to be kidding me,” she mumbles.

Then I look to my left and it gets worse.

I recognize him immediately, but he isn’t looking at me. He turns and then bam! He remembers. The guy from the restaurant the other night. Rainer. The guy I not only gave a hard time to, but also made it personal. He’s chewing gum slowly as he stares me down. “Well, what do you know. It’s our little orphan, Oliver Twist. Want some more rolls?”

The girl on my right looks at him like he’s contagious. “Shut up, Rainer.”

For some reason he backs down.

“Quiet down, ye villainous milk-livered minnows!” Sir Ruben’s voice is deep. Mr. Ruben goes from student to student to see if everyone has their assignments; everyone does until he gets to the girl next to me. He asks, “And you, Princess Toni?”

“I’ve no interest in being the princess. I’ll be the queen, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Ruben smiles out of one side of his mouth. “Well, that will depend on whether thou art holding thee project!”

“Nope. Don’t got it.” She slumps back in her chair and folds her arms.

“Alas, Peasant Toni!” Mr. Ruben swings his pointer as he makes his way up the aisle. “Why in the world do thou want to give me a lumpish day?”

“Everyone needs a hobby” is her flat response and the class laughs again. I feel better to know she treats other people like that.

He turns and strolls back toward the front of the class. “Alas, Miss Toni Byars. You can always make me laugh. For this, I will let you live, pardon you even, and give you another generous
and magnificent day to follow through on that most important assignment of yours.” He turns to look at her. “Minus ten points, of course.”

“Thank you, your
worship
.”

When a long-haired kid says he hasn’t finished, Mr. Ruben’s eyebrows dance and he slaps the kid’s desk with his pointer, exclaiming, “To the dungeon, ye pigeon egg!”

I quickly gather that he’s a medieval history freak, his screws aren’t loose but missing altogether, and he thinks that he’s fourteen. Still, though, I like him.

S
o, tell me how your first day was.” Mrs. Murphy sits at the kitchen counter and seems like she has nothing to do but listen to my answer. She is so odd. But it is nice. I remember how my mother never stopped talking long enough to listen to me. How I figured out that
silent
and
listen
are made of the same letters.

“Nothing too eventful. Social studies teacher is… uh… unique to say the least.”

“How about the kids? Did you meet anyone?”

“Well, I learned a valuable lesson about karma.”

“How do you mean?” she asks, leaning forward slightly.

I can’t tell her about Rainer; she’d probably shatter. “Nothing. Just kidding.”

“Well, I have no doubt you’ll make friends before you know it.”

“You know, there’s only one letter difference between
friends
and
fiends
.” Then I look up to see that she has a dopey smile. I mean, she’s nice and everything, but give me a break.

The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say. Wow. Actually saved by the bell.

I swing the front door open and find a police officer.

Mrs. Murphy comes from the kitchen. She stops suddenly when she sees him and holds her breath.

The officer looks past me at her. “Hello, ma’am. Are you Julie Murphy?”

Mrs. Murphy puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh God. Is this about my husband?”

“Ma’am?”

“My husband, Jack Murphy. He’s a Glastonbury firefighter. Is he hurt?”

The officer holds his hand up like he’s directing traffic and shakes his head. “No. No, ma’am. I’m sure he’s fine.” He softens a bit. “I’m actually here about a foster care child you have. A Carley Connors?”

Mrs. Murphy’s shoulders droop as she looks over at me.

The officer’s name tag shows that his name has thirteen letters. How unlucky for him.

I hear the clamor of four feet running in our direction. Adam says, “I’m tellin’ ya I saw a police car in the driveway!”

“Aw, wicked cool!” Adam says when he sees the officer.

“Hey there, little man.”

Michael Eric steps up. “Do you shoot people a lot?”

“Of course he shoots people, dummy,” answers Adam. “Why else would he have a gun?”

Mrs. Murphy puts her hand on Adam’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Officer.”

Michael Eric speaks again. “My daddy says policemen are brave.”

“Well, you thank your daddy for me.”

“My daddy’s a firefighter,” Adam says. The boys stand taller. “He’s brave too.”

“He must be.” The officer nods.

Mrs. Murphy holds up her pointer finger. “Would you wait just a minute? I’m going to get them busy.” She disappears with the boys. I look at the officer and decide to say nothing. I must be in trouble.

She returns quickly. “Nothing like television and lollipops in a pinch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, Officer. Now, what can we do for you?”

“Would it be all right if I asked Carley a few questions?”

She steps back and waves him into the living room. Waves in someone who probably wants to drag me away in handcuffs. Nice.

I fold my arms. “I know my rights. I don’t have to answer anything.” I’ve heard people say that on television a million times. Half the battle in these things is letting them know you’re not afraid.

“Look, miss. You’re not in any trouble.” He flips through the pages of his pad. “I am investigating an incident involving a Dennis Gray.”

I freeze. I remember telling my mother his name spelled backwards was “sinned” and she laughed at me. Back when she first brought him home and I had a sick feeling about him.

He leans forward slightly. “You know him?”

I nod as my insides fold over and over.

“He’s your stepfather, correct?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Okay.” His feet move farther apart. “So I guess you don’t like him much?”

“No. Not much.”

“Well, there are some things we need to clear up about the night you ended up in the hospital. Do you remember that night?”

“Not really.” I only remember the beginning. Besides, I don’t believe that I’m in no trouble at all.

“Now, Mr. Gray is under arrest for two counts of assault and battery, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer, among other things. He had quite a night for himself.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“The prosecutor was looking at two counts of attempted murder, but it’s hard to prove intent to kill without hard evidence.”

He was trying to
kill
me? And my mother too?

“We’ve been questioning him along this line. But Mr. Gray claims that your mother… well… that she helped him in the beating. So the prosecutor is considering charging your mother as well.”

I look at Mrs. Murphy and stand straight. I say, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

She sits down and leans forward with her elbows on her knees. She bites the inside of her cheek and I can see she’s trying hard not to cry.

“His report of the incident is that she held you down while he kicked your abdomen, chest, and back.”

I remember. I remember how she did that. I’ve been trying to tell myself that I must have remembered it wrong, but here he is to tell me that my mind wasn’t fooling me. I didn’t think anything could hurt more than that beating.

I was wrong.

I don’t want Mrs. Murphy to hear anything else, so I say again, “You don’t have to stay.”

She clears her throat and brushes her cheek with the back of her hand. “No. It’s okay. I want to be here for you.”

“I don’t need you here. It’s okay.”

She takes a deep breath and stands. I look away.

“Carley.” She says my name like it’s a command. “There isn’t anything…
anything
… that he can say that’s going to change how I feel about you.”

I think two things: One, I want to die, and two, how
does
she feel about me?

She leaves, and I miss her.

“So, Carley,” the officer says, “is there any truth to that? Did your mother contribute in any way to your situation that night?”

Situation? Good word. “What did my mother say?”

“Your mother is heavily sedated. She will remain so for quite some time.”

Great. So I have to decide. If I tell, will my mother end up
in prison? She’d never forgive me for that. Would the Murphys keep me, or would I bounce around foster care like the kids in those TV movies? I don’t seem to have a choice.

“I can’t believe that you would believe a jerk like Dennis about anything. My mother would…” The rest of the sentence sticks in my throat. “My mother would never… hurt me.” I force myself to look at him.

He nods slightly. “And you’re sure that you’re telling me the truth?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Well, frankly, I don’t believe you. I need to know what happened that night, Carley, and from where I stand, you’re the only one who can straighten things out. We can either talk this out here, or we can take a ride to the station.”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

He steps toward me, and I look up. “You said I wasn’t in trouble.”

“You won’t be if you don’t impede my investigation. We’ll get more resolved at the station, away from distractions. Why don’t you get your coat?”

I try to breathe through my nose and think of what to do. I can usually think my way out of anything, but this seems like a tall wall to climb. I know I can’t turn my mother in.

“Now, Miss Connors. If you’d like to pull yourself together…”

I am
together
. Jerk.

“. . . and answer a few questions right here, we won’t have to go. But I do need answers.”

I nod. Not like I have a choice.

“Good.” He flips open his pad. “Okay, then. The only people in the home at the time were you, your mother, and Mr. Gray, correct?”

I nod.

“Mr. Gray was in the kitchen, and you and your mother were in the dining room.”

I nod.

“You and your mother had some sort of an argument?”

“Some sort.”

He glares at me. “Just
answer
the questions.” He writes something in his pad. “What sort of argument did you have?”

“She tripped and blamed me.”

“I see.” He gives me a long, hard stare. “How did the violence begin? What was it that you did to get Mr. Gray so upset?”

I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. It was me that made Dennis mad. The biggest mistake ever. I count the crisscrosses on his thin black shoelaces. One, two, three… I can’t hear what he says exactly, but I hear something about my coat and taking a ride.