The Seventh Most Important Thing (11 page)

O
fficer Billie showed up at the hospital wearing a pair of white pajamas. At least, that's what Arthur thought at first.

He was in the waiting room with the old lady and all of the other permanent-looking hospital visitors when Officer Billie barreled through the door about an hour after he'd called her. Her dark hair was sticking up in spiky tufts, and a brown purse dangled loosely over her arm.

Arthur was so used to seeing Officer Billie in her precisely creased uniform that he might not have recognized her if it hadn't been for the voice.

“Mr. Owens, there you are,” she belted out. “I've been trying to locate you all over the hospital.”

Arthur wouldn't have admitted it to anyone—they would have had a field day with it at juvie—but he was sort of glad to see his probation officer.

“Karate,” Officer Billie said, explaining her odd outfit as she came over to Arthur. “Saturday classes.”

Arthur added this to his very short list of surprising things he'd learned about Officer Billie. She made caramel corn and she did karate.

“Are you all right?” The probation officer studied him with her stern cop gaze. It was like sitting under a lamp. It made Arthur sweat.

“Yeah, kind of.”

“What happened?”

As Arthur started to answer, Officer Billie glanced around at the other people in the waiting room, who were desperately trying to seem as if they weren't hanging on every word.
“Wait,”
she said, holding up her hand. “We'll talk outside.”

Arthur was surprised to see it was still light out. He felt like it should be way past suppertime, but there were some streaks of pinkish yellow left in the sky. The rain seemed to have stopped. Big puddles filled the parking lot.

“Car's over here.” Officer Billie pointed at an old blue Pontiac. “Nothing fancy. No sirens on this one,” she said with a joking grin as she opened the door for him.

The car smelled like fast food. Officer Billie had to brush some wrappers and leftover fries off the passenger seat before Arthur sat down. “Let me get the door,” she said automatically, closing it with a firm thump.

As they waited in a line of traffic, the officer finally turned to Arthur and said, “Now, let's hear the details.”

Arthur kept his eyes focused on the scene outside the car window. “I don't know,” he answered truthfully. “Mr. Hampton was on the floor of his garage when I got there this morning. I couldn't tell what happened or how long he'd been there.”

He didn't mention what Mr. Hampton had been working on. If Officer Billie didn't already know what the guy was doing, he wasn't going to be the one to tell her. Plus, he wasn't even sure he
could
explain it.

“So you got help and went to the hospital with him?”

Arthur nodded.

“Well, I'm extremely proud of you for being in the right place at the right time,” Officer Billie said.

In his mind, Arthur added,
Instead of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, like you usually are.

“The judge will be pleased to hear what you did for Mr. Hampton today.”

Then there was a strange pause. Arthur had the feeling Officer Billie was going to say something else but changed her mind.

“You hungry?” she asked as the light in front of them turned green. “How about a burger or something? My treat.”

Arthur didn't want to spend any more time with Officer Billie than necessary, but he knew there wouldn't be any supper at home since his mom was gone. Having eaten nothing for hours, he couldn't bring himself to turn down a burger and fries, no matter who bought them.

“All right, sure,” he agreed.

Officer Billie pulled into the parking lot of a small diner. It looked pretty empty. Inside, there were about a dozen tables with red-checkered cloths and a row of worn booths. “We'll take a booth,” Officer Billie said to the waitress, who seemed to know her.

She put them in a corner one that could have fit a family of eight. Arthur figured Officer Billie probably brought all of her juvenile delinquents there.

“Order whatever you want,” Officer Billie said. “I've already eaten.” She told the waitress all she needed was a cup of black coffee.

Arthur didn't want to be greedy. Although he could have polished off about three of the diner's Big Platter specials, all he ordered was a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.

Fortunately, everything came pretty quickly.

He was just finishing his meal—carefully scraping up the last globs of ketchup with his fries—when Officer Billie said she had something serious to talk about now that he was done eating.

Right then, Arthur knew he never should have agreed to Officer Billie's offer of a free meal. He'd been on the receiving end of enough bad news to know when more was coming.

Officer Billie sighed and folded her hands in front of her. “I'm not going to sugarcoat it. You know me, I don't sugarcoat things.”

Arthur nervously swallowed the last of his watery Coke, as if that would help the sudden dryness in his mouth. He had no idea what to expect.

“All right.” Officer Billie cleared her throat. “I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you this, but I think you need to know the truth. Especially after what happened today.” She paused and looked at Arthur. “I'm sure you've already guessed that Mr. Hampton is very ill.”

No, Arthur thought—he hadn't guessed anything. That morning was the first time he'd actually seen Mr. Hampton since the day in court. But he decided it wasn't a smart idea to share that fact with Officer Billie now, so he stayed quiet and let her keep talking.

“The truth is,” the officer continued, “he may not have a lot of time left.”

Arthur tried not to jump to the worst conclusions right away. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

“Mr. Hampton is dying of cancer. Stomach cancer,” Officer Billie said in a voice that reminded Arthur of how the cops had told him about his dad.
Tom Owens died instantly.

Officer Billie drummed her fingers on the side of her coffee mug. “He told the judge about it, but he didn't want anyone else to know. He didn't want it to affect your sentence. And he especially didn't want you to be told,” she added.

Arthur wasn't sure what to say. What went through his mind first was, Why did all of this bad stuff keep happening to him? How could the guy he'd just started to get to know be dying of cancer? What would it mean for his probation and for all the work he'd done for him so far?

“So what's going to happen now?” he asked, feeling kind of stunned. “With everything?”

“Well…,” Officer Billie said slowly, “I guess you'll keep working for Mr. Hampton as long as he wants you to.”

What?
Arthur's eyes darted toward Officer Billie. “You mean until he…” He couldn't bring himself to say
dies.

“No, I'm not saying that exactly….”

“I can't do that,” Arthur said quickly. “No matter what the judge says, I can't.”

Even if it sounded terrible, there was no way he could be around someone who was dying. He knew it would bring back all the bad memories of his dad's death. The judge couldn't make him do that, could he?

“My father died in a motorcycle crash this past summer, did you know that?” Arthur blurted out. For reasons he couldn't explain, his eyes were starting to sting with tears. Embarrassed, he slid out of the booth and began yanking on his coat. He had to leave—he could hardly see what he was doing.

“Yes,” Officer Billie answered calmly. She picked up the check and waved it at the waitress to show she was ready to pay. “I am aware of that fact.”

“He hit a tree and died instantly.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that.”

“I'm not going to go through all that again,” Arthur said, his voice rising. “I'm not doing it. Tell the judge he needs to find someone else.”

“Okay,” said Officer Billie, not showing any emotion at all. “I'll inform the judge of your wishes.”

“Seriously, I'm not going back,” Arthur shouted over his shoulder as he headed for the door and pushed it open, glad for the darkness, glad for the rain, which was falling again.

T
hat night, Arthur had another one of his bad dreams about his dad.

In this dream, he had to go around the city collecting empty beer bottles in order to save his father's life.

It wasn't difficult to figure out where this dream came from.

Each time Arthur filled a sack with bottles, he'd bring it to Officer Billie, who would weigh it on a gigantic scale in the courthouse, and each time, she'd squint at the number on the scale, shake her head, and say, “Not enough.” Then Arthur would stumble back into the darkness to try and find more.

At the same time he was desperately collecting all of the bottles he could find, police cars were getting closer and closer to the door of his house. So the dream became one of those horrible races against time. Could Arthur collect enough bottles before the police arrived to say his dad was dead?

In the dream, it was a warm and rainy August night—just like the night his dad died. Arthur kept slipping and falling on the slick streets. Bottles kept rolling out of sight and disappearing as he reached for them. Officer Billie kept saying
Not enough, not enough.

Arthur had a lot of these dreams—dreams where he was trying to save his dad.

They all ended the same way.

He always woke up before he could succeed.

M
onday wasn't a good day.

After his miserable weekend, Arthur was in no mood for school. He drew circles on his notebook during most of his classes. By the time he got to lunch, he'd filled the entire front and back covers of his math notebook with aimless spirals.

“What's wrong?” Squeak asked, giving Arthur a sideways look as he sat down next to him.

“Nothing,” Arthur snapped.

He could see Squeak's eyes blink nervously behind his old-man glasses, but he had to give the kid credit—he didn't move away.

“Okay. Just wondering.”

Silently, Squeak opened his brown lunch bag and got out his usual collection of foil-wrapped items. After unwrapping each one, he slid the foil squares toward Arthur, who didn't bother to pick them up. They stayed where Squeak left them. A lonely raft of foil in the middle of the cafeteria table.

Squeak nibbled on a corner of his sandwich and eyed Arthur. “Not eating?”

“Not hungry.”

“Okay…” Squeak paused. “If you get hungry, you can have some of my lunch if you want it.”

“No thanks.”

As the silence continued, Arthur became aware of something hitting him in the back. At first he thought maybe he was imagining things. It was just a light tap, and when he looked over his shoulder, nobody was there.

Then he saw the piece of hot dog hit Squeak's back.

Squeak was wearing one of his usual tucked-in shirts with a sweater vest. The piece of hot dog had mustard on it. A splat of yellowish brown was smeared on the back of Squeak's light blue vest.

Another piece of hot dog hit Arthur's neck and ricocheted onto the table.

This wasn't the first time they'd been targets in the junior high cafeteria. Getting shoved in the food line or being called Convict or Juvie Boy was about the worst it got for Arthur. Most seventh graders at Byrd still seemed to fear him a little bit. But Squeak got picked on nearly every day.

Arthur sucked in his breath, feeling his fury boiling over. “That's it,” he said. He grabbed the hot dog piece off the table and started to stand up.

“Wait.” Squeak put his hand on Arthur's arm to stop him. “Give me your notebook and a pen.”

“What for?” Arthur turned his anger on Squeak. “Just let me handle it.”

But Squeak reached out and snatched the notebook that was sitting on top of Arthur's pile of books. Picking up a pen, he began writing something in large letters. Arthur couldn't see what it was. Squeak kept his arm over the page.

It only took him a minute to finish his message, and then Arthur was shocked to see Squeak get up, put one knee on the shiny table, and scramble awkwardly onto it.

Then he stood up.

“For crying out loud, Squeak. What are you doing?” Arthur called out.

The noise in the large cafeteria gradually diminished as more and more kids noticed Squeak standing on the table in his blue vest, belted pants, and polished leather shoes. There was a lot of nervous laughter and “What's he holding?” A couple of the gym teachers who supervised the cafeteria moved closer.

Arthur couldn't see the sign. Not from where he was sitting.

“What the heck did you write?” he asked.

“I'll tell you later,” Squeak answered without moving. “Just finish your lunch.”

“I don't have a lunch,” Arthur shot back. “Get down, Squeak, and stop acting like a moron.”

“I'm not sitting down until they stop throwing things at us.”

“They've stopped.”

“Well, then, it's working,” Squeak replied, still not budging. He held the notebook in front of him like a ridiculous shield.

Vice, the dry cornstalk of an administrator, came strolling slowly toward their corner of the cafeteria. There was a collective cheer from the students, who expected to see Squeak hauled off the table and led away. (Arthur assumed Vice was walking slowly in the hopes that Squeak would jump off the table on his own.)

Squeak didn't get the message.

“What are you holding, Reginald?” Vice said when he reached them. He squinted upward. It was probably the only time in Squeak's life he'd had someone looking up at him, Arthur couldn't help thinking. He tried not to smile.

“A sign,” Squeak answered calmly.

“And what does the sign say, Reginald?” Vice asked slowly, although Arthur knew he could probably read it himself.

“It says
Go Ahead. Throw Things at Me,
” Squeak answered without looking down at the notebook that he still held in front of his puny chest.

Go Ahead. Throw Things at Me.

Arthur felt a small glow of appreciation flicker inside him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had done something nice for him at school. Not since way before his dad died. And here was Squeak standing up on a table for him. Trying to protect him. Wimpy, short little Squeak was standing up for Arthur Owens, a brick-throwing delinquent. You had to admire the kid.

“You know we don't stand on tables and hold up signs in this school.” Vice kept talking quietly, as if he were a bottomless well of patience.

Arthur was sure if it had been him standing on the table instead of Squeak, Vice would have called the police and had the table surrounded by cops, guns drawn.

Squeak's glasses flashed in the artificial lights as he looked down stubbornly. “It's a free country. I have the right to free speech.”

“Not on a table in my cafeteria you don't.”

“Doesn't say that in the Bill of Rights.”

“It says it in my Bill of Rights,” Vice replied, still weirdly calm.

With Vice and Squeak playing it so cool, Arthur could tell the cafeteria crowd was getting restless. Eventually, the people at the tables around them seemed to give up waiting for something to happen and went back to whatever they were doing before. The lunch noise returned to its previous level.

Vice kept staring up at Squeak with his arms crossed. Squeak kept standing. Arthur kept trying to pretend he was invisible.

“You can eat my lunch if you want to, Arthur,” Squeak said after another long minute or two had passed. “I don't want it.”

Arthur shook his head. “That's okay.”

Vice gave Arthur a suspicious look. “Did you put him up to this cute little trick, Mr. Owens?” he said, eyes narrowing.

Before Arthur could get a word out, Squeak's voice answered indignantly from above. “He. Did. Not.”

Arthur was relieved when the bell finally rang. Afterward, someone called for Vice over the loudspeaker, so he had to hurry away before he could give them a stern lecture. Squeak scrambled down from the tabletop and politely handed Arthur's notebook back to him.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said hesitantly. “For doing that.”

“You helped me last time. This time, it was my turn.” Squeak puffed up his shoulders proudly and gave one of his goofy, too-wide grins. “I looked pretty tough up there, didn't I?”

Arthur nodded. He didn't have the heart to tell Squeak that it would probably end badly. No doubt they'd get bombarded with even more hot dogs tomorrow.

But he did let him know about the mustard.

“They got stuff on your sweater,” Arthur said. “You can't walk around the halls with mustard all over your back. Here, I'll help you get it off.” He spit on a napkin and dabbed at the glob between Squeak's shoulder blades. It didn't make it disappear completely, but he got the worst of it off.