CHAPTER 57

 

We sit around the kitchen table.

Mom and Dad are both in their bathrobes, sipping coffee out of mugs even though it’s one o’clock in the morning. We have only one overhead light on (because, like I said, it’s one o’clock in the morning and other people in the house are trying to sleep). Suddenly, our cozy kitchen reminds me of a dimly lit, black-and-white detective movie.

“I feel like I’m in the interrogation room on a cop show,” I say.

“We call it the interview room, dear,” says Mom. Guess she learned that in cop class.

I’m actually feeling pretty pumped, because I suddenly realize something: I’ll be the daughter handing Dad a collar that could guarantee he’s the part-timer who wins the full-time gig with the Seaside Heights Police Department after Labor Day. And by collar, I don’t mean I hand him the spangly one our dog, Sandfleas, sometimes wears. Collar is more cop lingo. It means “an arrest.”

“This kid Schuyler, Ms. O’Mara’s nephew, has been in all sorts of trouble with the police in Philly,” I say. “He came here for the summer to clean up his act; otherwise, I’m pretty sure he was headed for the state penitentiary.”

Mom and Dad both cock skeptical eyebrows.

“The penitentiary?” says Dad.

“Well, maybe juvie. Is that what they call a juvenile detention facility? A prison for kids?”

“Only in movies, dear,” says Mom.

“Oh. Well, anyway, Schuyler came here, but he didn’t clean up his act. I saw him trying to shoplift taffy at Victoria’s shop.”

“Did he steal anything?” asks Dad.

“No. He saw me watching him before he could. He put the candy back in the bin. But the other night, he was showing off a Sony Walkman that can record and play cassette tapes. Said it was the kind college professors use. The kind he probably snatched on the beach.”

Dad looks at Mom. They both nod. Okay. I have their attention now.

“And that graffiti somebody spray-painted on that rolled-down security gate, where it said ‘Fat Guts’? That’s from a Shakespearean insult. Schuyler’s big on those. He’s memorized a ton.”

“Anything else?” asks Dad.

“Yes. He cost me my job!”

“How?”

“By stealing the money box out of the Balloon Race booth.”

“How do you know that he was the one who stole it?” Mom wonders.

“Easy. Some college kid gave us a five-dollar bill that had been defaced with a rubber stamp to turn Abraham Lincoln into Mr. Spock from Star Trek.”

Mom grins. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Later, when he was trying to buy my silence with a jumbo order of cheese fries, Schuyler paid with the exact same five-dollar bill! If you guys arrest Schuyler, get him to confess, and give Vinnie back the money he stole, maybe Vinnie will give me back my job, because I know how important it is that we all work this summer and I’m s-s-so s-s-sorry I lost my job.…”

I start sobbing.

Dad places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay, Jacky.”

Mom puts her hand on my other shoulder.

I blink back the tears and nod, because if I tried to say anything, the words would stumble out in a sputter.

“I’ll call this in,” says Dad. “Where can we find this boy Schuyler?”

“At Ms. O’Mara’s apartment. She has a place over on Bay Terrace.”

“Can’t this wait till the morning, Mac?” Mom asks Dad.

He shakes his head. “If the boy senses that Jacky’s suspicious, he might try to leave town. He might try to do something worse.”

Now I can talk. “T-t-to me?”

“It’s a possibility,” says Dad. “One that I’m not willing to risk.”

He picks up the phone.

And then the two of us head to the police station. Dad says I’ll need to repeat my statement to a detective.

On the ride, he tells me I’ve “done good, Jacky.”

About an hour later, he wasn’t saying that anymore.