against a hard surface beneath me. I vaguely remember arriving back in the coffee shop, too tired to crawl up to bed.
A light tune filters through my consciousness; the happy melody goes up and down. I shoot straight up, knocking a leprechaun statue to the floor.
I'm back. Life should be normal. I fixed everything.
"About time you woke up, Jack Brodie!"
"Jetta!" I whip around. There she is. Same hair, shirt, and leggings. Everything. I did it. My heart leaps, and I'm aware of a deep aching need I haven't felt before. The need to protect her, to hold her close. I have another chance to save her, to warn her. And this time, no playing dodge ball with the truth.
She flashes me a creepo stare and then leans over and picks up the leprechaun. "What are you, psychic?"
I don't have time for chatty intros. First I take in my surroundings. The tulips in the vases are gone. The fancy french fry tables are gone. The paintings are back on the wall where they belong. And the photograph of me with my parents at the beach smiles back at me. I must've fixed my mistakes last night. Maybe in that dimension Dad was a criminal, but I'm back in real time, and he's been around to buy the paintings and find the tables. That's what matters.
"How did you know my name?" This time she asks the question with a bit more force. "I just met your mom this morning."
A grin spreads. I've been smiling so much since I awoke that my cheeks hurt. I know how to tell Jetta the truth. "There used to be a fortune teller renting this space. Sometimes I pick up her vibes."
"Okay, Mr. Know-it-all. What else do you know about me?" She pouts in her cute way I'm getting used to.
"Can you handle the truth?" I ask.
She laughs. "Sounds like a bad line from a movie."
My heart pounds. I grab her hand and pull her over to the table. Her skin feels warm. This isn't about me pulling her into a kiss, which if I did, she'd totally freak. This isn't about me. It's about her.
She sits. "Okay, you're scaring me. I hope this won't take too long. You're supposed to walk me to school."
Normally, I'd joke and find a way to make fun of everything. But I need her to take me seriously. "I know you're an artist."
She scoffs. "Look at the way I'm dressed. Isn't it obvious?"
"True. I know you'd like to encourage shop owners to hang paintings of Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Da Vinci on their walls."
She stops smirking.
"Your dad is the new janitor at our school. I know he loves you and would do anything for you." I lower my voice so it's almost a whisper. "Your mom died when you were real young."
Tears shine in her eyes and her tough exterior melts. Her voice is strangled. "How do you know all this?"
"Please don't ask. I just know." I run my finger across a small crack in the table over and over. I have no desire to tell Jetta the truth, but it might be the only way to save her. Even if it hurts.
She glances around the coffee shop as if she expects a ghost to pop out of one of the paintings. Doubt flickers in her expression, then she says, "Go ahead. What else? I can handle it."
I almost choke on the words because the truth about my dad hovers over me like a cloud of exhaust fumes. I know the truth can hurt. "Your dad's been lying to you."
She jumps up, causing her chair to crash backward onto the floor. Her eyes flash. "Never!"
"Your grandmother isn't dead." I wait for her to yell or pull some kung fu moves, but she doesn't move. "He's protecting you from her." I think back to the scene after she was kidnapped the first time. "Your dad made a promise to your mom to protect you from your grandmother. That's why he enrolled you in karate."
She taps her fingers on the table and I can almost hear her brain whirring, puzzling out an argument. "Even if she were alive, why would my grandmother want to hurt me?"
"I'm not totally sure. She wants to raise you. I think. I don't know everything."
She whirls around, her face a mask of confusion. "How do you know any of this?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me." She plunks down in the chair again, her face weary.
"Another time. There's one more thing you have to know, and you have to trust me." I reach across and grab her hand even though she tenses.
"I don't think I want to know."
"You can't enter the art show today."
Jetta purses her lips, silent. The tips of her ears turn red and she yanks her hand from mine and grabs the front of my shirt. I cringe, waiting for a deadly chop to the throat or a kick to the kneecaps.
"Some nerve. Telling me about my dad. My mother. My grandmother. Art is my escape. You can't take that from me!" Her voice shakes and she drops her arms and heads toward the door.
"Wait!" The rest tumbles out in a rush. "It's through your art that your grandmother tracks you. She finds you and kidnaps you?" My voice trails off.
Jetta slams the door.
I slump over. I told her everything for nothing. The one thing she needs to believe, she doesn't.
The bell above the door jangles, and Jetta pokes her head in the doorway. My hopes lift. Maybe?
"And your mom says not to forget to wear Tommy's suit!"
Slam. Again.
8:01 a.m.
Minutes later, I sit in the coffee shop in Tommy's old suit. The collar scratches my neck in a familiar but annoying way. The pants are about to pop, and my ankles ripple with goosebumps because the pants are still too short.
I smile, thinking ahead to the trial. I'll see Dad one more time. This time, my eyes are opened, even if I can't fully believe Dad's wink and smile that says everything will be fine, even if Dad is denied parole.
I open the glass case and pull out an apple Danish.
The bell jangles.
"Jetta!" I whip around.
"No punk. Who's Jetta?" Stick asks.
Turbo lumbers in behind him. I study my friends. Are they back to normal? Or is Stick here to beat me up.
"Just a girl," I say cautiously.
"Why didn't you tell us about her, loser?" In one suave jump, Stick lands on one of the tables. The raw edge to his eyes and face are a little softer.
"I just met her." I sidle closer to my friends, keeping an eye on Stick's fist.
"Is she pretty? Did ya slip her some tongue yet?" Turbo's mouth hangs open and he waggles his tongue around in a crude gesture. But he looks more like a dog waiting for bacon bits.
"No, dork. It isn't like that." Warmth spreads throughout my chest and brings a flush to my face.
It's not just about kissing.
Stick pulls out a chair and sits on it backwards. "We gotta talk about today."
I swallow a bit of apple Danish. "Guys, I'm just not up for it today. I don't want there to be a big fuss."
Stick and Turbo exchange worried glances.
Stick says, "You have to go. You'll regret it if you don't."
I can see the well meaning in his eyes and realize he's talking about the hearing. I breathe out my relief in one big whoosh. "We're not planning to rob the Gas-n-Go?"
Turbo laughs, a skittish, nervous laugh. Stick slugs me in the arm. "Are you crazy? We want to get outta here someday."
A fifty-ton weight lifts off my chest. My friends are back and I fight the urge to grab Stick's hands and dance around like little girls during the St. Patty's Day parade.
"Wipe the grin off your face. Seriously dude, you have to go today."
"Guys, don't worry about me. I'm going. I'm okay." My friends aren't on their way to becoming hardened criminals. "I'm more than okay."
"Do you want us to walk over with you?" Turbo asks.
"I can handle it. As long as I know you two have my back, I'm good. Is Big D still charging use for the bathrooms?"
"Nothing's changed since yesterday." Stick eyes me.
Turbo nods. "He must be making a killing."
Not everything's perfect in my life. Mom's probably back to her regular old cranky self. But Kronin's out of ou
r lives. My confidence soars and I feel the world melding to my control. I can't lose, and I want the right to pee in the bathrooms. I slam my fist into the palm of my hand. "I'm going to stand up to him. Today."
Stick gently leads me over to a chair. "Seriously, dude. Not today. You have enough to deal with. We'll talk about Big D and his boys later."
"You can go to school." I push him away. "I'm not a little girl."
Stick backs away, his hands up. "Got it." He nods to Turbo and they head for the door.
"Thanks, guys." Another smile breaks out on my face.
Stick waves without looking back. "See you at the cemetery."
8:20 a.m.
I stand in front of the beach picture and trace my finger over Mom and then Dad. Their faces are a bit more worn as if I've gone through this motion numerous times before.
Dad and I walked out along the rocks that day, stepping easily over the ones that met seamlessly and crouching to work our way across the jagged cracks between others. This was one of the few times Dad went out of his way to make me the focus of his attention. The waves crashed against the rocks with the incoming tide. Our sandy feet made for good traction. Between rocks, his warm hand landed on my shoulder, a reminder he cared, an effort to make sure I didn't slip.
Dad called it a man-to-man talk. I was ten. And that meant I was getting older. Time for me to step up and help Mom in the coffee shop. His words found their way to my core, firing up my inspiration. I was going to make him proud. Looking back, I wonder if Dad knew his time was short, that soon he'd be cut out of our lives and put in the slammer.
The cinnamon smell of the shop invades the memories of salt air and private talks, bringing them to a crashing halt.
I let the words slip out. "Sorry, Dad. I