lame joke. Someone or something had zapped the Boston fire straight from my dad's veins, leaving this odd shell of a man.
"I see your mom decorated for St. Patty's Day." His words are forced.
"Yeah." I bat at the tissue paper shamrocks hanging from the ceiling. This is impossible unless my dad has eyes like a superhero's that can shoot lasers and burn through prison walls.
"Confetti's a nice touch," Dad says even though he hasn't glanced at the tables.
My mouth is dry. "We all helped. Me, Stick, and Turbo."
"You been working hard at school?"
"Yeah." I try to jam my hands into my pockets but my sweatpants don't have any, so my arms dangle by my sides. I try to think of a witty remark. Something funny. A joke. A story. Nothing comes to mind.
More memories whoosh through my mind of that night. My mom's gasp. A dish crashing to the floor, the pieces scattering. The smell of burnt apple pie and smoke pouring out the sides of the oven. Even the honey dripping off my dad's tongue didn't keep the cuffs from snapping around his wrists.
Years ago, I wished for this night, to see my dad again. But now, four years later, I just feel cold and empty.
Dad chuckles, even though nothing's funny. He fiddles with the buttons on his coat. Finally, he nods to a table. "Why don't you sit down?"
I sit and chip at the paint on the mini statue of a leprechaun holding a pot of gold.
"It's about my real work," he says.
Sweat pricks the back of my neck.
"You deserve the truth. It looks bad, and it's going to look worse tomorrow at court." For the first time, he looks straight into my eyes. "For years, I've been working undercover."
"What?" The rage I've been managing for the past couple years pushes against my chest.
Dad clasps and unclasps his hands. "I'm an art detective, but you can't tell anyone."
I squeeze the leprechaun so hard the pot of gold snaps off. What the hell does that mean?
Sirens scream outside. My heartbeat spikes from a steady thump to a wallop.
Question burn in my mind, and finally I spit one out. "How'd you get out of jail?"
Dad runs his fingers up and down the smooth silk edges of his coat. He stays silent as if figuring out an answer. "That gets complicated."
I choke down a laugh. "Right."
Dad presses his lips together in a grim line. I see a bit of Dad in the steely gaze, his eyes alight with determination. "This is nothing to joke about, Jack."
"Yeah, no shit, Dad." The words, coated with sarcasm, slip out before I can stop them. I never would've spoken to my dad like this before.
He's mad. I can tell by the way his body stiffens, his fists clench, and the right side of his upper lip twitches. Then it drains. He deflates back into a shell of the man he used to be. That man never would've taken lip from anyone. Especially me.
The familiar prickle starts on the back of my neck. But this time travels down my spine. I search the corners of the shop. Something's off.
Dad backs into the shadows. "You're the only one who can help me."
"It's a little late for that, don't ya think?" I thought about helping Dad the night of his arrest by jumping out and threatening the cops. Instead, I cowered in the shadows of the stairs. What could I do now?
The door blows open and a cold draft whips through the room.
The tissue paper shamrocks sway and the confetti stirs on the nearest table. Goosebumps travel along my arms.
"You'll know what to do." Dad's hand covers his stomach. His face pales.
Those are his last words. Because then, just like a leprechaun, he disappears.
As in poof. Melts into the night. Was it all a trick of the mind? A midnight hallucination?
The sirens sound again and I tense, ready for the cops to storm the house, their spotlight searing the room in search of my dad, the escaped convict.
7:32 a.m.
I feel like the walking dead. Dark circles under my eyes. Stiff legs. My tongue feels swollen and thick. The collar of my cousin Tommy's suit is scratchy around my neck. I shuffle across the wooden plank floor and throw a bunch of sugars and creamers into my coffee.
Last night, I formed a plan. Escape and wander the streets of Southie until court.
The bell jingles as the door whooshes open and bangs against the inside wall.
Instinctively, my head snaps toward the entrance. The door hangs open. Creaking back and forth. No one enters.
I shiver, remembering last night.
On the opposite side of the room, Mom swings open the kitchen door, a tray of scones in her hand. A wisp of graying hair slips out of the hairnet and falls across her face. She glances up. "Shut the door. Will ya?"
"Yes, Mom."
She loads the scones into the glass case, then places a hand on her hip. "I met a new girl in the neighborhood yesterday. Said you'd walk her to school today. No arguments." And with that, she went back to the kitchen.
I shut the front door with a firm click. I let my head drop against the glass and peer outside. A girl? Terrific. Way to start my day. I wasn't even going to school. And my dad broke out of jail and then disappeared. My breath fogs up the glass. I write a word in the cloud.
Help.
Then I return to my coffee.
Ever since Dad went to jail, Mom slowly turned from a freshly baked cinnamon bun into a stale day-old bagel. Gone are outings and walks to the ice cream shop. Gone are the hugs and smiles, the carefree love. Mom is simply gone and in her place is the skeleton of who she used to be.
We both miss Dad.
The bell jingles and another draft of air blows through the shop. A girl about my age enters and twirls in the space between the tables and chairs, her arms out, her hair flying and the colors of her clothes blurring.
I feel dizzy.
She scans the room, her eyes wide. She prances from painting to painting jammed on the wall, her fingers tracing the frames. Small gasps of joy escaping her lips. At one point, she even laughs, a high musical sound.
The warm coffee catches in my throat and I spit it back into my cup instead of spewing it all over the floor. This must be the girl. Terrific. I can always spot a newbie to the city.
"Wow, what a spot," she exclaims.
She wears black army boots, purple leggings, a shorter than short skirt, and a green-striped shirt. A puke-orange scarf is draped around her neck, the dirty ends dangling down by her feet and picking up dust from the floor. The red glittery headband tied in a bow in her black hair reminds me of a clown.
The girl casts a sideways glance at me.
Then she plunks down in the chair across from mine. "This place has so much potential. The paintings are great, but imagine if copies of the Old Masters were on the wall. Or better yet, the work of budding young artists from the neighborhood."
A flush paints her cheeks the color of ripe peaches. Her lips are a soft pink. I can't help but look at them. A tiny clump of gloss needs to be smoothed over in the corner of her top lip.
I look away and study a tiny leprechaun next to the napkin holder. The small man holds a few pieces of shiny gold in his hands and stares back with a mocking grin. I turn him the other way.
She sticks out her hand. "I'm Jetta Black."
My hands stay where they are.
"Hmm." She drums her fingers on the table. "You're supposed to say I'm Jack Brodie."
"My friends call me Fiasco." I notice her eyes, a bright green, and the strands of her shiny hair, and her smile, which hasn't left her face since she walked through the door.
"My dad and I move around a lot," she continues. "We rented a place on Athens Street. I'm offering my services to shops in the area. My goal is to educate the common people on the master painters."
"Good luck with that."
She rests her chin on her hand and her fingers drum her cheek as she studies the wall of paintings. Her eyes light up. "Is that your dad in the picture behind you?"
"Yep.
" I haven't looked at the black and white picture of my family since Dad went to jail but the image is imprinted in my mind.
The picture was taken at the ocean. Dad has his arm flopped around Mom's shoulder, his other hand on mine. But it's the smile on his face that creates the ache in my gut, the smile that lit up our family, gave us hope, carried us through the tough times.
So many times I asked the man in the photo to whisper his secrets. Why? Why had he betrayed his family? I've asked so many times and studied the picture for answers I never found until finally I stopped looking and asking.
If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still smell the salt air and hear the gulls crying overhead. But in my memory, the crying gulls always turn into a screeching siren.
8:03 a.m.
Every St. Patty's Day West Broadway Street transforms into a Lucky Charms commercial. But I can't let the Luck of the Irish banners hanging from storefronts and huge shamrocks painted in the windows distract me or make me feel safe. Dressed in this too short, too tight, and too scratchy suit, I already feel vulnerable.
Luck won't get Jetta to school in one piece and it won't get Dad out of jail or wherever he is right now. I kick a plastic cup off the sidewalk and try to ignore Jetta at my side. She bounces along with the energy of a cartoon character. Her mouth goes non-stop and I want to take an eraser to her.
She nudges me with her elbow. "I guess the people here take St. Patrick's Day pretty seriously."
"Yeah." I pull Jetta down the sidewalk toward E Street. "Keep walking. Look straight ahead. School's six blocks from here."
Jetta straightens and yanks her arm free. "What's got you so spooked?" When I don't answer she plunges into her