Dangerous Deception

  “What about your dad?”

  Sophie shook her head. “He’s gone,” she said. “He . . .”

  “Hey, Emmy!” Jelly Bean bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. “Chance says we’re leaving in sixty seconds.”

  “I have to go now, before Jelly Bean’s brother leaves without me.”

  I wanted to hear more of Sophie’s story. What did she mean by “gone”? Had her dad deserted the family? Was he dead?

  Instead of asking my questions, I waved good-bye, dashed down the stairs, and climbed in the backseat of the clunkermobile.

  “It took you long enough,” Chance said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m gonna be late for the basketball game.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated.

  The night before there had been a segment on the news about the rising cost of gasoline. It showed how much prices had gone up in the last few weeks, and it had occurred to me that Chance might appreciate it if he got some help filling the clunkermobile’s gas tank.

  Before I left home that morning, I had taken a five-dollar bill out of the shoe box where I keep the money I’m saving to buy a new bike. Now I fished in my jeans pocket for the money and handed it into the front seat. “This is for gas,” I said. “For driving us.”

  Chance looked surprised, but he didn’t say anything because his phone must have vibrated. He put the five dollars on the seat next to him and turned his attention to his latest text message.

  All the way home, I thought what it would be like not to have a phone. No Internet. No e-mail or Facebook or texting my friends. No computer solitaire when I got bored. Even worse, Sophie had no dad. I missed my dad a lot when he worked out of town, but his absence was temporary. He called or e-mailed often, and I always knew he’d be home at the end of the week. Two weeks at the most. Dad wasn’t ever gone the way Sophie had said the word, as if she knew her father would never be back.

  I thought about what it would be like to live with the threat that I might have to move whether I wanted to or not—to leave my home, my friends, my school, or even my country. Most of all, I thought how it would feel to have no food except what strangers brought to the door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mom got home about an hour after I did, bringing another batch of contest entries. While she changed into comfy clothes, I riffled quickly through the stack of entries.

  If I saw an envelope that looked like Sophie’s handwriting, I intended to remove it, but none of the envelopes were similar to the one that had come earlier. The thank-you letter must not have arrived yet, or maybe I had gotten lucky and Mrs. Murphy had opened it. She would assume that Help Your Neighbor had provided food for Sophie’s family even though their funds are low.

  I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. To my surprise I had not missed my usual snacks, but I hadn’t eaten since lunch and now I was starving. I was staring into the depths, hoping a chocolate mousse would miraculously appear on the shelf, when Mom came in.

  “Don’t stand with the door open,” she said.

  “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”

  “How about an explanation?”

  “What?” I closed the fridge and turned to look at her.

  “I understand you got a ride home from school today.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I saw Mrs. Braider outside when I picked up the mail.”

  That figures, I thought. Leave it to Big Mouth Braider to notice how I got home, and tattle on me.

  “Who was your chauffeur?” Mom asked.

  “Jelly Bean’s brother, Chance, drove me home,” I said. “Jelly Bean and I were working on our community service project after school and I missed the bus, so when his brother picked him up, they offered me a ride.”

  I thought it sounded like a great excuse and, even though it wasn’t the whole story, everything I said was true.

  Mom frowned. “You’ve been riding around with some teenager I know nothing about?”

  “Chance has his driver’s license,” I said. “His parents knew he had the car and he had permission to take Jelly Bean home after school.”

  “That may be so, but you did not have permission to go anywhere with him. How do I know he’s a good driver? Just because he has his license doesn’t mean he’s someone you should be riding with. I’ve never met this boy or his parents. Honestly, Emmy, I thought you had better sense.”

  “I’m here,” I pointed out. “He brought me home safely, didn’t he?”

  “That’s not the issue,” Mom said. “You are not to accept a ride from someone I’ve never met.”

  “What if it had been Jelly Bean’s mom? You’ve never met her, either. Would you be angry if she had driven me home?”

  Mom rolled her eyes, as if I were being totally unreasonable.

  “You’re treating me like a baby,” I said.

  The phone rang, and I reached for it, glad for the interruption. I talked to Dad for a few minutes and then handed the phone to Mom. To my relief, she didn’t tell him about Big Mouth Braider’s report. While they talked, I decided to redeem myself by making a salad, warming up some leftover lasagna, and setting the table. By the time Mom got off the phone, dinner was ready.

  We had finished eating when the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Emmy? Are you okay?” Lauren sounded breathless, as if she might be crying or had run a long way.

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, Emmy, it’s horrible!”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I saw it on the TV news. Jelly Bean’s brother hit a power pole and totaled his car!”

  A chill ran down the back of my neck. “Is he okay? Was anyone with him?”

  “That’s the worst part!” Lauren wailed. “Jelly Bean was in the front seat.”

  I felt as if ice water flowed in my veins.

  “They’ve both been taken to the hospital, and the reporter said they have life-threatening injuries. Life threatening! That means—”

  I interrupted. “I know what it means,” I said.

  “I thought you were in the car, too, because the accident happened about the time you would have been on the way home from Sophie’s house.”

  I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. “It happened after they brought me home.”

  “Oh, Emmy,” Lauren wailed. “What if Jelly Bean dies?”

  I couldn’t stand to think about that possibility. “I’m going to hang up and turn on the TV,” I said. “What channel is it on?”

  “Channel five.”

  As I clicked the remote, Mom asked me what was wrong.

  I tried not to cry as I said, “Chance had a car accident. He and Jelly Bean were both hurt.”

  “Chance is the boy you were riding with?” Mom asked. “The one who brought you home?”

  I nodded.

  Mom’s face turned pale, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

  I had to wait through four commercials and the weather report before the news anchor said, “Now for an update on the breaking news we told you about at the top of the hour. A car went off the road in the twelve hundred block of East Cherry Street about four thirty this afternoon and slammed into a power pole.” The screen filled with a picture of Chance’s car. The clunkermobile’s whole front end was smashed in, like a soda can that’s been squashed for recycling.

  Beside me, Mom gasped.

  The report continued. “The driver, sixteen-year-old Chance Logan, was taken to Community Hospital. His younger brother, Jason, who was a passenger, was also hospitalized. Both are listed in critical condition. Police are investigating the cause of the accident, but no alcohol or drugs appear to have been involved.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. I had no doubt what had caused
this horrific accident. Instead of paying attention to the road, Chance had been either reading a text message or sending one. I wondered what message had been so important that it was worth risking his life for. His life, and Jelly Bean’s.

  When the announcer went on to a different report, I clicked off the TV.

  “I’m going to walk Waggy,” I said. I needed to be alone, to think about what had happened.

  I snapped the leash on Waggy’s collar, trying to keep him from biting the leash in his excitement. Going for a walk is Waggy’s second-favorite activity in the whole world. The first is getting food of any kind. Being petted by me, his loving person who begged and begged to rescue him from the animal shelter until my parents gave in and signed the adoption papers, comes in a distant third. After stuffing a plastic bag in my pocket and grabbing a flashlight, I slipped into my denim jacket and headed outside.

  Tears blurred my vision as we walked, and a mixture of emotions churned through me—fear for Jelly Bean and his brother, plus the terrible knowledge that it could as easily have happened while I rode in the backseat, in which case I would probably be in the hospital, too.

  It was bad enough for Mom to find out from Big Mouth Braider that I’d gotten a ride home with Chance. What would it have been like if she’d had a call from the police, telling her that I was in the hospital? Or dead?

  Guilt pricked my conscience. I should have spoken up. I should have told Chance that it isn’t legal or safe to text and drive. So what if he got angry at me for saying that? It might have made him stop. It might have prevented this awful crash.

  While Waggy sniffed at trees, I thought of more reasons to feel guilty. If I had not gone back to talk to Sophie, Chance and Jelly Bean wouldn’t have been on that particular street at that time. Chance wouldn’t have been running late and hurrying to get to the basketball game. If I hadn’t taken Sophie’s contest entry to school, Chance and Jelly Bean would have gone home after school rather than delivering food to Sophie’s family. At four thirty, Jelly Bean would have been safe in his own house, eating potato chips or an apple or a peanut butter sandwich instead of smashing into a power pole.

  I knew it was irrational to blame myself, but I couldn’t help feeling that if it had not been for me, this accident would never have happened.

  When I got back with Waggy, Mom said, “I hope you see now why I want to know who you ride with.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded and let it go. She thought I was apologizing for riding with someone she didn’t know, but I was really sorry for a whole lot more than that. I just couldn’t tell her about it.

  At school the next morning, the student body buzzed with rumors about the accident. Hunter said the car had flipped over, pinning both boys inside. “The fire department had to use their Jaws of Life apparatus to get Jelly Bean out,” Hunter said.

  Crystal Warren rushed in, declaring that Jelly Bean had died. “My cousin’s neighbor heard it on the radio,” she said. “He died, and as soon as his brother wakes up, he’s being arrested for vehicular manslaughter!”

  None of us believed her, but it still made me uneasy to hear her say it.

  As soon as class started, Mrs. Reed said, “I know you’ve all heard about Jason’s accident and are wondering about his condition.”

  “He’s dead!” Crystal blurted. “My cousin told me.”

  “Your cousin was misinformed,” Mrs. Reed said. “Jason is alive, and he is expected to make a full recovery.”

  “Oh,” said Crystal as the rest of us relaxed a little.

  “I spoke with Jason’s father about an hour ago,” Mrs. Reed said. “Both boys will be hospitalized for a while. Jason has a broken leg, three broken ribs, and a concussion, but he is no longer in the Intensive Care Unit. His brother’s injuries are more serious. Chance is still in a coma.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Do you have any questions?” Mrs. Reed asked.

  Abby raised her hand. “Is a coma when the person’s asleep and can’t wake up?”

  “He isn’t asleep,” Mrs. Reed explained. “He’s unconscious. Most people in comas gradually regain consciousness after a few days.”

  Most people, I thought, but not all of them do. I remembered a much publicized case of a woman who had been in a coma for several years and when her husband filed for a divorce, her parents had a fit. He claimed he still loved her, but he wanted to live a normal life and be free to date other women and possibly get married again. My parents had discussed the case while we ate dinner one night, agreeing that such a dilemma had no easy answer.

  When there were no other questions, Mrs. Reed said, “I thought you might each like to make a card for Jason. I can deliver them to the hospital.”

  I felt relieved to have something specific to do for Jelly Bean. A card wouldn’t heal his broken bones or take away the pain, but at least he would know his classmates were thinking about him, and that might make him feel a little bit better.

  Mrs. Reed put out an assortment of colored paper, rubber stamps, crayons, glue, glitter, and other craft supplies, and we got busy.

  “Don’t use the purple crayon,” warned Crystal. “Purple crayons cause chicken pox.”

  “All of the crayons are perfectly safe,” said Mrs. Reed.

  I made two cards, one for Jelly Bean and one for Chance. I almost wrote “I’m sorry” on Chance’s card, but I settled for Get Well Soon. On Jelly Bean’s, I drew a picture of a dog and printed HEAL! in large letters. I hoped Jelly Bean would think my pun was funny.

  I could hear Shoeless and Hunter mimicking Crystal. “Don’t use the yellow crayon,” Shoeless whispered. “If you do, all your hair will fall out.”

  “Beware the gold glitter,” Hunter replied. “Gold glitter causes toenail fungus.”

  “Never put blue paint on green paper,” Shoeless said, “or you’ll . . .” He whispered the rest in Hunter’s ear and the two of them tee-heed while the rest of us wondered what horror would supposedly result from blue paint on green paper.

  Hunter and Shoeless snickered and giggled until Mrs. Reed said, “That’s enough, boys. No more jokes.”

  As I worked on my creations, I thought about our community service project. Without Chance to drive us, we had no way to get groceries to Sophie’s family again. If Chance recovered, he probably wouldn’t have a car to drive, and, even if he did, I couldn’t ride with him anymore.

  The rest of the kids in my community service group had apparently been thinking the same thing because when Mrs. Reed had us meet after lunch to finish our projects, Hunter said, “There’s no point collecting more food if we don’t have a way to deliver it.”

  Shoeless said, “I think we should write up a report of what we already did and turn it in and be done.”

  “And not help Sophie anymore?” Abby said.

  “Our assignment was to do a community service project,” Shoeless said, “and we did it. Nobody said we have to keep doing it forever.”

  Lauren turned to me. “Did you tell Sophie about the food bank?” she asked.

  “Yes. I told her where it is and when it’s open and that her mom should take some ID with her.”

  “Then they don’t need us anymore,” Hunter said.

  “Her mom’s too sick to go to the food bank,” I said.

  “That isn’t our problem,” Shoeless said.

  “I feel sorry for her,” Abby said, “but I agree with Shoeless. We’ve done as much as we can to help.”

  Hunter said, “When we decided to do this, I thought all we would do is go around our neighborhoods once and collect food. We’d help the kid who entered the contest, and we’d get credit for our community service project, and that would be the end of it. Well, we did that. In fact, we did it twice. We can’t feed that family forever. They’re apparently as needy now as they were when we got into this.”

&n
bsp; Abby said, “We didn’t cause the problem. Why should we have to fix it?”

  Lauren said, “Because we should always try to help others, if we can.”

  “There are places like the food bank,” Hunter said, “to help people. There are other social service agencies, too, and sometimes community groups that can help.”

  “I don’t want to collect food forever, either,” I said, “but I think we should continue until Sophie’s mother is well enough to go to the food bank.”

  “What’s wrong with her mother?” Hunter asked.

  I admitted that I didn’t know.

  “What if she has some really bad disease?” Hunter asked. “Maybe she isn’t ever going to get well.”

  I stared down at my hands. I’d had the same fear, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it.

  “We helped Sophie,” Hunter said. “It isn’t as if we ignored the situation.”

  I wondered if my classmates would feel so negative about continuing if Chance had not driven his car into a power pole. Did the accident, and Jelly Bean being injured, seem to them to be the fault of our project, the same as it did to me? But none of them knew about Chance’s texting while he drove. I was the only one who felt guilty for not trying to put a stop to that.

  “All the community service projects need to wrap up this week,” Abby pointed out, “so that the reports can be turned in by Monday. We have to officially end our involvement regardless of whether we want to keep taking food to Sophie or not.”

  “Good,” said Shoeless. “Because I’m done with it.”

  “So am I,” said Abby.

  “I’m glad we did it,” Hunter said, “but I’m relieved it’s over, too.”

  Instead of planning another food delivery, my group wrote up our community service project report, and Abby took it home to make copies.

  Lauren looked at me.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As Lauren and I walked to the bus after school, she said, “What should we do about Sophie?”