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“Bradshaw,” my father says sharply. “And no, I don’t have any sons, just three daughters.”
The woman nods and pats my father on the knee. “You poor man,” she says. This, apparently, is the mother of Dorrit’s notorious pot-smoking friend, Cheryl.
“Really,” my father says, shifting in his seat to get away from her. His glasses slide to the tip of his nose. “In general,” he says, launching into one of his theories on child rearing, “a preference for children of one sex over the other, especially when it’s so baldly expressed by the parent, often results in a lack in the child, an inherent lack—”
“Dad!” I say, skittering across the floor to rescue him.
He pushes his glasses up his nose, stands, and opens his arms. “Carrie!”
“Mr. Bradshaw,” George says.
“George.”
“George?” Cheryl’s mother stands, batting her eyes like butterfly wings. “I’m Connie.”
“Ah.” George nods, as if somehow this makes sense. Connie is now clinging to George’s arm. “I’m Cheryl’s mother. And really, she’s not a bad girl—”
“I’m sure she isn’t,” George says kindly.
Oh jeez. Is Cheryl’s mother flirting with George now?
I motion my father aside. I keep picturing the small marijuana pipe I found in Mr. Panda. “Was it—” I can’t bring myself to say the word “drugs” aloud.
“Gum,” my father says wearily.
“Gum? She was arrested for stealing gum?”
“Apparently it’s her third offense. She was caught shoplifting twice before, but the police let her go. This time, she wasn’t so lucky.”
“Mr. Bradshaw? I’m Chip Marone, the arresting officer,” says a shiny-faced young man in a uniform.
Marone—the cop from the barn.
“Can I see my daughter, please?”
“We have to fingerprint her. And take a mug shot.”
“For stealing gum?” I blurt out. I can’t help myself.
My father blanches. “She’s going to have a record? My thirteen-year-old daughter is going to have a record like a common criminal?”
“Those are the rules,” Marone says.
I nudge my father. “Excuse me. But we’re really good friends with the Kandesies—”
“It’s a small town,” Marone says, rubbing his cheeks. “A lot of people know the Kandesies—”
“But Lali is like one of the family. And we’ve known them forever. Right, Dad?”
“Now, look here, Carrie,” my father says. “You can’t go asking people to bend the rules. It isn’t right.”
“But—”
“Maybe we could call them. The Kandesies,” George says. “Just to make sure.”
“I can assure you. My little Cheryl has never been in trouble before,” Connie says, squeezing George’s arm for support as she blinks at Marone.
Marone has clearly had enough. “I’ll see what I can do,” he mutters, and picks up the phone behind the desk. “Right,” he says into the receiver. “Okay. No problem.” He hangs up the phone and glowers.
