The Mighty Quinn (24 page)

Neally pointed at Matt's face. “His bruise is dark purple. See around the edges, how it's turning greenish? That means ...”

“It's more than a day old.” Quinn traced his finger around a picture in the book. “More like two or three days old.”

“Righty-o!” Sam snapped his fingers. “He had to have gotten it over the weekend.”

“We saw him Thursday, after school—me and Neally
and
Tay,” Quinn told Mr. Shirkner.

“Tay is Matt's friend.” Neally stared earnestly at the principal. “You can ask Tay, and he'll tell you that Matt did not have a black eye on Thursday.”

“And he didn't have it at the Scout meeting Thursday night, and he wasn't in school on Friday,” Sam added. “He was gone all weekend. His father brought a note to class on ...”

“Yes, I know.” Mr. Shirkner drummed his fingers
on the book. “All advance excused absence requests go across my desk.”

The room was silent. Matt sat ramrod straight, his eyes full and glistening, his face the color of a bleak, wintery sky.

“Who hit you, Matt?” Neally's voice was quiet, but firm.

Matt's eyes dried up and spit cold blue fire at Neally. White bones shone through the skin of his knuckles as his hands gripped his chair's armrests.

“Matt and I need to speak in private. Neally, Sam, Quinn, this way, please.” Mr. Shirkner walked the three out of his office and shut the door behind him. “Carol,” he said to his secretary, “I need you to find Nurse Parker right now.”

The secretary scurried out the door. Quinn looked up at Mr. Shirkner, realizing for the first time how tall the principal seemed when he was standing right next to you.

“Quinn, there's no need for me to call your parents. I'm sorry for any distress this caused you. You three go on with your day. You may return to class when recess is over, and I'll trust each one of you not to say anything to anyone about this.”

Quinn, Sam, and Neally nodded solemnly.

Mr. Shirkner laid his massive hand on Quinn's shoulder. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “You didn't hit him, did you?”

“It was like I said, I only pushed him back after he kept pushing me. But he
wanted
me to hit him. I could tell. It was so weird. He acted mad, but it was more like he was ...” Quinn's voice trailed off and he shook his head.

“It was his father, wasn't it?”

Mr. Shirkner furrowed his brow at Neally. “What makes you think that?”

“Who else could it have been?” Neally glanced behind Mr. Shirkner, at his closed office door. “Matt wasn't with anyone else. He bragged about how his family does a retreat every year, and it's just them in a motel and they don't even leave the room.”

Quinn's stomach started churning with a feeling even worse than being falsely accused. “It's sort of my fault.”

“No way!” Neally gasped.

“What's your fault?” Sam asked.

“That Matt's dad hit him.”

“Hold on now, we don't know who hit Matt,” Mr. Shirkner cautioned.

“Tay said Matt's father was really,
really
mad when Ms. Blakeman called him after our field trip,” Quinn said. “I got Matt in trouble. I'm the one who saw him and Josh graffiti the ...”

“It's not your fault.” Neally placed her hand on Quinn's arm and looked up at the principal. Her voice was confident, but her eyes lacked their usual spark.

“Matt's been hurt before. I saw the marks, a few weeks ago. He had a huge bruise, here.” Neally pointed at her upper arm.

“I promise, I will find out who hit Matt. In the meantime, do not speculate about this with your classmates.” Mr. Shirkner placed his hands on his knees and bent down to eye level with the three friends. “And I want to tell you how proud I am of how you've handled yourselves.”

Although they were told to return to class, Quinn paused to watch Mr. Shirkner usher the nurse into his office. Alan Shirkner. He hangs out by the curb in the morning, yelling at parents who drop off their kids in the bus zone; he gives boring speeches; he passes out awards; he makes kids go to crisis resolution meetings. That's what principals do—that's all our principal does. That's what Quinn had thought, up until now.

“It's twelve twenty-nine, I'm a-feeling fine.” Sam broke into a skip as he and Neally and Quinn approached the portable building. “The Mighty Quinn is vindicated!”

Neally gave Sam a high-five. “This calls for celebration!”

“Not exactly.” Quinn glanced back at the school's office building.

“Then what, exactly?” Neally asked carefully.

“I didn't hit Matt, but I wanted to. I've wanted to for years.” Quinn sighed. “But not anymore.”

Three friends silently trudged up the ramp to their classroom.

Ms. Blakeman's fifth graders heard the tell-tale
click-clack-click-clack
of high-heeled shoes ascending the ramp to their classroom. The school secretary delivered a note to Ms. Blakeman, and for once the teacher's glasses stayed firmly perched at the top of her nose while she read.

Matt Barker did not return to class. Each of Ms. Blakeman's students stole a glance at the office when their class marched to the cafeteria and back, but there was no sign of either Matt or the school principal.

At lunch recess, Kelsey persuaded more than half the class to join her in the gym for an all-out, wall-ball war. Quinn, Sam, Neally, and a few other students who valued their eardrums headed for the four square courts.

“Singles or doubles?” Quinn asked half-heartedly.

“It was right here. I was standing in line.” Neally pointed to the boundary line of the first four square court. “Remember when Matt tripped me? I should have said something then.”

Quinn remembered the incident, and how frustrated he'd felt when he realized Neally wasn't going to tell on Matt. It seemed like a lifetime ago, as if it had happened in the second grade. How could he feel so much older when so little time has passed?

“But you were right,” Quinn said. “Matt would've lied. He'd have said you tripped over your own feet and that you were trying to blame him.”

“No, I don't care about
that
. I should have said something when I saw his arm. I grabbed his arm when I fell, and he had this bruise, this big, sore bruise, shaped like a mini-octopus.”

“Mini-octopus bruise?” Sam waved his arms. “Does not compute.”

“It was shaped like tentacles, or ...” Neally wrapped her hand around her upper arms. “Or
fingers
. Oh, gross. I think I'm gonna be sick.” She plopped down on the blacktop. “You know how hard you'd have to grab someone to leave marks like that?” Neally shivered and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“It doesn't have to be that hard.” Teena's flat voice hovered over the end of the line, where she stood holding a four square ball. “They just hold it and squeeze, real tight, for a long time.”

The gym door was pushed open so forcefully it swung all the way back on its hinges, and the thunderous clank of the door hitting the brick wall echoed across the playground. Josh and Brandon stormed out of the gym and headed for the blacktop area.

Teena dropped the ball. “Uh-oh.” She fingered a wisp of her hair and ambled off toward the swings.

Although Josh and Brandon stationed themselves at the front of the four square line, they obviously had no intention of starting a game.

“Nice going, Quinn,” Josh growled. “They took Matt away.”

“What do you mean?” Quinn asked. “Who took him away?”

“Brandon saw it. Right?” Josh elbowed Brandon.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Brandon said. “I had a hall pass for—”

“We all know what
you
had a hall pass for,” Neally said.

“Was it the police?” Sam asked hopefully.

“No. They took him away in a government car.”

“How do you know what a government car looks like?” Tay asked. “Did it have a siren?”

“A siren,” Brandon smirked. “In your TV Cop-Land dreams.”

“So, was it a cop car?” Sam persisted. “Detectives' cars aren't marked like patrol cars.”

“There are ways to tell.” Brandon lowered his voice,
as if he were about to reveal an undercover agent's secret code. Besides being the best speller in the class, Brandon was a famously first-rate, if not always reliable, storyteller. “Government cars have license plates with
G-O-V
below the numbers. The car had a shield painted on its doors, like a police badge, with a picture of a Statue of Liberty-type lady, only she was holding scales instead of a torch, and two kids held on to her knees. There were big letters above her head:
CPS
.” Brandon raised an eyebrow and stared gravely at the circle of kids surrounding him. “It's a code.”

“CPS ... Crummy Police Security?” Sam speculated.

“Crazy Purple Snotbags?” Tay offered.

“Cheesy Poodle Sandwiches!” Neally bounced on her toes.

“It might be Child Protective Services,” Quinn said.

“That sounds more official,” said Sam.

“Cheesy Poodle Sandwiches gets my vote,” Tay said.

“How would you know about Child Protective Servings?” Josh jabbed his finger at Quinn.

“Child Protective Services.” Quinn pronounced each word slowly. “My mom talks about them all the time. Her company calls them when they need help for kids.”

“Yeah, kids need help when they've been ratted on.” Josh glared at Quinn.

“They help kids who need ... help.” Quinn remembered the promise he'd made to Mr. Shirkner. He
stood as tall as he could without standing tiptoe, and looked Josh squarely in the eyes. “Sometimes, kids need to be protected.”

“You're still a rat. Who's gonna protect
you
when someone sets out the rat poison?”

Neally looked at Josh with a blend of curiosity and disgust, as if he were a circus sideshow mutant with horns, a wooly chest, and three belly buttons. “You are so lucky you were born in the USA, Josh. In some countries you'd be jailed for wasting all that space between your ears.”

“Geesh, Quinn.” Tay kicked at the blacktop. “I know what those Child Services people do. They'll take him away from his home. Why'd you have to say ... whatever you said?”

“I don't get it.” Quinn was so mystified by what he was hearing he forgot to be upset by the name-calling. He frowned at Josh, Brandon, and Tay. “I thought you and you, and even you, were his friends!?”

Tay lowered his eyes, and Brandon seemed to have a sudden urge to scratch his shin. But Josh glared defiantly at Quinn.

Quinn persisted. “Someone hurt Matt; someone's been hurting your friend. Now, maybe he can be safe. That's a good thing, right?”

“Righty-o.” Sam's voice was a little too cheerful. “Let's get going before recess is over.”