Free Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko

they slap you in leg irons. Prison is a bad place, I’m telling you.”
    Scout is biting his lip, trying not to laugh. Most everyone knows I’m kidding, but one girl isn’t too sure.
    “On the other hand,” I say, “we have the politest felons in America. They say please, thank you, pardon and excuse me. If you’re going to be robbed or murdered, you really want a polite guy to do it. Somebody who offers you a chair and some milk and cookies first. It’s kind of like being shot by your grand-mother. Who wouldn’t prefer that?”
    “You must learn a lot living there,” a skinny girl says. She’s taking in my every word.
    “Oh, yeah, on weekends there are special classes the cons teach us . . . you learn how to blow safes, make silencers, steal cars . . . thieves school, we call it. Homework’s tough, though. Ever tried to get a dead body in a rumble seat?”
    Everyone laughs. They all know I’m kidding now. Then the bell rings, thank God, because I’m out of stories. I look around and see Del has disappeared. He comes back a few minutes later with his sweater on but nothing but bare skin underneath. He rolls his shirt up and hands it to Piper, who is busy talking to Scout, sign in hand.
    When we are all settled in our seats, Miss Bimp starts rattling on about the importance of good posture and how no cultivated lady or gentleman would dream of slumping during oral reports the way certain members of this class are doing. She is just getting warmed up when the notes start appearing.
    How about tomorrow? one pencil-rolled scrap of paper asks.
    No. Only today, Piper writes back in her back-slanted cursive.
    How much for socks? another says.
    Two cents, Piper writes back.
    Will my blouse come back bloody? My mom will kill me if I ruin my blouse.
    No.
    Can you advance me a nickel?
    No.
    PLEASE! The note comes back again, this time written in pencil-grinding capital letters.
    NO! Piper scribbles mercilessly.
    When class ends, two lines form outside the bathrooms. One by one Miss Bimp’s students come out, sweaters over bare chests, shoes with no socks, jumpers with no shirts beneath. I watch from a distance as they hand Piper their clothes and their money.
    “Please, Piper, I can’t take off my dress! Can’t I bring something tomorrow?” Penelope begs Piper.
    “I’m sorry,” Piper explains. She rolls her lips together and shakes her head. “Our arrangements simply won’t allow that kind of flexibility.” She looks really sorry too, as if she would change the rules in a second if only she could. The girl marches off to the bathroom and returns, slip in hand.
    “Can’t do it. Too, you know, personal,” Piper tells the girl whose face is now as red as her hair.
    At the end of the day, I see two eighth-grade guys walking home bare-chested, shivering in the gray foggy afternoon. Piper limited her sales efforts to the seventh-grade class, but probably they had a friend in the seventh grade send their clothes in. I’ll bet Piper got twice as many eighth-grade kids this way. I have to admit . . . Piper is pretty smart. But she’s going to get in trouble for this, I just know it.

13. One-woman Commando Unit
    Wednesday, January 9, 1935
     
    I hear something funny when I get up the next morning. And when I go outside, I find Piper stuffing extra clothes in our laundry bags.
    “What are you doing?” I ask her.
    “What does it look like? You won’t help. What am I supposed to do?”
    “You’re just lucky that I caught you and not my mom or dad,” I say. But as soon as this is out of my mouth, I’m sorry I said it. It sounds pretty lame.
    “I’m lucky, huh.” She smiles—so pleased with herself, she can hardly stand it. “I guess that means you won’t tell.”
    My ears are hot. I feel big and stupid and I don’t know what to say, so I go back inside, hoping someone else will catch her.
    While I’m in the bathroom looking for my toothbrush, my mom corners me. “Moose, honey,” she says, “I have