Free All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook by Leslie Connor Page A

listening to the conversation at the VanLeer table. Following Big Ed’s advice is going to be hard when my mind keeps wandering back home.
    I tune back in just in time to hear Mrs. Samuels talking about taking a trip to Lincoln tomorrow where she’s goingto pick up a dresser for the Lund family and cart it back to town. Mrs. Samuels helps people and businesses with their places and spaces. Her job is about paint colors, fabrics, furniture, and flower beds. I’ve already heard her say that she doesn’t have enough work in these little towns.
    â€œWasn’t the dresser pickup scheduled for this afternoon?” Mr. VanLeer asks.
    â€œWell, it was going to be, but then when the school called, well . . .”
    I realize that she’s gotten to the part about changing her schedule because of my bloody nose.
    â€œ. . . with the sun shining, it turned out to be a great day to stay in town and clean out flower boxes and do fall plantings. I did the Higgins and Hansen porches in gold and white mums,” she says. “And then it was kind of nice to come home and start dinner early.”
    â€œThank you,” I say—or, more like, I blurt it.
    All the VanLeer and Samuels heads turn to look at me.
    â€œThis dinner is good,” I say. Then I think it to myself: this dinner is a win.

chapter twenty-three
IN THE HISTORY ROOM
    W hen Friday gets here, I am psyched. I’m one day away from Saturday. That’s all I’ve been thinking about. Mr. Thomas VanLeer will drive me back to Blue River for the entire afternoon. Tomorrow.
    Mom and I have so much catching up to do. Little things, big things, new things. I need to tell her about the VanLeer house, the meals, the busted shower, and the bed inside the closet. I want her to know I made a timeline and taped it to the closet wall. I’m marking my X s through days that are done. I’m trying to keep my eye on the end. Trouble is, I’m not sure exactly when that will be. I am all about the day when Mom will be paroled and I will get out of the VanLeer house.
    There is a whole week’s worth of assignments from thenew school to tell her about. Mom always keeps up on what I’m doing in my classes. Just today, Miss Maya Rubin told us about a whopping long-term assignment—the kind that causes me trouble. I really need to talk to Mom about that. I want to leave time to hear what’s been going on at home; who is new, who’s been gated out, who had something good happen, and who is hanging in there at Blue River. I wonder if we can get everything said on a single Saturday afternoon. I will need a list, and Mom and I will need a corner of the Blue River Common to ourselves. That’s a tall order. Saturday is the busiest visiting day.
    Zoey and I walk to the library. We’ve done this each day after school—except Monday when I had the bloody nose. It’s just two and half blocks, but I secretly feel very grown-up walking on our own. We’re allowed to eat snacks in the library, and so far, we’ve been remembering to pack something in the morning at the VanLeer house. If Zoey forgets, I remember. If I forget, Zoey is on it. Mr. VanLeer says we are a remarkable team. This morning he told Mrs. Samuels, “They’re like a brother-and-sister act, huh, Robyn?” He chuckled. He chuckles all the time. He thinks he has to fill in the quiet parts.
    Mrs. Samuels was quiet this morning after she heard that brother-sister thing. Zoey showed me an eye-roll from behind the pantry door where the granola bars are. For me, what Mr. VanLeer said feels like a little piece of something caught in the arch of my shoe. I don’t know what it is. It’snothing much. But it hits a tender spot every once in a while and I wish I could knock it out of there.
    At the library, we choose the History Room. We sit on spindly wooden chairs and hook our ankles on the rungs. It is not the most comfortable room in the