Free What Mr. Mattero Did by Priscilla Cummings Page B

stroke her nose and say good-bye.
    It was dusk by the time I left, and I didn’t want to cut through the pasture. Instead, I took the long way home: down the winding dirt driveway from the stables to a longer, gravel road, which led back to the main road and our neighborhood. But even then, I scuffed along, wanting more time to think, but not knowing what to think, and so mostly torturing myself with thoughts of the worst that could happen: the school firing Dad, the police putting him in jail. I did not actually think these things would happen, understand, I was just doing worst-case scenarios in my head.
    By the time I crested the hill on Bellevue Avenue, it was dark. I saw that my brother was home ahead of me. His car, a beat-up Toyota my grandmother gave him, was parked on the street out front, its windows down and one tire looking mighty soft. Sometimes Cade worked after school at a video store and didn’t get home until almost nine, but I could never keep track of his schedule.
    Seeing the soft yellow lights on inside the kitchen window, I figured Cade knew by now, too. He had a pretty quick temper; I wondered how he was taking the news.
    I plucked the evening paper out of the azalea bushes, where it had been tossed, and walked in to see my family sitting around the kitchen table with several Chinese food takeout cartons, unopened, in front of them. Cade was frowning and had picked up a wooden chopstick, which he slowly tapped on the open palm of one hand.
    No one seemed to notice me. Dad was staring at the edge of the table.
    â€œThe school has a policy, Cade,” Mom was explaining quietly, opening her folded hands in front of her. “Anytime a teacher is accused of anything, not just touching a student, that teacher has to be put on leave while the allegations are investigated.”
    â€œWho’s investigating him?” Cade asked.
    â€œThe school, the police. A detective called a while ago and asked if Dad would go down to the station and answer a few questions tomorrow.”
    Cade rolled his eyes. “So how long will he have to stay out of work?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Mom said.
    â€œAnd what about the girls who accused him?” Cade demanded. “They’re a bunch of liars! So they just go to school? Like nothing happened?”
    Neither one of my parents responded right away. Dad lifted his head. “There’s nothing else we can do right now.”
    When Cade brought his two hands down, I thought he was going to break that chopstick in half.
    â€œWe just have to wait and see what happens,” my mother continued. “Your father wrote a statement denying everything. I’m going to drop it off with Mrs. Fernandez tomorrow morning.”
    Cade threw the chopstick down and leaned back in his chair. Angrily crossing his arms, he looked at Dad. “That’s it? You’re just going to stand by and let those kids call you a pedophile?”
    â€œThat’s enough, Cade!” my mother yelled, breaking her calm facade. “Stop it right now, do you hear?”
    â€œMary!” my dad stopped her. “Take it easy.”
    The room fell quiet. Mom covered her face with her hands. She hates to yell. It absolutely takes everything out of her when she yells.
    Even knowing this, in the vacuum of silence following her outburst, I dared to ask: “What’s a pedophile?” I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure.
    Surprised, they turned to look at me. Mom uncovered her face, and Cade uncrossed his arms. His eyes flicked from Mom and then to Dad, who got up and left.
    â€œA pedophile,” Mom explained, her voice flat, “is somebody who abuses children.”
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    It was an awful night. None of us even ate dinner. I was the one who opened, then closed, those little cartons of Chinese food and stacked them in the refrigerator. While Mom and Dad sat quietly in the family room, I fed the cat, took the garbage out, and wiped off