Free Book of Mercy by Sherry Roberts

aggravate Sam. Because, for a while, it was nice to belong somewhere.

    T HE SECRETARY IN THE main office called “Next!” and Ryder and Antigone both jumped to their feet. The secretary’s name badge identified her as “Mrs. Sweetings, Volunteer.” As a former child with special needs, Antigone was no stranger to dealing with teachers, school administrators, and well-meaning volunteers. In a glance, she had Mrs. Sweetings summed up. Everything matched on Mrs. Sweetings: big chunky gold earrings and gold bracelet, silk walking shorts and silk sweater, black tights and black leather pumps. Mrs. Sweetings probably had gone through a one-week training course. From the way she kept neatening the already neat stacks of forms in front of her, Antigone knew this was Mrs. Sweetings’s first day in the main office. On the outside, she appeared calm and brave, but on the inside Antigone bet she was panicking. Antigone had heard her whisper to one of the other volunteers, “No one mentioned anything in training about boys with pierced tongues and girls with shaved heads.”
    Antigone relaxed for the first time since they entered the school; this woman she could handle.
    “Now,” Mrs. Sweetings smiled at Antigone. “What can we do for you?”
    “I’m here to register a student.”
    Mrs. Sweetings’s smile was plastered on. “No problem. Where’s the student now?”
    Antigone pointed to Ryder. Mrs. Sweetings’s glance scanned Ryder then returned to Antigone. There was a faint flicker in her white perfect smile, a barely detectable power glitch. She asked Antigone, “And you are his . . .?”
    “Aunt,” Antigone smiled.
    “Aunt?”
    “Ryder takes after his father’s side of the family.”
    “The father’s side?”
    “My sister, well, she’s my stepsister really, is a single parent, and she thought it would be better for Ryder to come and live with me for a while. She was worried about what the city does to a child, the drugs and the gangs and the drive-by shootings. She naturally wants the best for her child. And I told her there was nothing better than Mercy. Don’t you agree?”
    Mrs. Sweetings cleared her throat. “Of course,” she stammered.
    “So here we are.” Antigone pushed up her sleeves and grabbed a pen on the desk. “Now where do I sign?”
    Mrs. Sweetings’s recovery was slow. “Well, first we need a little information. If you’ll fill out this form, we can get started.” She handed Antigone a clipboard.
    Antigone guided Ryder back to the squeaky chairs and shoved the clipboard into his hands. When he gave a quizzical look, she said, “Well, you can’t expect me to do all the work.”
    Ryder grunted. He hated answering questions about himself. She watched him labor over the form. You’d think she had asked him to tap a vein. “Well?” she finally asked.
    He read his answers. Name:
Irwin Cassius Butler. Answers to Ryder and nothing else. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE.
Age:
15.
Mother’s name:
Felicia.
Father’s name:
William
(“It’s as good as any other,” Ryder shrugged). Last school attended:
Colby Middle School, New York.
All inoculations up to date:
Yes.
    Antigone hadn’t a clue how much was true. She didn’t ask.
    They returned the form to Mrs. Sweetings, who smiled and said, “Now if I can just make copies of your birth certificate, vaccination record, and school transcript?” Ryder looked at Mrs. Sweetings’s outstretched hand, then turned to Antigone.
    “Oh, we don’t have any of those things,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand.
    For the first time, Mrs. Sweetings lost her smile. “No birth certificate?”
    “Stolen by gangs when they broke into his mother’s apartment looking for drug money.”
    “No school transcript?”
    “The school burned down and all the records with it. Gangs.” Antigone sighed, “Again.” She gave Ryder a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder. “He lived in a very bad neighborhood.”
    “Sounds like a war zone,” Mrs. Sweetings