Free Al Capone Does My Homework by Gennifer Choldenko Page A

about her flowers.
     She always says a garden is for everyone to enjoy. I pick a daisy and then ring the
     warden’s bell.
    Piper’s mom answers. “Moose,” she says, her eyes on the flower.
    “Is Piper here? This is, uh, for her.” I blush hot as a radiator.
    “Aren’t you the sweetest thing. I was wondering where Piper was getting all the presents
     from. She’s at her grandma’s, but boy will she be sorry she missed this.”
    I open my mouth to tell her that I’ve never given Piper a present in my life, but
     how do I say that without sounding rude?
    “When will she be back?” I ask.
    “Tomorrow, but I’ll make sure she gets it. Of course I will. Thanks, dear,” she says,
     and then she’s gone.
    I stand staring at the closed door. Who is Piper’s secret admirer anyway? Not that
     I care or anything. I only kissed her one time. Okay, one and a half, but still.
    On the way back to the Chudleys’ I start thinking about the task force report. Is
     there any way to find out what’s in it before everyone else? The only person who would
     know is Piper. Where is she when I need her?
    At the Chudleys’, the day’s dishes sit in the sink. Flies cluster around a honey spill.
     The bacon is on the counter, congealed grease in the pan. Why didn’t Mom take the
     leftover food back to Doc Ollie’s icebox. Isn’t that the plan?
    She’s tired, that’s why. Between the fire and Nat staying up all night, she’s a wreck.
    When she finally gets supper on the table, the spaghetti noodles are watery and the
     tomato sauce tastes like cough medicine. Natalie is so agitated, she eats standing
     up. My mother is so tired, she doesn’t care.
    By bedtime, I have a headache from thinking about the task force and the cockroaches
     and Natalie and her eye contact trouble and then this sleep problem on top of everything
     else. Right now she’s in her room, rocking from one foot to the other. Every time
     we persuade her to lie down, she sits bolt upright like she’s afraid to fall asleep.
     Did the fire scare her? Or does she just dislike the Chudleys’? She held it together
     so well the night of the fire, but now she’s a mess.
    “The sun come up this morning?” she whispers.
    “It’s bedtime, Nat,” I say. “You have to go to bed first.”
    “I have to go to bed first,” Nat parrots.
    “Yes,” I say in a rush of hopefulness. At least she hasn’t slid back to calling herself
     Natalie the way she used to. That bugged me. Only insane people and batters on a losing
     streak talk about themselves in the third person.
    I play the Stupid Moose game. I call out wrong answers to simple math problems, pretend
     to confuse the order of the weekdays and the number of buttons in her box. I balance
     marshmallows on my nose, flicker the lights for her, offer up my toothbrush, and take
     her to the parade grounds swings. But nothing helps.
    I sleep fitfully until I hear someone knocking on the front door. I head downstairs
     and peek out the window to see who is knocking. The outside light shines down on the
     blue uniform of Darby Trixle.
    “Everybody okay in there?” he calls.
    I open the door a crack. “The lights are blazing all over the house. I thought I better
     check on you,” Darby explains.
    “We’re fine,” I tell him.
    He nods. “Bo Bomini said the same thing happened last night. I saw the reports.”
    The reports go to Warden Williams and to his boss, the head of the Bureau of Prisons.
     That’s the chain of command as my father explained it to me.
    Why did I open the door? Knowing Darby, he would have broken it down if I didn’t open
     it.
    I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. Good. My father can handle this.
    “Dad, it’s Officer Trixle,” I say.
    My father swings the door open wide. “Can I help you with something, Darby?”
    “All the lights been on all night long. I thought you might be needing something,
     sir.”
    My father nods. “I’m afraid Natalie is still getting over the