Crooked by Laura McNeal

one she could never ask and Gerri would never answer. It was, What did I
do?
    It was Friday when the letter from Amos arrived. She and Ham had finished their paper route and had just returned home with their empty canvas pouches. It was full dusk. Her father wasn’t home yet, so Clara checked the mailbox on her way by. She was hoping for a letter from her mother or maybe even Gerri when the smudgy envelope from Amos, with its serious, formal handwriting, came out of the box with two bills from credit card companies. Amos had neatly printed his return address in the corner. There was an oily, dime-sized stain near the bottom lefthand corner, and Amos had drawn an arrow toward it and written,
Oops!
Then, under that, he’d written:
Neat’s-foot Oil.
(Nothing gross.)
    Feeling a little stunned, like she had when she was chosen for her little part in the school play, Clara carefully opened the envelope. She read the letter once fast and then again slowly. So it
had
all been a misunderstanding, then, and it confirmed what Bruce had been trying to tell her that day on the bus. Which meant that Amos might be as nice as she hoped after all.
    Clara was still sitting in the living room staring at Amos’s neat handwriting when her father came in wearing gloves and his heavy winter coat.
    â€œThat from your mom?” he asked, nodding at the letter in her hand.
    â€œNo,” Clara said. She felt herself blush. But her father didn’t seem to notice. Once she’d said it wasn’t from her mother, he turned away and hung up his coat.
    â€œIt’s from Amos MacKenzie,” Clara said.
    â€œAmos MacKenzie,” her father repeated. “Do I know Amos MacKenzie?”
    â€œHis father’s the milkman.”
    â€œOh, right. Another of our endangered species. Men in white uniforms, milk in glass bottles.” He took off his gloves and picked up the two bills.
    Clara didn’t like it when her father was in the mood to make everything seem useless. “Well, his son, Amos, was hit with a bat.”
    Her father mumbled, “Uh-huh” and opened the first bill.
    â€œSome vandals threw the bat at Amos when he stopped them from doing more vandalism,” Clara said. “Amos got a concussion.”
    â€œHmm,” her father said while staring at the bill.
    â€œIt was really the oldest Tripp brother who did it,” Clara said. “That wasn’t in the paper, but someone told me about it at school.”
    For the first time, her father paid attention. “Well, I wouldn’t believe all the gossip,” her father said. “Remember, ‘Just the facts, ma’am. We only need the facts.’”
    Clara thought about telling her father that it was a fact that she’d seen Eddie and Charles Tripp together just a little while before the vandalism and assault, but she didn’t. Clara didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to think that Eddie had been involved. So she said, “Well, the facts are that Charles Tripp was arrested and hasn’t been at school.”
    Her father nodded, but he’d opened the other bill and his attention was elsewhere.
    â€œI have play practice tonight,” Clara said, remembering suddenly that she also had five chapters to read for English by Monday. And math homework.
    Her father didn’t look up from the bills. “What time?”
    â€œSeven to nine.”
    â€œWell, I’m thinking of going to Dalton tonight. Do you think you’ll be okay walking to the school?”
    Going to Dalton. To see her mother. This was even better than a note from Amos. “Sure,” she said. She waited until her father had put the credit card bills back into their envelopes. “Are you going to bring Mom home?”
    â€œI don’t know, Polkadot. That’s up to your mother. She wanted me to take her some clothes and books, and then we’ll just have to see about the rest.”
    That night, at play