Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe Page A

better look, then broke into a laugh. “Oh, another flour sack!” she said. “Mrs. Menendez did say another boy had the ‘same challenge’ as Nicky. How’s it going?”
    â€œFine, ma’am, thank you.”
    â€œYour question?”
    â€œI, uh, oh, I forgot,” I blurted out. For some reason, the class laughed.
    Smiling, Mrs. Dekker shook her head and
tsk-tsk
ed. “You’d make a very bad witness,” she said.
    â€œYes, I know, I mean, actually I wouldn’t know—because I’d forget. I can’t remember anything. For example, I won’t remember you were ever here. In fact, I’ve already forgotten.” I wiped my damp palms on my pants. “Did I just say something?”
    This time the laughter was unreasonably long and unreasonably hard.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Mrs. Dekker turned to Mrs. M. “Should I mark him as a hostile witness?”
    â€œI’m not hostile!” I protested in alarm, glancing at Dekker. He was facing front, his jaw clenched so tight I could practically count his teeth through his cheeks. “I like you, I really do.”
    â€œIt just means you’re uncooperative,” Mrs. Dekker said.
    â€œI’ll cooperate, please. Just tell me what you want. If you want me to testify, I’ll testify. If you want me to love homework, I’ll love homework. Heck, I’ll even
do
homework.”
    â€œThis smells of bribery. Do homework in return for what?” Mrs. Dekker asked.
    â€œUh, live through the day?”
    She frowned. “‘Live through the day’? Have you been threatened? Are you suggesting that you need the witness protection program?”
    Yes, against your son
—the words danced in my mouth, frantic to get out. I choked them back.
    â€œNo, no threats, not from no one, no one at all,” I finally managed to say.
    â€œWell then, I have a question for
you.”
Mrs. Dekker narrowed her eyes as she looked at me. “Why is your flour sack wearing a baby hat?”
    â€œTo protect her from drafts.”
    â€œOh. Uh, thank you, that’s all. Any other questions?”
    â€œYeah,” said Jerome Lindsay. “How did you get so fat?”
    â€œEating too many bratty kids. They make me bloat.”
    Dekker jumped up and flew out the door.
    â€œLet him go,” Mrs. Dekker said to Mrs. M. She turned back to the class. “Any legitimate questions?”
    Mrs. Dekker was as cool as a cucumber. I bet she could be defending a guy for murder, have him break down in the witness chair and confess in a crowded courtroom, and she would change tactics without a blink—and win.
    â€œNo, that’s enough questions,” said Mrs. Menendez. “Mr. Lindsay, apologize to Mrs. Dekker, then take yourself down to the principal’s office.”
    Jerome pulled himself to his feet, mumbled an apology, then left the room. Mrs. M. whispered her own apology, which Mrs. Dekker waved off. The two walked out into the hall. Mrs. M. returned for a second. “I want a five-hundred-word essay from the lot of you on the meaning of courtesy. Start now. Finish it up for homework. Miss Boynton, hand out paper from my desk to anyone who needs it. Mr. Hooks, come with me to the office, please.”
    Stunned, I trailed behind them to the principal’s office.Why did I have to go with them? What had
I
done? It wasn’t fair.
    When the three of us reached the office, Mrs. M. asked Mrs. Dekker if she knew about Tuesday’s incident with my father. No, Mrs. Dekker didn’t. She had been away on business and apparently neither her husband nor her son had shared that bit of news on her return. So Mrs. M. summed it up, then explained how Dekker might have misinterpreted both his mother’s presence here today and any comment I had made. Skating around the really important points, Mrs. M. never mentioned that my family was loony or that Mrs. Dekker’s son was