The One Tree of Luna by Todd McCaffrey Page A

bed,” I said. I lowered my voice and added a bit of a purr, “Wanna come up?”
    â€œI don’t rob cradles,” TwoShoes said.
    â€œOh, yeah, you do!” I shouted over the phone. “I was in mine when you robbed me of TEN YEARS of my life!” I shouldn’t have lost my temper, I know it but — damn! — how could he say such a thing?
    â€œSorry.” And — dammit! — you know, but he really did sound sorry.
    â€œThat’s nice, Goodi,” I said. “It’s a bit late. You coulda said that when they went for
     sentencing. When they sent me up for all my childhood.” My eyes were watering now as too
     many nights came back to me. “Do you know what they did to me for the first three months I
     was there? Do you know they put me in solitary? ‘For my own good’?”
    â€œNo,” and Goodi had the sense to sound repentant, “I didn’t know until I checked up on you.”
    â€œAnd when was that?” I demanded.
    â€œThree months after you were incarcerated,” Goodi said quietly.
    Oh!
    â€œSo I’m supposed to thank you?”
    â€œNo,” TwoShoes said. “They’d already moved you when I found out about it.” A pause. “All I
     did was make sure that the prison governor was removed for cause.” Goodi Twoshoes would
     never say ‘fired’; he really had earned his nickname.
    â€œUnh.” I was getting tired; tears do that to me. Stupid tears. I rubbed them off my face angrily. I’d sworn, ten years ago, never to cry again and here I was — only a day out of the joint — bawling like a … like a kid who was sent to jail when she was only twelve.
    For a crime everyone knew I didn’t commit. Not that it mattered. The jury didn’t give a shit,
     nor did the judge, nor did dear ol’ Goodi TwoShoes when it came to it. Someone
had
to pay, the crime was too enormous — ‘a crime against humanity so heinous that it revolts
     all common sense to even consider it’ … and my dad was dead.
    So li’l ol’ Robin, “the notorious Robin Redbreast” as the newsies decided to call me — ’cuz
     they couldn’t call me “Red Robin” or they’d get sued — little twelve year-old pint-sized me
     got to take the fall.
    They even attempted to try me as an adult.
    I was like all of five foot at the time, flat-chested, freckle-faced, ninety-five pounds
     dripping wet, with flaming red hair and “beautiful, baleful blue eyes.”
    At the time, I really didn’t care. Hell, let them kill me was what I thought back then. There
     wasn’t anything left to live for. My dad was dead, thousands had died because of — “a
     heinous act of premeditated murder” — no, really, a mistake. A mistake for which I cried
     every night of those three months in solitary until I finally realized that that was all it
     had been: a mistake. My mistake, so maybe I deserved some of the punishment.
    But not all of it. No, not for a mistake.
    â€œMake sure you report in tomorrow,” Goodi TwoShoes said now. “And don’t think of leaving town.”
    â€œSure, no problem,” I said. “Is that all?” I knew better than to hang up on him. The shit would probably have revoked my parole just for that alone. Goodi TwoShoes.
    â€œThat’s all,” he said and hung up.
    I was in my room, just like I said. Of course, I was in the room that no one had ever found, not even my dad.
    Maybe if they’d’ve found my room, they wouldn’t have sent me to jail. Maybe not. I’ve had ten years to learn how people will close their eyes to the truth. How would the public have handled my room, all kitted out in pinks and Barbies? It wouldn’t have fit with their nice post-Emo terrorist girl image of me. The kid with a mascara tears, the pierced nose, the punk haircut, the intense expression —