But then something happened—standing there on that roof, I remembered once, years ago, when Dad took me mini-golfing. During a few of the earlier holes, I’d noticed a last-second flick of the wrist, or a fleeting smirk, which led me to believe he was putting forth less than his best effort. We were on the back half of the miniature course: the token “giant windmill” green. I don’t remember who was winning at the time, but it was close. Closer than it should have been.
“Dad,” I said. “Try this time.”
Picking up his quarter, he raised an eyebrow. “This time? I’ve been trying every time, Mim. You’re a pro.”
I was standing behind him when he teed off. His ball rolled down the turf aisle, a straight shot through the tiny tunnel, narrowly missing a windmill blade, and through to the other side. From where we were standing, the six-foot windmill blocked our view of the hole, making it impossible to see where Dad’s ball had landed.
“Pretty sure I shanked it,” said Dad. “I’ll go check.”
He rested his putter on his shoulder and strolled around the windmill, out of sight. While he was gone, I noticed the green ahead of us had one of those fold-out circus mirrors. Its position made it look as though there were six or seven holes, effectively camouflaging the true hole. A young couple kept hitting their golf balls into the mirror, cursing, then smiling like they didn’t care. For a second, I tried to figure out which of the holes was the real one. And then I saw it. One side of the mirror was angled toward the hole on our green. In its reflection, I saw Dad pull his ball out of our hole, then set it down by the edge of the walkway, a good ten feet away. He threw on a smile, then rounded the windmill back on my side.
“Yup,” he said, shrugging. “Shanked it.”
Dad, for all his faults, was still Dad. He didn’t just will himself to lose that game so that I might win—he rigged it so that there was no other way.
I had people. Who loved me. People who cheated to lose. There’s really something to this, Iz, something that separates me from Shadow Kid. And I think this is what makes the storm pass.
People say I’m sick. Dad sure believes it. At his insistence, I’ve been on meds for the past year or so.
Shit.
Constable Randy returns.
Long story short, I’m not going to take the medication anymore, because I don’t need it. Mom never thought so, and neither did Makundi.
Abilitol is its name.
And it is Reason #7.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Grizzly Whoa-man!
“ARE YOU DONE?”
I nod, stuff my journal away, and give the officer my sarcastic-undivided-attention look. (It’s a good one.) We aren’t suspects—a fact I pointed out twice before he dropped us in this room—but this hasn’t kept Independence’s Finest from treating Walt and me like bottom-feeders.
“Okay, then,” says Officer Randy, plopping his awkward frame across the table. “What do you think a man in my position should do?”
I want to ask him what position he thinks he’s in. Survey says: bowling ball on a straw. Seriously, in all my years I’ve never seen a noodle like his, like someone grabbed him by both feet and blew air into his toes. This man is one hard sneeze away from scoliosis.
“I don’t understand the problem,” I say. “We already told you what happened on the roof. You can’t keep us here, we’ve done nothing wrong.”
Randy shuffles his papers around. Blimey, looking at his giant head almost makes me wish I’d stared at that dumb eclipse with both eyes wide open.
“You know what I did yesterday?” he asks. “Arrested an accused child molester. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m less than cordial.”
The words of Officer Randy take me there. (I’d like to be friends, Mim. You want to be friends, don’t you?) The clicking of Walt’s cube brings me back.
It’s quiet for a moment; Officer Randy sighs, says, “Okay, look. Bottom line. I’ve got two minors involved in a possible murder attempt.”
“Dude. We were the murderees, not the murderers.”
“I know that. And under normal circumstances, I’d call your parents, explain the situation, tell you to expect calls from an attorney, and send you on your merry way. But these aren’t normal circumstances, it would seem. These are very odd circumstances.”
Constable, you have no idea . . .
“Because when I ask you a simple question—what’s your name, where’re you from, where’re your folks—you clam up. Ahab vouches for both of you, says you’re heading to Iowa, or something, but he’s a moron. Either way, that’s not enough to—”
“Cleveland,” says Walt.
Randy frowns at him. “What?”
“Cleveland, not Iowa.” Walt has his head down, completely enthralled with his cube.
Think fast, Malone. I lean in across the desk and lower my voice. “Okay, fine. Officer, my name is Betty, and this is my brother, Rufus, and we’re from Cleveland. A few years back, I was self-diagnosed with abandonment issues and—”
“Self-diagnosed?” Randy interrupts.
“What did I say?”
“You said self-diagnosed.”
“That’s right.”
Next to me, Walt is nodding emphatically.
“So anyway,” I continue, “after our parents died, my brother here was put under my guardianship.”