Read Online Crooked by Laura McNeal - Free Book Online Page A

woke up to the heater whirring into bright orange again, it was nearly five. Wasn’t her father supposed to be home by now? She went to the window and saw no car in the driveway, just wet pines and snow.
    The phone rang repeatedly after that, and later, when she thought of that day, she remembered the empty china plates and the sound of the phone, the extended, ominous ring that it had when the house was closed up against darkness and cold. The first call was from her father at the airport, very cheerful, saying he’d be home within the hour. “Just called to see if I should bring anything from the store,” he said. “Is your mother home yet?”
    â€œNot yet,” Clara said. “I bought everything for dinner, though. And the table’s all set.”
    â€œGood girl! We’ll have a great time. Have you got your homework finished so we can go out for an ice cream afterward?”
    â€œI was just about to start,” Clara said.
    â€œWell, see how much you can do and I’ll help you while I cook. How’s that?”
    Clara had done six algebra problems when the phone rang again.
    â€œClara?” a voice said. It was a boy, but Clara could tell, with a rise and then a plummet of hope, that it wasn’t Amos calling to apologize.
    â€œThis is Bruce Crookshank,” he said. “Remember me?”
    â€œSure do,” Clara said. Then there was a silence.
    â€œI’m calling on behalf of Amos MacKenzie,” Bruce said.
    â€œThen forget it,” Clara said. “I’m busy.”
    â€œWell, I’ve got to tell you something.”
    â€œDoes it involve nudity?”
    â€œNudity is something I—”
    Clara cut him off by hanging up and was surprised at how pleased it made her feel. It was like getting the last word, only better. She got some Oreos out of the pantry and sat back down to her algebra. She was drawing lines and exponents,
x
’s and division brackets when the telephone rang again.
    â€œMay I speak to Clara Wilson?” an adult voice asked.
    â€œSpeaking,” Clara said. Suddenly she was afraid that her father’s cab had spun off the road, or that her mother had been in an accident.
    â€œThis is Butch MacKenzie, Amos’s father,” the voice said, and when Clara, a little uncertain of the voice she was hearing, said nothing, he continued: “I wouldn’t be calling except that there’s been an accident and I believe you could be of help.”
    â€œAccident?” Clara asked. She began to cough from swallowing an Oreo almost whole. “What kind of accident?”
    â€œA quite serious accident,” the voice said so gravely that Clara pictured Mr. MacKenzie with a pipe in his hand.
    â€œWas somebody hurt?” Clara asked. She had begun to feel like a movie character, and the question sounded false, almost eager, when in fact she felt a measure of panic, like she did whenever she heard an ambulance on the road.
    â€œI’m afraid it’s our boy, Amos,” the voice said.
    â€œAmos?”
    â€œHe has been struck by a baseball bat.”
    For some reason, this statement had a ring of truth that the voice didn’t have. For all its drama and strangeness (Mr. MacKenzie wouldn’t say “our boy,” would he?), the conversation began to seem urgent in some way.
    â€œWho would do that?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet. A vandal of some sort. The main thing is that we’d like you to visit him tomorrow if you can.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œHe
asked
for you, actually. He said your name and mumbled something.”
    â€œWell,” Clara said, “I could come after school. Where is he?”
    â€œSt. Stephen’s Hospital. Room 623. Let’s say three-thirty sharp.”
    Clara’s father came home shortly thereafter, complaining about the roads, wondering about Clara’s mother’s whereabouts, and acting generally distracted. Clara usually felt