“I wish that too, Tommy. But you know none of it was your fault, right? You didn’t cut through the park expecting to find that body. You didn’t miss your piano lesson on purpose. You didn’t ask Dennis Farman to beat you up. It’s not your fault.”

Tommy didn’t argue with her, but he knew it was his fault. He had decided to cut through the park. He had looked at Dennis when he shouldn’t have. His mother was upset because of all of this trouble he had fallen into.

Miss Navarre stood up and crossed her arms and walked around in a little circle. From Tommy’s observations that usually meant the person was working up to saying something nobody wanted to hear.

“Do you remember last Thursday night?” she asked. “Do you remember what you did that night? Were your mom and dad home?”

“I think so,” Tommy said, puzzled. “My dad and me watch The Cosby Show.”

“I like that show too,” Miss Navarre said with a little smile. “Does your mom watch with you?”

“No. She doesn’t think anything is funny.”

“That’s too bad for her.”

“She’s not a very happy person,” he said.

“How about your dad? He seems like a happy person.”

“Most of the time,” Tommy said, but he didn’t say anything about how it was when his mother was on one of her rampages and yelling at his dad. He didn’t say that sometimes his dad would just have to leave, and how he wouldn’t come back for hours.

It didn’t feel right to tell anybody things like that. Not even Miss Navarre. That was family stuff. You weren’t supposed to tell other people family stuff. It was like a code. You had to be loyal to your family first.

“My mother used to say ‘This too shall pass,’” Miss Navarre said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means even bad times will go away. All the crazy stuff that happened this week already happened, it’s behind us. We should look forward. Next week could bring something really great.”

I hope so, Tommy thought as he slid off his chair and followed her out of the room, holding his arm against his aching ribs. I sure hope so.

Chapter 38

38

“I can’t believe any of this is happening,” Sara Morgan said, pulling her pink sweater around herself as if she was freezing, even though the morning was warming up quickly.

She was a pretty woman in a wholesome athletic sort of way, dressed like maybe she was on her way to aerobics class in black leggings with gray leg warmers slouching around her ankles. She had a head of hair a man would like to tangle his hands in—thick with curls and waves. She had caught up a couple of sections in barrettes in a halfhearted attempt to keep it under control.