Read What Mr. Mattero Did for Free Online Page B

this somehow connected to Dad? It was such a bizarre day. See? I still hadn’t figured it out.
    Â 
    Â 
    At the end of Bellevue Avenue, I got off the bus with three other kids who live in my neighborhood and walked up the sidewalk toward home. It was a warm spring day. Almost every yard I passed had some bright yellow daffodils blooming. One of my neighbors was even out mowing his lawn, a welcome sound, even if it was kind of early. But I wasn’t in a mood to enjoy a beautiful afternoon.
    When I crested the hill on Bellevue Avenue, I could see ahead to our house and how Dad’s old red Mercury Cougar was parked in our driveway beside my mother’s ancient orange Volvo station wagon. Things were getting more and more strange. Why was he home? Mom, too. She worked Wednesdays at the nursery. I quickened my pace.
    When I opened the side door to our kitchen, my dad’s loud, angry voice carried clearly from the back of the house. “I don’t know! I have absolutely no idea!”
    Mom’s purse and car keys were on the counter. I set down my backpack and walked softly to the doorway of the family room, where I could see both of my parents outside on the back deck. The sliding doors that opened onto the deck were cracked open. Mom sat in one of four chairs at the umbrella table while Dad paced back and forth, his shirttails hanging out, his tie askew. He was running a hand across his head fitfully, the way he does at band rehearsal when he’s frustrated because we’re not playing together. His other hand held something against his face.
    â€œFred, take it easy,” Mom said, motioning for Dad to slow down. “Go over it one more time. What, exactly, did Helena say to you?”
    Helena is the first name of Mrs. Fernandez, our principal, but Dad has known her for years. Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez have even come to our house for dinner.
    Dad stopped pacing and sat down in a chair in front of my mother. I could see that it was an ice pack he pressed against his jaw. Neither one of my parents knew I was home. Quietly, I took another couple steps forward.
    â€œBeginning of third period, Helena called me down to the office,” Dad started explaining.
    â€œWhy didn’t she wait until those girls were out of school?” my mother interrupted. “You wouldn’t have gotten slugged if she’d gotten them out of there first!”
    Pausing, Dad looked at her. “You asked me what happened, Mary.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Fred,” Mom apologized in a soft voice. “Go on. Tell me. Helena called you to the office.”
    Dad took a deep breath and let it out. “Right. So she called me down. She said we needed to talk. I was in the music room with Mellie, and I was thinking to myself, ‘Oh, boy, what did I do this time?’ And the only thing I could think of is that I gave that kid, Brett Johnson, a detention for not showing up at band practice last week. He was really ticked off about it, you know? But it’s less than two weeks before the competition in Virginia, and he knew I needed everybody there.
    â€œWhen I got to the office I asked Helena, ‘Is it that kid, Brett Johnson?’ She said, ‘It’s worse than that. Have a seat, Fred.’ So I sat down. She was having a hard time getting it out. Finally, she said that three girls, three seventh-grade girls, had come to the office and complained that I had touched them inappropriately in the band rehearsal room on Monday.”
    â€œMonday. Two days ago?” Mom asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIn the band rehearsal room?” Mom repeated.
    â€œThat’s right. She said she separated them right away and had them write down everything. She said their stories matched, that they were identical.”
    Dad sighed, and there was a moment when neither of my parents said anything. They were turned away from me, and I couldn’t tell if they were even looking at each other or not.