“You know that’s not going to work, though, Raymond. Were you really thinking I’d write you a note, and she’d never find out?”
“It was a thought.”
Then Raymond laughed. Just a quiet little breath of a laugh. And, to his relief, his father laughed as well.
“What’s this thing you want to do?”
“It’s a . . . trial.”
“Like a criminal trial?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of crime?”
“Voluntary manslaughter.”
“Do you know the person on trial?”
“No. But I know the victim’s family.”
“I see. This is about your friend, right? Your older woman friend?”
“How did you know that?”
“I pay attention when you talk to me, son. When you first told me about her you said she’s blind, and needs help, and that the person who was helping her just got killed.”
“Oh,” Raymond said. “Did I?”
Then he was so surprised that for a time he did not—could not—speak.
“Did you not realize I listen to you?”
“I . . . guess I’m not used to it. Mom and Ed don’t. Well. Ed doesn’t listen. Mom takes in everything you say, but then it drops right out of her head again.”
“But you should have noticed that I do.”
“You don’t say much,” Raymond said, falling unexpectedly into honesty. “So sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“Be that as it may, I think your mom will understand about what you’re asking. Seeing as this person is so close to you.”
Another long silence. This one lasted at least a minute. Maybe two or three. Raymond hoped his father would break down and fill the gap with words. Because Raymond had no intention of doing so himself.
“You haven’t even told her about your friend,” his father said at last. It was a statement. Not a question.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Raymond sighed. “It’s kind of hard to explain. But you know how sometimes something is really important to you, and you just know somebody else would never understand it? So it’s almost like you want to keep it safe from them. Like they would only get their fingerprints all over it and mess it up. And like this thing about missing school for the trial—that’s a perfect example. It’s so important to me, and she’s the one who’s going to mess it up for me, and we both know it.”
More silence. Long enough for his father to finish his sesame chicken and dump the last two egg rolls onto his plate. Raymond picked up a fortune cookie and tore off the cellophane. He rolled the cookie around in his fingers for a time without breaking it open.
“And what do the people at your school think about the absence? Have you asked the principal?”
“Not yet. I’m starting with you.”
“You need to start with your mom. And then the principal. And then I’ll write you the note, but only if your mom is on board. If you think I’m going to take a chance by crossing that woman, you don’t know me very well.”
Raymond sighed again. He looked down at the fortune cookie in his hand and broke it open. Pulled out the paper fortune.
YOU WILL SOON BEGIN A BIG ADVENTURE
“What does it say?” Raymond’s father asked.
Raymond handed him the fortune. His father held the scrap of paper out at arm’s length. He didn’t have his reading glasses on. Raymond could tell when he had successfully read it, because he cracked a wry smile.
“I wonder who at the fortune cookie factory knows your mother.”
They both laughed again, which came as a welcome relief.
If this had been a movie, Raymond thought, the assistant principal would have said something crisp and official. Something like “The principal will see you now.”
But this was Raymond’s real life.
She snapped her fingers to get his attention as he sat staring out the window. Then she tossed her head in the direction of Mr. Landucci’s office.
“Got it,” Raymond said.
He stood. Breathed deeply. Walked in.
Mr. Landucci was a short, wide man of about fifty who wore his collars too tight, forcing a spill of plump neck skin up and out over the Windsor knot of his tie. He wore half glasses, and he looked at Raymond over the top of them. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to classify Raymond in some way.
“And you are . . . ?”
“Raymond Jaffe.”
“Have I ever had you in my office before?”