What?
“No, I didn’t!” Bobby screams through his tears. “You pushed him!”
Owen slowly shakes his head. “No. It was Bobby. Bobby pushed Leo off the slide because it wasn’t his turn.”
“Bobby.” I look at my son’s tear-streaked face. “Did you push Leo off the slide?”
“No!” He wipes snot from his little nose with the back of his hand. “I didn’t! It was Owen. I swear!”
I look over at Sean, who has a weary expression on his face. “It doesn’t matter right now whose fault it is. I’m going outside to wait for the ambulance.”
I look wildly into the crowd. Quite a few people are staring at us and heard Owen’s declaration. But they can’t possibly believe Bobby to be the one at fault, could they? Bobby has been going to the school for over two years, while Owen is the new kid. They must believe Bobby over Owen, right?
Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself pushing through the crowd surrounding Leo Bressler. After that little production, people seem willing to part to let me through. After a minute of pushing, I see him. Seven-year-old Leo, lying on the ground, sobbing and clutching his arm.
Well, at least he’s alive.
Julie is bent down next to him, stroking his tawny hair. But when I get closer, her eyes snap up to look at me. And they’re boiling with hatred.
“Look at what Bobby did,” she hisses at me. “He should be expelled.”
“Bobby didn’t do anything,” I say in a tiny voice.
Julie puts a possessive arm around Leo’s shoulders as he sobs louder. “I should have you arrested for assault.”
“Assault?” I take a step back. “You can’t have a seven-year-old child arrested for assault!”
Julie narrows her eyes at me. “Not Bobby. You.”
I have made an extremely powerful enemy.
“Julie.” I’m trying not to sound desperate, but it’s hard. “Bobby didn’t do this. You have to believe me.”
But my pleas are interrupted by the arrival of the ambulance. The EMTs lift Leo onto a stretcher, and Julie hurries along with them. I watch them leave, keeping my fingers and my toes crossed that Leo is going to be okay. That even if his arm is broken, it will just be something simple that requires a splint or cast—not surgery.
Just as the crowd is dispersing, I see Maria in the corner of the room. She’s talking quietly to Owen. I don’t know what she is saying, but he keeps nodding solemnly. Then she squeezes his shoulder, and she gives him a hug.
I try to catch Maria’s attention. I need to talk to her about what just happened. I wave my arm frantically, hoping she’ll notice me. For a split second, our eyes lock. But then she looks away, and the next thing I know, she’s gone.
Chapter 25
Comment on April’s Sweet Secrets YouTube video “Making Whoopie Pies with Bobby”：
Want to know a secret about Bobby Masterson? He’s not so sweet at all.
But I don’t know if that’s a secret.
Desperate times call for apple pie.
Leo got out of the hospital yesterday, after only an overnight stay, but he still hasn’t been back at school. It was the best possible situation though—he did need a cast, but no surgery. That’s what I heard, anyway. Not from Julie, of course. One of the other mothers told me at pick-up today from school.
So I decided to make an apple pie for Julie. Aside from my flourless chocolate cake, she has also commented positively and consistently about my apple pie. I make a really good apple pie. The key is to make a really good crust. My secret is that when I cut the butter into the flour, I stop when the butter crumbs are the size of peas. The little pea-sized pieces of butter melt in the oven and create delicious little buttery air pockets.
Elliot wanders into the kitchen just as I’m pulling the pie out of the oven. Usually, I let it cool for a couple of hours, but it’s getting late and I need to get this pie over to Julie, so I take one of my handheld fans and point it at the pie. My dream, when I have the funds, is to get a blast chiller for my kitchen.
“Yum, pie,” Elliot comments. “When do I get a piece?”
“Never. I’m bringing this over to Julie.”
He groans. “Come on, April. You’re not really going over there, are you?”
“Why not?”
“As your attorney, I would advise against it.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop it. Julie is my best friend.”
“You always say that.” Elliot rubs at the back of his scalp. “But from what I can tell, the two of you hate each other. And right now, she’s got a good reason to hate you.”
“But she’s wrong!” I plant my hands on my hips. “She thinks Bobby pushed Leo, but he didn’t.”
Elliot raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t?”
“You really think our son would do something like that?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. You never played soccer with that kid. He’s out for blood.”
I glare at him. “Whose side are you on?”
Fine.” He reaches a hand for the pie, and I smack it away. “So what do you think happened? Leo just fell off?”
“No.” I take a deep breath. “I think Owen Cooper pushed him. And told everybody that Bobby did it.”
“So Owen framed Bobby?” Elliot is smirking now. “That’s what you think?”
“Yes. It is.”
“I see.” He nods. “And what about Leo? Who does Leo say pushed him?
“Leo’s back was turned. So he didn’t see.”
“Ah. So there were no witnesses.”
I narrow my eyes. “I feel like you’re not taking this seriously.”
“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m taking this very seriously. And I’m telling you very seriously that Julie could sue us. So I think you should stay the hell away from her until she cools off. Okay?”
“Fine,” I agree. “As soon as I bring her this pie, I’ll stay away from her.”
“April…”
“Just trust me on this, Elliot.”
He shakes his head at me, but he underestimates the power of the pie. Julie and I are best friends, and if I come over with a peace offering and I explain to her my side of the story （or Bobby’s side）， she’ll be reasonable. Granted, Julie does not have a history of being reasonable. But I can talk her around.
After about forty-five minutes, the pie is cool enough that I can carry it over to Julie’s house. I walk up the steps to her front door, squinting through the spotless window panes surrounding the entrance. Without a doubt, Julie and Keith have the nicest house on the block. There was a different house here originally, but they tore it down and built a new one from scratch to their specifications. Our house is nice, but it isn’t as perfect and shiny and sprawlingly large as the Bresslers’ house.
The lights are on inside, and I ring the doorbell, which I can hear chiming throughout their massive house. I wait for a minute, and part of me is starting to get worried that Julie is not going to open the door for me. She finally does, although she doesn’t look pleased. Her usually perfect brown hair is looking a little dank and stringy, and there are purple circles under her eyes.