“I figured the aroma would drift up to the third floor.”
“It did. I was dying. I still have a little money left from what I found in the apartment after my parents were arrested, but I try to spend as little as possible. I do go to the Laundromat on Fifth Street, though.”
They sat silently and watched Dylan down two slices of pizza in about three seconds.
“There’s Pepsi in the fridge behind you,” Liddy told him.
“Thank you.” He got up and took a bottle from the small refrigerator, then returned to his chair. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.
“Why not be nice to you? From everything we’ve heard, you’re a good kid. Smart and focused in spite of the bad hand you’ve been dealt. You’re not a thief, and you haven’t hurt anyone. I understand why you thought you had to do things this way. I’m amazed you’ve gotten away with it, without anyone speaking to this ‘grandmother’ of yours.”
“The counselor at school wanted her to come in, but I told them she hurt her hip and wasn’t getting around well.” He looked at Liddy. “Isn’t that something old people do? Fall and hurt their hips?”
“Are you really asking me as if I would know this personally?” Liddy’s eyebrows raised, and Brett laughed.
“Oh. No, ma’am,” Dylan said hastily. “It’s just something I heard, so I thought maybe you’d heard it, too.”
“Good save,” Brett told him. “So here’s where we are. Dylan, you’re underage, so you’re going to have to go into foster care—”
“No. Please. I’ll do anything.” Dylan started to rise.
“Calm down and let me finish.” Brett pulled him back into his seat. “Unless we can find a suitable placement for you.” He paused. “I understand you turn eighteen soon?”
Dylan nodded. “End of October. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to stay out on my own. I figured if I could keep my head down for another few weeks, I’d be too old for foster care, and I could stay at my school.”
“So we just need a place for you to stay with a responsible adult until you turn eighteen. Fortunately, we know someone who’s offering to let you stay until then.”
“Who?” Dylan asked.
“Coach Riley. He and his wife have an extra room since their son is away right now. That’s the good news. The bad news is when he comes home, he’s going to want his room back. But maybe by then you’ll be eighteen, and we’ll look for another arrangement.”
“Where would you go after you turn eighteen?” Liddy asked.
“I’ll try to find a job and a room to rent. I’m a little on the skinny side, but honest, I’m strong and I’m not afraid to work.” Dylan was so earnest and naive, Liddy didn’t know whether to cry or to smile.
“Is the coach mad at me?” Dylan asked Brett. “I know he’s mad at me.”
“No, he’s not mad. But I think he would like an explanation why you didn’t come to him and tell him what you were going through. You’ll have to have that conversation with him.”
“So that’s it? I just get to go to live with the coach for a few weeks?”
“We’ll have to call DCF, the Department of Children and Family Services—” Brett caught Dylan by the arm when he launched himself out of his chair as if to run. “Sit down.” Brett watched the wild-eyed boy until he sat. “We’re pretty sure we can get them to go along with the plan we just talked about. I know someone there. Between the coach and your school counselor—with some input from me—I think we can work this out.”
“You think. But you’re not sure.” Dylan sounded defeated.
“It’s the thing that makes the most sense,” Brett said. “Unless you have an idea better than living upstairs on the third floor and sneaking in and out?”
Finally, Dylan nodded. “Okay.”
“If you’re finished”—Brett pointed to the pizza—“we’ll take off and let Mrs. Bryant go home. She’s had a long day.”
Dylan stood. “Can I go upstairs and get my things?”
“Of course. I’ll be right here,” Brett assured him.
He dashed up the stairs, no longer needing to tiptoe.
“Thanks, Brett. I knew you’d think of something,” Liddy said.
“Thanks for calling me. You did a good deed, my friend. Dylan’s right about what would happen once he got into the system. They’d place him wherever they had someone willing to take in a kid who was just about to age out. They’d look at the reason he’s in need of a home, and that will turn many prospective foster parents off, particularly if they have other younger children in their home. They might assume he’d be a bad influence. Riley tells me the boy has endless potential. Said he’s smart as a whip and has brilliant instincts when it comes to baseball. His future should be wide open. He’s never been in trouble. It’s not fair for him to have his prospects snatched away because of events that are out of his control. His life has already been turned upside down, and he’s dealing with it as best he can.”
“Why do the kids have to pay the heaviest price when their parents screw up?”
“This—tonight—is only the first step. We probably will need to get Riley and his wife approved, unless we can get DCF to agree to let it slide. By the time they assign someone to the case, Dylan may have turned eighteen. Then step two is finding him a place to live after he leaves the Riley home.”
“I don’t know where he’ll find a place in town to rent unless he has a lot of money.”
“I’m pretty sure the state has a program to help with that sort of thing, but a home situation would be much better for him. I guess we’ll worry about that when we need to.” Brett stood at the sound of Dylan’s footsteps banging their way down the stairs. When he came into view, Brett said, “Dylan, I think you have something to say to Mrs. Bryant.”
“I’m sorry, Miz Bryant. For sneaking around and staying in your shop without you knowing. And for eating your pizza.” Dylan met her eyes, and for the first time did not look away. “And thank you. For not being mad at me and having me arrested. I know you’re trying to help me. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Dylan. I hope everything works out for you.” Liddy walked him and Brett to the back door. “And I hope you come back to see me, so I know how you’re doing.”
“I will. But don’t worry,” Dylan said, “I won’t pick your lock again.”
“How do you know how to pick locks?” she asked.
His thin shoulders hunched. “My mom taught me.”
The lump in Liddy’s throat cut off any response she might have made.
She locked the back door and went to the window, where she watched Brett and Dylan get into the patrol car and, a moment later, pull away.
“Well, damn.”
She was torn between feeling guilty over having turned him in and feeling relieved he’d be getting help to resolve his situation. She hoped the caseworker would be reasonable and would take the word of the chief of police, the boy’s coach, and the high school counselor that Dylan would be in good hands for the few weeks until he turned eighteen.