“That’s right.”
“So why weren’t you wearing them when I came in?”
“I was. But I take them off when we have visitors. I don’t want to look like a prat, do I?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but . . .”
Granddad angrily turned on the unfortunate police officer. “Are you calling me a liar? And by the way, the girl is right — she was here all day last Thursday and I was here all day watching cricket in my sunglasses and I’d like to see you prove otherwise. Now, why don’t you clear off and catch some real criminals?”
WHEN JOHN MARTIN was gone, Rukshana sat down in the front room by her grandfather.
“So you were listening then?”
“I can listen and watch cricket at the same time. I’m not stupid. And that was a very foolish thing you did. You could have gone to prison.”
“I know. And thanks, Granddad. For backing me up.”
Her granddad nodded and then said, “If you’d wanted revenge on someone, you should have spoken to me. I know all about that. When I was a child, a British prime minister came to our village and was a little bit rude and arrogant.” Rukshana’s granddad forgot the cricket for a moment and became lost in thought. Then he added, “Now, that was a revenge story . . .”
BLOOD AND SUNSHINE
BY ADAM MEYER
Most people don’t believe in pure evil, and neither did I until I met five-year-old Dylan Brewster.
Before I ever laid eyes on Dylan, I saw his nanny. She was barely older than I was, clearly much too young and pretty to be anyone’s mother. Her lush blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her toned arms pushing a heavy stroller. A few-months-old baby in a pink onesie was strapped inside.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying for a mix of helpful yet suave. Not easy when your hands are covered with finger paint and you’re wearing a yellow T-shirt that says SUNSHINE SUMMER CAMP.
“Is this the Dolphin room?” she asked, turning back as if she’d lost something, or someone. About halfway down the hall I saw him: a small, dark-haired boy with his head stuck in one of the cubbies that lined the hall. “Dylan! Come over here, please.”
He did, and there’s no denying he was awfully cute. Long, straight hair cut in a neat line over his forehead, and a nose that looked like a button in a snowman’s face. He wore plaid sneakers so small I could’ve swallowed one whole.
“Hi, Dylan,” I said, kneeling down to look him in the eye. “I’m —” But he marched past me and into the classroom where the rest of the Dolphins were busy playing. This was midmorning during my third week of camp, but it was the first time Dylan had come.
“Sorry we are late,” the nanny said, and there was a precision in her words that hinted at a faint accent. “We had some trouble getting out today.”
“Trouble?”
The nanny glanced down at the baby in the pink jumper, then at Dylan. “Sometimes he acts a little” — she wriggled her fingers, searching for the word —“a little crazy.”
“That’s okay. I act a little crazy myself sometimes.”
At first I wasn’t sure she got the joke, but then she smiled. “I’m Britta.”
Before I could get my name out, Rebecca bellowed it from behind me. “Eddie! Where on earth have you — oh.” The frown on her face dissolved as soon as she saw Britta. “You must be Dylan’s caretaker.”
Britta nodded and Rebecca put on one of her biggest, phoniest smiles. She was in charge of the group and I was her assistant. She was pretty old — early thirties, at least — and a full-time kindergarten teacher, which seemed to require that she speak to virtually everyone as if they had the intelligence of a five-year-old. Especially me.
“Eddie, why don’t you go in and get the morning snack ready. Would that be all right?”
I glanced at the wall clock — it was half an hour before our usual snack time — but I didn’t argue. She clearly wanted to get rid of me, and maybe even embarrass me in front of Britta.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, saluting Rebecca. She didn’t look amused, but Britta did, and that was even better. I washed my hands, then slipped back into the room and saw the dozen boys and girls in our Dolphin group hard at play. Some had clustered in the toy kitchen, and others finger-painted at the child-size tables. The last few kids were in the corner stacking wooden blocks into what looked like a fort.
Dylan stood to one side, watching the block builders. I crouched beside him, lining up plastic cups for apple juice.
“We’re glad to have you here at camp with us,” I said. “Have you had a good summer so far?”
“I went on a trip.”
“Oh, yeah? Where’d you go?”
His eyes narrowed, his gaze still on the kids with the blocks. “Ug-land.”
At first I wasn’t sure what he meant. And then I got it: England. “Was it fun?”
He shrugged. “It’s
“It sure is.”
I was from Queens and had never been farther than Newark. It burned me that kids like Dylan got to take trips overseas they didn’t appreciate while I worked all summer just to cover the cost of college textbooks. But that was how it was. Upper West Side kids like Dylan had nannies and European vacations and summer camp, and kids in Astoria didn’t.
“You want to help me pour the juice?” I asked.
“I wanna build a galley,” Dylan said.
I wasn’t sure what a galley was, but I let that go and unscrewed the top of the juice bottle. “Sure, go build whatever you want. I’m sure the other kids will let you play with them.”
“I wanna do it myself.”
I sharpened my tone. “Dylan, we all have to play together here. But if you ask nicely —”
Clearly Dylan had no intention of asking, nicely or otherwise. He was already headed right for the play area, and by the time I’d put down the apple juice and gotten over to him, it was too late. He had stomped right through there, blocks tumbling down and flying every which way.
Amber — one of the block builders — threw up her hands, showing off the Band-Aids stuck to each of her elbows. It was lucky the falling blocks had missed her because she always seemed to be getting hurt. “He knocked down our house.”
“That’s not very nice,” I said, pointing a finger at Dylan.
At first, he looked defiant, and then his face crumpled and tears appeared. “They said I couldn’t play with them.”
“Now, that’s not true,” I said. “You just went right over and —”
“Enough,” Rebecca said from behind me. I turned around. She looked sharply at me and then put on a smile, her mood changing as abruptly as Dylan’s. “It’s cleanup time, everyone.”
The kids grumbled, but then Rebecca held up a bag of sugar cookies, and that got them motivated. “Maybe you should finish pouring the juice now,” she said to me, using the same tone she had with the kids. I grabbed the juice bottle and glanced over at the doorway.
Britta was there. Her big blue eyes were aimed at me, and I smiled, but she missed it and focused on Dylan, who watched the other kids clean up while he stood by, doing nothing. Britta turned from him, her expression hard to read. It was only when she wheeled the stroller away that I recognized the emotion.
It was relief.
