Cutwork by Monica Ferris

notebook. “Tell me their names anyway,” she said, opening the notebook and clicking out the point of the pen.
    “Well, there’s Noose, I don’t know his real first name; his last name is Levsky. And there’s the Martinson boy, I think his first name is Chris, though he likes people to call him Thief. And Billy Swenson, though I’m not sure he was there, the other boys said they didn’t see him, either; and I’ve told Mickey he’s not to hang out with him anymore.”
    “A fine set of friends,” noted Greg, “Noose, Thief, and Bad Billy Swenson.”
    “I’ve been doing the best I can!” said Faith, taking the remark as criticism of herself. “May I remind you that you haven’t exactly been holding up your end?”
    “How could I? You almost never let me have him! Always some excuse—he’s sick, he’s going someplace with his friends. It’s wrong, you’re wrong. He’s a boy, and a boy needs his father.”
    “A boy needs a stable, two-parent home, which Mickey doesn’t have anymore, and a father with some integrity, which he never had!”
    “Excuse me,” said Betsy, trying to head off the storm that was about to break over their heads. “I’m here to discuss Mickey and what you want me to do for him.”
    “Yes, of course, I’m sorry,” said Faith, contrite.
    “Whatever,” muttered Greg.
    “Can I say something?” interjected Kristal. When everyone looked at her, she brushed shyly at the brief skirt of her pink dress, but then raised her chin to say, “I don’t think Ms. Devonshire should get involved. We’ve tried long enough to do something for Mickey; nobody can help him now.”
    “Don’t say things like that,” said Faith.
    “Face it, Mother,” argued Kristal, “he’s gone from stealing to murder. It’s the logical next step for someone who’s been in trouble ever since his voice broke and he started turning into a ‘man.’” There was a bitter twist on the last word.
    “That’s enough!” said Faith, too sharply. She paused long enough to replace her frown with a false smile at Betsy that asked her to ignore Kristal’s words. But there was real concern in her voice when she asked, “Are they treating him all right? He catches anything that’s going around, and being in close quarters with all those other boys, some of them . . .” But now she was in danger of becoming politically incorrect, so she let the sentence trail off unfinished.
    “That’s because he smokes pot,” announced Kathy. “Pot makes you sick and stupid.”
    “Just being Mickey makes you sick and stupid,” said Kristal.
    “Hush up, both of you,” said Greg.
    “You aren’t the boss of us anymore!” said Kristal, her contempt now reaching to her father.
    “Not one more word,” warned Faith, and the girls recrossed their arms and slouched deeper into the couch.
    “Tell me about Mickey,” said Betsy.
    “Well, he just turned sixteen three weeks ago,” said Faith. “He’ll be a sophomore in high school this fall—”
    “Yah, he flunked fifth grade,” sneered Kathy, with the superior air of someone who would be in sixth grade come fall.
    “Kathy, if you can’t be quiet, or at least helpful, you may go to your room!” said Faith.
    “Okay, I will!” Kathy rose to her feet, her face twisted with anger. “Mickey is a bad person, I hope he stays in jail forever!”
    Kristal stood in solidarity, but she tried a reasonable tone when she said, “We can’t afford to throw more money away on him, Mother. Kathy and I always go without so you can buy Mickey out of trouble, and we’re sick and tired of it. Besides, not even the miracle worker here can help Mickey this time.”
    Betsy said, surprised, “I’m not a miracle worker—and I don’t charge anything for my investigations.”
    Kristal was surprised in turn. “Then why are you doing this?”
    “Because I have a talent for discovering whether someone innocent has been accused of a crime.”
    She and her sister offered identical