Kiki and Jacques by Susan Ross

robbed and hurt bad! Grandmère Jeannette went with him to the hospital. We gotta go right away.” Jacques’s limbs were shaking.
    â€œSit down.” Dad motioned to the table. “Take a seat and tell it to me straight.”
    Jacques gasped for air, but stayed on his feet. “We have to help! The police might have arrested Mohamed.”
    â€œWhoa—what? Who are you talking about?” Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean the Somali kid from the soccer team?”
    â€œYes . . . Mohamed was working for Mr. Silverstein today. Someone broke into the Army Navy Store, and Mohamed didn’t have anything to do with it, butMr. Silverstein got hit in the head, and now he’s in the hospital.” Jacques’s eyes were beginning to swell.
    â€œSlow down a minute.” Dad grabbed Jacques by the arm and pulled him into the chair. He wiped his lips with the back of one hand. “Listen buddy, I’d go over to the hospital right now if I could. But I don’t suppose I’m in any shape for driving.”
    Jacques glanced behind his father to the wastebasket in the corner. It was full of empties.
    â€œThere’s no reason to be worrying. Your grandmother can always get a cab home.” Dad paused and took a long swig of beer.
    â€œWhat about Mohamed?” Jacques demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. He ran into his room and buried his face on the bed.
    â€œCome on back here!” Dad hollered, but Jacques ignored him.
    Jacques pounded the pillow with his fists, then pulled the dirty envelope from his pocket and peered inside: there were five crumpled twenty-dollar bills. He felt the tears come in waves, over and over, until he fell into a fitful sleep.
    In the middle of the night, Jacques thought he heard the front door open. Turning onto his back, he listened, but the air was silent; maybe it was only a dream. Jacques squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of soccer combinations, his favorite players—anything,
anything
besides the terrible thing he’d let happen.
    And then he prayed. A short, raspy whisper thatdrifted softly above his head to the ceiling: “Please God—it was all my fault. I should have warned Mr. Silverstein! Please don’t let him die.”
    When Jacques woke, he was lying on top of the bed, still wearing his clothes from the day before. The shades were high, and sunlight streamed through the windows. For a split second, he thought about the first soccer match, and whether he could pull out from his slump. But when Jacques lifted his eyelids, the dirty envelope was still there, laying on the pillow next to him.
    An ocean of nausea rolled over him. He stuffed the envelope under the bed, took a deep breath and went into the living room.
    Grandmère Jeannette was settled in a lounge chair, fast asleep. The dining table had been cleared and the wastebasket emptied.
    Jacques touched her arm gently.
    â€œWhat? Oh
cher
!” Grandmère Jeannette blinked and sat upright.
    â€œMr. Silverstein, is he . . . ?” Jacques lost the words. Every limb was shaking.
    â€œHe’s going to be okay.” Grandmère Jeannette rose and gave Jacques a quick hug. “He has a concussion, but thank God, the wound wasn’t deep.”
    â€œDo the cops know who did it?” Jacques dug his fingernails into his palms.
    She shook her head. “Someone hit him from behind. He didn’t see anything.”
    â€œThe policemen took Mohamed in their van!” Jacques exclaimed.
    Grandmère Jeannette sighed. “Louis—Mr. Silverstein—has a heart of gold, God bless him. He was kind to that Somali boy and was trying to help him.”
    â€œBut Mohamed didn’t have anything to do with it!” Jacques pounded one fist into the other.
    Grandmère Jeannette looked into Jacques’s eyes. “You have a good heart too,
mon cher
—but what do you know about this boy?