Kiki and Jacques by Susan Ross Page A

You’ve already told me that he stays to himself, and that he gets real angry sometimes.”
    â€œHe didn’t do this! He couldn’t have! He was just working there today because he needed money for his family.”
    â€œHow bad did he need the money, I wonder?”
    â€œNo!” Jacques shouted. “It isn’t like that!” He saw the surprise on his grandmother’s face and lowered his voice. “We’ve
got
to help him.”
    â€œI’m going back to see Louis after church this morning.” Grandmère Jeannette stretched and rubbed her cheeks. “Maybe he’ll remember something more. In the meantime—you keep your distance from Mohamed. I don’t need two of my fellows in the hospital.” She smiled weakly. “There, my secret is out.”
    â€œMohamed is innocent,” Jacques whispered as Grandmère Jeannette headed to her room.
    Jacques wiped his eyes and went over to the picture of Mom on the dining room hutch. Looking at her picture made his stomach hurt even more. After slowly tracing her lips with his fingertips, he placed the photograph face down in the bottom of the drawer and closed it tight.

18
    Pelé’s hind foot was thumping hard against the rabbit hutch. Jacques lifted him from the cage and rocked him in his lap as he sat on the bed, trying to think. Did the policemen take Mohamed and Kiki to the station? Had they been there all night? In a cell?
    It was all his fault. He should have stopped Duane! How could he make it right? Would Mr. Silverstein ever believe that Mohamed was innocent?
    Grandmère Jeannette poked her head into Jacques’s bedroom. “Time for church. I’m going to the early Mass so I can get straight over to the hospital.”
    â€œI . . . can’t go now,” Jacques stammered. “I have to get ready for my soccer match.” He coughed loudly. “I’ll try to go later, I promise.”
    Grandmère Jeannette sighed. “That’s right, your first game’s today. I wish I could be there to watch you shine,
mon cher
.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” Jacques replied quickly. “You tell Mr.Silverstein that I . . . that we’re pulling for him.” His tongue felt like gum stuck in his throat. “Grandmère . . .”
    She leaned on the door frame, waiting.
    â€œIt’s just that . . . the truth is,” Jacques lowered his voice and looked down at Pelé, “I’m not really good at being co-captain. Mohamed’s better than me, way better.”
    Grandmère Jeannette bent forward and stroked Pelé’s nose. “Nobody’s perfect! You go ahead and lead those boys the best you know how. That’s plenty enough.” She gently lifted Jacques’s chin and smoothed a curl from his forehead, then blew a kiss as she left.
    There was still no sign of Dad. Jacques put Pelé back in his cage and stuck a Post-it on the fridge—Home Soon—without even knowing where he was headed. He rushed down the steps and jumped on his bike.
    To the left, the police station; to the right, the hospital. Jacques glanced back and forth twice. Then, he began to pedal like mad.
    He quickly reached the old apartment building where Kiki’s family lived. Laundry hung over the porch railings, and Ismail’s Ninja Turtles sweatshirt was flapping on a line. Jacques biked past the front of the building, around the block, then back again. A face appeared in the doorway, and he pulled on the brakes. In half a minute, Kiki came flying out.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she asked, breathless. “Is Mr. Silverstein all right?”
    â€œHe’s gonna be fine,” Jacques answered. “He has aconcussion, but Grandmère says it’s not as bad as it looked.”
    Kiki rubbed her cheeks and sighed. “Mohamed was so worried! He has been up all night. Me too.”
    â€œWhat