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  “Consequences? But, the constable said . . .”

  “The constable doesn’t control what happens in our home. Your mother and I have decided on several consequences as a result of your actions. First, no cellphone use until after this circle happens. You may take your phone to school, but it is only to be used to call either your mother or me. Once you get home, you may not use it. Close your mouth, we’re not done. Second, minimal computer use, for school work only, monitored by me or your mother, until you have completed the sanctions, whatever they will be. We will inform the school that you are not allowed on the school computers except for word processing or research. No games, no Facebook, no whatever else you spend so much time doing online.”

  “But Dad . . .”

  “You’re also grounded until the sanctions are completed,” added Mom. “No after school activities, no dates—”

  “You know I haven’t had a date for months.”

  “Your mother wasn’t finished,” said my father. “Don’t interrupt again.”

  “No movie dates with friends, no sleepovers, no social activities of any kind,” Mom went on. “That’s number three.”

  “What about Halloween? I’ve already got my costume.”

  “No Halloween party, unless the sanctions are completed by then.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Perhaps you should think of the old lady who’s in hospital because of you. Is that fair? Or of how much stress your actions have caused your mother and me. Is that fair?”

  I remembered my pep talk to myself. Act, act, act. Pretend. Get this over with as easily as possible.

  “Yes, Father, I mean, no Father,” I said meekly and looked down at my folded hands. “I agree.”

  “You agree! You’re kidding, right?”

  Andrew hadn’t gone far, he had been hiding in the kitchen. The sneak, he’d heard every word.

  “None of your business! You’re not supposed to be listening, crawl back into your cave.”

  “Andrew, you were told to go to your room!” said Dad.

  Mom shrugged, “Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right; he is part of this family. Although he was told to go upstairs.”

  “He never does what he’s supposed to, and you two don’t even notice!”

  “Andrew,” warned Dad.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.” He moved out of sight, but I knew he was still listening.

  I started to say something else about how Andrew could get away with anything, but changed my mind, shut my mouth and stared meekly at my folded hands. Was there to be a Consequence Number Four?”

  Apparently not.

  My mother stood up, announcing, “I’m glad that’s taken care of. Now let’s put this behind us and have a nice family dinner.”

  Sometimes I wondered what universe Mom lived in. It wasn’t this one, that was certain. “A nice family dinner?” Not a chance.

  We sat down and opened up the Chinese takeout. Silence. More silence except for the occasional, “Is there more soy sauce?” or “Andrew, put the chopsticks down, you know you’ll just make a mess with them.” Andrew’s always quiet after a seizure, and I didn’t have much to say, nor did Dad. Finally Mom began chattering. I guess this was her attempt at a “nice family dinner.” Dad didn’t respond to her, his eyes kept slipping sideways to me, worried.

  I cleared the table, Andrew stacked the dishwasher. “You are both to go to your rooms,” said Dad. “Darrah, I’ll be up in a minute to move your laptop to the kitchen, where it will stay, understood?”

  “Andrew, I’ll come with you, dear,” said Mom. “You need to take your medication and get ready for bed.”

  “I don’t need to go to bed so early; I slept all afternoon.”

  “Listen to your mother, Andrew. You know how tired you will be tomorrow. You always are after . . . after . . . go on, up-stairs with you.” Dad didn’t like to say the words “seizure” or “epilepsy.” Maybe he thought the disease would go away if he didn’t give it a name.

  “You can bring your marks up,” Mom told me in her cheerful voice, “since now you won’t be wasting so much time on that Facebook stuff.”

  Upstairs, I wrote a quick Facebook post. “Grounded, no phone, no computer, no life. Call me on land line.” I added the family number, thought for a minute, then erased the entry instead of hitting “post.” I wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened.

  I watched Dad confiscate my laptop and reluctantly handed over my phone. Once he had gone back downstairs, Andrew stuck his head in my door. “What stupid thing did you do now?”

  He had been asleep when the constable was here. He always sleeps after a seizure, so he didn’t know what had happened. “I bet it was really dumb. But, no computer, ouch. Hey, if you want me to . . .”

  “Shut up. It’s none of your business.” I almost added, “Anyway, it’s your fault,” but something made me hold the words back.

  “They didn’t keep me long in the hospital,” said Andrew, assuming I cared. “They told Mom not to bring me back there unless a seizure lasted more than five minutes or I hurt myself or had a whole bunch in a row.”

  “The doctors told her that last time.”

  “Oh.” Then, “What about rehearsals? You got the part, didn’t you? Will they let you off being grounded to go to rehearsals?”

  “I . . . I . . . oh, go away.” I buried my head on my arms. “Get lost,” I said through my sleeve.

  “Dar? You crying?”

  “Leave me alone!”

  I heard Andrew take a few steps into the room and stop. I bit my arm, trying to muffle the sobs that were sneaking up on me.

  “Dar?”

  “Go away.”

  He left, shutting the door behind him and I was alone with my tears for the second time that day.

  Constable Markes was back the next afternoon. I was home from school early as commanded by my parents’ Third Consequence, so I answered the door. At the sight of her, my heart sped up and sweat rushed to my underarms. “Uh, hi.”

  “How you doing, Darrah?” she asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” I was surprised by her question.

  “Really?”

  I sighed and told the truth. “No. The whole thing sucks.”

  “Yup,” she said. “But it could suck a lot worse, believe me.”

  I ushered her into the living room and called Mom. Andrew was home. I saw him hovering in the kitchen. I glared at him and he disappeared, but I knew he was still within earshot.

  Once we were seated and the constable had refused a cup of tea or coffee or anything else, and Mom had stopped fluttering around, the constable asked, “Are you willing to participate in the Restorative Justice program, Darrah?”

  “She is,” said Mom.

  “Please, Mrs. Patrick, I’ve told you, I need to hear Darrah say it. Not you.”

  I went into my role. “Oh, yes, Constable Markes, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to do this.”

  She paused for a moment, looked hard at me, then went on. “You will have to sign a form confirming that. I’ll go over the questions with you.”

  “Of course,” said Mom, “We’re ready.”

  The official form I had to sign had a blue logo at the top, and a circle of people with their arms raised. I could make out the words “community” and “justice.”

  “First question, Darrah. ‘Do you understand and agree that you are responsible for the following matter, Violation of Section 437 of the Criminal Code of Canada and causing accidental harm to a civilian?’”

  Silence. Even Mom had nothing to say this time.

  “Darrah?” asked the constable. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Do you admit your responsibility in this matter?”

  Silence again.

  “Take your time,” said Constable Markes. “Make sure you realize that you are admitting your guilt and accepting full responsibility for what you did.”

  “Um . . . I gu
ess so.”

  “Pardon? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, I did it, okay? Can we get this over with?” I was almost shouting.

  “Darrah, manners!” pleaded Mom.

  “It’s okay, ma’am, that’s the hardest question for most people.”

  The other questions were easier: “. . . Do you understand that if you do not participate in the conference, the RCMP can take other action, that any person who considered themselves affected by your actions could attend the circle, that if you . . .”

  “Hey, can I come too?” Andrew appeared in the living room, interrupting the flow of questions. I knew he’d be listening.

  “No way!”

  “I don’t think it would be appropriate, Andrew,” said Mom. Not a word about him sneaking around and eavesdropping.

  “But I’ve been affected because Mom and Dad are upset. So I’m allowed to come and find out what happened, the cop just said so. Right, Constable?”

  “I’ll leave that decision up to your parents and the facilitator,” said Constable Markes. “But it’s encouraging that you want to support your sister at the circle.”

  “Support?” said Andrew. “Oh . . . ”

  The constable looked at her watch. “Darrah, since you have agreed to all the conditions required by the RJ process, please sign this form.”

  Mom had to sign, too, because I was still a “youth” in the eyes of the law. Andrew tried to sneak close enough to get a better look at the form, but Constable Markes shook her head at him and he backed off.

  “That’s it, then,” said the constable. “You’re lucky, there is a facilitator available to take your file. The facilitators are volunteers, and sometimes they are all busy with other cases. I have some paperwork to do at the station, then I’ll send Mrs. Barrett your information. She’s a retired teacher, very keen on the RJ process.”

  She handed Mom a piece of paper. “Here’s the information. Call her as soon as you can. She’ll need to set up a pre-interview with you and Darrah, and, of course, arrange a time for the circle that suits everyone.”

  “I’ll call her right away,” said Mom.

  “How long? I mean, how long before the circle happens? Will the sanctions be over by Halloween?”

  “Once you get in touch with Mrs. Barrett, she’ll do everything she can to make it happen soon. It partly depends on my availability.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Part of my job. I’m the official RCMP representative for your case so I have to be there. Officers attend circles during working hours, so I have to check my shifts and find out when I’m available.”

  “You’ll be there?” I asked again.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Besides, usually the facilitators bring cookies, homemade ones. And juice or pop.”

  Mom showed the constable out. I sat, stunned. Cookies and constables? Juice and justice? Facilitators? Sanctions? What had I agreed to do?

  Chapter Three

  MOM CALLED MRS. BARRETT and left a message, and another one, and another one, but we didn’t hear from her for almost two weeks. When we did she apologized and explained that she’d been called out of town unexpectedly (“a small family crisis, nothing serious”) and had just returned. “There wasn’t another facilitator available to take your file,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to wait until I got back, but now I’ll start the process immediately.”

  The “process” moved slowly. I sat at home with no phone, no Facebook, nothing to do but read. Andrew watched reruns of the old Star Trek series after school—Mom thought they were good for him, not much violence and people of different types and species getting along with each other. Besides, she said, as he couldn’t play soccer anymore, a bit of TV wouldn’t hurt.

  After the Consequences were laid down and I had nothing else to do, I started to watch with him. I was bored at first, and then the campy shows grabbed me. Andrew printed out information about all three series for me and, as he’d seen most of the episodes already, he kept up a running commentary during the shows. That was how I spent my afternoons, being indoctrinated into the cult of the Trekkies. Some of the costumes in the shows were great; I began to rethink my Halloween vampire outfit.

  But it was already early October and Mrs. Barrett hadn’t given us a date for the circle yet, so my getting out of the house on Halloween was seeming less and less likely.

  Mom and I had to meet with Mrs. Barrett before she could arrange the circle. She explained that this meeting was to make sure we understood how the Restorative Justice process worked. After an hour of her explaining and asking me questions and Mom crying and “Oh, Darrah”-ing, Mrs. Barrett said that she would have a circle date for us as soon as she’d arranged a time with Constable Markes and Mrs. Johnson.

  It was almost a week after that meeting when she called to say that everyone else could attend a circle this coming Wednesday night. Would that be convenient for us? Convenient? Did it matter? I had to go through with it, “convenient” or not. I’d waited almost a month for this circle; I wanted to get it over with. All that time with no phone, no Facebook and nothing to do on weekends except sit home and watch more Star Trek reruns. I couldn’t even remember what a mall looked like, it had been so long since I’d been to one.

  I was nervous now that the circle was finally arranged, but I kept reminding myself of my pep talk: I would act sweet, act sorry, act anyway I could to make the whole thing go away quickly.

  Andrew protested loudly about having to stay home, but Mrs. Barrett had said it was up to me whether or not he came to the circle. Definitely not, I told him. Every time he asked.

  The circle was held in a meeting room in one of the hotels. In the lobby was a sign that said “Restorative Justice – Room 209.” I snuck a look around, but no one was in the lobby to see Mom and Dad and I climb into the elevator and wonder where we were going or what we were doing there.

  The meeting room was small and stuffy, even though the air conditioner was on. It whined as it blew the smell of stale cigarette smoke around. Apparently this wasn’t one of the hotel’s smoke-free venues.

  Mrs. Barrett was already there, and she greeted us at the door. “I have name tags on your seats. Please sit where I’ve placed you.”

  My name tag was right beside hers, Mom was next to me and Dad beside her. Under a couple of the chairs were boxes of tissues. Constable Markes had arrived before us and was seated next to Dad’s place. Her name tag lay on the floor in front of her. There was a name I didn’t recognize on the next chair. On Mrs. Barrett’s other side sat an old lady, a blue cast on her leg, one hand gripping a cane.

  “The representative from the hospital had to cancel at the last minute,” Mrs. Barrett said, pulling the empty chair away from the circle. “An emergency of some sort. However, both the constable and I have spoken to him, and he told us what he feels would be an appropriate sanction, from the hospital’s point of view. I’ve asked the constable to pass on his ideas.”

  I sat down, deliberately sitting on my name tag. Everyone knew who I was, why had she bothered with a stupid tag? Mrs. Barrett sat down and pulled her chair closer into the circle. She coughed and started to say something, then suddenly pushed the chair back, got up, turned off the noisy air conditioner, shut the door to the hall and sat back down. After she had pulled her chair in again she said, “Now I think we’re ready.” She seemed nervous, although I couldn’t figure out why. This circle wasn’t about her.

  Our chairs were so close together I had to be careful not to let my knees bump into hers. All the chairs were close together. Dad had pushed his back a bit so he wasn’t rubbing elbows with the constable.

  Mrs. Barrett reached under her chair and brought out a clipboard with papers attached to it and said, “We are all here, so let’s begin. Welcome, everyone. My name is Mrs. Barrett and I am the facilitator of tonight’s forum. I’m going to begin by introducing everyone and giving their reasons for participating in today’s circle.”

 
; Around the circle her eyes went, stopping at each chair, saying the person’s name and why they were there, introducing us as if this were some sort of stupid classroom game and most of us hadn’t already met each other. Next she’d be asking us to name our hobbies and our pets.

  The last person to be introduced was the old lady. “This is Mrs. Johnson,” Mrs. Barrett said. “She is the one most hurt by what happened.”

  Yeah, well, that was sort of obvious. The cast gave it away.

  Mrs. Barrett went on. “Now that the introductions are over, I will remind you that we are not here to judge Darrah’s character. We are here to learn how others have been affected by her actions and to find ways to repair the harm that she has done. Do you all understand this?”

  Once more she went around the circle, making eye contact with everyone, making sure she was understood. The chairs were so close together that she could have seen us all nod agreement at once, without making such a big deal about it.

  I stared at the floor, trying not to look at Mrs. Johnson. She was wearing glasses, and her eyes seemed huge, magnified by the thick lenses. She wouldn’t stop staring at me. I moved further back in my chair, so Mrs. Barrett blocked the old lady’s view of me.

  Mrs. Barrett read from the papers on her clipboard. “Darrah, your presence here is voluntary. You are free to leave this circle at any time. However, if you do choose to leave, this matter will be dealt with in a different way.”

  There was nothing I wanted more than to get up and walk out, away from this stupid circle, away from my parents and Mrs. Barrett and the old woman who was staring at me. Away from the little constable, who somehow looked much taller tonight, even though she was sitting down.

  “Darrah, do you understand?”

  “She does,” answered my mother.

  Of course I understood. Mrs. Barrett, when she met with me and Mom last week, had explained it twice. The alternative to being at this circle tonight meant I had to go to court and stand before a judge, just like a murderer or a mugger.