Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko

warden’s rules.”
    “How do you know?”
    She makes a strangled little sound in her throat and pulls open her front door.
    “Why do you need me for this laundry plan of yours, anyway? Why do you care?”
    “I can’t put eighty shirts through in my laundry bag, now, can I? Annie and Jimmy will help, but that’s not enough.”
    “How do you know I won’t tell your dad?”
    She rolls her eyes like this question is too stupid to bother answering and slams the door in my face.

10. Not Ready
    Same day—Monday, January 7, 1935
     
     
    Back home, I check the clock. Quarter to five. Still not time to wake my dad.
    On my bed, I spread out two double ham sandwiches, a bowl of potato salad and the tail end of a salami and crack open my book. I’ve just finished Chapter Eleven when I hear the knock. Somewhere in the back of my head the knocking has been going on for some time. I run through the living room. Before I even open the door, I know who it is by the whistling, wheezing breathing.
    “Mrs. Caconi,” I say, staring out at the big woman framed against the green sea and the gloomy gray dusk.
    “You losing your hearing, Moose? I’ve been banging on this door for five whole minutes,” Mrs. Caconi hisses between breaths. “You folks got a call.”
    Mrs. Caconi is fat around the middle, with arms as big as thighs and bosoms like two jiggling watermelons. She is hot and out of breath from the walk up the stairs. But Mrs. Caconi is the one who answers the phone because it’s right outside her door. Given her size and her difficulty with stairs, she seems the wrong person to live in the apartment next to the phone, but nobody asked me.
    “Go on ahead,” she wheezes, backing her big self against the wall so I can squeeze by.
    I think about getting my dad. But he’s been so tired, I don’t have the heart to wake him early. There probably isn’t time to get my mom and she won’t want to go outside with all that stinky permanent goop on her hair.
    At the foot of the stairs, I spot the receiver hanging down. “Hello, this is Matthew Flanagan,” I say.
    “Matthew? You are . . .” The male voice hesitates.
    “Moose, sir. People call me Moose Flanagan.”
    “Oh, yes, Moose. We met yesterday. This is Mr. Purdy, the headmaster at the Esther P. Marinoff School where your sister, Natalie, is enrolled. Is your mom or dad available?”
    “Not right now, sir.”
    Mr. Purdy sighs. “All right then, you’ll need to give them a message. Natalie is not settling in as we had hoped. Tell them I’m terribly sorry, but as I explained to your mom, we were only taking her on a trial basis. They need to come and pick her up today . . . tonight. ”
    “Tonight? Is she okay?” I ask.
    “Yes, yes, she’s fine, son, perfectly fine. She’s just not ready for the program we have here is all. Just not ready,” he says. “Tell your mom and dad they must pick her up tonight. Can you do that for me, son?”
    “Natalie isn’t ready?” I ask. “But she’s only been there one day.”
    “Thirty-six hours. Yes, yes, I know. These things become clear rather quickly, I’m afraid. Have your parents call me if they have questions. Otherwise, I will expect them this evening.”
    The phone clicks in my ear and the questions flood my brain. Why? What did she do? What happened? How could they know anything about Natalie in one day? They didn’t even try.
    I want to go back to Santa Monica, but not this way—not if it means giving this news to my mom. My feet feel suddenly too heavy. The stairs too steep.
    I push open our door. My mom is back. Her dark hair is permed flat with one wiggly curl across her forehead. She’s wearing a dress I’ve never seen before.
    “How do I look?” She whirls around, her whole face radiant. I get a big whiff of sour perm and heavy perfume smell.
    I open my mouth, but no words come out.
    “I got my hair done. Didn’t you see my note?”
    “Mom.” The words are frozen in my chest. “It’s