Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko Page B

when my mom decided Natalie was going to stay ten. But I think it might have been then.
    Sitting in Mr. Purdy’s office, I imagine punching him in the nose. My arm twitches just thinking about it.
    “I’m afraid,” Mr. Purdy explains when he comes in, “she’s more involved than we can handle right now. We’re equipped for boys with the kind of challenges your daughter faces, but not girls. You might want to look into Deerham in Marin County.” Mr. Purdy hands my mother a card with an address scribbled on it.
    “Deerham?” My mother’s voice catches. “Isn’t that an asylum?”
    “I don’t think it’s helpful to get caught up with words, Mrs. Flanagan. We’re looking for a way to help your daughter. Let’s not let words come between us.”
    My mother takes her green feathered hat off as if she’s staying. “The kids who graduate from your school get jobs. They have lives.”
    “Some of them do get jobs, yes.”
    “That’s what I want for Natalie.”
    “I understand that, Mrs. Flanagan, but it’s not working out for her here.”
    “It’s only been two days. Surely even a . . . usual child would have had some adjustment to a new setting. . . .”
    Mr. Purdy grunts. Mr. Purdy is the kind of man who can make a grunt seem polite.
    “My husband and I,” my mom continues, “have done a lot of research on this and we believe this program—your program—is the best in the country. You are turning out kids who can function in the world.”
    “That’s kind of you to say, but—”
    “And I don’t think”—my mother is unstoppable—“that we will be able to replicate your success elsewhere. So I wonder if there isn’t some way we could make this work. . . .”
    Mr. Purdy shakes his head. “She can’t stay here now, but if you wish, I can put you in touch with someone who might be able to help Natalie. Help her . . .”
    “Get ready?” my mother offers. She sits up straighter in her chair.
    “Yes.” Mr. Purdy smiles, his ladylike hands fingertip to fingertip. He tips them toward my mother like he’s rolling a ball to her. Then he swivels in his squeaky chair to get a folder behind him. He copies a number down on a slip of paper and hands it to my mother. My mother looks at the page, then folds it closed. Mr. Purdy stands up, to signal the end of our meeting. I stand up too. My mother does not. Mr. Purdy and I sit down again.
    I’m proud of my mother for this. Proud of her for getting all she can from this man, but I’m angry too. No matter what this little paper says, my mother will do it. Once she sent away for voodoo dolls and carefully followed the instructions some witch doctor in the West Indies wrote about how to relieve Natalie’s condition. Another time she took Natalie to a church where everybody stood up and waved their arms. She read the Bible to her for two hours every day while Natalie sat staring at her right hand as if there were a movie playing on her palm and she couldn’t bear to pull herself away. And then there was a school where my mom taught music classes for free until they let Natalie in. And when they did, Natalie just sat in the fancy classroom tearing bits of paper into tiny pieces. With Natalie, there never is a happy ending. But my mom won’t ever believe that.
    “Forgive me, Mr. Purdy, I’d like to know what happened,” my mom says, her brown eyes staring him down.
    “I had hoped Mr. Flanagan would be here with you.” Mr. Purdy looks at me.
    “My husband is working the evening shift.”
    “Of course.” Mr. Purdy nods. He looks around his cluttered office as if he’s searching for a way out. “Natalie is, I would say, unresponsive.” He peeks at my mother to see if this will do. My mother doesn’t blink.
    “I’m afraid she . . . there was a bit of a skirmish over a box of buttons and some unfortunate behavior. Your daughter is ten, you said, Mrs. Flanagan?” Mr. Purdy’s watery eyes are suddenly sharply focused on my mom.
    “Yes,” my mother