juvenile delinquents—not recently shaven, longish hair, rock ‘n’ roll T-shirts, jeans with possibly authentic rips and stains, and a few hunks of cheap silver jewelry in their ears and probably elsewhere. Deke was kind of muscley and not bad-looking, and Marshall was thin and hard and nervous like a whippet. They weren’t exactly scary unless you were scared of teens in general, but you wouldn’t want either of them to watch your purse while you went for a swim.
Deke looked at Marshall and they both started laughing.
That was when I should have walked away. Instead, I asked them what was so funny.
“It’s just you don’t look like a booster,” Deke said. “You look more like a Young Republican.”
“Church-choir girl,” Marshall added.
“What’s a booster?” I asked.
“You know— booster,” Deke said, like if he kept repeating it, it might mean something to me. When I still didn’t catch on, he said, “Somebody who steals cars.”
“You’re crazy,” I said, and turned away so they couldn’t see my face turn red.
Deke called after me, “If you ever want to pick up a little extra money, you just let me know.”
I walked home clutching the jar of capers in one hand and my Phrap-o-chino in the other, trying to figure out what to do. Only two people besides me knew about me stealing cars: Jen and Will. One of them had to have told Deke. And I’d have bet my life it wasn’t Will, because Will hated Deke Moffet almost as much as he hated Alton Wright.
Which meant I was going to have to strangle Jen.
It turned out that capers are little green pickled flower buds that are an essential ingredient in something called veal piccata, which is thin slices of teenage cow sautéed and served with a lemon-caper sauce and pasta on the side. My dad went crazy over it. He is always quite good at offering praise. Even when dinner is not so good, he finds something nice to say. As for me, I did not enjoy it much. Too sour. I don’t think the capers helped, and neither did the subject of Elwin Carl Dandridge, which my dad was completely obsessed with andcouldn’t stop talking about even at the dinner table. My mom was wearing her adoring-wife face, smiling between tiny bites of lemony, capery veal.
The judge in the Dandridge case had ruled that the bad DNA result (since they supposedly had found Dandridge’s DNA on a victim he supposedly couldn’t possibly have raped because he had been watching baseball at a gay bar at the time) was not sufficient cause to rule out the DNA evidence from the other rapes. My dad was pretty peeved—he said some nasty things about the judge—but he’d also come up with a new angle on the whole deal. He’d found out that Elwin Carl Dandridge had a twin brother who lived in Shakopee, just twenty miles away. Even better, the brother had a record for sexual harassment.
Maybe you don’t know this, but identical twins have identical DNA.
“How come it took you so long to find out he had a twin?” I asked.
“They were both adopted. By different families.” He cut a wedge of veal and coaxed a few capers onto it with the tip of his knife. “Even Dandridge didn’t know he had a twin until two years ago—they were separated at birth.” He put the capery veal into his mouth.
“Does this mean that raping is genetic?” I asked.
“Oh, Kelleigh!” said my mother. “Sexual harassment is not rape.”
“This is absolutely delicious, Annie,” my father said.
“If they’re both perverts and they’re twins, doesn’t that mean something?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. It would certainly not be something I’d bring up in court. John Britton—the twin—drives a delivery van, so he drives all over town. He only has a solid alibi for one of the rapes.”
“Do you think he did it?” I asked. “The twin?”
My dad shrugged. “The fact that a twin exists casts doubt on Dandridge’s guilt.” He cut another piece of veal. I noticed that he always cut triangles,
Deke looked at Marshall and they both started laughing.
That was when I should have walked away. Instead, I asked them what was so funny.
“It’s just you don’t look like a booster,” Deke said. “You look more like a Young Republican.”
“Church-choir girl,” Marshall added.
“What’s a booster?” I asked.
“You know— booster,” Deke said, like if he kept repeating it, it might mean something to me. When I still didn’t catch on, he said, “Somebody who steals cars.”
“You’re crazy,” I said, and turned away so they couldn’t see my face turn red.
Deke called after me, “If you ever want to pick up a little extra money, you just let me know.”
I walked home clutching the jar of capers in one hand and my Phrap-o-chino in the other, trying to figure out what to do. Only two people besides me knew about me stealing cars: Jen and Will. One of them had to have told Deke. And I’d have bet my life it wasn’t Will, because Will hated Deke Moffet almost as much as he hated Alton Wright.
Which meant I was going to have to strangle Jen.
It turned out that capers are little green pickled flower buds that are an essential ingredient in something called veal piccata, which is thin slices of teenage cow sautéed and served with a lemon-caper sauce and pasta on the side. My dad went crazy over it. He is always quite good at offering praise. Even when dinner is not so good, he finds something nice to say. As for me, I did not enjoy it much. Too sour. I don’t think the capers helped, and neither did the subject of Elwin Carl Dandridge, which my dad was completely obsessed with andcouldn’t stop talking about even at the dinner table. My mom was wearing her adoring-wife face, smiling between tiny bites of lemony, capery veal.
The judge in the Dandridge case had ruled that the bad DNA result (since they supposedly had found Dandridge’s DNA on a victim he supposedly couldn’t possibly have raped because he had been watching baseball at a gay bar at the time) was not sufficient cause to rule out the DNA evidence from the other rapes. My dad was pretty peeved—he said some nasty things about the judge—but he’d also come up with a new angle on the whole deal. He’d found out that Elwin Carl Dandridge had a twin brother who lived in Shakopee, just twenty miles away. Even better, the brother had a record for sexual harassment.
Maybe you don’t know this, but identical twins have identical DNA.
“How come it took you so long to find out he had a twin?” I asked.
“They were both adopted. By different families.” He cut a wedge of veal and coaxed a few capers onto it with the tip of his knife. “Even Dandridge didn’t know he had a twin until two years ago—they were separated at birth.” He put the capery veal into his mouth.
“Does this mean that raping is genetic?” I asked.
“Oh, Kelleigh!” said my mother. “Sexual harassment is not rape.”
“This is absolutely delicious, Annie,” my father said.
“If they’re both perverts and they’re twins, doesn’t that mean something?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. It would certainly not be something I’d bring up in court. John Britton—the twin—drives a delivery van, so he drives all over town. He only has a solid alibi for one of the rapes.”
“Do you think he did it?” I asked. “The twin?”
My dad shrugged. “The fact that a twin exists casts doubt on Dandridge’s guilt.” He cut another piece of veal. I noticed that he always cut triangles,
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