Round Robin by Jennifer Chiaverini Page A

the red-brick herringbone path to the front porch, to the door with its brass knocker and beveled glass. The house was quiet, but she couldn’t enjoy the peace and solitude, not when she was due to pick up Todd from band practice in fifteen minutes. Diane dropped her bag on the floor of the foyer, draped her coat over it, and yanked off her ankle boots. They used to call her a stay-at-home mom before she began working for Elm Creek Quilts, but a stay-in-car mom was more like it.
    She padded to the kitchen in her stocking feet to check the answering machine. There was one message—Tim, she supposed, as she waited for the tape to rewind. He usually called her in the afternoons from his office in the chemistry building on campus to let her know what time he’d be home from work.
    But the voice on the tape, though much like her husband’s, was years younger.
    â€œMom?” Michael said. “Uh, don’t be mad.”
    An ominous beginning. Diane closed her eyes and sighed.
    â€œUm, I kinda need you to come pick me up.” He hesitated. “They won’t let me go until you pay the fine.”
    â€œPick you up from where?” she asked the machine—an instant before his words sank in. Pay a fine?
    â€œI’m at the police station. Don’t tell Dad, okay?” Without a word of explanation, he hung up.
    Diane shrieked. She ran to the foyer, threw on her coat, and stuffed her feet into her boots. She dashed outside to her car and raced downtown, her heart pounding. What had he done? What on earth had he gotten himself into this time? After the vandalism at the junior high last fall, she and Tim had put such a scare into him that he vowed never to get into trouble again. Their family counselor had warned them to expect ups and downs, but this—She felt faint just thinking about the possibilities. He must have done something horrible, just horrible, for the police to lock up a fifteen-year-old until his parents came to bail him out.
    Sarah was wise to avoid having children, Diane thought grimly as she pulled into the parking lot behind the police headquarters.
    Diane hurried inside, her heart pounding. Michael could be injured, ignored by the busy police officers as he slowly and quietly bled to death in a lonely cell. She gave the first officer she saw Michael’s name. “Is he all right?” she asked, breathless. “Is he hurt?”
    â€œHe’s just fine, ma’am.” The officer looked sympathetic. Maybe he was a parent, too. “He’s just in a little bit of trouble.”
    â€œCan I see him? What kind of trouble? How little? How long has he been here?” She took a deep breath to stem the flow of questions. She had gone to Elm Creek Manor at noon; Michael could have left the message any time after that. He could have been locked up for hours with violent offenders. The last thing Michael needed was that kind of influence.
    The officer raised his hands to calm her. “He’s been here less than an hour. He’s waiting in an interrogation room.”
    â€œWhat exactly did he do?”
    â€œHe was skateboarding in a marked zone. We wouldn’t have held him except he didn’t have the money for the fine.”
    Diane gaped at him. “Skateboarding?” Her voice grew shrill. “You locked up my child for skateboarding?”
    The officer squirmed. “In a marked zone, yes.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you call me at Elm Creek Manor? Why didn’t you call my husband?”
    â€œYour son insisted. He wanted you to get the news rather than his father, and he didn’t want to interrupt your class.”
    Diane smothered a groan. Of all the times for Michael to get considerate. “I can’t believe this.” She rooted around in her purse for her wallet. “Well, it certainly does my heart good to know that the citizens of Waterford are being protected so heroically from skateboarders. Now, if only you