Page 91 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“You have to pinky promise, Grant Malone, that if I tell you this secret, you won’t ever tell another person, ever, ever, ever. If you do, I’ll never be your friend again. Promise me. Cross your heart and hope to die”
“Yeah. I’m good. Just got something in my eye is all.”
She studies me again, but Grayson cries inside, saving me from more questions. “Don’t rub it then, okay?” I nod before she says the same thing she says every day when we leave to walk the straight shot of a street to school. “I’ll watch you guys from here until you get to the school gates, and then I’ll meet you at the tree after class to walk home with you.”
“’Kay.”
When I jog down the steps, I hate that Adam from across the street is standing there with Emmy and waiting to walk with us. I need to talk to her and ask if she’s really telling the truth. Her dad seems nice to me.
And he’s not a police officer. Only police officers and bad guys have guns and he’s not either of those.
But my tummy still hurts.
“You promise?” Emmy mouths to me from where she stands beside me in the girls’ line while I’m in the boys’ line. We’re in the very back this morning because we were battling in two square and neither of us wanted to quit first and lose.
“I promise.”
“If you tell anyone, I’ll never be your friend again. I might even ‘bad word’ you.”
“’Bad word me?’”
“H-A-T-E,” she spells, and I forgot that her mom thinks the words hate and stupid are bad words worthy of television time being taken away.
“I promise, Em. I promise, okay?” I say loud enough that the kid in front of me turns around to shush me like I’m going to get the boys’ line in trouble.
Emmy just stares at me like I told her we’re getting to watch a Disney movie after lunch instead of doing work . . . I think the word for it is hopeful. I’m not sure, though.
But even as we start our morning paperwork, I can’t stop thinking about what Em said.
“He puts a gun to my head and molests me.”
Even after our circle time when we move into writing in our journals, I think about it.
But she seems fine. She seems like Emmy. The red in her eyes from crying is gone, and she’s pulling out the dreaded composition notebook so she can write about Helen Keller. Just like we all did yesterday. And the day before. I don’t care about Helen Keller because I already know the important stuff—that she was deaf and blind.
“Mrs. Gellar?” I shoot my hand up as high as it will go, hoping her answer will be the same as every other time someone has asked.
“I don’t know the meaning of this word in our book.”
“You know where Webster is,” she says, using the class-decided name for our dictionary.
I walk to the corner of the room and open the book, struggling with the paper jacket when it falls off the hard cover. When I glance over my shoulder, no one is near me, but Emmy meets my eyes and smiles softly.
M.
It takes a few seconds for me to find the word.
Molests.
And it takes me even longer to figure out the definition.
To assault or abuse (a person, especially a woman or a child) sexually.
I snap the book closed, my cheeks red because there is the word “sex” in the definition, and I don’t really know what that is except for it’s what Cooper says only mommies and daddies do and he’s never going to do it.
But I know the word assault. My dad uses that word all the time when I get to visit him at work and he talks cases with other officers. So, if he uses the word, then I know it means bad things.
Does Emmy have this same molestation disease these suspects my dad talks about have? But she isn’t a suspect. She didn’t do anything wrong.
