A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

TRUST ME

The school bus pulled to a stop in front of the cosy Victorian house that Harry had let himself think of as his home during the three months he'd lived with the Mathison's. "Here you are, Harry," the kindly bus driver said, but as Harry stepped off the bus, none of his new friends called good-bye to him like they usually did. Their cold, suspicious silence compounded the stark terror that was already making his stomach churn as he trudged up the snow-covered sidewalk. Money that had been collected from Harry's class for the week's lunches at school had been stolen from the teacher's desk. All of the kids in his room had been questioned about the theft, but it was Harry who had stayed in at recess that day to put the finishing touches on his geography project. It was Harry who was the main suspect, not only because he'd had the perfect opportunity to steal the money, but also because he was the newcomer, the outsider, the kid from the big bad city, and since nothing like this had happened in his class before, he was already guilty in everyone's eyes. This afternoon, while waiting outside the principal's office, he'd heard Mr. Duncan tell his secretary that he was going to have to call Reverend and Mrs. Mathison and tell them about the stolen money. Obviously, Mr. Duncan had done so because Reverend Mathison's car was in the driveway, and he was rarely home this early.

When he reached the gate in the white picket fence that surrounded the yard, he stood there, looking at the house, his knees shaking so hard that they banged together at the thought of being banished from this place. The Mathison's had given him a room of his very own, with a canopy bed and a flowered bedspread, but he wasn't going to miss all that nearly so much as he was going to miss the hugs. And the laughter. And their beautiful voices. Oh, they all had such soft, kind, laughing voices. Just thinking of never hearing James Mathison say "Good night, Harry. Don't forget your prayers, honey," made Harry long to fling himself into the snow and weep like a baby. And how would he go on living if he could never again hear Carl and Ted, who he already thought of as his very own big brothers, calling to him to play a game with them or go to the movies with them. Never again would he get to go to church with his new family and sit in the front pew with them and listen to Reverend Mathison talking gently about "the Lord" while the entire congregation listened in respectful silence to everything he said. He hadn't liked that part at first; church services seemed to go on for days, not hours, and the pews were hard as rock, but then he'd started really listening to what Reverend Mathison said. After a couple of weeks, he'd almost started believing that there was really a kind, loving God who actually watched out for everybody, even trashy kids like Harry Styles. As he stood in the snow, Harry mumbled, "Please" to Reverend Mathison's God, but he knew it was no use.

He should have known all this was too good to last, Harry realized bitterly, and the tears he'd been fighting not to shed blurred his vision. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that he'd merely be given a whipping instead of being sent back to Chicago, but he knew better than that. In the first place, his foster parents didn't believe in whippings, but they did believe that lying and stealing were grievous offenses that were totally unacceptable to "the Lord" and to them. Harry had promised not to do either one and they'd trusted him completely.

The strap of his new nylon book bag slipped off his left shoulder and the bag slid to the snow, but Harry was too miserable to care. Dragging it by the remaining strap, he walked with numb dread toward the house and up the porch steps.

Chocolate chip cookies, Harry's favorites, were cooling in trays on the kitchen counter as he closed the back door. Normally the delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies made Harry's mouth water; today it made him feel like throwing up because Mary Mathison would never again make them especially for him. The kitchen was strangely deserted, and a glance into the living room confirmed that it, too, was empty, but he could hear his foster brothers' voices coming from their bedroom down the hall. With shaking hands, Harry looped the strap of his book bag over one of the pegs beside the kitchen door, then he pulled off his quilted winter jacket, hung it there, and headed down the hall in the direction of the boys' bedroom.

Carl, his sixteen-year-old foster brother, saw him standing in their doorway and looped his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Hi, Harry-Babe," he teased, "What do you think of our new poster?" Ordinarily, Carl's nickname for Harry made him smile; now it made him feel like bawling because he wouldn't hear that again either. Ted, who was two years younger than Carl, grinned at him and pointed toward the poster of their latest movie idol, Zayn Malik. "What do you think, Harry, isn't he great? I'm going to have a motorcycle just like Zayn Malik's someday."

Harry glanced through tear-glazed eyes at the life-sized picture of a tall, broad-shouldered, unsmiling male who was standing beside a motorcycle, his arms crossed against a broad, deeply tanned chest with dark hair on it. "He's the greatest," Harry agreed numbly. "Where's your mother and father?" he added dully. Although his foster parents had originally invited him to call them Mom and Dad, and he'd eagerly accepted, Harry knew that privilege was about to be revoked. "I need to talk to them." His voice was already thick with unshed tears, but he was determined to get the inevitable confrontation over with as soon as possible because he honestly couldn't endure the dread another moment.

"They're in their bedroom having some sort of private powwow," Ted said, his admiring gaze fastened on the poster. "Carl and I are going to see Zayn Malik's new movie tomorrow tonight. We wanted to take you with us, but it's rated PG-13 because of violence, and Mom said we couldn't." He tore his eyes from his idol and looked at Harry's woebegone face. "Hey, kiddo, don't look so glum. We'll take you to the first movie that—"

The door across the hall opened and Harry's foster parents walked out of their bedroom, their expressions grim. "I thought I heard your voice, Harry," Mary Mathison said. "Would you like a snack before we start on your homework?"

Reverend Mathison looked at Harry's taut face and said, "I think Harry's too upset to concentrate on homework." To Harry he said, "Would you like to talk about what's bothering you now or after dinner?"

"Now," he whispered. Carl and Ted exchanged puzzled, worried glances and started to leave their room, but Harry shook his head so they would stay. Better to get it all over with in front of everyone, all at once, he felt. When his foster parents were seated on Carl's bed, he began in a quavering voice, "Some money was stolen at school today."

"We know that," Reverend Mathison said dispassionately. "Your principal has already called us. Mr. Duncan seems to believe, as does your teacher, that you are the guilty party."

Harry had already decided on the way home from school that no matter how painful or unjust the things they said to him might be, he wouldn't beg or plead or humiliate himself in any way. Unfortunately, he hadn't figured on the incredible agony he would feel at this moment when he was losing his new family. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans in an unconsciously defiant stance, but to his horror, his shoulders started to shake violently and he had to wipe away hated tears from his face with his sleeve.

"Did you steal the money, Harry?"

"No!" The word exploded from him in an anguished cry.

"Thenthat's that." Reverend Mathison and Mrs. Mathison both stood up as ifthey'd just decided he was a liar as well as a thief, and Harry started beggingand pleading despite his resolve not to do that. "I s-swear I didn't takethe lunch money," he wept fiercely, twisting the hem of his sweater in hishands. "I prom-promised you I wouldn't lie or steal again, and I haven't.I haven't! Please! Please believe me—"