Justice. Faye Kellerman

      “Yippee!” She jumped up and down. I picked up her backpack—an amber thing emblazoned with Simba from The Lion King—and slipped it over my shoulder.

      She took my hand, half skipping as we walked, tugging on my shoulder. But I didn’t mind. Her hand was soft and warm. She smelled sweaty, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor.

      “I can’t believe I get to see Gornish and Narishkite. You won’t tell Mom?”

      “I won’t tell Mom.”

      “Who’s taking us home? Heidi?”

      “Someone else,” I said. “This way.”

      I led her over to the car, opened the door, and got her settled into the backseat. “This is Chris,” I said. “He was kind enough to offer us a ride home. Say thank you.”

      “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome,” Chris answered.

      “Is he going to pick us up tomorrow, too?”

      “Don’t press it, Melissa.” I closed the door. “Besides, you have gym class tomorrow. Put on your seat belt.”

      “I can’t do it. It’s too hard.”

      I turned around, hanging over my seat as I looped the belt around Melissa’s waist, securing the metal into the latch. As I straightened up, I accidentally brushed against Chris and felt him immediately stiffen. I sat back and scrunched myself in my seat.

      “Excuse me,” I said.

      “What for?”

      “I accidentally … never mind.” I looked out the window. “You need tutoring, Chris?”

      “Yeah.”

      “You could have just called.”

      “I’ve got a unique situation. I’ll explain when we get to your house.”

      I was quiet and so was he. Mozart, however, was working himself up into a lather. Chris parked the car in front of my two-story claptrap. It wasn’t a bad house, just in need of repair. The siding needed paint, the stucco was chipped, and the roof was old and leaky. We’d gone from two buckets last winter to five the last time it rained. The roof upgrade was supposed to be my father’s weekend project. Instead, he opted for hooch and sports on TV. My father was a passive lush—the kind who’d drink himself into a coma, gradually slipping away until Jean’s nagging became elevator music.

      Chris helped Melissa out of her seat belt. Liberated, she sped to the front door, then raced upstairs as soon as I undid the lock.

      “Uh, excuse me, young lady,” I called out to her. “The dishwasher is still full.”

      “I’ll do it later,” she shouted from the top of the stairs.

      “Famous last words,” I muttered. I shouted back, “Never mind. I’ll do it.” I turned to Chris. “Have a seat at the dining-room table. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Soda? You know, I can even make you coffee I’ve got so much time.”

      “Coffee would be great.”

      I marveled at my good fortune, having gained the better part of an hour. I put up coffee, then looked in the fridge. Jean had prepared a chuck roast. I took it out.

      “This’ll be shoe leather if I cook it now,” I said to myself. “Maybe I’ll turn down the heat and roast it slowly.” I said it into the oven and turned the temperature to 300 degrees. Then I went into the laundry room and threw the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer. I came back into the kitchen and took out lettuce and tomatoes from the vegetable bin. I washed them under the tap, shook them dry, then started making the salad. I glanced up and saw Chris staring at me from the dining room. I was so caught up in my routine, I had forgotten about him.

      I put down the lettuce and dried my hands. “Coffee’s almost done.”

      He came into the kitchen. “Do you do this every day?”

      “Do what?”

      “The cooking, the laundry … child care?”

      “They wrote a story about me. It’s called ‘Cinderella.’” I fetched down two coffee mugs. “Tell you one thing, though. I’m not waiting for Prince Charming. I’d rather have a maid.” I turned the coffeepot off and took out some milk and sugar. “How do you like your coffee?”

      “Just black.”

      “A real man.”

      “Very macho.”

      I loaded my coffee with the accoutrements, went back into the dining room, and took my datebook out of my backpack. “I’ve got an opening on Monday at eight. Or I can give you an hour on Thursday at eight—”

      “Terry, why don’t you sit down and let me tell you what’s going on?” He showed me the chair. “Please.”

      I sat, then wondered why I was listening to him. It was my house, but he was playing host.

      He took a sip of coffee and looked at me earnestly. “If all goes well, I’m slated to go to the Eastman School of Composition in New York next fall. I squeaked by my junior year. This time I don’t know what’s flying. I’m not a great student, but I can pass tests if I concentrate.”

      I nodded.

      He flipped a chunk of blond hair out of blue eyes. “Also, I’m away a lot. I play gigs.”

      “Gigs?”

      “I do fill-ins for ensembles, orchestras, small chamber groups. Once in a while, I even do solos in some of the smaller towns for special occasions. It’s usually for only one or two performances. But my time away includes another day or two for practice beforehand. So I can be gone as much as a week at a time. I miss a lot of class.”

      He sipped more coffee.

      “I talked to Bull Anderson. He says you charge fifteen an hour.”

      “That’s right.”

      “Then you’re going to make out like a bandit from me. ’Cause I figure I need five days a week, ’bout two hours a day. I need a teacher as well as a tutor. Are you up for it?”

      He stopped talking. I stared at him. “That’s one hundred fifty a week.”

      “You can add.”

      “Classical music must be a high-growth industry.”

      “Money’s not a problem. You save your dollars, Terry, you can earn yourself a fine set of wheels by spring break. What do you say?”

      I paused. “Sounds great in theory.”

      “The money won’t be theoretical.” He stood. “We can start tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at ten to seven, take you to my place, and have you back here by a little after nine.”

      “That’s a big commitment for me, Chris. I need time for my other students. Plus there’s my own studying.”

      He sat back down. “How about this? I’ll pick you and your sister up from school every day. That’ll save you five hours just like that.”

      “I still have other students—”

      “Terry, why don’t you open your appointment book and we’ll go through it together. Find a schedule that suits both our needs.”

      I was being pushed, but the money was too tempting to protest. I opened my datebook. With some rearranging and haggling, we decided on four days a week—two hours a day, with Wednesday our day off.

      “Mondays and Fridays I can come to your place at seven,” I said. “But Tuesdays and Thursdays it would be better if you just came here right after school. Melissa goes to gym so we’d have privacy. Sound okay?”

      He took a pen and a sheet of paper