Page 107 of Two Kinds of Us

I immediately looked up. “Why do you have this?”

Dad sat down in his desk chair. “He didn’t tell you that part?”

Apprehension weighed on me like a second skin as I looked at him, barely breathing. “What part?”

“I was the judge on his case,” Dad said, returning my gaze evenly. Everything about him was neutral, calm. “When he was tried in juvenile court, I was the judge on the case.”

At first, his words made no sense. They were words I knew, but the order he’d placed them in turned the sentences into gibberish. Last year, Dad was the judge on Harry’s case? DadknewHarry before all of this?

Understanding hit me like a punch in the chest.

I practically fell back into the chair opposite from Dad, the air all but shoving from my lungs. “Am I—I mean, am I allowed to read this?”

“He sent it to me months after the case closed. Of his own volition. You can read it.”

Even though Harry had printed the front of the envelope clearly, the way he wrote in the body of the letter was messy, nervous, almost hard to read. After a moment of debating, curiosity weighed heavier than the guilt of invading his privacy.

August 9

Dear Judge Brighton,

I’m not sure if you remember me or not, but my name’s Harrison Russo. I appeared in your courtroom earlier this year for a robbery. You probably remember me—I was the kid who practically peed his pants when I was escorted into the room. I also have a neck tattoo that totally doesn’t fit my personality, if that clears things up.

I’ve been wanting to write a letter for a while now, but I’m reallybad at organizing my thoughts. I got released from the detention center last month, and I know what you’re thinking—I was supposed to get out in June, when I turned eighteen. I’ll be honest with you. Juviesuckedwasn’t fun. It wasn’t supposed to be fun, though, right? Anyway, I had a hard time, had a bad attitude, but I remembered something you told me. I had this one chance—one last chance—to turn things around.

You took a chance on me. Some days I still ask myself why, because I’m nothing special. I’m just a kid who followed the wrong crowd, did things he wasn’t proud of. You said you saw some good in me. Said I was a victim of circumstances. Honestly, I remember thinking that was a load. No offense. It just felt like I didn’t deserve a second chance. I’m not sure if I can see the same that you see, but I want to try. I want to be the person you think I can be. I can’t change what I did, but I can do better.

I guess this was kind of a selfish letter, huh? I’m talking all about myself. I wanted to thank you for saying the right thing when I needed to hear it. Thank you for taking a chance on me. Thank you for not throwing away my case—throwing me away. Things would’ve been so different.

I’ve got a feeling good things are ahead, and I’m forever grateful you gave me a second chance. Thanks for giving me a second chance, and seeing—what did you call it?—my untapped potential.

Sincerely,

Harrison Russo

I traced my finger along the two unmistakable words.Untapped potential. “What did you do?” I asked Dad, not looking up, not yet. In my mind’s eye, I could see Harry slouched over a table, pencil frantically at work. “How did you take a chance on him?”

Dad’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “I could’ve charged him as an adult. Could’ve ruined the beginning of his adult life. But the prosecutors and I worked it out that he would be tried in juvenile court instead, since he was still seventeen.”

“Why?” I asked, mouth dry. “Why take a chance on him?”

“Everyone should have someone who takes a chance on them,” he said, leaning his head on his hand. He had such an even expression, no emotion displayed: his work face. “You know a bit about his life, correct? He hung out with people older than him. Pressuring him to do things. After being bounced around from family member to family member after his parents died, he lived with distant family members, practically invisible. No good influence, no support system.”

When he phrased it like that, that tightness in my chest reappeared, picturing a young Harry with freckles and tousled hair. I looked away from Dad, back down to Harry’s messy scrawl.A victim of circumstance.“Did you ever send a letter back?”

“I did not.” Dad smiled a little; I could hear it in his voice. “It’s not often I get thank-you letters. I didn’t write back because he didn’t need me to. He needed to figure out his way back to himself.”

“You met him. At the country club. Did he seem…different? Like he’d found his way back to himself?”

“You know him,” he returned evenly. In that moment, I had the strangest feeling that he embodied the nagging voice in my head. Smooth, even, turning questions back on me. “You know him more than I do. Doyouthink he’s found his way? Could you see the Harry you knew doing such a thing? From what I remember you telling me, you said he was a good man.”

Gently, I folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope, then offered it to Dad. As soon as he took it, I fell back, slouching against the leather upholstery. “He should’ve told me.”

“Yes, he should’ve. But do you think things would’ve ended any differently if he’d told you sooner?” Dad put the letter away. His eyes lingered on the drawer, and he spoke to it. “Destelle, for the past few years, you’ve done everything your mother and I told you to without question. Why?”

Was that a trick question? I tried to dig, to really come up with an honest answer, about what I felt deep down. “It was all I knew,” is what I came to at last, brushing my fingertips over my knuckles. “I wanted to make you happy. Make you proud of me. I didn’t want you to be upset with me.”

“You wanted to make us proud, and it was all you knew. Now, tell me. What would you have done if we told you to help us rob a gas station?”

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