by Pat Cummings
Angel touched his knee and Trace bolted upright out of the chair. “Whoa, dude,” she said, laughing nervously. “You okay?” Hot tears stung the corners of his eyes, so Trace massaged them away roughly, hoping it would look like he was coming out of a deep sleep. NO way would Angel see him cry. Turning his head, he stretched and yawned dramatically to cover himself as he wiped his cheeks on his sleeves. “I’m good. I’m cool,” he croaked.
“Papi’s on his way back,” Angel said. She scooped up the cookie plate and the bowl of salsa. “Don’t leave any mess out here, okay?” she said, dusting a few chips off his knee. “I’ll get busted for snacking on the job.”
Trace jumped up quickly at her touch, yanking off the headphones and scattering more chips in the process. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound cool, “just don’t you bust me for cutting school, okay?”
“Deal.” Angel laughed. And then she was right in front of him, smelling like the garden and leaning in for a kiss. Or at least he thought she wanted to kiss him. Maybe she had aimed for his cheek. Maybe she just wanted to whisper something. But, surprised by her sudden closeness, Trace turned and caught the side of her lips with his. And then he knew.
The girl was seriously beautiful. And she did like him, and not just as a friend. He should kiss her now, full on, just to let her know that he was cool with this. Because somewhere deep in his chest, a switch had been flipped and Trace was lighting up, ears to toes. So what if she was older, or lived in the Bronx? How far could that be on the subway? He would kiss her now, a real kiss so she would know it was okay. And he did.
“Whoa, awkward,” Angel giggled, lurching backward. “Just wanted to grab the cans. No offense, dude.” Angel had an amused frown on her face. “We good?”
Trace coughed. “Man, that music was, um, thanks for the, uh . . .” He realized he was muttering gibberish. “I’m just, uh, sorry about that, it just . . .”
Angel poked him gently in the ribs with her elbow. “Grab the bag of chips, will ya, Romeo?” she said, laughing, and headed into the store.
The apartment was quiet when he got home. Trace went straight to his room, dropped his book bag on his desk, and fished out the envelope he kept tucked in the bottom drawer. Now was a good time. Maybe Angel had not meant to kiss him, but he could swear that for a second there, she had kissed him back. So, as long as he didn’t think about the world of trouble waiting at school for him tomorrow, this had been a good day.
He opened the envelope, paused only a second to take a breath, then pulled out the article and pressed it open on his desk. Under the headline Boy, 13, Only Survivor of Tragic Plunge from Saville Bridge was a photo of their badly dented car being dragged from the water. Trace instantly remembered the feel of the wet riverbank, the muddy water draining out of his sneakers, as he sat on the edge of a gurney, unwilling to lie down like the EMT worker had asked him to do. He had just kept watching the water.
Only after he was in the hospital, hooked up to monitors that blinked or beeped nonstop messages to the nurses and doctors who buzzed around him, did the questions begin. Did he know what day it was? Monday. Could he tell them his name? Theodore Carter. Did he know where he was? Yes. Had his parents been drinking? No. What made them swerve off the road? A deer. How had he gotten out of the car? How had he gotten out of the car? How had he gotten out of the car?
The sun was setting and his room filled with a soft orange light. Trace looked at the photo again, relieved that the dark shapes inside the car revealed nothing. There was no glint from a shirt button or edge of a collar, thank God, no distinct profile that might crush him if he recognized it. But the article had been clear about one thing, and sure enough, the photo was too: every window in the car was completely closed.
16
Vanderbilt Avenue was crawling with zombies. A little frog hopped by, trying to keep up with a woman who was staring at her phone, oblivious to the two-legged slice of pizza and miniature cowgirl coming up behind her. Trace rounded the corner onto Myrtle Avenue, merging with throngs of kids in costumes and parents in somber work clothes, all heading for school or buses or subway trains.
He was a big believer in free candy, but Brooklyn’s celebration of the holiday seemed like Halloween, the viral version. With one day left to go, it looked like every school in Brooklyn had planned a party for Friday. He had meant to get up early and run through his presentation, double-check some dates and names and time everything. Trace spotted the huge clock on the bank at the corner of Clinton Avenue, its every minute marked with a shiny brass bar. Of course! There was no time. Why had he even been sweating this? The class was only an hour long. So, at fifteen minutes per team, maybe they would make it to the 1860s today . . . and maybe pigs could fly, he thought with relief.
Hurrying across the intersection, he looked up and saw that a lumpy pink pig with feathery wings was stumbling toward him, muttering loudly and wrestling with a freckled-face vampire over control of a plastic pumpkin. The flying pig was winning. Trace shook his head. Okay, pigs might fly today. Auntie Lea could be right: the universe does send us messages. But an hour was still only sixty minutes. Even in Mrs. Weaver’s class.
Trace felt great. On Wednesday, he had come home to a note from Auntie Lea taped on the refrigerator door.
Dear Theo,
Sorry to miss you. Let you sleep in today (but we gotta have the WINE talk later). I’m out till waaaaay late tonight . . . don’t you dare wait up! $$$ on the counter for a pizza or whatever, okay? Doing a HUMONGOUS shoot for the Vacationers . . . Wait till you hear their new tracks . . . v. cool music.
Love, yer flaky aunt.
After all the versions of the story that he had rehearsed on the way home from Roman’s, no explanation had been necessary. And Thursday morning, although he had awoken early to try to pull his report together, Auntie Lea must have gotten up even earlier and left. Because two notes had been stuck to his bedroom door. One was addressed to “To whom it may concern,” and it wasn’t sealed. Trace guessed that Auntie Lea wanted him to read it so that their stories would match. She had written that he had not “been well enough” to attend school on Wednesday. That left him a lot of wiggle room should anyone ask for details. Her second note had said, “Tried to wake you, but not tooo hard. We’ll talk later, kiddo.”
Thursday had been gray and rainy and cold. In the school office, no one had even looked up when he delivered Auntie Lea’s note. Clearly, he had not been missed. He had seen Presley from a distance, flying out of the cafeteria just as he had arrived. And Kali had ignored him in the hallway, twice, which was normal. By afternoon, he knew that not running into Ty all day had been no accident. They had no classes together on Thursdays but they usually met up after school. So Trace had lingered at the deli, watching until the last of the stragglers from school had filed into the subway.
At least it was finally Friday. After his team gave their report, if Ty didn’t want to talk to him, fine.
The bus stop was still a block and a half away when he caught sight of the #54 bus lurching along Myrtle behind him. Breaking into a trot, Trace dodged fairies, robots, and pirates, keeping one hand firmly clamped on his jacket pocket. The little metal rattle from Aunt Frenchy’s basket was tucked away safely there, his secret weapon. Now that he thought about it, the rusty toy was probably the first sign from the universe that things would go his way today. Roman had thought that the toy came from the 1840s, which made it a genuine pre–Civil War artifact. Everyone else could trot out copies of old photographs, but this was the real deal. Even if they got an extra weekend to prepare, Kali would have a hard time finding something this good if she wanted to one-up him this time.
Trace reached the bus stop at the same time as the bus and lined up behind a massive woman in a hot-pink sweat suit. Climbing onto the bus in front of her was the sixteenth president, Abraham Lincoln, decked out in a black topcoat, stovepipe hat, book bag, and . . . fluorescent orange sneakers? Trace watched as Abe swiped a MetroCard and headed for th
e rear of the bus, giving him a quick look at the face under the hat. Presley? The fuzzy black beard dangling loosely from her ears swung toward the back of the bus before she did. It was definitely Presley.
Trace rarely left early enough to enjoy the luxury of taking the bus to school. He had hoped that the nice long bus ride would give him time to think through his presentation. Maybe he should duck Presley. He watched as she slid into an empty row of seats near the rear and, with some effort, disconnected herself from her book bag. Trace was about to squeeze into what remained of the seat next to Pink Sweat Suit when he saw Presley look up, flash a big smile, and point frantically at the empty seat next to her. So much for peace and quiet. Trace worked his way down the aisle. Up close, Presley appeared to have three eyebrows. One of her bushy Abraham Lincoln paste-on eyebrows was perched like a disheveled black caterpillar just below the brim of her hat.
“Impressive,” Trace said, sliding into the seat. “Let me guess—you’re a Goth pizza chef?”
“Don’t be farcical.” Presley laughed, clearly delighted to have company. Hugging the book bag on her lap, she stared up at him and wriggled her nose dramatically. “This beard itches like crazy,” she confessed. “But I want to be dexterous, zealous, and proficient, even if we don’t have to give our report today.”
This was exactly why Trace had hoped to dodge her.
“Ready, willing, and able, silly.” Presley giggled, shoving a bony elbow into his side. The Lincoln caterpillars bobbled merrily.
“Um, look,” she said quietly. “Sorry about giving you a hard time the other day. I know you were just trying to help me.”
Trace was not sure what to say. So he said nothing.
“I just get so tired of everyone treating me like a kid, you know? Kali’s a pain sometimes, but I can take care of myself.” Presley was frowning so hard that the caterpillars nearly touched. “I’m only a year younger than you guys, but I’m very, very mature for my age, all right?”
“Okay, Presley,” Trace said, trying not to grin. A smell of shoe polish hovered around her head, and the black electrical tape that was holding down the lid on her stovepipe hat was peeling off in the back, revealing a patch of red. The very mature Presley was wearing a carton of Quaker oatmeal on her head.
For Trace, the fifteen-minute ride to Jay Street took hours with Presley babbling nonstop. He learned that Ty was planning to dress as Alexander Graham Bell, that Kali would absolutely, positively, categorically not be in costume, and that he would be the last one in their group to give a presentation. Without him there, it seemed that their rehearsal on Wednesday had gone very smoothly. When the bus finally jerked to a stop at their corner, Trace threaded his way through a wall of passengers and climbed off, Presley scrambling down the steps right behind him.
“So, I was a little, um, perturbed when you didn’t come to school on Wednesday, and then I didn’t see you yesterday either,” she said. Presley pulled on her backpack as she walked, the bulky sleeves of her black overcoat making it hard for her to navigate the straps.
Looking straight ahead, Trace kept a steady pace, a pace meant to signal that he would not slow down for her—but he wasn’t abandoning her either. He just wanted time alone to think. It would be fine if he went last, in fact; that was cool. Kali had all the good stuff about Jesse James and the Pony Express anyway. But when it was his turn, should he do the Jim Crow and KKK stuff first and then the draft riots? They really had stuck him with all the depressing history.
“I thought maybe you were sick? Or had an accident or something horrific had happened?” Presley’s voice usually went up at the end of each sentence, so Trace was never sure if she was asking him something or just making a statement.
“’Cause I get these, um, feelings—these palpitations—they’re like electricity almost, since when I was little,” she went on. “I know people may think I’m kinda anomalistic or deviant or just plain weird? So I mostly, well, I keep things to myself, you know?” Presley was puffing now, trying to keep up.
Trace did not know. Trace did not want to know. These last few blocks seemed to stretch for miles. He decided that he should definitely lead with the KKK and stick Jim Crow in the middle. That way, he could end with the draft riots, pulling out the toy as a real, live artifact. Did he have to talk about the orphanage? Just the word made him think of the chilly darkness spreading underneath the library. All those little kids. All those shadows. Row after row of things just out of sight: clouded shapes that shifted when you looked at them, faint sounds that you almost heard. And that awful smell of cold, wet earth. It had smelled like . . . like the river bottom down there. And, just like that, the little boy’s face, bathed in red light, floated into his mind. Trace felt queasy.
“It kinda freaks out the progenitors, you know?” Presley was chattering away breathlessly at his side. Trace could feel her watching him. But rather than answer her, he began walking faster.
“I’ve always been able to pick up on stuff. Like that guy who talks to dead people? Kinda like that. And, okay, don’t flip out, but there’s something or someone around you who—”
“Enough, Presley,” Trace said, coming to a full halt and turning to face her. They were on the corner of Atlantic Avenue now, in the thick of the morning rush hour. Aside from the fact that he was standing next to what looked like a runaway munchkin from an insane asylum, nothing could have been more normal or more solid than his surroundings. Stores, traffic, garbage trucks, people everywhere. All the same, he could smell the river and feel the water steadily rising. Only now he had the creepy feeling that Presley was reading his mind, that she had caught him thinking about that little boy. She was frowning at him, her many eyebrows at different angles, watching him as though he were a tightrope walker about to fall at any moment.
“Sorry,” she said softly. “Nobody ever wants to know, but I was just worried and . . .” She trailed off.
Trace let her dangle. They walked in silence the last two blocks, Trace lost in uneasy thoughts, Abe Lincoln hot on his heels.
At first, Mrs. Weaver had looked merely confused. But now the teacher was rubbing the sides of her forehead and occasionally letting out a little sigh. Lou Pagano’s group had been presenting on the 1850s for twenty-three minutes.
Trace could not stop checking the clock. There was still enough time for his team to be called. Marcus and his 1800s team, in a rapid-fire mumble, had zipped along from the Louisiana Purchase to the creation of the Illinois Territory in under six minutes, making only brief pit stops at the Lewis and Clark expedition, Webster’s first dictionary, and Robert Fulton’s steamship. And the 1810s had to be skipped entirely because two team members were out with the flu.
The 1820s had brought a wordy, rambling note from Winston’s mom blaming computer issues for a delay of his team’s “excellent” PowerPoint presentation. Then Haeyoun had asked, in a sugary sweet voice, if the 1830s could postpone their presentation until Monday because they were chasing down some very special information.
“All right,” Mrs. Weaver had said, to Trace’s dismay, “but that’s it. No more exceptions, since we will have to wait for the 1840s as well.” The teacher gave the class a stern look. The 1840s, all three of them, were in Principal Rivera’s office. Mrs. Weaver did not elaborate.
Trace checked the clock again. Two rows away, Presley was doodling blissfully, her stovepipe hat tucked under her chair. On the bus, she had not been at all concerned about having to give their presentation. She must have assumed like he had that there would be no time for their report. But although they were up next, she looked calm and ready to go. He sneaked a look at Kali, across the room. There was a smug smile on her face. She was ready. Trace couldn’t see Ty sitting behind him, but he had noticed the pile of color-coded cards on his desk. Ty was ready. Trace ran through his three-minute talk in his head, trying to focus his racing thoughts. He was so not ready. Maybe Lou the Schnozz would ramble on right till the end of class, but Mrs. Weaver looked ready to shut
him down.
The 1850s had started off okay. Lou had announced that his team members would each report on just one topic: People, Places, or Things of the 1850s. Richie began with Places, stating that San Francisco and LA had officially become cities at the beginning of the decade. Then he had veered off into his top picks for holiday blockbusters due out from Hollywood. His report on Commodore Perry and the US Navy in Japan concluded with the top five reasons why he would never eat sushi. When he reached number three: “it’s raw,” Mrs. Weaver asked the fifties to move on.
Calvin covered Things at a fast clip. The Republican Party was founded, “but it’s not a party party, you guys,” he added. With his next item, the railroad’s expansion into the Southwest, Calvin began to sing loudly, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” But Mrs. Weaver shook her head so vigorously, he stopped. “Okay, last thing,” he promised. “In the 1850s, both Moby Dick and Uncle Tom’s Cabin were published.” Pausing to survey the room, he could barely contain a grin. “One was about a great white and one was about a great black. Get it?” Calvin cracked up. The class was silent. Mrs. Weaver winced.
“Thank you, Calvin,” was all she said.
“So I got People, a’ight?” Lou began. “This guy Elisha Otis invents the elevator. Like, Otis, get it? Otis elevators. That’s why, you guys.
“Then there’s Booker T. Washington, who was, like, a slave and whatnot. But check it out: he becomes a big-time leader and writes this totally nonfiction biography called Up from Slavery . . . which kinda says it all, right? Cause the guy got up . . . from slavery, a’ight?”
Mrs. Weaver massaged her neck. “Thank you for those insights. The 1850s may sit down.”
“But I got more, Mrs. W.,” Lou insisted. “There’s, like, the guy who invented Shredded Wheat and—”