It's Girls Like You, Mickey

by Patti Kim

  I lean in but can’t catch anything. Ms. T mumble-jumbles something to Sunny, who doesn’t seem to be saying much. I peekaboo through the door crack. I see her backpack and lots of nodding about I don’t know what. Then Ms. T hands her some papers and a book.

  “Boo.”

  I jump. I gasp. It’s Larry.

  “Don’t do that,” I say.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You said boo, didn’t you? Who says boo without aiming to scare?”

  “Right.”

  “You bet I’m right,” I say, getting worked up to give him a piece of my mind, when Sunny comes strolling toward the door. Keeping my eyes on Larry, I smile and giggle so fake I feel sick inside. “You are so funny,” I say, and give Larry a shove on his shoulder.

  Sunny stops, looks at us, and says, “Me Key?”

  I ignore her for three whole seconds, then side-eye her and say, “Oh, you talking to me?”

  She nods. Her red beret doesn’t budge, staying put on her head like a crown.

  “It’s Mickey. Not Me Key. Say my name right, why don’t you. I’m nobody’s key.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “No, you don’t. YOU got no clue. YOU just got here. This here’s my country ’tis of thee sweet land of liberty. I was here first. You hearing me? Come on, Larry. Let’s go,” I say, and pull him into the hall.

  “I just got used, didn’t I? You can let go of my arm now,” he says.

  I let go.

  “Wow. That was really low. What you said to Sun Joo over there. That was pretty bad. Honestly, Mickey, I think you’re, like, the coolest girl, but that was not cool,” he says.

  “You know what’s not cool? You breathing down my neck and stalking me since school started. That’s what I call pretty bad. Leave me alone, why don’t you?” I say.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Never been better,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Everything,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  “Aigo. Aigo.”

  “I what?”

  “I go. I have to go,” I say, and head into the packed hall.

  I pass a locker decorated with balloons and streamers and a sign that says, “Happy Birthday, Dana!” I crack a smile. I love the sight of party supplies. I even love those dumb dunce-party hats that’re shaped like cones and the rubber bands break off and slap your face. My favorite store in the whole wide universe is Party Plaza. That’s where Daddy would take me to get all my birthday party decorations. He hardly ever made it home on my actual birthdays, but when he was home one or two or three weeks after, it’d be an all-you-can-party-hardy trip to Party Plaza. I didn’t even care much about the party part. I was happiest hanging with Daddy up and down those aisles lined with all that shiny shimmering plastic paper goodness. You know how they say laughter’s the best medicine? Only second to confetti.

  I don’t know who this Dana girl is, but what a lucky duck.

  I push through a crowd of kids. It’s all hustle and bustle, everyone shuffling along to get nowhere. It stinks of cologne, perfume, bad breath, and BO mixed with the general foul odor of school air. My eyes water. My nose runs. What is wrong with me?

  twenty-six

  Something’s wrong. We can’t find Sabrina nowhere, not under the couch, not under the beds, not in the closets, not on the windowsills, not in the laundry hamper under the bathroom sink.

  “Maybe she gone outside to die,” Benny says.

  “Shut your piehole, Benny! She hates it outside, and it ain’t her time yet, so just shut your piehole,” I yell at him.

  “There’s my girl,” Ma says.

  She says it so soft and so sweet I have to look at her to make sure it’s Ma doing the talking and not some strange Mary Poppins lady who floated out of the sky and into our apartment to soothe and comfort us and help find our cat.

  Ma pulls Sabrina out from behind the TV real slow and gentle, while the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles do somersaults and backflips on the screen.

  “How’s our darling,” Ma says, cradling the cat in her arms like a baby. She sounds so soothing and full of love my heart turns to mush. It’s like I’m hearing some long-lost voice I used to know from when I was a baby.

  Ma sits on the edge of the couch, holding Sabrina and whispering into her ear. My heart beats so loud I can’t make out what she’s saying. It almost sounds like she’s praying in tongues. Benny pets Sabrina, barely touching her, like he knows how dirty his hand is and he’s trying not to get her cream fur all grimed up. I kneel and stroke her neck. We all got our hands on her like the way preachers do when they try to heal the sick.

  “Is she dying?” Benny asks.

  “I think so,” Ma whispers.

  “No, Ma. No,” I say, tears falling out of my eyes. I can’t breathe right.

  “It’s okay,” Benny says, and pats my shoulder with his nasty hand.

  “You go on, sweet baby. We’ll be all right,” Ma tells Sabrina.

  “No,” I say.

  “Bye, Sabrina. I’m going to miss you. Have fun in pussy heaven,” Benny says.

  My eyes are blurry with tears, but when Benny says that, I look up at Ma and Ma looks down at me, and we smile so big that we crack up laughing.

  “Hope they got a lot of cockroaches up there. That’ll keep you plenty busy,” Benny says.

  “That’s gross, Benny,” I say, elbowing him like I’m annoyed, but I’m not. I’m so grateful he lightened my heavy sadness.

  I lay my cheek on Sabrina’s warm body. Her breathing’s slow.

  “Bye, girl,” I say.

  And then, just like that, our cat stops breathing. Sabrina’s gone. She goes lifeless limp in Ma’s arms. And I’m sad, but also surprised how light I feel, how it don’t hurt like a stubbed toe or a scraped knee or a broken bone. It’s almost sweet. I picture her spirit floating above, seeing us huddled and loving on her, and I get a strong sense of what it looks like to rest in peace.

  twenty-seven

  A plate of fake Oreo cookies from the Dollar Store and two glasses of milk are sitting on the table when me and Benny get home from school. This is downright weird, but we drop everything, rush over, and munch-gulp-crunch like Cookie Monster.

  Ma never does stuff like this. This here’s the stuff she makes fun of other mothers for doing. She’s the kind to order us to get our own cookies and milk. Who do you think I am? Your slave?

  Ma comes out of her bedroom, walks over to us, and sets down a CD by my stack of cookies. It’s my dance CD, the one I left playing at Golden Gardens.

  “I got that job,” Ma says.

  “I knew it, Ma! I knew you could do it. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “I owe you, Mickey. That manager Jerry? I had an interview with him. He remembered me from that night we were dancing in the lobby. We hit it off. Some of the seniors remembered me too. They called me Gidget’s mom. I got hired on the spot. I start tomorrow. You’re looking at the new events coordinator for Golden Gardens Assisted Living.”

  I scream, jumping up and down.

  “Are we going to be rich?” Benny asks.

  “Ma, that’s the best news!” I say.

  “I don’t know about rich, but we should be better off. Some bills are going to get caught up. Maybe new shoes.”

  “I want a new bike,” says Benny.

  “Slow down. First paycheck don’t come for three weeks. Things are still going to be tight around here, so I’m aiming to pawn and sell some stuff. We got too much junk,” Ma says, looking around the apartment.

  I put a cookie in my mouth, get up, and pop my CD into the player.

  Abba spills into the room, singing about the dancing queen. Benny stands on the chair, cookie in each hand, and shakes his butt, having the time of his life. Charlie wags his tail and barks. Ma kicks up her legs like she’s dancing the Charleston in slow motion. I twirl, spinning around the room to the beat of the
tambourine, feeling young and sweet and dizzy with relief.

  twenty-eight

  Where do I sit? It’s gone,” Benny says on the morning of my thirteenth birthday.

  “You don’t got time to sit. We need to get to school,” I say.

  Ma got rid of Daddy’s La-Z-Boy recliner. There’s a square of fade on the carpet, which shows like one of those “I was here” signs. Ma sold it to Mr. Doug downstairs ’cause we need the money. Ma’s been on a rampage pawning our stuff. I noticed all her jewelry’s gone, including her wedding rings. I offered up all my pageant dresses, tiaras, shoes, trophies—all of it—to turn to dough. She’s cleaning house and cashing in.

  I been telling myself not to expect nothing for my thirteenth. She ain’t cashing in to buy me nothing. She ain’t throwing me a fancy party. She’s getting late bills paid, trying to keep us from getting evicted until her first paycheck.

  “Evicted” means to get kicked out of your home ’cause you can’t pay up. All your stuff gets thrown outside like trash into one big heap for all the world to see and pity.

  I seen this happen at Parkside Gardens. People’s stuff thrown outside like garbage. Sofas, chairs, tables, lamps, mattresses, microwaves with food still cooking inside, trash bags upon trash bags. They don’t even give them time to pack proper. The saddest is seeing toys. Stuffed elephants and bears tossed to the curb. Board games tossed out, their boxes spilled open. All those itty-bitty game pieces separated and scattered. And the people getting evicted just stand around too shocked and too sad and too mad and too lost to do nothing but hang their heads while their home gets flipped inside out. Never mind their belongings. What about them? They got nowhere to go.

  “What’s in your bag?” Benny asks as we walk to his bus stop.

  “Stuff for my birthday,” I say.

  “Happy Birthday, dear Mickey, happy birthday to you,” sings Benny.

  Before tears bust out of my eyes, I say, “Don’t you know the words to the whole song? Never you mind, ’cause you sing like Charlie on helium.”

  “I got you something,” Benny says. He pulls a wad of toilet paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.

  “What? Birthday boogers?”

  “Open it.”

  Inside the wad is what I gather used to be a stick of Kit Kat. The chocolate’s melted, and the cookie part is crumbs.

  “It’s your favorite. It’s the last of my Halloween candy. I saved it for you,” he says, proud like he just saved a life.

  “Oh, Benny. This here’s the sweetest and the most disgusting thing ever. Kind of like you,” I say, wrapping the crushed candy.

  “Aren’t you eating it?”

  “Saving it for later.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Silly boy. Come here.”

  He leans into me. His hair smells like home: dogs and cats and cigarettes and pancakes mixed up with that odor you get playing outside in November air. My eyes water. Thanksgiving’s around the corner. Daddy used to insist on birthday cake and candles for Thanksgiving dessert ’cause of me. He was late for everything most of the time, a better-late-than-never kind of daddy, so when he did show up after the fact, he went all out to make up for it ’cause he’d have a bad case of the guilts.

  “Don’t miss your bus. Get going,” I say, and send Benny along.

  As I walk to my stop, I check my grocery bag of birthday stuff, hoping it’s enough. Without a trip to Party Plaza, I didn’t have much to work with. I have to make do with what I got. And what I got ain’t a lot. Nothing bought. But better than snot. Making birthday happiness from rot.

  Big and fancy was never my aim for my birthdays. My heart of hearts was set on Ma and Daddy walking into my classroom, disturbing a boring lesson with a tray of cupcakes for everyone. And the class would cheer wild. The time I saw this happen was in Ms. Clarke’s second-grade class with John Jerome Malcolm’s parents barging in during a spelling test. They brought a Carvel ice-cream cake, and John Jerome’s dad in his booming voice told Ms. Clarke and all of us, “Stop! Pencils down! This can’t wait! Ice cream is melting!” Whole class lost it. John Jerome looked like he was trying to look embarrassed, but you can’t hide true joy. Happiness beamed through his brown eyes. We chucked our spelling tests. We scream-sang “Happy Birthday.” We ate ice-cream cake. It was the joy to top all joys. Even the shy, quiet kids had smiles on their faces.

  That was my birthday wish. To do like John Jerome. I tried to get Ma and Daddy on board, but with Daddy on the road and Ma sleeping days, the best I could pull off was a box of animal crackers, most of which was missing body parts.

  In fifth grade, I was so determined to make my birthday dreams come true even a little bit, I made cherry Jell-O the night before to share with everyone in my class. I even rounded up some used candles to blow out making my birthday wishes. I imagined everyone singing “happy birthday to Mickey, happy birthday to you,” as I wiggled and jiggled the tub of Jell-O. We’d slurp it. We’d squish it between our teeth. We’d gargle it. We’d have ourselves a fun mess of a time. But when I got to school, the Jell-O was melting fast, a layer of red liquid forming on the surface. By afternoon, my birthday Jell-O was more like birthday blood. I ended up pouring it down the toilet in the girls’ bathroom along with my birthday fantasies.

  This time, older and wiser, I’m better prepared.

  As I run into the school building, I’m still holding out an electron of hope that maybe, just maybe, someone might could have beat me to it. My locker might be decorated. You never know. There’s always a chance.

  I turn down my hall and run to locker 1582. Nothing. Same old gray metal door. Fine by me, ’cause I came prepared to take care of my birthday myself.

  I dig into my grocery bag of birthday stuff. I cover my locker door with pieces of old wrapping paper. I got to hurry my butt before kids spill into the halls. My door ends up looking like an old patched-up quilt of balloons, flowers, birthday cakes, and Santa heads. I like it. I tape up the puffy flowers I made with twisty ties and tissues. I tape up the letters of my birthday sign above my locker. H-A-P-P-Y-B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y-M-I-C-K-E-Y-! I cut them out from old greeting cards. I even cut up my favorite Strawberry Shortcake birthday card Daddy gave me for my sixth. It’s now a big capital M. I love how mismatched everything looks. It’s a hodgepodge of a mess, a real work of art, if you ask me.

  Now for the finishing touch, the crowning glory. I tape pieces of my Halloween candy all over my locker door so anyone can help themselves to a sweet treat. I can’t believe I didn’t pig out on all this candy myself. I tape the last piece, a bag of M&M’s, to the bottom left corner and step back to admire my work. Best decorated locker ever, if I do say so myself.

  “You did it, Mickey. Happy thirteenth. Make it good,” I say, and watch the clock.

  As I wait for the bell to scream, it’s dawning on me that my days of little-girl innocence are long gone. A rose ain’t just a rose no more. I was never one to get suckered into being naive, so I guess it’s like my number finally caught up to me, but boy am I going to miss being free of cares. Closest I’ll come to carefree is a box of panty shields.

  It’s like a part of me has to die so another part can live.

  The bell screams.

  The faraway echo of voices and footsteps starts to fill the hall. My heart beats fast. I’m excited. I’m kind of scared, too. It feels like I’m waiting for everyone to arrive at my party. It also feels like I’m waiting for a stampede to run me over. I stand next to my locker, practicing one of those lookie-here poses, jazz hands and all.

  Here they come.

  A sixth-grade boy stops, looks, and asks, “Can I have one?”

  “Sure! But just one. And you have to wish me a happy birthday.”

  He pulls off a Baby Ruth and says, “Happy birthday, Mickey.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Hey, happy birthday,” Justin says, and grabs a Snickers.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, thank you.”

&nb
sp; “Is it free?” someone asks.

  “It’s free. You just have to wish me a happy birthday.”

  “Happy birthday!”

  “This is so cool.”

  “I love this idea.”

  “Happy birthday, Mickey!”

  I see Frankie “Doo-Doo” Dooley coming this way. He’s going to say something mean. I know it. He stops, stares, and asks, “If I wish you happy birthday twice, can I get two?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Happy birthday. Happy birthday,” he says, taking only one piece.

  “Thanks, Frankie,” I say.

  Birthday wishes come pouring in as candy gets pulled off my locker. I feel like a talking vending machine. I feel really good. I feel joyous. It’s like a star’s burning inside me, and I’m all shine.

  I’m down to the last seven pieces when Sydney, Tammy, Nawsia, and Sunny come marching down the hall like they have to investigate what all the commotion is about. They stop in front of my locker. They’re all wearing matching black velvet chokers around their necks, which remind me of Charlie’s collar. Sydney may as well hold a leash. Up and down and up go Sydney’s eyes like a seesaw. She sees my locker, and she aims to saw me to pieces.

  “What’s all this?” she asks.

  “It’s my birthday,” I say, jazzing my hands.

  “Oh. Wow. Who did this?”

  “Me.”

  “You decorated your own locker for your birthday,” she says, bobbing her head like a chicken.

  “So?”

  “It’s sad.”

  “It’s called taking care of myself,” I say.

  “You do realize it’s your friends who are supposed to be taking care of this for you? You’re not supposed to decorate your own locker. That’s really pathetic. Don’t you have any friends?” she says, hissing the s.

  “Oh look! She has M&M’s,” Nawsia says, reaching down to pull them off.

  “Don’t,” Sydney says, kicking Nawsia’s hand away.