It's Girls Like You, Mickey

by Patti Kim

  “Oww,” Nawsia says, standing up.

  “It’s old Halloween candy, dummy. It’s expired. It’ll make your skin break out, and you of all people don’t need that,” says Sydney.

  “It’s like she’s a big Pez dispenser,” says Tammy.

  “Good one, but she’s more like the cannibal witch in Hansel and Gretel. This is, like, a total trap,” Sydney says.

  “Some kids behind you want candy, so can you move along?” I say.

  “It’s like you’re luring them with candy just so you can eat them up because obviously you eat just about everything,” she says, smiling and looking at her girls.

  “Go on a diet,” says Nawsia.

  “You would be pretty if you weren’t so fat,” says Tammy.

  “It’s not healthy,” says Sydney.

  My jazz hands go all clenched fists. Sydney’s getting to me, and I don’t want her to. My head heats up.

  “Mickey! Mickey! I like this one. Can I have?” Sunny says, pushing through the Sydney sandwich. She reaches for a Hershey’s Kiss. “Happy birthday, Mickey.”

  “Thanks, Sunny. There’s another Hershey’s Kiss over here, too. You can have it,” I say, getting choked up. I missed her so much I want to hug her.

  “Everybody, let’s sing to Mickey! Let’s sing the ‘Happy Birthday’ song! Happy birthday to you,” Sunny starts to sing.

  Sydney steps in, puts her hand over Sunny’s mouth, and shushes her, saying, “Joo Joo, no. Please. Mickey doesn’t need us to sing. She takes care of herself. She’s a big girl.”

  A small crowd has gathered, clogging up the hall and waiting for us to fight. I do not want to fight. I just want to give out free candy. I take a deep breath. These kids want a showdown.

  “Oh my God. I feel so sorry for you,” Sydney says.

  “Likewise. I feel sorry for you, too, Sydney,” I say as sweet as I can, ’cause sometimes sweet burns.

  “Oh, how original of you. I guess you want to copy me in everything. Admit it. You want to be just like me.”

  “Ooooooh,” the kids say.

  “I guess that would be true if I wanted to be, oh, I don’t know, mean and petty and insecure and snotty with a bloated head. News flash. I do not want to be anything like you, Sydney. I know what you’re all about. You put me down so you can feel better about yourself. I don’t feel the need to do that to anyone, not even you. I got names for you, oh, do I have names for you, but I choose to restrain myself from using them ’cause that would be downright low and mean. Instead, I do stuff like decorate my own locker and give out free candy ’cause it makes me feel good about myself. What’s it to you that I mind who I am? I know me, and I sure as heaven don’t need everyone else squattin’ down low for me to stand tall and mighty. So bless your crooked little gizzard, sweetheart. Now, excuse you,” I say.

  “Ooooooh,” the kids say.

  Clapping starts up in the back. It’s Larry. Sunny claps too. Sydney throws her an evil eye, but others start applauding too. I’m getting applauded on my birthday for telling Sydney off.

  “Settle. Settle. Break it up. Get to your classes,” Mr. Graves booms, just in time to kill my joy. Everyone scatters.

  The bell rings.

  As I open my locker for my backpack, someone taps my shoulder. It’s probably Larry here to collect on a thank-you for starting up the applause, so I take my time turning around. It’s not him. It’s Sunny.

  “Happy Birthday, Mickey. Did I say right?” she says.

  “Close enough, Sun Joo. Is that right?”

  She nods.

  “Joo Joo?”

  “I know. But Sydney say it sound cute. I’m sorry, Mickey.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I say, and give her a wink like my daddy used to do, but what I really want to do is give her a hug and tell her how much I miss her and why aren’t we friends anymore and I’m sorry for bugging her with those stupid notes and I’m happy for her, I really am, and I’m all about living your best no matter what trials and tribulations life throws your way, whether it’s coming to a new country or trying to fit in or learning a new language or being you or a runaway daddy or losing a friend or a sick cat or worrying about getting kicked out of your home, or this or that or did I mention I miss you…

  Instead I say, “Hey, want these? I know it’s your favorite.”

  I pull all the Hershey’s Kisses off my locker and hand them to her.

  Sun Joo takes them and says, “You giving me the ddong.”

  “Ddong mention it,” I say.

  “Ha-ha,” she says, and walks away.

  I close my locker and admire my scrappy door, proud of how I helped myself. The M in my name falls off the wall, leaving the sign HAPPY BIRTHDAY ICKEY. I laugh. I pick up the M cut out from that Strawberry Shortcake birthday card from Daddy way back, when I loved all things Strawberry Shortcake. She was sweet and cute, sugar and spice, and all things nice, kind of like dessert. On the backside is some of his writing all cut up. “To my ba rthday lov ways Da.” Ain’t that a poem? Da. Da. I’m not a baby no more. I tape the letter back up and walk to class, feeling lucky thirteen and as sweet as snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails.

  twenty-nine

  Why are we here?” I ask as Ma parks at the Prince George’s County Animal Shelter.

  “You just wait right here,” she says, grabbing her purse. She gets out of the car, shuts the door, and stands under a tree for a smoke.

  Benny and I are in the back seat with Charlie lying across our laps. She’s done this to us before, but we never made it this far ’cause we ran out of gas. My stomach goes all queasy with dread. I hug Charlie and tell him that we ain’t going to let nothing happen to him. Over my dead body.

  Out the window, I see Ma blowing smoke. She’s in her Golden Gardens work clothes ’cause she’s working later today. She’s been clipping coupons, skipping meals, scrimping and saving to tide us over until her first paycheck, but it’s still not enough. It’s never enough. Look at her blowing smoke like a chimney. She can’t quit the cigs. Those aren’t cheap. And if she gets lung cancer, we’re going to end up homeless paying hospital bills. She’s always yelling at us not to end up in the ER ’cause it’s going to cost an arm and two legs, but look at her puffing all her money away. I have a mind to open the window and yell some sense at her, but something about the way she stands out there all alone under the tree with its leaves hanging on for dear life makes me think twice, makes me wish her cigarette could last forever.

  But it don’t, and she smokes it down to the butt and throws it away. As she walks over to us, I lock the car. She shakes her head, pulls out her keys, unlocks the doors, and holds ours open to see us out.

  “No, Ma. I can’t let you do this,” I say, as Charlie pulls me out of the back seat.

  “Let me? Since when do you let me do anything?” she says, and shuts the door.

  “Ma, please. Pretty please. I beg you,” I say, following her across the parking lot.

  “What’d I tell you about begging?”

  “Not to.”

  “Then why am I hearing all this please, please, pretty please nonsense? It don’t become you, Mick. It’s downright ugly.”

  Ugly is one of them words that puts a spell on me. It’s my kryptonite. It’s got some voodoo magic that knocks me down and sinks me into a quiet shame. I shut up.

  “Are you selling Charlie to the pound?” Benny asks.

  “Pounds don’t buy dogs. They take them for free,” she says.

  “You’re giving him away for free?” he asks.

  “Benny, who said anything about giving Charlie away?” Ma’s voice sounds like one of them kindergarten teachers trying to explain death by saying it’s just like a vacation to Candy Land. Your grandpa’s in Candy Land.

  I can’t stand it, so I run my mouth ugly.

  “Don’t lie, Ma. You said it. You did. You’ve been getting rid of all our stuff. Now you’re getting rid of Charlie,” I say.

  Ma breathes out so deep she migh
t deflate and melt into a sack of skin right in front of our eyes. I brace myself for a smack, ’cause she’s done it before. Ain’t nothing keeping her from doing it again. She can beat me to a pulp, see if I care. If it means keeping Charlie with us another few minutes, fine by me. Like I told him, over my dead body.

  “Please, Ma. We just lost Sabrina. I can’t bear to lose no more. Why can’t we keep him? Ma. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean. I’ll make dinner every night. I won’t sass back. I’ll look after Benny. I’ll clean out the litter box every day. Every single day, Ma. I swear. Cross my heart,” I say.

  “Charlie’s going to be fine. Please calm yourself down, Mick. And what’d I say about making promises you can’t keep?” she says, walking through the front doors.

  I squat down, put my arm around Charlie’s neck, unhook his leash, and tell him to make a run for it. “Go, boy, go. I’d rather you be free than end up in the pound. It’s death row for old dogs. So get out of here!” I say, and stand up. He don’t move. I give him a nudge with my knee, but instead of running for the hills, he follows Ma into the pound. Then Benny follows Charlie, and I’m the only one left outside.

  Through the glass doors I see Ma talking to a girl at the front desk. The girl nods and smiles and hands her a clipboard. Benny jumps up and down like he’s throwing a tantrum. Charlie stands next to Ma, wagging his tail. He’s got no clue what’s going on. I have to stop this.

  The doors slide open. I march to the smiling girl at the front desk. Her name tag says “Charity.” Before I can say, “Listen here, Charity. There’s been a mistake,” she pops up like a jack-in-the-box and sings out, “Happy birthday!”

  “What? Why? How’d you know?”

  “Your mom,” she says, pointing her out in the waiting area like I don’t know who my own mother is.

  “You think going around telling strangers to wish me a happy birthday is going to make up for the fact that you’re throwing out a member of our family? Some nerve, Ma. Some nerve. It’s downright cruel.”

  Benny jumps up and down, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing at me with the other. Ma’s head is down, filling out papers. Charlie stares at me. Something’s weird.

  “Ma!” I call out.

  “What now, Mickey?” she says without looking up from the clipboard.

  “I don’t understand why you have to go around telling strangers it’s my…”

  Ma stands up and walks over to the front desk. She hands the clipboard to Charity, who looks over the sheets of paper, then says, “Everything looks good! Right this way. The cats are in this room.”

  “Cats?”

  Benny pushes me and says, “Gotcha! Gotcha good!”

  “What’s going on? We’re getting a cat? Ma? What about Charlie? We ain’t giving him away? Why’s he here? Ma?” I ask, trying to keep up with her.

  “Charlie has to get along with our new cat. Don’t you remember Kelly hissing and scratching at him for months? Can’t let that happen again.”

  “Ma,” I say, my voice cracking.

  She looks down at me and smiles, shaking her head like she don’t know what to do with me. She says, “I’m expecting you to keep all those promises you made. What was it? Litter box cleaned every day?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma.”

  “No need, Mickey. I thought it was mighty of you protecting Charlie like that. That was strong.”

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  As we follow Charity down the hall, the walls spin like I’m on some topsy-turvy ride at a carnival. It’s all blurry except for Ma’s back, the only thing I’m seeing in focus. She stands straight like a dagger. I don’t know how she keeps her posture pageant perfect like that after all those nights hunched in a tollbooth. Tap-tap go Charlie’s nails against the linoleum floor. Benny skips. Ma chats with Charity. I suddenly feel like holding Ma’s hand. I don’t know how long it’s been. I was little. I know that. And it was probably ’cause Daddy’s hand wasn’t around. It was always his hand I’d choose to hold. Ma never got picked by me. I reach over and take her hand. She takes mine and holds tight like it’s something we do.

  thirty

  I have been dying to write Ok with a news flash that’s going to make his jaw drop to the soles of his stinky feet, but it hasn’t been my turn. We got a ping-pong thing going. I ping. He pongs. I ping back. He pongs back. Can’t throw it off and ping, ping, ping. But finally I got mail from Ok today. It’s a big bumpy pink Hallmark envelope. I rip it open, and all this confetti and glitter fall out all over the place. I empty the rest of the envelope on my head, and for a few seconds it’s snowing Party Plaza.

  He got the confetti and glitter part right, but the card looks like something you’d send to a grandma. A bouquet of pink flowers shaped into a heart. It is a card for a grandma! On the front, it says “Birthday Blessings for Grandma.” Inside there’s a Bible verse. “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face shine upon thee.” I laugh ’cause this has got to be Ok’s idea of a joke. I flip to the back side, and I can’t believe he spent a whopping $3.98 on this Hallmark birthday card for grandmas.

  Happy Birthday, Mickey.

  Sorry about the card. I know you’re not my grandma, but my mom got it, and she saw it was pretty and didn’t pay attention to the words. It’s the last time I ask her to pick anything out for me. I hope you think it’s funny. That part about the Lord making his face shine on you? Isn’t that weird? It makes me think of Jesus in a toothpaste commercial, laser beaming his sparkling white teeth at people. I don’t think you need it, I mean his laser light to beam on thee because thee know how to shine on thine own. Don’t get any ideas that I sent you a big pink card with a heart on it. Like I said, it’s my mom’s fault. Happy birthday.

  Your grandson,

  Ok

  I want to write back so bad that I don’t bother making a card. I rip a sheet out of my spiral notebook and start writing:

  Hey Ok,

  Remember that time you ran away? And there was that cat with one eye? Remember how that cat saved your butt from being all alone in that sad tent you called home? Remember how that cat kept you warm? Remember how she was just the sweetest little thing? You ever wonder what happened to that cat? Well, wonder no more. ’Cause guess what? News flash! She’s here with us! She’s ours! We adopted Cyclops! We brought her home from the pound! What?! How? Where? Why? When? you ask.

  Long story short, Sabrina died, and it broke our hearts. You probably don’t remember Sabrina ’cause she’d go and hide when you came over. She didn’t like you too much. Don’t take it personal ’cause sometimes she didn’t like us too much either. Anyway, after she went to kitty heaven, I would not have dreamed of asking for another cat even though we were always a three-cat, one-dog family and it was my thirteenth birthday, ’cause Ma was getting rid of all our stuff, I mean all our stuff, and I swear she was aiming to get rid of Charlie, but oh boy was I wrong. We got Cyclops! And in the nick of time, I tell you, ’cause the pound was getting ready to put her on death row ’cause she’d been there for a while and no one wants a one-eyed cat. Except yours truly.

  I’d take an old one-eyed cat over a fresh cute kitten any old day ’cause here’s how I figure it. That cute little kitten’s going to have a loving home because people love cute little kittens with two eyes. People will fight over a kitten, but a cat like Cyclops missing an eye don’t have a chance. She’s a reject. No one’s going to fight for her. And you know what’s sadder than dying? Dying alone and unwanted. I think that’s just the saddest.

  I was sad that Sabrina died, but she took her last breath in Ma’s arms, and me and Benny were there by her side saying good-bye and loving on her. I know she felt that. Everyone should feel that.

  This whole thing’s gotten me thinking about life and how life is about losing stuff and getting stuff back. You know what I mean? Think about it. If we didn’t lose Sabrina, we wouldn’t have Cyclops. And Cyclops would be dead. And if you didn’t lose your daddy, you wouldn’t have wha
t you got today. And if I didn’t lose my daddy, I wouldn’t have… well, I don’t know what I wouldn’t have ’cause that blank ain’t all filled yet, but knowing that something’s going to fill it one of these days makes me feel better. Get what I’m saying? Anyway, here’s to being 13 and being me.

  Your grandma,

  Mickey

  PS There are way too many strays at the pound. Save a cat. Adapt. (I know it’s adopt, but adopt don’t rhyme with cat unless you want a cot.)

  PPS Knock, knock. Who’s there? Thanks. Thanks who? Thanks to you, I got to go vacuum now.

  thirty-one

  This morning’s announcement said to meet in Mr. Jankowski’s art room during lunch if you wanted to help plan the winter dance. Sydney’s voice came through the speaker. “Your president Sydney Stevenson here. Good morning! With our winter dance right around the corner, we need your creative ideas for making this year’s dance the best ever, so let’s do lunch and have ourselves a storm of brains! But only if you’re, like, serious about helping out.”

  When she said “storm of brains,” I saw brains pouring down out of the sky like rain, then collecting and spinning into a tornado swirl over Landover Hills Middle. I wouldn’t miss this storm of brains for a Crock-Pot of Ma’s mashed potatoes. I missed the dance last year ’cause Benny was burning up with a fever of 104, and guess who had to make sure he didn’t die? Yep. Nurse Mickey to the rescue. Come hell or high water, I’m not missing it this year. Besides, anything beats lunch in the cafeteria.

  I walk into Mr. Jankowski’s art room with my tray of food. Looks like I’m late since I had to wait in line to get lunch. Everyone else has bag lunches and cans of soda from the vending machine. I guess sloppy joes are too sloppy for this gathering of Sydney’s followers. Sunny sits near the front with her own bag lunch and a can of Orange Crush. Sydney sits at the blackboard on Mr. Jankowski’s stool with a can of Diet Coke. Seeing me, she says, “For those of you coming late, take a seat in the back.”

  There’s an empty seat in the front near the door, so I take that one instead.