As she drove Django to school that morning, Robin did a mental scan of the busy day ahead. As an accountant she had several clients, including a firm of lawyers, Conway, Carroll, and Hyde, she would be visiting that morning. For some reason CC&H could not keep a bookkeeper more than a few months, and as a result their accounts were always a jumble. Her ability to make sense of them impressed the partners. They were opening a branch in Tampa and had asked her to go there for six months to organize the office. They didn’t seem to care that she was an accountant and what they needed was an office manager. Mr. Conway, the senior partner, insisted she was perfect for the job. She insisted right back that she was not, but he told her not to make a rash decision. “Think about it, think about it.” Well, she had thought about it for the last month and was no closer to saying she would go.
After a few hours with the lawyers’ accounts, she would run some personal errands and then spend the rest of the day in the office at Shady Hills Retirement Home, which was one of several retirement facilities in Southern California for which she kept the corporate books from her office at Shady Hills. She had to be home by three to interview the home health care provider, Willis Brock.
“What do you like to eat for dinner?” she asked Django. He murmured something that sounded like whatever, which was one of the obnoxious responses her friends with teenagers complained about. But Django wasn’t obnoxious. Robin had little experience with children, but she knew sweetness when she met it. And confusion and sorrow, such deep sorrow that if it were a lake it would be bottomless. “Shall I get pizza?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, of course not. You just had breakfast. But you’ll want dinner, I know.”
He sighed and slumped deeper in the car seat.
She almost stopped the car right then—her impulse to comfort Django was that strong. But as quickly as it came to her, it passed with the assumption that he would not want her comfort. If she tried to hug him he would probably push her away and then they would both be embarrassed. Pausing at a stoplight, she lifted her hands from the steering wheel and saw that they had left moist smudge marks on the dark plastic.
One good thing about Django’s appearance in her life was that the lawyers at CC&H would stop pestering her to go to Tampa. They were family men and would understand that she could not traipse across the country with a grieving twelve-year-old orphan in tow.
The three signal lights on Arroyo’s main street were out of synch. She had to stop at every one. At a few minutes before eight in the morning, the little town was just waking up. The Starbucks across from the Catholic church was already crowded, but in the next block most of the shops were still dark.
Django sat slumped, looking out the window. At the back his hair was a tangled mess. She had not realized that twelve-year-old boys had to be reminded to use a comb. He probably hadn’t brushed his teeth either.
“It’s going to seem pretty quiet in Arroyo. After living in Beverly Hills.” He grunted something. “I beg your pardon, Django? You’ll have to speak up so I can hear you.” She heard herself sounding prissy, like the maiden aunt she was. “Never mind. Maybe I need a hearing aid.” It was a joke but he did not laugh.
She thought about the Tampa job and wanted to be there or anywhere far from this sad, lost boy for whom she could not say or do anything right.
Tampa. She wished Mr. Conway would stop nagging her.
A month earlier Robin and her mother had been having lunch in La Jolla, at a new restaurant Robin had read about online. Over a shared crème brûlée, she had mentioned the Tampa offer. Her mother jumped on the idea as if she’d won the lottery. Robin’s cool response prompted her to ask if she was afraid to leave Arroyo. Robin laughed at that, of course. There were many things she knew she would not like about Florida—humidity and reptiles were two that figured prominently—but it was the inconvenience that put her off going, the disruption of her comfortable and efficient routine. All very good reasons, but her mother said they weren’t reasons; they were excuses.
Django said, “You sigh a lot.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Are you tired?”
“I always sleep soundly.”
“My mom took Ambien.”
“Did she?”
Robin caught herself in midsigh.
She supposed that before her time with this boy ended, whenever that was, she would learn a great deal about her sister. Earrings, sleeping pills: these were things she would have known if they had been close or even if they had seen each other just occasionally. But it had been many years since she had done more than speak to Caro briefly on the phone, and those conversations had always been awkward. It was as if Caro was afraid of what she would say if she didn’t hang up fast.
But Robin had never thought that Caro was angry with her. There was something unspoken between them that had nothing to do with Robin’s failure to attend the big wedding or even the marked differences in their personalities. After Caro and Jacky settled down in Beverly Hills, the time between phone calls had lengthened. In the last five years they’d spoken three or four times, no more.
And now she was gone and Robin was left with regret, a puzzle without a solution. And Django.
Aunt Robin dropped Django off in front of the school ten minutes before the first bell. Arroyo Elementary didn’t look any better or worse than he had expected. It was like all the public schools he had ever seen: flat roof, asphalt, cement, chain-link fencing, and stucco painted a color that wanted to be green.
“After school there’ll be someone, a bus monitor, I guess. She’ll tell you which bus goes by the house. Do you remember the address?”
His aunt was trying so hard to be nice. It would be easier if she just didn’t say or do anything.
“I’ll walk home after.” He wanted to explore Arroyo’s small downtown on the remote chance that he would find something interesting. Driving down the main street a few minutes ago, he’d seen a game store, and that might be worth investigating. He held up his phone. “I’ve got a GPS app. I won’t get lost.”
“Well, don’t dawdle around or I’ll worry.”
Django wondered if she really was concerned about him or if her face was made with a little knot between the eyebrows.
“I’ll be home after three. A man’s coming by for an interview, a home health care nurse. Grannie’s going to need some special help after her back surgery.”
He did not care the first time she told him and he still didn’t care.
“Django, don’t be too quick to criticize the children you meet at this school. You know what I mean? I know they won’t be like your friends from before, but maybe you’ll be surprised.”
She sounded hopeful and Django realized she had no clue what it was like to walk into a new classroom, come face-to-face with thirty strangers, every one defending some small bit of turf, every one looking for something wrong with him, something to laugh at, to judge. He might as well be a creature from Planet X. He had a sudden prick of sympathy for his aunt in her ignorance and felt an impulse to be kind.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be cool.”
The sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Costello, a pretty, dark little woman, had been in the classroom for fourteen years and had met all kinds of children with every variety of name and attitude.
“Boys and girls,” she said, clapping her hands together, “we have a new student today. Will you stand up D-jango? Tell us something about yourself.”
D-jango.
He knew she was being nice, but he didn’t want to stand up. He slid down into the seat and fiddled with his pencil. Behind him, someone snorted. Mrs. Costello didn’t force the issue.
“Well, maybe you’d tell us about your interesting name. I’ve never had a student named D-jango.”
He thought about what his father would say.
Django Reinhardt was a great jazz guitarist. He was Hungarian, and Django’s a gypsy name. Django and St
éphane Grappelli played at the Hot Club of Paris.
Instead, he told the teacher, “You’re not saying it right. You don’t say the D. It’s just Jango.”
He heard a girl’s voice whisper, “Jinglejanglejingle bells.” Laughter.
Mrs. Costello said, “Well, I’ll be sure I get it right next time.” She picked up her roll book and began to call out the names of students.
A boy whispered behind Django—“ Hey, Jinglebells”—and something hit him in the back of the head. An eraser.
Django knew Arroyo Elementary School was going to be just as bad as he’d feared.
At lunchtime Mrs. Costello appointed a short, stocky boy to be Django’s “buddy,” an honor the boy—Billy—didn’t seem to appreciate. His friends, Halby and Danny, thought it was hilarious when he and Django walked out of the classroom together. On the way to the lunchroom Billy pointed out the boys’ bathroom.
“If you’re smart, you’ll never go in there without protection. I know a kid went in to take a leak, lost all his teeth, and he’s still in the hospital.” He lowered his voice. “Coma.”
In the lunchroom Billy pointed Django toward the food line and then disappeared. Django chose a container of macaroni and cheese and one of chocolate pudding. He looked around the crowded and noisy room for somewhere to sit and saw Billy standing in a knot of boys. He recognized Halby and Danny but none of the others. Judging from their expressions and laughter, they knew him, however. Django could tell that they wanted him to walk over, giving them an opportunity to say or do something mean; but he wasn’t that stupid. He sat in a corner by himself, took one bite of the mac and cheese, and pushed it away. He wasn’t sure what it tasted like, but it sure wasn’t cheese. At least the pudding was sweet, but that was all it was.
At Country Day the cafeteria sold things like tuna subs and roast beef sandwiches and hamburgers and all-beef franks cooked on a grill right there where you could smell how good they were. And salads. Django figured he was probably the only boy at Arroyo Elementary who had ever eaten a salad for lunch.
Back in class he went to his desk and sat without first looking down and knew immediately that someone had put something on the seat. He acted like nothing had happened, though, not wanting to give Billy and his mutant friends the satisfaction of upsetting him. He smelled chocolate pudding.
Mrs. Costello announced a spelling bee and divided the class into ones and twos. The ones stood up by the blackboard and the twos were down at the other end of the room. Django was a two and had to walk past everyone. He knew what he must look like from the back with gluey, gummy brown pudding on the seat of his pants. He tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but everyone laughed when they saw the mess, and he heard one of the mutants say, “Jinglebells pooped his pants.”
At Country Day the teacher would have had the brains to figure out who put the pudding on Django’s chair and sent him to the headmaster; but all Mrs. Costello did was sigh and tell Django to go to the boys’ bathroom and clean himself up. He stood outside the room after she closed the door, remembering Billy’s warning words. Maybe Billy was lying to scare him, but after just a half day at Arroyo Elementary the story sounded plausible, except maybe the part about the coma. He thought about going into the teachers’ bathroom, but being found there would be an additional humiliation. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Billy, Halby, and Danny wanted him to go into the bathroom; and in a moment at least one of them would show up. Django would end up getting dunked. Or worse.
There had been mean kids at Beverly Hills Country Day. Nasty kids, even boys and girls who cheated on tests and stole from the little kids just because they could get away with it. Django had stayed away from them and they had never shown any interest in him. The worst name anyone had ever called him was “brainiac,” and he didn’t really mind that because everyone knew he was the smartest kid in the class. He had never been afraid of getting beaten up and put in a coma.
His imagination told him just what would happen if he went into the boys’ bathroom. One of the mutants—probably his “buddy,” Billy—would follow him in, and then it would get nasty. Although this scared Django, at the same time he realized something that surprised him. Part of him wanted to fight with Billy, wanted a chance to punch him, and then when he was down, kick him in the balls. Of course, the other half of Django knew he’d be the one getting punched and kicked.
Instead of going to the bathroom nearest his classroom, Django walked down to the end of the long open corridor—Mrs. Costello had called it the breezeway—with classrooms and sorry-ass, dried-out landscaping on either side, until he got to an area where he could tell by the decorations on the doors that the first-and second-grade classrooms were located. In the little boys’ bathroom the sinks were so low he could pee in them if he wanted to and it smelled really bad, like one of the public bathrooms in Griffith Park where the pervs hung out and his dad had told him never to go alone. He held his breath and grabbed wads of paper towels and rubbed the backside of his jeans until the pudding seemed to be gone. He went back to class.
Mrs. Costello looked at him accusingly when he stepped through the door. “Where were you, D-jango? You’ve been gone ten minutes.”
Django looked at the three snickering mutants, and he tried not to smile as he said, “Billy told me never to use the big boys’ bathroom.” It was sort of embarrassing to talk about bathroom stuff in front of everybody, but he didn’t care. He was enjoying himself for the first time all day. “He told me a boy got beat up in there and had to go to the hospital with a coma and he’s probably gonna die. Billy said I should go down to the little kids’ bathroom.”
“I never!” Billy cried.
Django widened his eyes and made a cross on his chest. “I didn’t want to get beat up, Mrs. Costello.”
“Sit down, D-jango. Django, I mean. And you, Billy, I’ll talk to you after school.”
As he walked to his place in the line of spelling-bee twos, Django flipped the mutants the bird. He didn’t look at them as he waited for his turn to spell, his heart beating like crazy. He’d have to be careful they didn’t catch him after school, but the risk was worth it. Besides, Django had decided, he was never coming back to Arroyo Elementary.
Chapter 7
During the school day Django lost the little interest in exploring Arroyo that he’d had in the morning. When the closing bell rang at last, all he wanted was to get back to Aunt Robin’s house, scoot upstairs, and close the bedroom door behind him.
He gave his name and address to the woman with a Bus Monitor sign on her back, and she pointed him toward the yellow school bus No. 3. He was first in and nabbed the front-row seat almost opposite the driver. If any of his new buddies, Billy, Halby, or Danny, got on this bus and tried to give him a hard time, the driver would see it happen and be a witness at the inquest. Ha-ha.
The bus pulled out of the school parking lot, third in a line of nine. From the window he saw Hal and Danny shambling up the street. They looked up as the bus passed, and Django grinned and gave them the one-finger salute again.
So long, suckers, he thought with a shot of elation that lasted only a second before he realized that Arroyo was a small town and sooner or later the hole-heads would catch up to him, and it would be ugly. He was not going to stick around all summer, asking to get pulverized. But there was no point calling Huck again. It was too easy for him to say no on the phone. If Django had some money, he would hire a limo and get the driver to take him up to Los Gatos. If he showed up on Huck’s doorstep, fell on the ground, and begged him, his brother was one of the good guys and would never send him away twice. But Django needed money to hire a car or even to buy an el cheapo bus ticket, and apart from straight-out theft, he didn’t know where he’d get it. He might be a rich orphan, but until he grew up he’d never see any cash. His thoughts got gloomier as the bus ride seemed to take the longest route to his aunt’s house. By the time he got out and swung his backpack over his shoulder,
he didn’t think his life could get any crappier.
He walked along the shoulder of the county road, staring at his shoes, watching the dust color them from white to tannish pink, like the powder in Mrs. Hancock’s compact. At some time during the jacked-up school day and without quite realizing it, he had accepted that what he was going through was the real thing, not part of a kidnapping plot or a secret government something-or-other. His mother and father really had died that night on Highway 395, and they were as gone as it was possible to be gone. Forever.
He turned off the county road and walked up the steep hill to his aunt’s house. When the road leveled off, he stopped in the middle and closed his eyes and made a last-chance deal with God. If he wanted Django to believe in him, he would have to prove he was real. Django would shut his eyes and take twenty steps along the road without opening them. Even if he heard a car coming, he would keep his eyes shut because the bargain he was making with the Almighty required that he be brave under all circumstances. At the end of twenty steps, he figured he’d be right around the base of his aunt’s driveway. He would open his eyes then and if God was paying any attention at all and if he cared anything about Django, Django would see one of his mom and dad’s cars parked in front of Robin’s house.
He scuffed forward twenty steps, opened his eyes, and saw a black SUV in front of the garage. Hope lifted his feet, and he ran up the steep driveway, never touching the asphalt. On the flat he stopped and his feet and legs turned to lead. This car had nothing to do with his mother and father. No one he or they knew drove a dusty old Chevy Tahoe with a license plate so bent it could hardly be read. He remembered that Aunt Robin was interviewing someone to help his grandmother. He sagged against the far side of the SUV and laid his forehead on the window. He gave up everything and wept with resignation. His funny, interesting, glamorous, and loving parents were truly dead, and he was on his own.
Little Girl Gone Page 5