by E. R. Frank
“Something about how you learned to cook is boring?”
“Ah, man.”
“You’re having feelings.”
“That’s right, man. I’m feeling that I hate you.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not angry, man. I just hate you.”
“And you’re scared.”
“I hate you.”
“Something about my vacation, or learning to cook, or maybe both makes you angry and scared.”
“I hate you.”
* * *
“Brooklyn,” I go. His head whips up. “Brooklyn,” I go again. He wipes his eye with the back of his hand. “You’re dripping beans, man,” I go.
He looks at the mess on the counter. He puts down his spoon and peels off his gloves. “Break,” he yells, and walks away, banging through those swinging doors back there.
* * *
“This Thursday will be our final session before the two-week break.” I hang my head way back and check out those sand soldiers.
“What two-week break?” They fill up five whole shelves. Shooting and running and drumming and kicking and all kinds of fighting shit.
“Remember? I’m leaving for two weeks. We’ll miss four sessions. Another doctor will cover for me while I’m gone if you want to speak with someone about anything. Then I’ll be back, and we’ll continue as usual.”
“Since when?” I sit up.
“Since when, what?”
“Since when are you going away?”
“I first told you a month ago, America. And I’ve mentioned it periodically since then.”
“Bullshit.”
“I reminded you during our last session.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Hmm.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Two weeks.”
“So I don’t have to see your ass for two weeks?”
“That’s right.”
“Cool.”
* * *
I sit in group and get curious.
About my mother. I bet there’s a mess of stuff on her in my file. America’s mother was a real easy woman. Plus, America’s mother was proud she had sex with so many different kinds of people. By the time America’s mother gave birth to America, she knew his father could be just about any man in the entire country. She knew America might look like just about any kind of man she ever met. That’s how America’s mother thought up the name America.
* * *
I lie in my bed, and I get to wondering.
About Brooklyn. About what he’s on and how he got on it. Like if he drinks, or if he’s some kid crackhead. Like if he got arrested anytime, and if he gets flashes when he’s high. Or does drinking a whole lot of beers or Jim Beam, or something, keep his flashes all sealed out?
* * *
“You ever mess with alcohol?”
“What makes you ask?”
“Did you?”
“What do you imagine?”
“You always ask me that, man.”
“You sound aggravated.”
“You got that right.”
“What makes you aggravated?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone, man.”
“Meaning?”
“You never give up. You just ask and ask and ask and it’s never enough. You keep worrying it. You never let anything go.”
“Do you want me to give up?”
I’m up here. It’s cold and white. I’m all alone, and it’s safe.
“America!”
Go away.
“America!”
“What!”
“You went there, didn’t you?”
“The hell are you talking about, man?”
“Everest. Did you go there?”
“Nah.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“Nah.”
“Something frightened you and you went there.”
“Nah.”
“Something that happened between us.”
The water gets in my eyes.
“Something happened between us that frightened you.”
“Nah.”
“Yes.”
“Nah.”
“I’ll be back in two weeks. And I’m not giving up.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll be back in two weeks. And I’m not giving up.”
“Nah.”
Then
I’M ON SOME train. Going north. It’s hotter than anything. It’s not buildings out the windows anymore. It’s just trees.
“What’s the matter with the old ones?” the escort asks me. I don’t answer him. I just watch myself keep on restringing my shoelaces. “Applegate isn’t so bad,” the escort says. His face is all shiny with sweat. “Counselors are pretty good. Food could be worse. You get cable. You get trips.”
* * *
I see myself in Cottage Four.
“Say hi to America,” the counselor says.
“You touch my bed, my shelf, my sink, or my hook, and I’ll rearrange your face,” a tall white kid tells me.
“You want points this evening, Wick?” the counselor asks.
I watch myself make up a bed. I watch myself put the bag on a shelf. I watch myself hang the next pair of shoelaces on a hook.
“What’s his name, Tom?” another kid asks the counselor. He’s got two oval tattoos over his eyebrows. He’s white, too. They’re all white.
“America,” Tom says. He looks at me. “That’s Marshall.” He points to the tattoo kid. Then he points to another kid who’s got drool on his chin. “That’s Fish.”
“Fish isn’t supposed to be here,” Marshall says. “His brain’s up his butt.”
“Enough, Marshall,” Tom says. He points again. “That’s Ernie.”
Ernie’s got one blue eye and one brown eye. The glasses he wears make them look real big.
“No points,” Ernie says when I light my lighter.
“Where did you get that?” Tom says. He holds out his hand. “No lighters allowed, America. Sorry.” I watch myself give it up.
“Looks like we got a good boy,” Marshall says. His eyebrows go up, and his oval tattoos turn into straight lines.
“So where’s he from?” Wick asks Tom.
“Ask him yourself,” Tom says.
“Where are you from?” Wick asks me. I watch myself not answer. “I said,” Wick says, “where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” I say.
“Ah, fuck,” Wick says.
“Points,” Tom says to Wick.
“Fuck points,” Marshall says.
“Fuck points,” Fish says.
“What have I told you?” Tom says to Wick and Marshall. Then he goes to Fish, “Don’t say that word, Fish. That’s a bad word.”
“Fuck points?” Fish says. Then he picks up my hand. I watch myself let him hold it.
* * *
“You don’t usually get girls,” Ernie tells me on the way to class. “That’s why Apple’s better than other places. Cottage Eight and us have all our classes with GC 4 and GC 8. That means Girls’ Cottage Four and Girls’ Cottage Eight. Get it? Nobody told me when I got here, and it took me, like, weeks to figure it out.”
“You’re America?” a lady teacher says when we walk into the classroom.
Ernie keeps talking. “We get dances one time a month with them. It costs five tickets.”
“Welcome, America. Now please go to room four hundred,” the teacher says.
“They’ll tell you after testing, but ten points earns a ticket. So you need, like, fifty points to go to a dance. But you can earn thirty points a day, so it’s not a big deal, unless you’re like those guys.” He jerks his head toward Wick and Marshall.
“Down the hall and to your right,” the teacher says.
“Answer ‘B’ for all the multiple choice,” Wick tells me. He doesn’t keep his voice down, the way Ernie does.
“I don’t believe America asked you for your input, Wick,” the t
eacher says.
“If you answer all ‘B’ you get two million points,” Wick says. “You can trade them for a million tickets, and a million tickets buy you independent minor status and your own car.” He laughs hard and slams his fist on the table.
I watch myself leave the room.
* * *
It’s not school tests yet. It’s evaluation tests. The kind Liza said they can read your mind on. The lady holds up cards with spilled paint on them and asks me what they look like. I tell her nothing every time. The lady shows me little kid pictures and asks me to tell a story about them. I watch myself stay quiet.
“What’s happening here, do you think?” the lady asks. The picture is of a man and a dog.
“Nothing,” I say.
She holds up another picture. “Let’s try this one,” she says. It’s got two boys on it. One of them has a ball. Another one has a pocketknife.
“B,” I hear myself say.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“Nothing.”
She shows me shapes, and tells me to draw them the same way on another piece of paper. I draw them exactly the same way. She gives me puzzles and tells me to put them together. I watch myself do it. I watch her write things down on a clipboard.
“Let’s try the cards again,” she says. She holds up one of the first cards with the spilled paint. “So what does this look like to you?” she says.
“Nothing,” I tell her.
“You sure?” she says.
“Nothing,” I see myself say.
* * *
I see her four more times every morning for the rest of the week. Plus, I earn one hundred and fifty points.
“You have enough for more than ten tickets,” Marshall tells me. Everyone knows how many points everyone else has. Everyone knows how many tickets that makes. I have the most. Wick has the least. “More than ten tickets,” Marshall says again.
“Whatever,” I say.
“You’ve got to trade them in for privileges,” Marshall says. “You get a half day out with ten tickets.” I watch myself shrug. “He hasn’t traded his points in,” Marshall says to Wick.
“You’ve got to trade them in.” Wick says. “Points only get you tickets. Tickets get you the good stuff.”
“Whatever,” I hear myself say.
“If you’re not using them, give them to me,” Marshall says.
“Nah,” I say.
“I’ll buy them off you,” Marshall goes.
“He wants to see Shiri,” Ernie says.
“I’m buying them,” Wick tells Marshall. “What do you want?” he asks me.
“Nothing,” I say.
“There’s got to be something,” Wick says. “What do you want?”
“A pair of shoelaces for ten points,” I see myself tell him.
“This guy is sick,” Marshall says.
“You can’t transfer points,” Ernie says.
“Shut up,” Marshall and Wick say at the same time.
But Ernie’s right. You can’t.
* * *
“I’m Mr. Patterson,” the man says. He points to one of the gray armchairs. Its seat is worn to a whole shade lighter than the rest of it. “I’m your therapist.” I watch myself sit. “I hear you don’t talk much,” he says. I shrug. “I wonder why?” I see myself stare past him out the window. “I hear you’re not interested in tickets,” he says. I shrug again. “You don’t want to go to the mall?” he asks. I watch myself not answer. “You don’t want your allowance?” Shoelaces. My last pair are about to get raggedy at the tip.
“You get allowance with tickets?” I hear myself ask.
Mr. Patterson smiles. “You can trade ten tickets for three dollars,” he says. “Ernie didn’t tell you?”
“Nah,” I say. “So who do I get my tickets from?”
“You get them from your cottage counselor. I believe in your case that would be Tom.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Excellent,” Mr. Patterson says. “Now I wonder what you can tell me about yourself.” I watch myself not answer. “I’m told you haven’t put anyone on your visitors list.” He waits a second, and then he says, “I wonder why.”
There’s a field and then a fence out the window. But the fence is so far away, you almost can’t see it. The field is big. There’s a tree right in the middle of it. The tree’s big, too.
“What about your Mrs. Hopper?” He picks up some folder from off his desk. He looks at it, turning all kinds of pages. “Mrs. Harper. I believe she raised you?”
“Whatever,” I say.
He puts the folder down. “I wonder how you feel about the idea of seeing her?” He drums his fingers on his desk. A lot of seconds pass. He picks up the folder again and opens it. “You were on your own for a long time,” he says, reading something in there. “I wonder what that was like for you.” I watch myself bend down and restring my laces. I watch myself string them backward. “Before you were on your own, I believe there was a man who died,” Mr. Patterson says after a while. He squints at the folder. “A man who also raised you.” I straighten up and stretch my legs out and look at the laces. “I wonder how you feel about that,” Mr. Patterson says. “I understand you mentioned some things about his death.” His fingers get ready to drum on the desk again. “I wonder what some of your thoughts and feelings are about him.” I watch myself not answer. Mr. Patterson gets quiet again, but not for too long. “I wonder how you’re feeling right now. Here, in this room.” I watch myself cross my arms and turn my head to the window.
Mr. Patterson wonders about a lot more things, and I stare out at the field.
* * *
They don’t tell you what grade level you test at. All the C4s and C8s are in the same classroom, anyway. Even Fish.
“What have you read lately?” the teacher asks me.
“Nothing,” I hear myself say. Wick snorts.
“Wick,” the teacher says. “What is the last book you’ve read?”
“Huh?” Wick says.
“I gave you a list of titles last month,” the teacher says. “So which one did you read?”
“The dog ate it,” Wick says, and he and Marshall and Shiri crack up.
* * *
On visiting day, I watch myself go to the mall with Ernie.
“Be at the elevator banks at four o’clock sharp,” Tom says.
“Normally, Wick and Marshall would be pissed they can’t go,” Ernie says. “But Shiri’s on punishment, so she can’t go out, so they don’t care.” I watch myself not talk to him. “Where do you want to go first?” He follows me. “They’ve got some great games on the third floor,” he says. “And thick-crust pizza over there, behind the frozen yogurt place.” I just keep walking. “You can make your own CD,” Ernie says. “They have this booth next to RadioShack.”
I find a Hallmark, but there’s no shoelaces. I check every aisle. There’s only cards. “Is there a shoe store in this place?” I ask Ernie.
I buy five pairs of black and five pairs of white. Ernie finally shuts up when I’m paying. He doesn’t say one word.
* * *
“How was the mall, Shoelace?” Wick says.
“His name’s America,” Fish goes.
Wick’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his silver balls. There’s two of them, and they fit into the palm of his hand. They have jingle things inside them. You’re supposed to be able to rotate them around each other with your fingers all smooth so the jingle things don’t ring. Wick can’t do it. The jingle things are always dinging all over the place.
I watch myself ignore him while I hang my shoelaces up on my hooks.
“Is that all he got?” Wick asks.
“That’s it,” Ernie says. “Except for some pizza. What’s wrong with him?” He means Marshall. Marshall’s lying on his bed with his face in his pillow.
“He’s sad,” Fish says.
“Shut up, Fish,” Wick says.
“You shut up,” I watch myself tell Wick.
“Marshall’s mom was supposed to visit today,” Ernie whispers to me. “I guess she didn’t show. She practically never shows.”
Marshall pulls his pillow out from under his face and throws it hard at Ernie. “Shut the hell up!” he yells. His face is so scrunched, those ovals above his eyes are straight lines again. He grabs his boot.
“Points,” Tom warns, from the doorway.
“Fuck points!” Marshall yells, and he throws the boot at Ernie’s face.
Ernie gets a bloody nose, and Marshall gets a time-out in the cool down room.
* * *
Mr. Patterson stops wondering after a few months. We play games, instead. Checkers. Monopoly. Connect Four. Uno. I look out over Mr. Patterson’s shoulder into the field. Sometimes Mr. Patterson makes a note in his notebook. Sometimes he tries to talk to me.
Good game, he’ll say. Nice move. He’s so boring, I’ll forget to move. There will be a long, long wait, and then he’ll say, You know it’s your move, right?
Then I’ll move.
* * *
I won’t answer to Shoelace.
“I’m talking to you!” Wick says.
“My name’s America,” I hear myself say.
“His name’s America,” Fish says. He picks up my hand. I watch myself let him keep hold of it.
“Show me how you do that,” Wick says. He’s pointing to my feet. My shoes are laced half sideways and half backward. “Show me.”
So I show him.
At the dance he tells Shiri he thought it up. I see them kissing, and then Tom catches them and sends them back to their cottages. But before Wick gets out the gym door, Marshall shoves him, because Marshall was the one who was supposed to kiss Shiri. Then Marshall gets sent back to the cottage, too.
“They’re so stupid,” Ernie tells me. “Don’t you think they’re stupid?”
I watch myself not answer him while people dance. Fish is there, jumping up and down all by himself. There’s no skates and there’s no park. What’s there is music and people smiling.
* * *
Mr. Patterson leaves Applegate. I get another therapist. Her name is April.
“How do you feel about being in therapy?” April asks. There’s a new picture on the wall, and the desk is in the corner now. The chair with the worn seat is under the window. There’s nothing for me to look at but some new plant. It’s as big as a person.