The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  What kind of ruins the Laundromat for me, though, is Ma. She’ll fidget and frown and flip through one abandoned magazine after another without reading much of anything. Once in a while she’ll get up to check the machines to see how much longer it’s gonna be.

  “Wish I had a good book,” she’ll grumble when she goes past me. Or, worse, she’ll nose in and say, “What are you writing?” when I’m scribbling fast on a story.

  One time I sat a bit away from her and tried to pretend she was a stranger, just to see what story I might put together from watching her. I couldn’t get past knowing her, though, and then she went and slapped down her magazine and said, “What are you doing?”

  I guess my spy-eye wasn’t being too sly.

  I’ve also tried a bunch of times to get her to go do the other errands and let me watch the clothes, but she always does a leery-eye around the place and whispers, “I’m not leaving you with derelicts and drifters, Lincoln.”

  I tell her, “They’re just doin’ their laundry,” but what I always get back is a highfalutin “Mm-hmm” and a look that says my mind’s turned to mud.

  The day we got shut out by Mrs. Graves and her cats, though, Ma seemed different at the Laundromat. She wasn’t flipping through magazines or pacing around. She was just sitting there, staring off into space.

  “What, Ma?” I finally asked, ’cause her being so still was making it hard to concentrate on my new story, which was about a hunched old lady who magically transformed into a fierce and awesome ninja cat at night. Or maybe she was fierce and evil; it was too soon to tell.

  But back to Ma.

  I had to ask her, “Ma?” again and give her a little shake before she turned to me and said, “What? Oh.” And then her face started doing this witchy-twitchy thing like she was either about to cry or trying to cast some sort of spell on me.

  “Ma!”

  The witchy-twitchy thing stopped. “How old are you?”

  You better believe that sent worry shooting straight through me. Was working with old folks all day making her lose her mind?

  Was crazy contagious?

  “Ma!”

  She swiped a hand in front of her face like she was erasing one thought and starting over with another. “What I mean is, are you going to remember all this?” She looked around the Laundromat. “How’s it going to settle in your mind?”

  Her eyes were going all glassy, but I couldn’t figure out why. “What are you talking about?”

  She turned her glassy eyes on me. “Are you going to look back and hate me?”

  “Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

  She shook her head. “I’m trying, Lincoln. Really, I’m trying.”

  “I know that!”

  She looked down at her hands. And after a long, quiet spell she said, “My life started going bad at eleven. It was almost surely goin’ bad before then, but I remember eleven being when I really started feelin’ it. Eleven’s when I started to see things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like about my ma and the way she…the way she wasn’t there for us.” She shook her head. “And Lord, did I resent Ellie for steppin’ in.”

  “I thought your ma was dead.”

  “She is. But she was gone long before she died.”

  Ma always steered clear of the subject of her ma, but now she was diving right in.

  In public.

  Comin’ clean in a Laundromat.

  “Why you thinkin’ about all this?” I whispered. “Did something happen?”

  “It’s just everything.” She wiped her eyes, and after another quiet spell she said, “I guess sometimes it’s the parents doing the abandoning, and sometimes it’s the kids.”

  I chewed on that a minute, but it didn’t explain a thing. “What kids?”

  Ma was digging through her bag. “I need to call Ellie,” she said, standing up with a fistful of coins.

  Which made no kind of sense to me, either.

  She started to hurry off but stopped long enough to shoot me a pair of arrow-eyes. “Don’t you ever leave me alone in a place with seventeen cats, you hear me, Lincoln Jones? Don’t you dare.”

  Then she swept out the door.

  —

  A sly-eyed drifter came up to me while Ma was off phoning Aunt Ellie. “Spare some change?” he asked. He looked like he’d been shovelin’ dirt for about twenty years, so using money for a wash and dry would have been putting it to good use. But I could tell from his eyes that’s not where it’d be going. They were watery. And red. And when he blinked, it seemed slow and painful. Like his eyelids were lined with bits of sharp glass.

  “Can you?” I asked back. “ ’Cause I got nothin’.”

  I worked at making myself look bigger than eleven. Like, maybe, thirteen. And he did back off, but then he stood skulking around, checking me over with his painful eyes.

  I tried to ignore him and get back to my story, but I couldn’t concentrate with him there. He was scary. Not in a big-bear way. More in a sneaky-snake way. Like any minute he might pull out a knife and strike.

  “Git!” I finally told him. “I got nothin’!” It just sort of popped out and made me feel like I’d bit my own tail. To my surprise, though, he took one last painful look around, then left.

  I played what had happened over and over in my mind, and it kept getting better. Soon I had teeth that were flashing like diamonds when I said, “Git!” and there were actual energy beams shooting from my eyes to his. Beams that could lift him off the ground!

  By the time Ma came back, I had been made Supreme Leader of Laundrovania and was using my magic energy-eyes to excavate secret tunnels behind dryer portals—escape routes that the frightened citizens of Laundrovania could use if the Drifter returned with an army of derelicts.

  “Sorry that took so long,” Ma said, getting busy folding clothes.

  I hadn’t noticed the dryer’d stopped tumbling, but Ma didn’t scold me for slacking. She just set about folding like a machine, getting my T-shirts stacked while I got busy pairing up socks, wondering why she’d run off to call her sister. Her eyes looked a little puffy, but she was acting…solid. Like there might have been a leak, but now things were dammed up tight.

  “You talk to her?” I asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. She smoothed out a T-shirt. Snapped out another. Folded it, too, then smoothed it flat.

  “So?” I finally asked.

  “So…we’re in a good place. Better’n we’ve been in years.” She snapped out another shirt. “Maybe ever.”

  “So…she invite us for Thanksgiving?”

  Ma laughed. “No, but that’s a good thing.” She slid a look my way. “Besides, I’m working, remember?”

  I stared at her, then got back to sorting socks.

  It was a whole lot simpler than sorting out Ma.

  Early the next morning, Ma left for her half day of work like she does every Sunday. And I would have rolled over and gone back to sleep like I do every Sunday, only then I remembered.

  There were Lucky Charms in the kitchen!

  It was a mighty miracle that I’d talked Ma into buying them, but they’d been in the specials aisle with a big cutout leprechaun’s talkie bubble saying, “Magically Delicious!” and a sign boasting $2.50 for the giant size.

  “Please, Ma?” I begged, and after a pause that included a sigh, a frown, and one stretched eyebrow, she said, “Just this once,” and put a box in the cart.

  She wouldn’t let me touch them when we got home, though. “A treat for Sunday,” she’d said.

  But now it was Sunday!

  It was dark out, with everyone but Ma still snoozing off Saturday, but that didn’t change the day. It was Sunday! And there was a giant box of magic deliciousness and a whole gallon of milk right over there! How could anyone sleep through that?

  I ate the first bowl, feeling nothing but happy. The second bowl, I slowed down a little, giving the marshmallow stars and moons a little time to soften while I thought about
my story. I’d already written six pages, but I still wasn’t sure if the Ninja Cat Woman was good or evil.

  It was weird not knowing. And after a while it crossed my mind that maybe she was both. Or somewhere in between. But thinking that made me feel like I was wearing a scratchy shirt that needed switchin’ out of. And quick!

  So I poured myself another bowl of Charms, got my notebook, and got back to the Ninja Cat Woman, hoping she would show her true colors if I kept going. But after writing two more pages, I was feeling itchier than ever, and my stomach was killing me. I’d gobbled up half the Milky Way, and now a whole constellation of moons and stars was expanding at light speed inside of me. I was dying to get up and do something.

  Ma has only one rule for me on Sundays, and every Sunday she repeats it: “Don’t you leave the apartment, Lincoln Jones.” She’ll usually tack on something cheerful, like, “There’s folks out there who’d kill you for your empty pockets.” And when I ask her, “Who’d do that?” she’ll say, “Lord, child, think! Folks who don’t know your pockets are empty! And that’s about everybody out there!”

  One time it was, “Don’t you leave this apartment, Lincoln Jones. I don’t want to have to peel your splattered body off the street.” So I told her, “I know how to cross a street, Ma!” and she hit me back with, “But not everybody behind a wheel knows how to drive!”

  So that’s how she makes sure I don’t get antsy to go anywhere. And usually, staying inside is not a problem. Usually, I sleep in and laze around and then read something or write a story. Usually, I love Sunday mornings and being alone and safe in my own place with new groceries.

  It’s my favorite part of the week.

  This Sunday, though, was different. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and I was sick of everything. I didn’t want to read, the Ninja Cat Woman story was going nowhere, and I sure didn’t want to eat.

  And then a little voice started pointing out that Ma hadn’t done her usual don’t-leave-the-apartment scolding on her way out the door. Maybe she’d still been caught up in thinking about her sister and just forgot. Or maybe she’d figured the rule had already sunk deep enough inside my skull. Or maybe she couldn’t think of any new terrible thing that might happen to me if I left the apartment.

  The little voice got a little bigger, reminding me how Ma had left me alone at the Laundromat and nothing bad had happened. Ma was probably starting to see that she didn’t need to fret so much. That I was fine on my own. Responsible.

  ’Course, if I actually went off and got splatted on the street, my poor mangled body would get whupped to Sunday.

  Next Sunday, which, believe me, would be a whole lot of whuppin’.

  My brain was doing double shifts, though, and what it worked out was that next door was the place to go. I could offer to lend a hand to an old lady…who had cats! And since I wouldn’t be leaving the apartment building…how could Ma be mad?

  So I got up and walked out of the apartment without looking back.

  Or locking the door.

  Or checking to see if there were chunks of Charms stuck in my teeth.

  When my knuckles hit on Mrs. Graves’s door, my heart also started knocking.

  And it got to knocking hard.

  It was stupider’n spit, I know, ’cause I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And I wasn’t going to get hurt. Mrs. Graves was an old lady. And right next door! What could happen?

  But in my brain Mrs. Graves had suddenly transformed into the Ninja Cat Woman. She had secret moves. Stealthy moves. Moves that could kill you.

  The door didn’t open with the first knock, but that didn’t surprise me after the way she’d taken forever to answer it the morning before.

  Maybe she was switching out of her ninja costume.

  So I knocked again, louder, and my heart knocked louder, too. “Mrs. Graves!” I called. “I’m here to help!”

  I stood there staring at the door, waiting for something to happen, and when nothing did, I put my ear up to the flaky paint.

  Right away I heard a sound.

  It was like sandpaper on wood.

  Scratching.

  I stooped down low and called, “Hey, kitty, kitty!” through the door, then put my ear against it again.

  I heard more scratching, but now there was a voice, too. It sounded a long ways off and I could make out only one word.

  Help.

  “Yes, I’m here to help!” I shouted, stretching out the words like old folks need you to do. “But you have to open up.”

  I put my ear back on the door.

  “Meowwwww, meowwwww,” scratch, scratch, scratch, “Help!”

  “Ma’am?” I called. It just slipped out. Like I didn’t know what else to say because I didn’t quite believe what I was hearing.

  “Help!” she called back.

  It was a jittery sound. Weak and wailing.

  Like a trapped little lamb.

  “Do you need help?” I called back, still not sure what to do.

  I listened again, and the cats were going crazy meowing and scratching, but through all that I heard, “Help!”

  The doorknob wobbled in my hand like it might fall apart, but it didn’t turn. So I rattled it and twisted harder, but it still didn’t give.

  “I’m coming!” I hollered, then stepped back as far as I could and charged the door, ramming it with my shoulder.

  All that did was put a mighty dent in my arm and make my shirt flaky with paint. “Ow!” I yelped, my arm already throbbing.

  Now I was mad at the door for hurting me, so I stepped back and kicked it, bam, right next to the knob, just like they do in the movies.

  Swoosh, the door swung open!

  Reeeeeeeeerrr, the cats went flying!

  And before the cats could even think about escaping, I was inside, closing the door. “Mrs. Graves?” I called, not seeing her anywhere.

  “Here!” she cried. “The door’s stuck!”

  It was the bathroom door, and I only had to lean into it a little before it squeaked open.

  “That does it,” she said, marching out in nothing but a shirt and saggy undies, acting like she was ready for battle. “That door is coming off!”

  “Ma’am?” I asked, looking away from her and her saggy undies.

  “I was trapped in there all night!” she snarled. “That door needs fixing, and since that’s never going to happen, I’m taking it off!”

  “Ma’am?” I asked again, ’cause now I was testing the door, and it seemed just fine. Maybe a little sticky, but nothing a mouse couldn’t nudge open.

  “Don’t you tell me it’s fine,” she said, rattling through a drawer. “Maybe it’s fine for you, but you don’t live here!” She held up a screwdriver. “Ha!” she cried, then went back to searching the drawer. “Why do I need a door, hmm? There’s nobody here but me!”

  She turned to me, gripping a hammer in one hand and the screwdriver in the other. And with her feet planted apart like they were, she looked like an action figure. Well, an old-lady action figure. In saggy undies. But she did have light-up eyes—kaleidoscope eyes, with beams of power shooting straight at me!

  Then her mouth started moving. “Lincoln,” she said. “Take. Down. That. Door.”

  Her words hit me like a stun gun. First off, she remembered my name. How could that be? She had to be at least ninety! Next off, she was commanding me around like an admiral squadron leader. And last off, she was doing all of that in saggy undies like it was an everyday thing that didn’t matter a hoot.

  The combination had me dumbstruck.

  Well, except for one word that managed to sneak out. “Ma’am?”

  “Here,” she said, shoving the tools at me. “Take down the door.”

  I’d never taken down a door before. But since there were screws going into the frame at the hinges, I figured undoing them was a good place to start.

  “Stop!” the Admiral in Undies commanded when I started twisting a screw. “Just pop up the pins!”

  I looked
at her, back to thinking she was crazy. A door didn’t have pins!

  “Here,” she said, then led me inside the bathroom, where she flicked a bony finger at a little groove that ran around one of the hinges. “Just tap that up and pull the pin out. Do all three and the door will come right off.”

  I stared at the hinge in wonder. I had opened and closed doors my whole life, just lettin’ them swing back and forth for me. I’d never even considered how they swung, but now the hidden secrets of hinges had been revealed.

  By an old lady in saggy undies.

  “Go on,” she said. “Put the end of the screwdriver right there and smack it upward. Once it starts, it’ll go easy.”

  I did what she told me, and sure enough, a thing like a big brass nail came up, up, up, until it popped right out and clanked onto the floor.

  “Do the other two,” the Admiral commanded, “while I get dressed. I’m cold as ice!”

  I did what she said, and when the third pin clanked to the ground, I jumped back, expecting the whole door to fall right off. It didn’t, though. It just stayed put.

  The Admiral was already back, wearing faded orange pants that looked like they were as old as she was. “That’s it,” she said, spying the pins on the ground. “Now pull the door straight off and set it out here against the wall.”

  So I gave the door a bear hug and yanked, and the hinges came apart like separating gears, half still screwed to the frame, and half still screwed to the door.

  I put the door down, feeling like I’d just figured out another magic trick. “Wow.”

  The Admiral was frowning at the bathroom, muttering, “It could have been worse, I suppose. At least I had water and a toilet.” She turned to me and showed me her yellow teeth. “And a competent new neighbor.”

  The Mirror Cats were nosing up to me. I didn’t want to scare them off, so I let myself down to the floor real slow, ’til I was sitting cross-legged.

  “That’s Cleo, and that’s Patrick,” the Admiral said.

  “What about that one?” I asked, pointing under a chair where One Eye was watching us.