The Bottle Imp of Bright House

by Tom Llewellyn

  The Ferrari 430 was the car in the poster closest to the head of my bed. Painted in Ferrari red, of course. Its body was so smooth and flowing it looked as much like a sea creature as it did a car. I would have given my right arm just to see one. I would have given both arms to own one.

  Turned out, I’d get to keep my arms. I’d only have to give my soul.

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING with the bright light from half a window shining on my face. I’d need to get a curtain for that if I planned on ever sleeping in. I wondered if you could buy curtains for half a window.

  I walked into the living room and stepped into a puddle of water. I yelled for Mom and Dad. Dad stumbled out, stepped in the same puddle, then looked at the ceiling above, where a steady drip of water was falling.

  Dad called Mrs. Appleyard. Half an hour later, she stood in our living room, staring up at the ceiling with another glass of red, fizzy liquid in her hand.

  “A leaky pipe upstairs. I can fix it,” said Mrs. Appleyard, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her bathrobe. “But Alley Handro is pretty backed up on repairs right now. Prob’ly be a couple of weeks before he can get to it.”

  “A couple of weeks?” said Dad. “We’re just supposed to live like this for a couple of weeks?”

  “I can fix it sooner. Always can fix it sooner, Johann. Two-hundred-dollar rush fee and you’ll go straight to the top of the list.”

  “Why would I pay two hundred dollars? It’s not even my apartment that’s leaking.”

  “Not saying you should pay it. It’s your choice.”

  Dad tapped his foot, splashing water. “The only reason we’re living here is because we can’t afford some place better. If you keep on charging us two hundred dollars every five minutes, then we’re not saving any money.”

  “I ain’t charging you, Johann,” said Mrs. Appleyard. “I’m giving you options.”

  Dad wrote her a check and told me not to mention it to Mom.

  “Top of the list,” said Mrs. Appleyard, as she tucked the check inside the front of her robe. “Alley Handro’ll be here in a jiff. You know, Mr. Appleyard would have liked this—it’s like a little ocean right in the middle of your living space. Mr. Appleyard probably would have dropped a fishing line into it to see if he could catch anything. That man loved to fish. He once caught the world’s second-biggest German brown trout in a kiddie pool at the county park. Only thing he loved more than fishing was arguing about politics. Fishing and politics. I never had interest in either one. They both make your breath stink.” She talked about Mr. Appleyard until Dad herded her into the hallway and shut the door.

  “Nice place, Dad.” I said. “Real nice. I’m so happy I live here.”

  Dad glared at me. Mom came out of the bedroom, dressed for work.

  “It’s Sunday,” said Dad. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Going to clean some pools,” said Mom.

  “On Sunday?”

  “Took on three new customers this week.”

  “You’re working too much,” said Dad.

  “Bills,” said Mom. “Someone’s got to pay them.” She kissed Dad and left.

  Mom and Dad had a decent relationship. By that I mean that they did a pretty good job of putting up with each other. Kind of like the way I put up with my friend Henry. Mom always said, “If you can’t figure out how to put up with other people’s shortcomings, then you’re gonna live a lonely life.”

  Dad sopped up the water with a couple of pool towels, then put a bucket under the drip. When Meg got up and saw the half-filled bucket, she rushed back to her room and returned with a Barbie and a handful of tiny little bikinis. Georgina came with her own Barbie. Georgina had cut its hair short and was now coloring its naked body black with a Sharpie. I asked her what she was doing. “Putting on her wet suit. She’s going diving.”

  I nodded out of respect for my sister’s ingenuity. “Can you believe what a dump this place is?”

  “I like it,” said Meg. “And it’s close to our old house, so none of us had to change schools.”

  “Sure,” I said, “but it’s so…dumpy.”

  “Shhh,” said Georgina. “We’re playing.”

  “Yeah,” said Meg. “Why don’t you go hang out in your hallway?”

  I told Dad I was going for a walk. I grabbed a banana and a piece of toast off the kitchen table and headed out the door of our apartment. A man walked up the stairs toward me. He was brown-skinned, tall, and fleshy. His curly gray hair was piled on top of his head. He wore a striped vest, a floppy bow tie, and a silk bathrobe. A big, shiny mustache covered his top lip. He reminded me of a British detective from the old-fashioned movies Dad liked to watch.

  A tube-shaped case about three feet long hung from a strap over the man’s shoulder. I assumed it was a telescope and that the man was the astronomer from upstairs. He placed a pair of glasses on his nose. “You’re the new neighbor. I felt I would meet you here, just now. And your name—it’s a precious name, like gold. Or silver. Ahh! Yes. Silver. And your first name is—no, I’m not that good. But I reckon I got the last name correct.”

  “How’d you do that?” I said. “My name is Silver. Gabe Silver.”

  “One out of two. Not so bad. I am Doctor Mandrake. I live upstairs from you. One flight closer to the heavens.” He spoke with a distinct English accent.

  “You’re an astronomer?”

  “What? No no no. Nothing so pedestrian. I am an astrologer. I study stars not for their size or distance, but for what they say about ourselves. Because, and I quote, ‘The whole of humanity—past, present, and future—is written on the shiny skin of stars.’ ”

  “That’s a cool quote. Who said that?”

  “I did. When were you born?”

  “December thirtieth.”

  “Capricorn. Of course. The mighty goat of the sea. And where?”

  “Right here. I mean, in Tacoma. Saint Joseph Hospital.”

  “And what year?”

  I told him.

  He pulled out a worn booklet and thumbed through it. He stopped at a page and began nodding. “My young Sea Goat, you are within spitting distance of a most particular day. Not today. No no no. My guess is that today will be boring. Today will be for lying on your bed and staring at the ceiling. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, young Sea Goat, will be most particular. A razor’s-edge day. The line of decision will be just that fine. One millimeter—nay, one micron!—to the east, and all is doom. One micron to the west, and all—all is glory.”

  “You make it sound pretty serious.”

  “It will be quite serious. I am certain of it. The question is, will it be good? Let me give you a warning.” He put his mouth right next to my ear. I could hear him breathing. He said, “Don’t lose your soul.”

  DON’T LOSE YOUR SOUL, Doctor Mandrake had said. I hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about souls—mine or anyone else’s.

  Dear Reader, that was about to change.

  I continued downstairs to the entryway. From Jimmy Hyde’s apartment, I could hear what I guessed was Hawaiian music, because every now and then I would hear an aloha and a mahalo in the lyrics. Jimmy Hyde didn’t look like a Hawaiian-music kind of guy.

  I walked out to the sidewalk and stared back at the Bright House. It really was a dump. It didn’t matter if I was grateful, like Dad wanted me to be. I could dress up like a cheerleader and shake pom-poms at the place and it would still look like a dump.

  I walked around the building. On the top floor, I could see Doctor Mandrake bustling about in his apartment with his tube. Below him, Georgina and Meg wrestled against a window, fighting over Georgina’s customized Barbie. I looked through my bedroom window and saw my Ferrari poster on the wall, then turned the corner to the back of the building.

  A girl with short black hair stared down at me from a second-floor window. She wore a black dress and black makeup around her eyes. She saw m
e, then ran her finger across her neck, as if she were threatening to slit my throat. She must have been the girl with the sick mom. Her name was Joanna Sedley, but I didn’t know that yet.

  I kept walking, eager to get out of the girl’s line of sight. I turned around the far side of the building and looked up at a window on the corner. It must have been a different room of the girl’s apartment. A woman stood there with a scarf on her head and a sad look on her face. The sick mom. I stared at her until I walked right into Jimmy Hyde.

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said. Jimmy Hyde had been looking up at the woman, too. Now he gawked at me, his mostly toothless mouth open. He held a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. He quickly jammed both inside his jacket and hurried away without a word.

  I didn’t think much about it then. But months later, Dear Reader, I’d remember that moment.

  I turned the corner to the front of the building. A family that must have been the Brackleys was unloading matching sets of luggage from the back of a new Cadillac Escalade. Seventy-five grand, just for the base model. I bet this one was closer to ninety. I wasn’t a big Cadillac fan, but I had to admit, it was quite a car. Black and shiny and about the size of an aircraft carrier. Why would anyone who could afford a car like that live in a building like this?

  The Brackley dad walked inside before I could get a good look at him. The mom backed out of the hatch of the car, butt first. She wore a checked suit dress and high heels. Her hair was blond. Huge sunglasses covered her eyes. She looked like a movie star. Or maybe more like a former movie star. She pulled a giant suitcase out of the car. It landed on the sidewalk with a thunk. “Lancaster! Come and carry this for Mama….” The woman stood on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, and looked around. “Lanny!”

  A boy I assumed was Lancaster walked out from behind Dad’s old Honda Civic, dressed in khaki pants and a blue suit jacket. He nodded toward Dad’s car. “Take a look at this piece of junk,” he said.

  “Lancaster, where were you?” said the woman.

  “Right here the whole time. I could hear you yelling at me.”

  “I wasn’t yelling at you, sweetie,” said the woman. “I was yelling for you. Lancaster, Lancaster, rah rah rah. For you. Now be a dear and bring Mama’s suitcase upstairs.”

  “I gotta get my own stuff. Just pay Alejandro to do it.”

  “Lanny, don’t argue with Mama. Just take my bag up.”

  “Not a chance. I know what that thing weighs.” Lancaster grabbed a backpack out of the Cadillac and walked into the building.

  The woman shifted her glare in my direction. “What are you looking at?”

  I shrugged. “I think I’m your neighbor. You need some help?”

  “Would you mind?”

  I grabbed her suitcase and began rolling it toward the doors of the Bright House. I had to drag it up to the second story one stair at a time. By the time I reached the second-floor landing I was sweating, but the movie-star woman kept saying, “Look at how strong you are. And such a gentleman.” That kept me going.

  I rolled the suitcase to her door, then pointed across the hall. “We live here. Like I said. Neighbors.”

  “You look about Lancaster’s age. Maybe the two of you can be friends. Heaven knows he could use one.” She slipped into her apartment and closed the door.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning was Monday. I went back outside to wait for Dad to take me to school. His car—the rusty old Honda Civic—was the key proof in my argument that grown-ups hate cars. I couldn’t understand why Dad would choose to drive such a pile of junk. Cars cost money. And we didn’t have any money. I got that. But if we had to drive something old, why couldn’t it be an old sports car? Or an old convertible? Or even an old truck?

  I almost leaned against the car while I waited, but caught myself just in time. If anyone touched the Honda, the paint would flake off, like car dandruff.

  I thought about what Doctor Mandrake had said—that this would be a razor’s-edge day. “Don’t lose your soul,” he’d said.

  Dad and the girls appeared, and off we went in the Honda in a cloud of smoke.

  Most of the morning passed without incident. No razors. No edges.

  Between math and social studies, I got a text from Mom asking me to stop by Dave’s Cheese Shop on the way home and pick up some cheese called mizithra for the spaghetti with browned butter she was planning for dinner. She said she’d already called the shop and would pay later, which was good, since I only had a dollar in my pocket.

  At lunch, I grabbed a tray in the cafeteria and loaded it up with a foil-wrapped burrito, Tater Tots, and a carton of chocolate milk. I took a swig of chocolate milk and was looking around for Henry when the girl from the Bright House grabbed my tray.

  Wait—since when did she go to my school? I looked her over.

  She had short black hair, dark eye makeup, a black dress, and black boots. Even her lipstick was black.

  I was definitely looking into the face of my neighbor.

  “Let go,” I said.

  The girl glared at me.

  “What is your problem?” I said.

  “You are.”

  “Seriously. Let go.”

  “Make me.” She smiled, just a tiny bit. The smile made her scarier. The kids around us started to notice.

  I pulled on my tray again. But she held on just as tightly.

  What was I supposed to do? Have a tug-of-war with this girl? She was no bigger than me, so I figured I could probably win, but it would make a huge scene. And I wanted to eat my lunch, not pick it up off the floor.

  The crowd grew around us until at least thirty kids were watching. The girl pulled harder on the tray.

  “What is your problem?” I said again, almost shouting.

  “What is your problem?” she mimicked.

  “Let go of my tray!”

  “Let go of my tray!”

  “Let go!”

  “I’ll let go if you move out!” She released her grip just as I jerked backwards. I fell to the ground. My lunch flew through the air, Tater Tots hitting me in the face and scattering on the floor. The carton of chocolate milk landed right on my belt buckle. Milk poured all over my pants. The crowd of kids gasped, then laughed.

  “Looks like you wet your pants,” said the girl as she turned to leave. The crowd laughed again, then drifted away.

  Henry ran over and picked up my burrito. “I think you can still eat this, but your Tots are history. What happened?”

  “That happened.” I pointed at the girl in black.

  Henry said, “The goth girl?”

  “She lives in my building.”

  “Ohhh. That’s what she meant.”

  “Huh?”

  “When she yelled ‘Move out!’ at you. Geez, you’ve got her at home and at school. That stinks. I guess she just started here today. I heard she went to Headley Academy before she came here.”

  “I bet they expelled her,” I said.

  “Yeah. She’s mean,” said Henry. “I think she was bullying you.”

  “Shut up, Henry. She was not bullying me.”

  “It’s tricky when a girl bullies you—”

  “She’s not bullying me.”

  “But if she is, what can you do? I mean, you can’t fight her. Can you? Maybe you can. I don’t know. You should probably tell someone. Hey, are you gonna eat this burrito?”

  “We gotta go to class.”

  “Yeah, but can I have your burrito? And did you know it looks like you wet your pants?”

  By the end of the day, kids at school were calling me Chocolate Pants, which is about the stupidest name in the world. I mean, if you’re gonna make fun of a kid, at least use a little imagination.

  “CHEER UP,” said Henry as we walked home from school. “In a few days, everyone will forget about it.”

  “Easy for yo
u to say.”

  “Okay, maybe a few months. Hey, how about we go to the batting cage and hit some balls. Maybe it’ll take your mind off your—you know—your new nickname.”

  “I can’t. I have to go to the stupid cheese shop for my mom.”

  “The what?”

  “The cheese shop.”

  “There’s a shop? For cheese?”

  “Yup. Dave’s Cheese Shop.”

  “And all they sell is cheese?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come?”

  Henry followed me to Dave’s, which was about halfway between school and home.

  “I bet I’ve walked past this place a million times,” said Henry. “How did I never notice it before?” We walked in and Henry sniffed the air. “This is the greatest place I’ve ever seen. Look at all these glorious cheeses. Check this one out. Ticklemore. I wanna try some Ticklemore. There’s a Gorgonzola—I know that one. Oh man, it smells awesome in here. It’s so—so cheesy.”

  I saw Dave behind the counter, dressed in his white apron. I had to look at my phone to remember the name of the cheese Mom wanted, then told Dave I was there for some mizithra.

  “For Mrs. Silver. I got it right here. The last piece in the store.” Dave pulled a wedge of white cheese out from a glass case and began wrapping it in white paper. A bell chimed. The door opened behind me.

  An old man approached the counter in a cloud of smoke.

  “Hey, you can’t smoke that in here,” said Dave.

  The man kept sucking on a cigar. He blew a huge puff of smoke toward the ceiling. He nodded at the wedge of mizithra that Dave was wrapping up. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Mizithra,” said Dave, “but it’s the last of it. You need to take that cigar outside.”