A Trick of the Light

by Lois Metzger

  Mike: “You have a change of clothes on, under?” He instantly regrets saying that.

  Valerie (not upset): “I have my leotard and tights on. That way, when I get to the studio, I can rip my clothes off and be ready for class.”

  Mike is practically hyperventilating.

  Valerie: “I can’t be late—in fact I have this recurring nightmare of being late. There’s a performance and I’m not in costume because my hair’s not ready or something, and the music’s starting. The whole ballet is ruined because of me.”

  Mike wishes he had a recurring nightmare he could tell her about.

  Speaking of late, Amber walks into the physics lab right now. She scoots into a seat at a table diagonally in front of Mike. He can smell her cinnamon smell. Melissa Sacks, up front where she always sits, turns around to look at the Rubys and pretends to stick her finger down her throat. Amber makes Melissa want to throw up, apparently. These girls are so shallow. Amber is so much deeper than any of them D;

  Mike goes to Tamio’s house after school. Tamio lives four blocks from Belle Heights High, on Seventy-Fifth Crescent, which means crossing Seventy-Fifth Road, Seventy-Fifth Circle, and Seventy-Fifth Street. It’s another two long blocks before you get to anything with a seventy-six. All the streets in Belle Heights are that way. Places are never exactly where you think they’ll be.

  It’s Tamio’s mother’s birthday and there’s a party in their sunny dining room, where the walls are covered with framed pictures of flowers. There’s pizza, cake. Mike devours several slices of pizza. He sees Tamio’s parents, how different they look (he’s tall with curly brown hair; she’s tiny with short black hair), how easy they are with each other, always a hand on the arm, a whisper, a laugh. Mike wonders about the last time he heard his parents laugh. He feels a terrible ache.

  He remembers the night of the Belle Heights Carnival. It was supposed to be an annual event but it only happened once. Mike was nine. There was a Ferris wheel that got stuck when he and his parents were at the top, but it was only two stories high so it wasn’t scary. As they waited for it to move again, his dad wrapped an arm around Mike, and his mom leaned her head onto her husband’s shoulder. After, they had their pictures taken in one of those booths where you get a strip of four photos. They joked about their brush with death. In the photos, his parents are laughing; Mike is laughing. He wonders where those photos are.

  He remembers, too, a project he had to do for earth science. His parents came up with the idea of riding the bus in Belle Heights with him and charting all the hills and valleys, block by block. They staked out the last row of the bus; they rolled their eyes at people talking loudly on cell phones. Was that really just a year ago? Mike thinks.

  Mike joins in singing “Happy Birthday” to Tamio’s mom. Then he eats a huge slab of cake.

  In Tamio’s room, they do physics homework. Tamio explains the right-hand rule to Mike, who can’t wrap his mind around it: how you curl your right hand and use your thumb and fingers to match the curvature and direction of the motion of a magnetic field (or something).

  Tamio has to explain it more than once.

  Then they watch parts of Harryhausen’s Jason and the Argonauts and Clash of the Titans. They love the flying harpies who torture a blind man by grabbing his food and not allowing him to eat. Mike could’ve used a couple of harpies at this party; his stomach groans in discomfort, while Tamio seems fine. They admire Medusa, who, in this version of mythology, has the body of a snake and the head and torso of a woman, with hair consisting of writhing snakes. Perseus, the hero, loses several of his men to Medusa—one look from her and they turn to stone.

  Tamio: “Some people think Medusa is Harryhausen’s masterpiece.”

  Mike: “I still like the half woman, half snake in Seventh Voyage better.”

  I put up with a lot, keeping an ear on these conversations. Then they play a video game. Mike and Tamio talk about how they don’t like computer-generated imagery because it looks too real, agreeing, agree in that Harryhausen’s stop-motion is more dreamlike and fantastical.

  As they destroy each other in the game:

  Mike: “This new girl… Valerie… she’s amazing.”

  Tamio: “Why don’t you ask her out?”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Tamio: “Don’t be scared! Maybe she likes you, too.”

  Mike: “You think so?”

  Tamio: “She talked to you a lot, right? You told me everything she said about a million times. Just ask her to a movie or something. Worst that could happen? She’ll say no.”

  Mike: “It’s easier for you. They always say yes.”

  I can already see Tamio and Valerie laughing at Mike as she rejects him, but Mike can’t bear to think about it. He just thinks he needs to work up his courage.

  When Mike walks home, he sees a homeless man on Seventy-Seventh Avenue. Mike sees him a lot, leaning his back against the brick wall of a bodega. When it’s cold, the man wears all the clothes he owns, layers and layers. Mike gives him a dollar.

  Homeless Man: “Have a nice day.”

  Mike: “You too.”

  Then Mike hears how awful that must sound—how can a homeless man have a nice day?

  CHAPTER 7

  TO NOT BE HEARD AFTER I’D BROKEN THROUGH TO Mike several times is like being thrown back into the murky depths of a scummy pond. I’m like an unplugged appliance. I observe Mike as if he’s in a movie—there’s Mike, hanging around with Tamio, who keeps telling him not to be so nervous and to ask Valerie out already; there’s Mike, unable to work himself up to ask Valerie out; there’s Mike, eating much too much.

  One morning Valerie shows up at school with a tiny limp. The way Mike reacts, you’d think the universe was collapsing— he practically gushes with concern.

  Mike: “What happened to you? Are you all right?”

  Valerie (with a shrug): “Oh, it’s nothing. I landed badly after a jump.”

  Mike: “You shouldn’t carry such a big backpack.”

  Valerie: “Mike, I’m fine. I’ll be dancing this afternoon.”

  The bell rings, and a few kids bump into them.

  Mike: “Be careful.”

  Mike actually offers Valerie his arm. It’s a ridiculous gesture and Valerie almost laughs. Then she looks at him with those smoky gray eyes. She doesn’t laugh. She takes his arm and they walk like that, just halfway down the hall to homeroom. The hall is crowded, so the other kids can’t see. It’s their pathetic little secret.

  Then, unexpectedly, one afternoon in the third week of September, things start to go my way again. Mike comes home from school to see his mom standing in the living room, dressed in a light-gray suit and holding her enormous book.

  Mom: “I have a client in Spruce Hills. Do you want to come along?”

  Mike: “Not really.”

  Mom: “It’s only a studio apartment.”

  Mike: “I don’t want to clean out someone’s apartment.”

  Mom: “It’s only a closet. One closet.”

  Mike remembers those closets. He used to go with his mom in seventh and eighth grade, before he started working at the baseball camp. One woman slept on a bed piled high with mail and magazines; she squeezed into a narrow space between the papers and the wall. Another kept bank statements in her oven.

  Mike: “I have homework.”

  Mom: “Can’t you do it after? Mike? Please.”

  Mike is weakening. She hasn’t worked in a couple of weeks. He thinks maybe this will help her get back on track. He notices that her skirt and jacket are covered in black cat hair, and he brings her a lint brush so she can take it all off. There’s really no reason for Mike to go, but then, I’m not part of this decision.

  Mike: “Fine.”

  They take the Q22 bus to Spruce Hills. Mike wonders where Valerie Braylock was born. Was that her house, the one with the big leafy tree out front, full of shrieking birds? Was that where she had her accident, the one that gave her that tiny scar below her left
cheek?

  Mom: “Look at that. Do you see my hair sticking up?”

  Mike: “What?”

  Mom: “In the reflection.”

  Mike’s mom isn’t looking out the window. She’s looking at herself in the window.

  Mom: “I just had it cut last month. It’s supposed to be in layers. It’s not supposed to be sticking up.”

  Mike: “Your hair’s fine.”

  Mom: “Remember Grandma Celia?”

  Mike: “Of course I remember her. She died like a year ago.”

  Mom: “Closer to two. She was so critical. ‘Why don’t you sit up straight?’ ‘Why do you bite your nails?’ ‘Why do you have circles under your eyes?’ If I said anything in my own defense, she said, ‘You’re full of excuses!’ I can hear her just now—‘Why is your hair such a mess?’ Her voice was so big, bigger than she was. I can still hear it.”

  Mike (suddenly interested): “You hear a voice in your head?”

  Mom: “Grandma Celia was so quick to anger. Not like you, Mike.”

  Mike wonders why he isn’t quick to anger, and is that a good thing?

  Mom: “Grandma Celia never understood a word you said. But you never got mad—you just repeated yourself until she did. I hated her for it. I thought she was torturing you.”

  Mike: “It’s okay.”

  Mom: “Oh, God.” She sighs. “Is your father as tired of me as I am of myself?”

  Mike: “What?”

  Mom: “A month ago I was at a museum with your father. He didn’t want to go—said he was too busy—but he went. At one point I thought he was right beside me and I started talking to him. But it was a pole. I was standing next to a pole and I thought it was my husband. Then, when I started talking to him for real, it was like I was still talking to the pole.”

  She gazes at her reflection for the rest of the ride. Mike stares at her reflection, too, and has no idea what to say.

  The client lives right near the new shopping center, in a tall red-brick apartment building with tiny square windows that casts a shadow over the street. As soon as Mike and his mom get off the elevator, a short woman with spiky black hair greets them.

  Woman: “Hi, Mrs. Welles! I didn’t want you to get lost! I’m in six-G and some people knock on six-C—the letters look so similar. I’m Megan, but please call me Meg!”

  Mom: “I’m Regina, but please call me Gina.”

  Meg (glancing at Mike): “Is he with you?”

  Mom: “This is my son, Mike. He wanted to come.”

  It bothers Mike that his mom lies so easily about why he’s there. And Mike can’t lie at all.

  Mom: “No extra charge for an assistant.”

  Meg: “Great! Well, come on in—don’t be shocked—here’s the closet.”

  The closet is so stuffed, the door can’t close—it’s just pushed to the side. Cartons, papers, and clothes on hooks spill out the door. Mike notices the rest of her place looks fine.

  Meg: “Gina, are you shocked?”

  Mom: “Nothing shocks me.”

  Meg lets out a breath like she’s been holding it in all this time.

  Meg: “Great! That closet… it always gives me a drowning feeling. It’s ruining my life. I can’t have people over. I’m too embarrassed.”

  Mom: “What’s in the cartons?”

  Meg: “The cartons?” She sounds like she has no idea who put them there.

  Mom: “Let’s have a look.” She sticks her hand "jutoninside a carton and pulls out a flyer. “Sale at DSW. Twenty percent off.”

  Meg: “Might come in handy!”

  Mom: “First rule: nothing will ever come in handy. As for this, it expired six months ago.” She reaches in again and pulls out a trophy.

  Meg: “That belongs to my aunt. She won it playing poker in Atlantic City. She had a full house, ha-ha.”

  Mom: “You mustn’t get overly attached to objects. You’ll get rid of it, of course.”

  Meg (uncertainly): “Of course.”

  Mom: “First rule: there’s no room in your place for someone else’s possessions.”

  Meg: “But… that’s the second ‘first rule.’”

  Mom: “Yes, I know. Each rule is so important, it’s the first. Before returning the trophy to your aunt, you may take a picture of it and keep the picture in an album.” She reaches into a pile and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Let’s see… you’ve got a shopping list here, and a little key, taped to the bottom.”

  Meg: “That’s my safe-deposit key! I was looking all over for it! What a blessing you’re here.”

  Mom: “For heaven’s sake, don’t keep the important stuff with the unimportant stuff. Safe-deposit keys shouldn’t be taped to shopping lists. Now, have you worn these pants in the past three years?”

  Meg: “I’m not sure.”

  Mom: “First rule: when in doubt, throw it out.”

  Meg: “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mike’s mom goes through a few more items, first quickly, then slower, then pausing on a loosely knitted scarf. She pokes at it and her fingers go right through. It unravels a bit. Mike stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He doesn’t know why his mom insisted he come along.

  Mom (almost to herself): “You must master the chaos so the chaos doesn’t master you.”

  Meg (smiling): “Is that another first rule?”

  Mom: “What?”

  Meg (still smiling): “Mastering the chaos so the chaos doesn’t master you?”

  Mom (staring blankly at Mike): “What’s she talking about?”

  Mike: “It’s a joke, Mom.”

  Mom: “What is?”

  Mike (fear rising in his chest): “What she just said. C’mon, let’s do the closet.”

  Mom: “I can’t. I can’t.” She puts the scarf down.

  Meg: “What—why? Did I do something wrong?”

  Mike: “No, you didn’t. Mom, tell her.”

  Mom: “I can’t tell her anything.”

  Meg (on the verge of tears): “What did I do?”

  Mike’s mom leaves. She’s in the hall.

  Mike (to Meg): “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. He grabs his mom’s book and runs out to the elevator just as the door closes. Was she going to leave her book there—not to mention Mike?

  Mike: “What’s going on?”

  Mom: [nothing]

  Mike: “You know, that lady’s really upset.”

  Mom: “I can’t help her. I can’t do anything. Your father …”

  Mike: “What about him?”

  Mom (biting off her words): “He’s very busy, always busy.”

  Mike: “Well, it’s tax time, right?”

  Mom: “This is September. Tax time is April. Anyway, he’s a tax lawyer, not an accountant.”

  Mike: “Oh.”

  Mom: “You can be really out of it, you know that?”

  Mike is stunned. Look who’s talking!

  Naturally there’s a long wait for the bus. Once they get home, his mom goes straight to bed. Mike eats dinner by himself. He microwaves two Hot Pockets and grabs a pint of ice cream from the freezer. This is an unhealthy meal, even for Mike. Where are the harpies?

  Mike is convinced his mom is about to have a nervous breakdown, if she isn’t having one already. Where’s his dad? Hardly ever home. Mike’s on his own. What will he have to do, put his mom in a hospital? He thinks about Valerie. He loves her; if she fell in love with him, too, this could be bearable. They could go through it together.

  It’s an absurd plan with no grounding in reality. But he won’t listen to me.

  Mike can’t sleep. He turns his body this way and that; he feels like it’s taking up too much space on the bed (no mystery why, after Hot Pockets and ice cream). Mighty Joe Young keeps him company for a while before running off. At some point in the night Mike hears his dad come home, the creak of the floor downstairs, then the creak of his parents’ bedroom door. Mike thinks now he’ll be able to get some sleep.

  CHAPTER 8
>
  THE NEXT MORNING MIKE IS UTTERLY EXHAUSTED. His head’s a blurry mess and he can barely see straight. For breakfast he scarfed down way too many Pop-Tarts, and his stomach is in knots. He sees Valerie in homeroom. Now or never, he tells himself, and goes right up to her. He inhales her flowery scent, which only makes him dizzy.

  Mike: “So how’d you get that scar?”

  Valerie: “My—what?”

  Mike: “On your face.” He hadn’t planned on saying this, but words seem to be beyond his control.

  Valerie (laughs): “I didn’t know it was that noticeable. I was eight years old, riding the handlebars on my sister’s bicycle. She turned a corner, fast, and—”

  Mike: “So you want to do something after school today?”

  Valerie (slight smile): “I’ve got dance.”

  Mike: “Can I go with you?”

  Valerie (no longer smiling): “No, Mike. It’s a school.”

  Mike: “I don’t mean I’d dance. I just want to watch you.” He wonders if this sounds creepy. He decides he doesn’t care.

  Valerie: “You can’t do that. It’s a school.”

  Mike: “Yeah, you said that. So you want to go out sometime, see a movie?”

  Valerie: “Well, that’s sweet of you to ask, but no. I know that’s the kind of thing kids our age do, but not me.”

  Mike: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Valerie (taking a step back): “I’m very committed to dance. I don’t have a lot of free time.”

  Mike: “You expect me to believe that?”

  Valerie: “What?”

  Mike: “Do I need to say it again?”

  Valerie: “No, I heard you. I just couldn’t… this doesn’t sound like you.”

  Considering that she barely knows Mike, this is a strange observation. Mike looks down. He’s surprised to see how big and bloated he’s become, like he’s having an allergic reaction to himself. He should have been looking in the mirror all this time.

  Mike: “You think I’m too fat, is that it? If I was some good-looking guy, suddenly you’d have time for me, right?”

  He has a point, and Valerie knows it.