The Right and the Real

by Joëlle Anthony

  “He wasn’t involved. I’ll swear to it. I heard him pacing in his room the whole time.”

  The policeman closest to me looked like one of those stick-figure drawings. His hat sat too big on top of a thin face, and the utility belt around his waist weighed him down. He grinned as he ran his eyes up and down my body.

  “Well, aren’t you a nicer sort than we usually get around here,” he said.

  Panic flushed out the adrenaline when I realized I’d given myself away. What if they took me in for being underage? The officer’s leer sent shivers through me.

  “He didn’t do anything.” I gulped back tears.

  “All right, don’t snivel,” Stick Figure grumbled, looking away. “We’re not taking your pal anywhere. We were just talking.”

  The other officer stood back by the stairwell, a bored expression on his squashed Muppet-like face. “Okay. Enough already, Jenkins,” he said to Stick Figure. “Let’s go. We’re missing the basketball game.”

  Jenkins shook his head sadly. “It’s not like the Blazers can even find the hoop,” he said. As they disappeared into the stairwell, their laughter floated back up to us.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” LaVon said. “They were just messin’ with me.”

  “Oh.”

  “But thanks, anyway.”

  “No problem,” I said, my voice still shaky. “How come you’re not at work?”

  “Road game. They’re listenin’ on the radio,” he explained. “You hungry?”

  I actually was. I’d gotten two bean burritos for ninety-nine cents at the corner store for dinner, but they were a distant memory. “Ummm…I guess.”

  “Come on in,” LaVon said.

  Obviously I wasn’t as good of an actress as I hoped because he read me like a dog-eared paperback. “Leave the door open if you’re so chicken,” he said.

  Against my better judgment, I closed it behind me.

  LaVon’s cell was exactly like mine—tiny, with a single bed and a thin mattress. At the foot of the bed, a giant mountain bike hung from a hook he must’ve screwed into the ceiling himself. In the corner he’d set up a folding table, and on it was something that looked like a single burner of a stove. There was a pot bubbling away on top, and as I stepped closer, I got a whiff of garlic and spices.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Vegetable curry.”

  “I mean, that little stove thing.”

  He smiled. “Ain’t you ever seen a hot plate before?”

  “I guess not.”

  LaVon also had a toaster oven, a George Foreman grill, and a silver bowl thing that was plugged into the wall with a little wisp of steam escaping from it. He took the lid off, and inside was white rice, which he scooped into two chipped bowls. He topped them with the yellow curry, and then I watched in amazement as he chopped bright green onions on a tiny cutting board and sprinkled them over the food, followed by a handful of crushed peanuts.

  “Wow,” I said. I took the beautiful food from him. “It looks like it’s from a restaurant.”

  “You eat with your eyes first,” he said, waving at a folding chair. “Go on, before it gets cold.”

  LaVon sat on the bed and began to shovel in his food. I scooped up a forkful and blew on the hot rice. My stomach rumbled as I took my first mouthful. The spicy curry burned my tongue, but was immediately soothed by the sweetness of coconut milk and the bite of fresh green onions.

  “This is fantastic. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  “Inside,” he said.

  I’d watched enough TV to know what he meant, but I asked anyway. “You mean…jail?”

  He looked directly at me, challenging me. “Yep. You got a problem with that?”

  chapter 15

  I CONCENTRATED ON MY FOOD TO KEEP MY MIND from wandering to what possible activity had landed LaVon in jail. The vegetable curry tasted so good, I could hardly get it into my mouth fast enough. I couldn’t believe my luck. For the last two weeks I’d eaten bargain food, but this was the second night in a row I’d gotten a really yummy meal.

  “Have some more,” LaVon said when I’d scooped up the last bite. He took my dish and ladled curry over rice. I guess he could tell I’d been about to lick the empty bowl.

  “Thanks,” I said between mouthfuls. “I didn’t know they ate so good in jail.”

  He laughed. “What? You think they taught me this in the kitchen?”

  “Ummm…” The blood rushed to my face. “Well…you said…I mean, I thought—”

  “The TV room, man,” LaVon said. “You know, Emeril Lagasse…BAM! And my main man, Vegetarian Vic. They taught me everything I know.”

  “Oh…the Food Network?”

  “Exactly.” He faced me from his seat on the sagging cot. “What’s your story?”

  I chewed, debating. Sure, LaVon could turn me in to the cops, but somehow I didn’t think he played by society’s rules.

  “Kicked out,” I said.

  “Drugs?” he asked.

  I choked on my rice. “No. Do I look like a druggie?”

  “Can’t never tell.” It seemed like he was eyeing me, but he had on those sunglasses again, so I wasn’t sure. “Especially skinny girls like you,” he said. “Speed, coke—”

  “I do not do drugs.”

  I was not my mother.

  “And I’m not skinny,” I said. “I’m a dancer. I’m fit. There’s a difference.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, chill.”

  I ate a couple more bites before speaking again. “My dad joined this church, and I didn’t want to, so he kicked me out. I’m going to help him get away, though.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I’m not sure exactly, because he won’t talk to me. But I’ve been sending him a lot of letters and printouts from the Internet about cults and stuff.”

  “How’s that working for you?” I could tell he didn’t think much of my attempts.

  I shrugged.

  “And your mom?”

  I got the feeling LaVon would understand Mom’s drug habit, and I considered telling him the truth, but I’d just met him, so instead I said, “My mother’s out of the picture.”

  He nodded.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Go for it.”

  “Why do you wear sunglasses inside?”

  “Don’t want to ruin your appetite.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged and slipped off the shades. A jagged, pinkish-white scar ran under his right eyebrow and down across his eyelid. It looked all bumpy and gross, like a chewed up earthworm, but also like it was an old injury.

  I couldn’t help it, I gasped. “How did it happen?”

  He put the glasses back on. “You don’t wanna know.”

  I decided he was probably right. He took our empty bowls and washed them in the tiny bathroom sink, and when he was done, he lifted the tablecloth and revealed a small fridge like the one in the corner of my room. He took out two candy bars and tossed one to me.

  “My downfall,” he said.

  “It’s good for you,” I joked.

  He shook his head. “Bad for me. Bad for mankind.”

  “How is chocolate bad for mankind?” I asked.

  “Slave labor,” he explained.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Man, I’m tellin’ you,” he said, his voice getting louder as he got revved up, “it’s pathetic. The farmers who grow the cocoa beans don’t get nothin’. It’s like not gettin’ paid at all. They can’t even afford to live in poverty like you and me,” he said. “You gotta buy organic, fair-trade chocolate if you wanna sleep good at night, but I can’t afford that shit.”

  How did he know this and I didn’t? I ripped open the candy bar, but I felt kind of bad doing it. “I had no idea.”

  “No one does, man,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “No one does.”

  We sat there eating in silence. I didn’t know about LaVon’s
chocolate, but even with the guilt factor, mine tasted delish after the spicy curry.

  LaVon probably wanted me to tell him more, but the truth was, I couldn’t. It was past midnight, and after that morning’s shopping with Krista and Liz, and the fiasco at my dad’s, plus the scrumptious food, I thought if I didn’t get back to my room right away, I’d fall asleep in his chair.

  “I better go,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “I’ll give ya some leftover curry, if you want,” he said. “You can heat it up downstairs in Stub’s microwave for a buck. You got a fridge, right?”

  “Yeah, but it smells super bad. I am soooo not using it.”

  “What? Like old food?”

  “I don’t even want to know. My whole room stinks. The bathroom’s so ripe I can hardly use it. You’re lucky yours is so nice.”

  “Like hell I am. This place smelled like there was a dead body under the bed when I moved in. Did you clean yours?”

  I stood, stretching. “I wanted to, but I keep forgetting to buy some Lysol and rubber gloves.”

  LaVon took a white bottle, an orange box, and a scrubber pad from under the bed. “That chemical shit’ll kill you anyway. Baking soda and vinegar is all you need to clean a bathroom.”

  “Ummm…okay.” I took them from him. “How exactly do I use them?”

  LaVon burst out laughing, and I blushed.

  “Girl, you don’t know nothin’, do you? Ain’t you ever cleaned a toilet?”

  I shook my head. He reached out and grabbed the stuff back from me. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll come over in the morning.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to clean my bathroom.”

  This time his laughter came all the way from his belly. I was so glad I could amuse him.

  “I ain’t gonna touch your dirt,” he said. “You are. But I’m gonna show you how to do it right.” He opened the door. “Go on, now. I need my beauty rest.”

  He watched me walk down the hall and hesitate outside my room. I had accidentally left it open while we talked with the police earlier.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing…The door was open.…”

  “Scared someone’s hiding under the mattress?” He stepped past me and looked under the cot. “Anyone hiding under there?” In a falsetto, he added, “Only me, an ax murderer.”

  “Very funny.” He started to leave. “Ummm. What about the bathroom?”

  He stuck his head inside. “All clear.” His amusement vanished when he got a whiff of it, though. “Smells like a Dumpster in there.”

  “I know. Thanks. And for dinner too,” I said, letting him pass.

  “No prob.”

  After he was gone, I locked the door and crawled into bed in my clothes.

  The next morning I woke up because someone was rapping lightly on my door. “Maid service,” LaVon called, and his laugh rumbled through the walls.

  I staggered out of bed and undid all the locks. “What time is it?”

  “Time to clean up this shithole.” He grinned.

  With all my boxes, plus the two of us, there was hardly room to turn around in the tiny room, let alone clean it, so we stacked everything out in the hallway and left the door open to keep anyone from messing with my stuff.

  “You got a lot of crap,” LaVon said.

  “Everything I own.”

  “How much of it you actually use?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “So far only the clothes. I don’t have a place for CDs and books anyway.”

  “If you don’t unpack it in six months,” he said, “you never will.”

  “Well, hopefully I’ll have my own apartment and be in New York by then. I’m going to drama school.” At least I hoped I was.

  “What? Like you gonna be a movie star?”

  “Maybe. Or on Broadway.”

  “Hmmm…not a life I’d want,” he said.

  “Why not? Would all the fame get to you?” I asked.

  “I’ve had enough of people pryin’ in my life to last me till eternity,” he said, his voice kind of sad.

  “Oh, well. Not me. Bring it on.”

  He smiled and shook his head at me. I wasn’t sure if I liked that habit much, but what could I do about it? He opened my bathroom door and coughed dramatically.

  “Man, girl. How do you breathe in here? This is nasty.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  LaVon showed me how to wet down the tiny shower stall and then scrub it with baking soda. The white powder turned a dingy gray as he stood over me, watching, making sure I scrubbed hard enough.

  “That is foul,” he said. “I can’t believe you used it like that.”

  “Only when I had to. I usually take a shower at school.”

  He gave me his signature look of disbelief. “You real desperate to shower in the locker room.”

  “No kidding.”

  I guess I’d passed some sort of test last night, like I’d proved I wouldn’t freak out too much over his eye, because today he wasn’t wearing his shades. In the harsh bathroom light I noticed little crow’s-feet around his eyes. LaVon was older than I’d thought, but I still wasn’t sure how old.

  I rinsed off all the gritty baking soda and then he made me do it a second time because he wasn’t satisfied. While I scrubbed, I sang a piece I’d been working on with my voice teacher, Betsy. I hadn’t had any lessons lately because she’d taken a three-month singing gig at a casino in Vegas. I missed working with her, but at least I didn’t have to make up some reason about why I was going to have to quit. If I told her I couldn’t afford the lessons, she’d probably offer them to me for free, and I couldn’t accept that. She needed to make her living.

  “Nice song,” LaVon said. “What is it?”

  “It’s called ‘Poor Wand’ring One.’ From the operetta Pirates of Penzance,” I said.

  “You sing good.”

  “Thanks.”

  The tiles weren’t exactly sparkling when I was done, but you could see they were yellow instead of brown. After that, I scrubbed the sink and then the floor, which was so gross around the toilet I literally gagged and had to run into my room and stick my face out the open window, gulping for air.

  “Don’t forget the toilet bowl,” LaVon said, ignoring my theatrics.

  I went back to the bathroom and looked at the brown-stained toilet. “But I don’t have a brush.”

  “What’s wrong with the scrubber pad?”

  “Ew! I’d have to put my hand in there.”

  “What’re they made of?” he asked. “Gold? It ain’t gonna kill you.”

  “No way,” I said. “I’ll buy a toilet brush at the dollar store.”

  “Your dollar,” he said.

  The vinegar was for cleaning the faucet and the mirror, and LaVon had provided an old T-shirt to use as a rag. Wiping it down almost made it worse, though, because the faux chrome flaked off the faucet. The mirror had those brown age splotches all over it, so it was still hard to see my reflection, but knowing it was all germ-free made me happy.

  LaVon surveyed my work. “Better,” he said.

  After that, we cleaned out the refrigerator and plugged it in. LaVon went and got a small dish from his room and put some baking soda in it and told me to keep it in the fridge.

  “What’s all this crunchy shit in your carpet?” he asked.

  “Glass. I broke the lightbulb in the lamp.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I heard you freakin’ yesterday.”

  “Yeah…well…” I felt myself blush.

  “Go to the front desk,” he said, “and tell Stub you want the vacuum cleaner.”

  “Okay.”

  I lugged the dust-encrusted monstrosity back up the stairs, the long hose winding itself around me like a snake and tripping me more than once. When I finally got to my room, I found LaVon scrubbing the filthy window with crumpled newspaper. The strong smell of vinegar wafted out to meet me.

  “This ain’t coming clean,” he said, “
so I guess you won’t be able to enjoy the stunning view of the parking lot after all.”

  I laughed, then unwound the power cord and plugged it in, but I couldn’t see any way to turn the vacuum on. LaVon tossed the newspaper in the recycle bag he’d started for me and said, “You like watching paint dry too?”

  “What?”

  “That vacuum cleaner ain’t gonna work by magic.”

  “Well…I ummm…”

  Comprehension dawned across his face.

  “No fucking way.” He laughed. “You ain’t never vacuumed before neither?”

  I shrugged. “My dad’s kind of a crappy housekeeper, so my grandpa hired us a maid to come in once a week,” I mumbled.

  “Man, I been meaning to get me one of those,” he said. “You think they take fifty cents an hour? That’s ’bout what I can afford.”

  When I didn’t respond, because, really…I was too embarrassed, he nudged my shoulder and said, “I’m just teasing ya. Don’t be so serious.” He stepped on a round button I hadn’t noticed and started running the vacuum up and down the threadbare carpet. “It ain’t brain surgery,” he said, moving out of the way so I could try it.

  I pushed it across the carpet and for about thirty seconds there was a satisfying clicking sound of glass being sucked into it, but then a thread from where the rug was worn through caught in the vacuum and the motor made a high whining sound. Before I could decide what to do, the room filled with a burnt rubber smell. LaVon pulled the plug out of the wall without bothering to turn it off and gave the string a yank, ripping it loose.

  He surveyed my carpet. “Good enough,” he said.

  I started to take the vacuum downstairs, but he said he wanted to use it and took it to his room. After lugging my boxes back into my room, I sat on the cot breathing in the quickly fading scent of vinegar and burnt rubber. A minute later, LaVon tapped on my door and handed me one of those curly lightbulbs.

  “Don’t bash this into the wall,” he said. “These ones got mercury in them, and I don’t want to have to identify your body.”

  “Thanks. Hey, aren’t these environmental ones really expensive?” I asked.

  “Kinda, but they’ll last a long time.”