Charlie looked at his aunt and his uncle, then back at the note, trying to make sense of the words.
His mother wouldn’t just leave. She wasn’t that kind of person.
He stood up, finding that his legs were a lot sturdier than he expected them to be, and walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway and to the entryway. He opened the front door, walked down the steps and along the brick path leading to the front gate. Unlatching the gate, he stepped out onto the sidewalk and held his hand up to block the sunlight from his eyes.
The Toyota wasn’t where his mom had left it the day before. He scanned farther down the street one way, then the other.
Nothing.
But…
But…she wouldn’t just leave him. That wasn’t what she would do.
He looked up and down the street again, half-expecting the truck, their truck, to have reappeared, as if it had just been invisible, as if some magic words and hand-waving had all been a way to play a funny joke on him.
He stood still, trying, and failing, to get enough oxygen into his lungs.
“Charlie?” he heard someone say behind him.
He turned to see Randall standing at the front gate, the wavy lines creased into his forehead looking old, like cave paintings, like the Egyptian hieroglyphs they had studied in seventh grade world history.
“You alright there, son?”
“Yeah, I’m just…” His voice caught in his throat, cracking, splitting into something hot and embarrassing. Before he knew it, tears began to pour down his face. Humiliated, angry, confused, he ran past his uncle, through the gate, up the steps and through the front door, ignoring Beverly, who stood stock still in the entryway looking like a statue of a woman in gardening shorts, up the stairs, and into the bedroom where he had slept the night before, slamming the door shut behind him.
He threw himself onto the bed, wishing that they hadn’t seen him cry, wishing that he could hit his mother, wishing that he could hug her. Instead, he clutched the pillow hard to his face to drown out the noise, and wept.
Had it been a few weeks ago, or even a few days ago, he wouldn’t have believed it if someone told him that his mother would just drop him off at a stranger’s house and leave. He would have written that person off as crazy. She was probably the most devoted mother he knew.
But now he just cried into the pillow, knowing without a doubt that what her note said was true: that she had left him, that he was stuck here, that he was, for the first time in his life, completely and utterly alone.
Chapter 15
Charlie walked toward the kitchen, where he could hear his aunt and uncle talking. He felt foolish for running out of the room the way he had; he had stayed in his bedroom for nearly an hour, not knowing how to face them again, not knowing what to say. Finally he just got up, wiped his face, and walked downstairs, figuring that putting it off wasn’t making things any easier.
“Hi,” he said as he walked into the room.
“Charlie, are you okay?” Randall asked, standing up straight and running his fingers along one side of his mustache. Beverly remained seated on one of the tall barstools.
“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry about leaving here so fast, before.”
“Oh buddy, it’s nothing. Sorry to have to give you that news.”
Charlie sat down on one of the stools and looked at his aunt and uncle. They looked older than they had the day before. There were dark circles under their eyes. Beverly wasn’t wearing any makeup today, and her skin was slightly splotchy.
“Charlie, can I be honest with you?” she said, her voice huskier than it had been.
He nodded.
“Look, your uncle and I have never been in a situation like this before. We’re probably going about it all the wrong way. But we just want you to feel welcome here. Your mother left you here with us. I’m still not really sure why, but I’m sure she has her reasons.”
“Didn’t she talk to you last night? Didn’t she tell you what she was going to do?” he asked, trying to sound polite, but aware that his words held a tone of accusation in them.
“We did talk. But she didn’t tell me much. She just asked me, in several different ways, if she thought you would be safe here, if she thought that I, that the community and I, could protect you from harm. I reassured her that we could. And would. She asked if you both could stay here for a while until the danger died down.”
Beverly stopped talking for a moment, and the look on her face changed, from an expression of neutrality, to a combination of pleading and anger.
“I told her that you two were welcome here for as long as you wanted. I was very clear with her. I thought she meant for the both of you to stay. I thought…” and she stopped again, unable to find the words.
“Charlie,” Randall said. “For whatever reason, your mother thought it best to leave you here with us. Alone. We don’t know why she chose to leave. She has…she has very strong opinions about things. I’m sure you know that. But I’m also sure you know that she loves you very much, and only wants what is right for you.”
He looked over at his wife, who continued. “Randall and I would be delighted if you’d live here with us. We have a big enough house for all of us. You’d have your own bedroom and bathroom, and we’ll see about getting you into the school system. We’re friends the principal of a local academy we think is pretty good.
“It may not be what you want right now, but seeing as the circumstances are what they are, we feel it would be best if you stayed here. In Seattle. Would you agree to live with us?”
Charlie had thought about it upstairs, and had come to the realization that he was probably in Seattle to stay. At least for a while.
He nodded, then dropped his head.
“Well, that’s good news,” said his uncle.
“There’s only one problem,” Charlie said, not exactly sure how to explain it.
“What, buddy?”
“I don’t, my mom didn’t…we didn’t really pack for me to stay. Away from home. I don’t have clothes for school, but I don’t have any money to buy any.”
Randall let out a loud hoot of laughter, but his wife put her hand on his arm. He bit his lip and turned away, pretending to look out the window.
“Charlie, a word on that. Your mother left some money in an envelope. And we have some, too, so…”
“I could get a job. I did a bunch of stuff in Clarkston. I know how to garden, and can mow lawns, babysit, fix cars,” he said in a rush, feeling ashamed that he had so little, and wanting them to know that he was hard-working.
“That’s great, Charlie. But you’re probably going to be pretty busy with school, and getting settled in here. You know, getting used to the place. So how about for the time being we don’t worry about the money? Your uncle and I don’t have kids, so we’d like to help you out there, if you’d let us.”
“Okay. But I could pay you back.”
“Thanks, Charlie, for letting us know that. I’m sure your word is good. We’ll talk about that later,” his aunt said, her firm smile a signal that the topic of money was closed for now.
And so it happened, that just two days after leaving California, he was now a resident of 7634 Washington Street, in West Seattle, living with relatives he had only just met. It was by far the biggest change he had ever made in his life. He was scared that he wouldn’t fit in, that he’d look like an idiot at his new school, that he wouldn’t understand the way people lived up here. But another part of him was ready. If this was how it was going to be, then so be it. Everything was new here, and he wanted to check it all out, to go out and explore and see what this place was like. He wanted to learn as much as he could, so that the next time a talking dog attacked him or the people he loved, he’d be ready. He only hoped that all the changes would keep him busy enough, so that he wouldn’t have to think about the sad, simple fact that his own mother had dumped him off with strangers and left him, without even telling him why.
Part II
&nbs
p; Chapter 16
“Tongxuemen hao,” said Chen Laoshi as she sat down on the edge of her desk.
“Laoshi hao,” the students responded.
Charlie glanced sideways at his classmates without turning his head, wondering how they were able to make such strange sounds.
“Chen Laoshi” meant “Professor Chen,” which was how Charlie had been instructed to refer to his new Chinese teacher, a woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a matching jacket and skirt, her silver-black hair pulled back in a bun.
“Class,” said the teacher, switching to English “we have a new second-year student here with us today. His name is Charlie Creevey and he has joined us from northern California. I’m sure you’ll all do your best to welcome him to Puget Academy.”
The entire class turned in their desk chairs to look at Charlie. He felt the blood rush into his face, and wished that he could melt under his desk and stay hidden in the puddle he formed. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like he would melt any time soon. Instead he said, “Um, hi?” to the staring faces.
“Class, please open your books to page ten. We’ll begin where we left off yesterday.” Charlie’s relief at having everyone’s attention turned to their textbooks was short-lived, however, as soon as the students began to speak.
The sounds that began to come out of everyone’s mouths were so completely incomprehensible that Charlie found himself panicking. He didn’t know if he’d be able to learn Chinese. Everyone else seemed so far ahead.
Today was his first day of school. Beverly and Randall had spoken with their friend, Principal Wang at Puget Academy, to see about space for Charlie. It had taken several phone calls to make it all work out. The school had a waiting list, but at the last minute a local family had to move back east because of a job transfer, creating an open slot.
“You’re in, kiddo!” Beverly’d said to him with a wink. “I didn’t even have to use any you-know-what to make it happen.”
It was very different from Clarkston High back home. First of all, he had to wear a uniform. Charlie had felt very strange in his white button-down shirt and navy blue slacks, until he saw all the other guys wearing the same thing. The girls wore white shirts and plaid skirts. A few of the students wore navy sweaters. Even though Puget Academy wasn’t religiously affiliated, the uniforms reminded him of the Catholic school back home.
“You’ll want one of those sweaters soon. It’s gonna start getting cold and damp here around mid-September,” Randall had told him.
Another thing that was different about Puget Academy was its size. There were only four hundred students, approximately one hundred per grade. Clarkston High had had well over fifteen hundred.
And another thing: everyone seemed so nice. It wasn’t like all the kids back home were mean. But many of the older kids pushed the younger ones around. People scurried around with their heads down, hoping to avoid altercations. Yelling and fighting were common in the hallways.
At Puget Academy there was a strict no-tolerance policy. Principal Wang himself had explained it to Charlie in a very grave voice.
“The minute we tolerate even minor altercations, Charlie, it’s a slippery slope to chaos, violence, and bullying. That’s why we enforce it so strictly.”
Apparently he hadn’t been kidding. As Charlie walked down A wing, the main section of the school where the administration offices and most of the lockers could be found, he noticed that the students who walked down the halls were mostly smiling, carrying their books and talking to each other in small groups. No pushing, no shoving. Just alert, focused, happy students.
Also, there were lots more Asian kids than at Clarkston. Part of this was because the Academy promoted three years of Chinese language class, which was more than almost any other high school in greater Seattle. Many of the Chinese families in the area wanted their kids to learn the language in school.
Charlie had been strongly encouraged to take Mandarin.
“China isn’t just part of our future, Charlie. It’s part of our current geo-political environment,” said Principal Wang. He explained that he had grown up in a household where his parents spoke Chinese, but the kids only spoke English.
“We wanted to be like everyone else. Unfortunately, I didn’t start learning the language of my own culture until I was an adult. At Puget Academy we want to offer students the chance to get an early start.”
“Mingtian,” said Chen Laoshi to the students.
“Mingtian,” they repeated.
“Ming ten,” Charlie whispered, trying out the words for the first time.
“Jintian,” said Chen Laoshi.
“Jintian,” the class repeated.
“Jin ten,” Charlie tried to say. He had no idea what he was saying, but Chen Laoshi was pointing in the air about a foot in front of her, then back to where she sat.
“Zuotian,” she said, pointing behind her.
What the heck was she saying?
“Zwo ten,” he tried. None of what he said sounded right. He was glad that his voice was getting lost in the sounds of the whole class, but was scared that he was going to be singled out.
Charlie took notes as best he could, worried that he would never be able to catch up with the other students. It wasn’t until the very end of class, as he was putting his things into his backpack, that he realized what Chen Laoshi had been saying.
“Mingtian jian. See you tomorrow,” she called as the students began to file out into the hallway. She had been saying, “tomorrow,” “today,” and “yesterday.” He wasn’t exactly sure which one was which, but felt relieved that he’d understood something. As he picked up his notebook, he wished his buddy Mike were here with him right now. Mike would think learning Chinese was so cool.
“Charlie,” said Chen Laoshi as he headed out of the classroom.
He walked over to her desk. “Oh. Um, hi. Er, ni hao,” he said, hoping he’d pronounced “hello” correctly.
She smiled. “Very good, Charlie, very good. Although, because I’m your teacher, you should say, “Nin hao.” It’s how kids in China would say it to their elders, to show respect.”
Her correction was firm, but gentle. Charlie felt relieved.
“You’ve barely missed a week of class, Charlie. I know you’ll be able to catch up quite soon. But don’t dally. The first semester takes a good two weeks to get fully underway. There are lots of early semester activities going on for the rest of the week. But then the workload starts picking up pretty quickly. It’s best to keep your head above water.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Er, thanks. Shay-shay,” he tried.
“It’s ‘Xiexie.’ Buxie.”
“Oh. Buxie.”
She smiled. “No Charlie, I was correcting your pronunciation. ‘Thank you’ in Mandarin is pronounced ‘Xiexie,’ not ‘Shay-shay.’ And the correct response would be ‘Buxie,’ which means, “You are welcome.’ Try it again.”
He thought about what she had said. “Xiexie?”
“Almost. Remember you have to learn the sound of each word, and the tone too. ‘Xiexie‘ is the 4th tone. You used the second tone, which in English sounds like you are asking a question. Say it emphatically. Almost like you are angry.”
Charlie’s head was starting to feel light. Some of the other students, he noticed, were standing by the doorway, watching him. “Xiexie.” He tried again.
“That’s correct. Good job. And my response is, ‘Buxie.’ You are welcome. If you have any questions whatsoever, please ask. I want to make sure you keep up here at Puget Academy.”
He slipped his backpack over his shoulder and headed out the door, wondering what Chen Laoshi meant by keeping up. Outside in the hallway a few of the students introduced themselves.
A blonde girl with braces named Loreen laughed and said, “Dude! Don’t worry about it. You should have heard all of us last week. We were way worse than you. The only one who could get it right was James, but his parents are Chinese, which is totally not fair. Where’s your next class?”
She and two other kids looked at the printout of Charlie’s schedule and walked him to B wing, on the second floor, which was where his biology class was. He thanked them, then took his schedule over to the teacher, Mr. Setera, and explained that he was a new student.
The rest of the day was easier. Most of the classes seemed a little further along than he had been back in California, but none of them were as impossible as Chinese. All of the teachers welcomed him, which was nice, though it was more than a little troubling when they kept encouraging him to ask for help so that he could keep up.
He was just glad that he’d survived his first day.
Chapter 17
That night his aunt and uncle moved around the kitchen together, preparing dinner and bumping in to each other. They laughed as they did it, even though they pretended to fight.
“Randall, will you please move? You’re standing right in front of the cutting boards.”
“Well, I have to wait my turn. Someone is hogging the grater, and…”
“Hogging it? There are two more under the cupboard by the sink and you know it, Mr. Trying-to-Get-Out-Of-Work.”
“Me? Trying to get out of work?” he turned to Charlie. “Would you tell her that this is my dinner we’re making tonight, with ingredients I bought at the store? I don’t think it was your aunt who marinated the flank steak. And let’s see, I don’t think she chopped the veggies for the salad, made the shortcake for dessert, sliced up the…”
Beverly bumped him in the side with her hip. “Don’t listen to the man, Charlie. He just talks a lot.”
They were loud, these two. At home, meal preparation was mostly a silent affair. Usually it was his mother who was in charge, while he helped out here and there, in between his homework. Sometimes his mother turned on the evening talk radio; other times, only the sound of her knife chops, or the squawk of the hinges on the old oven door, could be heard in the kitchen. They were used to working together in quiet unison.
He was surprised to find himself enjoying the noise Randall and Beverly were making. He wondered why his mother never had anyone over to make dinner with her. None of her friends, and certainly never a date. He didn’t know why. He wondered if she ever felt lonely, as he watched these two move about their beautiful kitchen, teasing each other.
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight (The Broom Closet Stories) Page 9