I know best friends are supposed to tell each other everything, and I wish I could explain to her all the angst I feel inside, but I can’t. She could never understand what it’s like being me. After all, she has a mom who’s interested in every little thing that goes on in her day. She has a mom who hugs her and tells her how much she cares. And though her dad died in a car accident when she was two, she has a stepdad who comes home every night and treats her and her brother, Kevin, like they’re his own.
I keep looking as Keisha continues clowning, but I suppose me not laughing causes her to become serious. The next thing I notice is that she’s mouthing, “Are you okay?”
I shake my head and force a smile before turning away and looking down at my desk. That’s how Keisha is all the time: sensitive and caring and ready to help out. She’s always taking in stray animals with broken limbs and making sure everyone is okay. On Saturdays, she even volunteers at this nursing home in Williamsburg with her cousin, so just imagine me telling her I think I might have killed an old woman I was in the process of robbing. She’s so sweet and good that sometimes it makes me feel like even more of a bad seed. And I feel like I’m one of those wounded animals she’s always trying to rescue. I guess that’s mainly why I keep hanging out with Gillian and Caroline. With them, I can be as rotten as I want, and I don’t have to feel guilty about it. I don’t have to make any apologies.
As Keisha continues to clown around, I try to forget everything that happened in that old lady’s Parkside Avenue apartment. I even chuckle a little. But the nun must have some weird laser lock on me, because with all the whispering and fidgeting going on, I’m the one her death stare focuses on.
“Ms. Andrews, may I inquire as to what you find so comedic?” she asks.
Oh, I have a million good ones I could come out with, but I just sigh and mumble, “Nothing, Sister.” Then I wait for her to call on us to read our homework. The assignment was about the principle of reincarnation and whether it is represented in Christianity. I’m just hoping she doesn’t go alphabetically, because I’ll be called first, and honestly, I never got past writing my name and date on that piece of notebook paper last night. That’s the problem with having Andrews as a last name—you’re always the first one up in front of the firing squad. But maybe she’ll do her picking in reverse alphabetical order. That way, Kiara Harding will go before me. And since she always has those A-plus book reports, I’ll be able to jot down some good ideas from her. Of course, I’ll have to change it around a little so it doesn’t sound completely like I’m cheating, though I see nothing wrong with taking advantage of such a situation, if it’s done in a creative way.
Everyone finally settles into their seats, and the murmuring dies down. That’s when Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette walks around to the front of her desk and clears her throat.
“Today, I would like to jump right into the Hindu philosophy of karma. Who has an understanding of what that is?”
Charlene Simpson, an average-looking girl’s worst nightmare, is one of the first to raise her hand. What’s new? And Sister just beams at her.
“Basically, it’s the principle that whatever you put out will come back to you. So, if you do good, good comes to you. If you do bad, bad comes to you.”
“As usual, Charlene, you’ve hit the proverbial nail on its head.”
And teacher’s pet flashes her hundred-watt, spent-two-thousand-dollars-on-braces-to-get-the-chompers-perfectly-straight smile, then flings her thick, shiny black hair this way and that.
“Yes, this philosophy asserts that for everything you do, there is a direct, balanced consequence that will take place sometime in your life. Does anyone have an example of a karmic experience?”
Sylvester Young shifts his bulk uncomfortably in his too-tiny chair, then raises his hand.
But another kid yells out, “Sylvester ate a tubload of fried chicken. Two hours later, he threw it all up. Now, that’s karma.”
“Class!” the nun says sternly before the laughter can expand any further.
“No,” Sylvester says. “I was gonna say, I helped this little old man who had fallen on a patch of ice a few months ago, and later he gave me a twenty-dollar bill.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” the Sister says. “Anyone else?”
And it goes around and about like this with everyone highlighting a good deed that was in some way rewarded. It comes back around to Charlene again, who mentions something about rescuing a cat from a tree or stopping a speeding bullet from hitting a baby carriage or preventing the atom bomb from going off, or something as ridiculous as that. Whatever. And the Sister oohs and aahs and drools and slobbers.
“But karma can also be bad,” the Sister continues once she’s able to tear herself away from Charlene’s “awesomeness.” “I’m sure some of you have dealt with experiences that led to rude awakenings somewhere down the line.”
Okay, I’m really starting to feel queasy. If there is such a thing as karma, the worst consequence must be given for killing someone. I mean, even with the Ten Commandments, isn’t “Thou shalt not kill” the mother of them all?
“Okay, bad karma, bad karma. Whom shall I call on … Let’s see … Who would have some experience with bad karma? Faye Andrews!”
If there is a God in heaven, please strike me down. Now! Is “old-person tormenter and potential killer” stamped on my forehead for all to see?
“Why’d you call on me?” I ask. “I wasn’t even raising my hand.”
“No, but you were looking a bit shifty.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say. “I was probably looking the way I always look.”
“Exactly,” the nun says. “Anyway, an example of bad karma. Go.”
“I don’t have one,” I say between clenched teeth.
“Oh, I’m quite sure you have a few.”
The thing is, having the mom I do, I have a lot of experience with people saying not-so-nice things to me, either blatantly or in a backhanded way. But I still manage to give them the benefit of the doubt. So I take a few seconds to process the nun’s words. Who knows, maybe she didn’t mean them the way they came out. But then I look around the class and see some kids giggling, and I see Keisha’s “Oh no she didn’t” expression, and I know what I heard is actually what that nun said.
Now, I’ve always been a little suspicious of Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette, and it’s not just because she has four first names and she makes us call her by all of them. Not just Sister Margaret. Not Sister Margaret Theresa. Not Sister Mags Terry Pat. It has to be Sister Margaret Theresa Patricia Bernadette. And even though servants of the Lord are supposed to be caring and compassionate and nonjudgmental, this woman’s just plain mean and petty. Case in point: the bizarre beauty contest she had all us girls take part in a few weeks back—which of course Charlene won even though it wasn’t supposed to be a test of outward beauty. Something about examining the virtues of prudence, justice, restraint, courage, faith, hope, and charity. Still, Sister was judge and jury, and somehow all the pretty girls ended up on top while the girls like me ended up down at the bottom. I mean, what the hell does beauty have to do with religion class, anyway? I’m completely convinced Sister is Satan’s kin.
“An example of bad karma,” I say. “Okay. Well, I did cut Mass one time and used my offering money for soda and chips. And now I’ve been put in a horrible religion class with a crazy, frustrated, mean old nun.”
I see Keisha quickly look away. There is mostly silence. But then someone in the back of the class laughs. Satan’s daughter does not. Her face just becomes rock hard. She stares at me awhile, like she’s trying to figure out whether she should turn me into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife and risk blowing her demonic cover. But instead, she walks back over to the blackboard and stands next to the word karma again.
“Let’s talk about karma as it relates to Christianity,” she says. “Proverbs eleven eighteen. ‘The wicked man earns deceptive
wages.…’ ” She fixes her eyes on me as she says this, then turns to Charlene as she adds, “ ‘But he who sows righteousness reaps a sure reward.’ ”
The minute school is over, I’m flying through the hallways like a bat out of hell. I hardly even shoot a second glance at Anthony “Curvy” Miller—my future husband in the event that Michael Jackson is unavailable. I dash through the doors and run out into the streets of Crown Heights, trying to make it to the bus stop, almost taking out a Hasidic boy who’s not watching where he’s going.
“Sorry!” I yell as his black hat goes blowing down the street.
But there’s no bus to be found, and I have all this karma crap floating around in my head, and I know there’s something I have to do or I’ll just burst, so I take to running past the main library and alongside the gated-off Botanic Garden. I glimpse the Ebbets Field apartments as I get to Empire Boulevard, where Flatbush and Ocean Avenues intersect. The smell of cheese and garlic and sauce bursts from Antonio’s Pizzeria as someone opens the door to go in. I decide to go down Ocean Avenue, where I take turns fast-walking and running through Prospect Park. A guy strolls toward me holding a giant, mailbox-sized boom box on his shoulder. It’s covered with a black plastic garbage bag, to protect it from the weather, I guess. The thing must weigh at least a hundred pounds. I don’t know how he doesn’t get a cramp in his arm. And I really don’t know how he hasn’t blown out his eardrums. Or maybe he has, which would explain why the way too loud, way too distorted sound of the Soulsonic Force’s “Planet Rock” doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. A couple minutes after passing him, I can still hear the music.
It’s not until I get to Parkside Avenue that I finally stop to breathe and to watch as the number 16 bus passes me by. Right at the entrance to the park, there’s this guy sporting a Run-DMC-looking red tracksuit and fat gold chain under his puffy black parka. He’s standing behind a garbage can that has a thick piece of cardboard laid out across it. And on top of the cardboard are these three playing cards. A small group of people, mostly kids my age or a little older, are gathered around. He picks up one card and holds it out so everyone can see what it is—a three of clubs. Then he shows the other two cards. They are not threes of clubs. He turns them back over, puts them down, and shows the three of clubs again. As he turns it back over, he tells everyone to keep their eyes on that card. Then he moves the three cards around, lightning fast. He stops and tells this one little kid to point to which card he thinks is the three of clubs. The kid picks the right card, and everybody else gasps and claps.
“Damn, shorty. You lucky. You need to put some of that luck to work and double your money. Inflation too high in ’eighty-four, wages too low. All of you need to put some green down. What you got?”
I’m figuring these people know how much of a scam this is. I’m figuring they’re just going to turn and walk away. But they don’t. Of the seven or so people gathered, at least five put their money down. And all five of them lose their cash.
“Damn, guess luck’s gotta run out eventually,” the guy says. “But the great thing about luck is, ya never know when it’s gonna come back. And y’all look like some lucky people. You think ya got what it takes to make back your money?”
I shake my head and move away from those stupid people. But the farther I move along Parkside, the crazier I begin to feel. I suddenly start sweating. This bad feeling comes over me the closer I get to the familiar beige brick building near the corner of Parkside and Parade Place. I climb the few stairs that lead to the outer door of the lobby, but I don’t go inside the vestibule at first. I just peep through it. I can see down the first-floor hallway. The old lady’s door is far enough away that I can’t really tell whether it’s open or closed from where I stand. And I most definitely can’t tell whether it’s locked or unlocked. I can’t tell whether she’s still in there, lying dead on the floor. Or whether she woke up and made it to the phone to call a doctor. Or whether somebody from her family came over and found her there and called the cops. Or whether the cops are in there right now.
I have to step away and stand to the side of the doors. I lean against the bricks and take a few deep breaths. Then I close my eyes. Even though it’s overcast, a bit of sun sneaks through the clouds and warms my face a little. I decide that I’m just going to have to do this quick. Before I lose my courage. Before I lose my mind. So I enter through the first set of lobby doors and stand there in front of the intercom, waiting for someone to enter or exit; waiting for someone to let me through the second, locked set of doors. Only, the universe is just not cooperating with me, and I have to wait twenty more minutes for someone to leave the building.
Once I’m inside, I walk through the large lobby and past the elevator, but my feet seem to stop moving. I guess they don’t want to get me any closer to apartment 1H. It’s like I’m in one of those scary movies and my feet are trying to warn me to stay away. So I’m just standing there in the hall, looking like I don’t belong, and I have to use every ounce of what little willpower I have to move myself along.
Once I get to the old lady’s apartment, I just stand in front of her door, staring. I put my ear to it, hoping I’ll hear some noise—maybe the television or the radio. Maybe she’s listening to Lawrence Welk records or Frank Sinatra or whatever old white people sit around listening to. I don’t really know. I’ll take a toilet flush or a blender. Anything. But there’s only silence.
I try to look through the peephole, but I can’t see anything, just a small stream of light. I take a couple of deep breaths. The brass doorknob is just staring up at me. It’s telling me to turn it. We didn’t lock the door behind us when we left, so if the knob gives, then I’ll know no one has been in or out of the apartment since we were there yesterday. But my hand is shaking so much, I can hardly get it around that doorknob. I swear, it takes like fifteen minutes for me to concentrate long enough to grab hold of it. It’s smooth and cold against my palm. And suddenly, I realize I’m having a problem breathing. It’s like my breath is being held hostage in my throat and not making it all the way down to my lungs. Thank God I have my inhaler. And my knees are trembling like crazy. I don’t really have a remedy for that. Maybe if there was more fat on them, they’d be more stable.
Okay, just turn it a little to the left, I say to myself. Maybe it won’t turn at all. But I only apply enough force to make it turn a smidgeon; then it clicks back to its normal place. I remove my hand, shake it out, then put it back on the knob. I take one more deep breath and crank the thing as far as it will go, expecting it to not turn very far. But it does. It goes like in a full circle, and the next thing I know, the door opens a few inches. But I don’t have much time to be freaked out, because I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I try to let go of the knob, but now I can’t seem to. It’s like that guy on those commercials whose hard hat is Krazy Glued to that beam. I can’t move my hand. And so I just stand there frozen, like an icicle. My heartbeat is coming as if it’s in stereo, making it hard for me to hear anything else. And suddenly, I see these two kids land on the first floor. And there’s an older man behind them—their father, maybe. But thank God, they never turn around.
I watch as they walk through the front doors and turn left once they reach the sidewalk. I’m sweating bullets. That door shouldn’t have opened. It shouldn’t have. That means she’s still in there. Probably where we left her. Oh man. I’m just going to have to hypnotize myself into forgetting about this. It’s out of my control now, and there’s no way I’ll be able to eat, sleep, or function if I dwell on it. If I turn on Eyewitness News and see Bill Beutel or Roger Grimsby reporting about the murder of some old lady on Parkside Avenue, I’m just going to have to do the best acting job ever. Give an Oscar-worthy performance.
I yank the door shut and my hand away from the doorknob and take off running. It must be forty-five degrees outside, but I’m sweating and panting like a thirsty little puppy on a hot summer day. I pass the shady card dealer surrounded by a new bat
ch of suckers, and I yell out:
“Are you people stupid? It’s a scam. A scam! You can’t win.” And I keep running down Parkside Avenue like I’ve lost my mind.
The running continues once I reach my block. I shoot straight past my building, past the next couple of buildings, and past the tiny houses wedged between them. I keep going until I get to the six-story brown brick building near the other end of the street. My hands are shaking so badly I hit the wrong intercom button at first. But I tell myself to breathe, and I focus really hard and manage to press 4B. There’s a crackle, then Caroline’s voice.
“It’s me, Faye!” I yell. “The knob wasn’t supposed to turn. The door wasn’t supposed to open. She’s dead! She’s dead! I know she is!”
The intercom buzzes immediately, and I run through the lobby and to the stairs, taking them two at a time as I make it up to Caroline’s fourth-floor apartment. The door opens without me even pressing the bell, and Caroline’s big fat mitt of a hand comes forward, grabs me by the collar of my coat, and yanks me in.
“You shut it till we get to my room,” she whispers, which means she’s actually speaking at normal-person level. “My mom’s in the living room sewing. Just shout hi to her as we walk by.”
Mrs. Johns is wedged behind the Singer sewing machine she has set up in the corner of the room, along with mounds of clothes and bobbins of thread and pincushions shaped like tomatoes and onions.
I hardly get a “Hi, Mrs. Johns” out before I’m being pushed into Caroline’s room, with the door closing behind me.
Gillian’s sitting at a desk near the window, staring at me.
Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Page 4