by Patti Kim
The preacher prays, “Take me, Lord. Take me.”
So I take.
thirty-seven
I pitch the Shelter 365 in the woods behind my father’s dream house, which looks spookier than usual. I wonder if Asa was right about the man shooting his family and hanging himself in the basement. All those dead bodies. NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY. The faded sign dangles on the trunk of a tree. KEEP OUT is spray-painted on the back of the house next to a skull and crossbones. Luckily, in the woods I can’t see much of the house except for a corner of a boarded-up window on the second floor. The woods are dense with patches of shrubs among the trees. I crawl into the biggest patch and hollow out a space, cutting away branches and leaves. I pitch the tent and cover it with the trimmings. I test its invisibility by walking through the woods from all angles. It’s impossible to detect.
I crawl into the Shelter 365, zipper it shut, and stock it with cans of SpaghettiOs, tuna, baked beans, and Spam in one corner, in another corner a box with silverware and toiletries, in the third corner a gallon jug of water, and in the final corner a stack of library books. Home sweet home. Outside, the wind blows.
I check on the Shelter 365 every day before and after school and spend most of my time there. I stock up on more supplies. I bring blankets from home. It’s cold. And cans of green beans and peaches. I need fruits and vegetables. I need to buy more candles; they’re cheaper than batteries, and they give off heat. It’s cold. My place is getting cramped, but it’s cozy. I need more money to buy more supplies. I leave the tent and return to the apartment before dark.
I pretend to be asleep when my mother comes home late. I figure she’s been with the d-CON all evening, eating and drinking and planning their wedding and honeymoon escape to Hawaii.
thirty-eight
Mickey comes to school with a bruise on her cheek. She tries to hide it with makeup, but the black, purple, and green show through. I first think she’s experimenting with using eye shadow as blush, but on one side? She appreciates symmetry too much to leave things lopsided, especially her face. When she sees me notice it, she says, “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer. Ain’t you ever seen a bruise before? If you gotta know, Ma did it. She’s accusing me of going through her purse and stealing her money, when in reality she be the one losing everything. I told her, ‘Don’t blame me. You lose everything. You lose your keys. You lose your jobs. And you be losing Daddy. You’re one big loser. The only thing you can’t seem to lose for the life of you is your weight.’ That’s when she smacked me. I can’t wait for my daddy to come home. He’s going to be at the talent show. I got a mind to stow away in his truck when he leaves this time. Wanna run away?”
“No,” I say, and swallow hard. I tell myself that it isn’t the lost money she got smacked for, it’s her big blabber mouth. She needs to shut up. I have nothing to do with that bruise. It isn’t my fault.
“Would you miss me if I disappeared, Ok?”
“No,” I say, although I really would, but I have to be a robot right now.
“Yes, you would. I’m the only friend you got,” she says.
“I have other friends,” I say.
“No, you don’t. Who?” she says. I don’t say anything. “Oh, you talking about Asa Banks? You think he’s your friend ’cause he let you play ball with him and his boys?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes, you do. You think Asa’s your friend. That’s the funniest and saddest thing I ever heard. Be warned. He don’t care a lick about you,” she says. “Not like I do. I know deep down in that clenched-up robot heart of yours, you care about me, too.”
“Dream on,” I say.
“I don’t know what makes you so mean and cold sometimes, but I forgive you ’cause I figure it’s a broken heart you don’t know how to get mended,” she says.
“Shut up.”
“Did I touch a nerve?”
“I’m not broken. You’re the one who’s broken. Look at your beat-up face.”
As soon as I say it, I want to knuckle my head like my father used to do when I did something wrong and stupid. He’d knuckle me sharp and hard to knock some good sense into me, saying, “What’s wrong with this one? When’s this one going to become a human being?” I hold my face up to Mickey so she can take aim and punch me in the nose, but she doesn’t. She bites down on her lip like she’s about to cry, turns around, and walks away, leaving me feeling so much sorrow and regret that I huff and puff and clench my insides tight like fists, trying to turn it all into something else, like bricks, concrete, and steel, something that can never break.
thirty-nine
I get Asa on the phone. It sounds like there’s a party at his place. He tells me to hold up. When he comes back on, it’s quiet. He must be in a closet. I imagine him in the dark, sitting on shoes and being smothered by his mother’s clothes.
“We’ve got to do this at the library. It’s too cold outside, and you need more books,” I say, not wanting to meet in the woods because of the Shelter 365.
“Uh,” he says.
“I know you have a reputation, but no one is ever there. I go there all the time, and the place is a ghost town.”
“Listen,” he starts to say.
“You’re quitting, aren’t you?” I say. “I knew it.”
“Hold on, what’s that about?”
“It’s too hard. You can’t do it. You’re giving up,” I say.
“That’s cold,” he says.
“I don’t care about you. I just want my money. You cancel, you pay. It’s in the contract. You signed it. You owe me ten dollars,” I say.
“I don’t have the money, man. And I’m not so bad with the reading now. I got the hang of it. I been flying through some books, man. I’m good, thanks to you,” he says.
“Then pay me,” I say.
“I’m broke like a dog,” he says.
“Then go make some,” I say.
“Now, how you propose I go do that?”
“You go to church, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Take it from the offering plate,” I say.
“Nah, that’s not my style. I rather be broke,” he says.
“Stupid.”
“Who you calling stupid?”
“You, Asa. I’m calling you stupid.”
“You all money drunk,” he says, clicking his tongue.
“You’re a stupid ni—”
“Don’t, man. Don’t say it. I’m warning you. You gonna be sorry.”
“I can say whatever I want. You’re a stupid nincompoop.”
“Nincom—what?” he says, chuckling.
“Poop, Asa.”
“Poop? Who says ‘poop’? What are you, in kindergarten?” he says, laughing like he can’t stop.
“It’s not about the poop. It’s ‘nin,’ ‘com,’ ‘poop.’ Look it up in the dictionary! N-I-N-C-O-M-P-O-O-P,” I say.
“Yeah fine, Poop-boy, I will,” he says, and hangs up on me, still laughing.
forty
Mickey and I are backstage. I didn’t tell my mother about the talent show. It doesn’t matter because she’s never home in the evenings anymore since she started using the d-CON’s kitchen to make her kimchi orders, because his kitchen is so clean and so big. She’s too tied up with her engagement to come to a school cafeteria to cheer her son on while he stands still on the stage in roller skates, trying not to fall. Mickey keeps looking for her father. He isn’t going to show up. But she looks so full of hope and faith, bouncing and gliding around in her costume, which consists of a red leotard and a flowing red scarf pinned around her waist. My costume consists of my mother’s black blouse unbuttoned so low my nipples show if I don’t stand up straight and the burgundy three-piece suit I got for Christmas, except Mickey said it had to be white, so she took a can of spray paint to it. The suit looks pinkish and fits stiff like armor.
Asa is backstage. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a black tuxedo, surrounded by his friends.
He looks like Bond, James Bond. He ignores me. I ignore him. I have no idea what his act is going to be.
Sitting in the front row, ready with clipboards and pens, are the judges. I think they’re all teachers until Mickey proudly points out Mrs. Larkin, the cafeteria lady, saying, “It’s the miracle of hair and makeup.” Without the white cafeteria jacket and hairnet, Mrs. Larkin looks like Queen Latifah wearing a tall crown of a hat covered in purple-and-gold snakes, and a purple leather jacket with shoulder pads pointier than the pizza slices she serves. When Ms. Bierman, the school secretary, finishes introducing the judges, she waves a big gold envelope at the audience and pulls out crisp dollar bills, fanning the money for all to see. “All the talented and hardworking students of Landover Hills are winners, but one will go home tonight with the prize. One hundred big ones! Break a leg, kiddos! Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce our first act. Sixth grader Mikoyo Kenji will play ‘Für Elise’ on the piano. Did I say that right? Is it ‘Kenji’ or ‘can she’? Let’s find out. Give her a warm welcome.”
The audience applauds. The place is packed. I’m getting nervous. Mikoyo starts to play. It’s the easy beginner version of “Für Elise,” nothing impressive. A baby starts to cry in the middle of the song, so she hurries it up at the end. She messes up some notes. So it turns out that Miyoko Kenji cannot. It isn’t bad, but there is no way her act is going to win. One down.
Second up is a dance group of girls from the seventh grade. They call themselves the Landover Hills Ballet Company. Wearing black leotards, buns on their heads, and ballet slippers, they sashay onto the stage and position themselves like ballerinas about to dance The Nutcracker. Until the music plays. “Can’t touch this.” The girls break out of their ballet positions and bounce in unison like MC Hammer. Everyone goes wild with applause. They’re good. They got all the moves: the Running Man, the Cabbage Patch. They even throw in the Moonwalk. They’re going to win. I want to call it a night, crawl into the Shelter 365, eat baked beans, and read a book by candlelight. Mickey’s jaw drops. She’s in awe. To make matters worse, the dancers end their act with a pyramid and the splits. If the judges aren’t furiously writing on their clipboards, they’re applauding and standing in ovation along with the rest of the audience.
A kid from our class does a magic show. It’s a flop. Another kid sings “Amazing Grace.” It’s nice, but no one stands up. The cheerleaders crack up laughing, cutting their act short. They walk off the stage, pushing one another because someone didn’t do something right and messed it all up. One kid tells knock-knock jokes as Ronald Reagan. He says, “Knock, knock.” The audience says, “Who’s there?” He says, “Gladys.” The audience says, “Gladys who?” He says, “Gladys act is over, because I need to pee.” We all laugh. He’s funny, but not winning material. Then somehow we’re up next.
Before I can tell Mickey this is all a mistake and I’m sorry and I do care about her and my father is dead and my mother hates me and is about to marry a bigger jerk than me and I’m going to throw up and run away, she grabs my hands and says, “I put some stuff in your jacket pockets. When I say ‘fever’ . . .” Ms. Bierman introduces us. The curtains open. “Stayin’ Alive” starts to play. Mickey shouts, “At ‘fever,’ grab as much as you can and throw it out to the audience.” I ask, “What is it?” As she skates backward, rolling me onto the stage, Mickey says, “Something to knock their socks off.”
She parks me in the middle. I stand there, stiff and still. Mickey skates and dances around me. The lights are bright. I shade my eyes, and the audience applauds. Then I remember the robot. I hold my arms at right angles and move them like a robot. Someone hoots. I twitch my head back and forth. The audience cheers and claps to the song. Mrs. Larkin starts doing the Travolta in her seat. She glows. So I do the Travolta too. I can’t skate, but I can point to the ceiling, hold my finger there for five seconds, point to the floor, hold my finger there for five seconds, and do it again with the other hand. Mickey spins, twirls, squats with one leg out, and scissor-steps, keeping the beat and smiling the whole time. She doesn’t hold back. She performs like a real star. The audience hoots and hollers for her. It’s enough to make any father proud.
Then Mickey goes off script and takes my hands. I don’t know who is spinning whom, but we turn around and around, gaining speed, getting dizzy. Mickey’s smile changes. Her lips curl and pucker as if waiting for a kiss. She wants me to kiss her right now? But her eyes are wide open, trying to tell me something. She is saying, “Fever!” Then Mickey lets go, throwing me to the front of the stage. If I don’t do something, I’m going to roll off and land on Mrs. Farmer. I fall to my knees. Sliding to the stage’s edge, I dig into my pockets, get handfuls, and throw them out to the audience. Millions of little white circles, the holes punched out of paper, drift over the judges, falling like snow. I toss out more confetti. With pockets empty and the Bee Gees fading, I open wide my arms. The audience stands up and goes wild with applause. The curtains close. We did it. Mickey and I did it!
Asa is up next. As the curtains open and Mickey rolls me off the stage, Asa limp-struts to the microphone, wearing his tux and sunglasses. Some girls in one corner of the gym scream, “We love you, Asa!” Some girls in another corner echo back, “We love you more, Asa!”
“Quiet down now, girls,” Ms. Bierman says.
He stands in front of the microphone, removes his sunglasses, slips them into his jacket pocket, pulls out a champagne glass, and holds it up. He clears his throat and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make a toast, in the tradition of my family, who is here tonight, except for my ancestors, who are here in spirit, and my uncle James, because he needed to go see about a woman.”
The audience laughs. He hasn’t even officially started yet, and they’re eating it up.
He takes hold of the microphone, presses it to his lips, and blows beats into it. It sounds like drums. Keeping the rhythm, he raps:
“These, these, these, these,
These are a few of my favorite things:
The view from a tree
A pretty girl’s blush
Making all my free throws
A roller-coaster rush
My mother’s laugh
My father’s van
It’s big enough to take y’all
From here to San Fran.
My sisters sing
My brothers dance.
We gotta get up out of this trance.
They paved the way
They blazed the trail
Weren’t in it for fame
Cannot be tamed
Say their names
Come on say their names.
When I say ‘Frederick’
You say ‘Douglas.’
Frederick.”
“Douglas.”
“Frederick.”
“Douglas.”
“When I say ‘Martin’
You say ‘King.’
Martin.”
“King.”
“Martin.”
“King.”
“When I say ‘Rosa’
You say ‘Parks.’
Rosa.”
“Parks.”
“Rosa.”
“Parks.”
“When I say ‘Gan’
You say ‘dhi.’
Gan.”
“Dhi.”
“Gan.”
“Dhi.”
“They stand beside us
They root us on
To spread peace and justice
from dusk till dawn.
Let’s make the most
of what we got.
Life and liberty
Can’t be bought.
Put down the guns
Let’s talk it out
Give it more thought
No need to shout
Make the most
Of what we got.
Freedom to pursue
Happiness and love
Grace and forgiveness
Come from above.
So here’s a toast
To you and me
Let’s make the most
Make the most.
Make the most.”
As the audience chants, “Make the most,” Asa lifts his glass, taps an imaginary one, and takes a sip of air. The audience stands up and cheers. Some wipe tears from their eyes. Oh my God. He’s really good. He’s no nincompoop. He’s a nincompoet. Asa Banks is a poet. No way he’ll lose tonight. Even in my disappointment and defeat, I can’t deny my admiration of what he accomplished. He made that up. He wrote it. It was genius. I feel proud of him. But I still need that money, and now there’s no way Mickey and I are going to win the cash prize.
Principal Farmer announces the winner. It’s Asa Banks. The place bursts with applause.
When I go to congratulate him, I stick my hand out and say, “You owe me money.”
Asa shakes my hand and says, “Don’t worry. I got you. Not now. Later, man.”
I squeeze his hand hard and say, “No. Now.”
“Not the time, man. Not the place,” he says.
“Want everyone to know you can’t spell ‘toast’?” I say.
“Don’t, man,” he says.
“Pay up. Just trying to make the most,” I say.
Asa opens the winner’s envelope of cash, counts out ten ones, and throws them in the air. I catch two. The others drift to the floor. I pick them up, pocket the bills, and leave.
In the auditorium parents and kids search for one another. In the midst of all the post performance pats on the back, I see Mickey looking for her father. Stupid girl. He’s not running late. The plain and simple truth: He’s not here; he’s not coming. Someone needs to break the news to the poor girl. He chooses not to be here. It’s not like he died and can’t be here. It’s impossible for my father to be here, because he’s dead. Hasn’t Mickey guessed by now?
As I make my way to Mickey, Lawrence Elwood, the new kid from Iowa, beats me. He taps her on the shoulder. She turns around. He leans in to say something into her ear. She leans in to hear it. She laughs, throwing her head back. He laughs, nodding too much like his head is stuck on a spring. I tap Mickey on the shoulder. Lawrence says he has to go and will see her in class. He hugs her.