“Your skirt is amazing,” I tell Cici. “I love it. I’ve been looking for one like that forever. Where’d you get it?”
“My mother got it for me.”
“I bet she picked it up in a thrift shop.” Somehow mentioning a thrift shop was a mistake because she looks at me really funny, like either I’m kidding or I’m nuts. For a second she even looks kind of insulted, so I smile to show her I didn’t mean anything bad, then she laughs and says, “Yeah.”
Something tells me to drop the subject and I do.
An old man sitting next to us beckons with his finger for us to lean over and look at something in his hand. Naturally I pay no attention. All my parents have to find out is that I was talking to some strange man in the subway … beautiful. I’d never hear the end of it. Cici surprises me though. She smiles and bends over to look. I think she must be nuts. In fact I wish she wouldn’t do it, because I always get a little nervous in the subway anyhow, with all those rapes and knifings, I mean. I poke Cici and shake my head no, but she doesn’t seem to get the message. Now she really looks interested in what he’s showing her and pulls me over to have a look. I can’t believe how she’s not even the least bit nervous about this man.
She’s got me hanging over him so I can’t not look. Turns out he’s trying to show us something on the inside of a peanut. Did you know that if you separate the two halves of a nut, inside is this thing that looks exactly like the face of Santa Claus? I never knew that before. He gives us each a nut. I put mine right in my pocket. You know I’m not about to eat food from a stranger. Though, strangely enough, this time I almost feel I could.
Weird, but when the old man showed us the nut thing, the other people around us seemed to lean closer and smile like they were approving. They even seemed friendly. Can you picture people in a subway being interested and friendly? And another thing, you probably think I’m exaggerating, but you know that feeling you get in the subway? Uptight, tense, like something horrendous could happen at any time? I don’t feel it here. I actually feel very relaxed, like I couldn’t be in a safer, more comfortable place. And if that old man tried anything funny on us, I get the feeling the other people would stop him fast. I must be dreaming.
Cici and I chatter away for the rest of the trip. We seem to have a million things in common. Especially problems. She tells me about how she’s always getting into trouble for the littlest, most unimportant things. Just like me. Plus she hates the way she looks, too. I tell her she’s crazy because she’s really cute-looking, but she says her eyes are too small and close together and she thinks her knuckles are too big.
“But the worst things are my knees. Look.” And she lifts her skirt enough to show me perfectly okay-looking knees, and believe me I’m an expert on knees so I know what I’m talking about.
“What’s wrong with them?” I ask because maybe it’s something I can’t see.
“Are you kidding? They’re so bony you could cut yourself just looking at them.”
She’s nuts. They’re fine and there’s nothing the matter with her eyes either. But I know she’d never believe me, so all I say is, “Wait till you see mine.”
And then she tells me how she’s a social flop with boys, and we compare all the jerky mistakes we’ve made at parties, and we’re practically hysterical because we both do the same stupid things.
I think she’s as excited about me as I am about her. She starts to tell me about all the great plans she’s got for us today. First we’re going to eat, then a double feature (I told her I only have three dollars to spend; for some reason she thinks that’s hysterical), then later, after dinner, a big party at some boy’s house. I tell her it all sounds fantastic, and she says that as long as I love her outfit so much, I can borrow her other one which is much dressier and even nicer. Luckily her feet are mega-tiny, like a size one, so there’s no question of me borrowing her gross shoes. I tell her that 1 think my clogs (would you believe she never even heard of clogs?) would be perfect with the skirt. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see that she thinks my clogs are as weird as I think her loafers are.
Still, you can tell that things like what kind of shoes a person wears don’t matter to Cici. She’s the easygoing type that doesn’t try to shove her opinions at you. That’s one of the things I like so much about her. You do what you want and she does what she wants. Plenty of room for everyone.
At Parsons Boulevard the train empties and we go up the stairs and out of the subway. We stop in a candy store and I try to phone my house. Still no answer. Cici says we have to walk a few blocks to the main drag, Jamaica Avenue. Everything’s there.
At Woolworth’s the lunch turns out to be sensational. I eat two gigantic chow mein sandwiches and they’re nothing like I thought they’d be. It’s a big blob of really great chow mein served with a whole bunch of crispy fried noodles on a soft hamburger bun and it’s delicious. Plus—you won’t believe this—it only costs a dime.
I don’t know much about the price of chow mein sandwiches, but when the girl behind the counter asks for a nickel for an orange drink, I nearly choke. And it’s not just what they charge for the food, it’s everything—lipsticks, hair junk, school stuff—it’s all way less than the regular price. I look around to see if it’s a special sale day, but I don’t see any signs. I try to think of an easy explanation, but the only plausible one I can come up with (and I admit it’s reaching a bit) is that I just wasn’t paying attention again. That’s what my science teacher is always saying about me. I dream.
Well, I must have been dreaming the day they explained all this. I mean this whole thing was probably planned in advance as a commemoration of some national event, and the day they told everyone, I just wasn’t listening. I was probably dreaming or doodling or something like that, and now here I am stuck right smack in the middle and too embarrassed to ask. Serves me right, I guess.
The other explanation is a lot simpler: I’ve flipped my lid, gone bananas. All that science homework that Mr. Flynn gives could really make you crazy.
Six
If either of those explanations don’t really grab you, I’ve got another one. Only I can’t exactly describe it because it’s very far out, more of a feeling than something tangible. But there are three things I’m absolutely certain about: One, all this has nothing to do with any of my real problems (being suspended from school and being falsely and practically accused of dealing dope, which is really horrendously unfair). Two, it started way back there on the train. And three, it’s really major stuff. I can tell because the feelings I’m getting are very negative. For a person who gets jumpy just going up in an elevator alone at night, this is off-your-rocker stuff. So far I haven’t—gone off my rocker, I mean. But I think that’s mainly because of Cici. She’s solid and real and I trust her completely; and that’s what keeps me calm, sane, cool. Meanwhile, I think I just saw my solid trustworthy friend take the old five-finger discount. That’s shoplifting in case you didn’t know. Though why she wants something that says “toggle bolts” on the package beats me. For that matter, what is a toggle bolt anyway?
“What did you do that for?” I whisper into her shoulder.
“What?” she says, all innocent.
“Steal the funny-looking bolt.”
“Oh,” she says, really crushed, “you saw me take it?”
“Sure, you scooped it up your sleeve.”
“How about the eraser?”
“I missed that one.”
“Aha! It worked. That’s my new method. See, what I do is lick my palm and then press it down hard on the eraser and—presto!—it sticks to my hand, and then it’s simple to slip it right into my pocket. Watch.”
And she goes to work. With a great flourish, she licks her hand and jams it down against a small rubber electrical plug. A hundred people turn to look. Including the store manager. She’s the worst thief I’ve ever seen. I try to make crazy motions to her so she doesn’t put the plug in her pocket, but she’s so carried away with her n
ew method that she doesn’t notice my frantic hand motions until it’s too late. I never thought being collared meant the store manager comes over and actually grabs you by the collar. But that’s exactly what happens to Cici and with me standing there like some kind of jerk not knowing what to do.
Meanwhile the manager goes into a long spiel about how he’s going to call her parents, the police, her school, et cetera, and he’s going to press charges, and with this black mark against her she’ll never be able to go to college or hold a job or anything. After he goes on for about five minutes about how she’s finished for life, he says to her, “And now, young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?”
And Cici turns to him and says, bold as brass, “Ohta foeks elitna meonmen ogla.”
Right on! I think she must be the greatest girl I ever knew in my whole life.
“Mashconki,” she says to me, “wahofa dorma conchi?”
I shrug my shoulder and answer, “Vaggon.”
Now she tyrns back to the manager, who’s looking very confused, and gives him a huge Yugoslavian-type smile (whatever that is) and, reaching over to the counter, takes another of those indispensable rubber plugs and with the most heartbreaking of limps drags herself over to me and hands me the plug. Now, obviously in excruciating pain, she makes her way back to the speechless manager and with a hideously lopsided curtsey, mumbles to him, “Absarupa,” and shakes his hand.
Taking my cue from her (but with only the courage for a small facial tic), I nod to the manager and also shake his hand and give him a hearty, “Absarupa.”
It’s all so successful that we turn to the crowd that has gathered and with a humble bow and our warmest smiles, wish them all an “Absarupa.” I think I see tears in one old woman’s eyes as they answer in unison, “Absarupa.”
Hostilely they turn to the manager, who swallows his embarrassment, stuffs two more plugs into Cici’s twisted hand, and gulps, “Absarupa.”
Now, for the final touch, Cici contorts her head toward the audience, and with such effort that her whole body trembles, says, “Omerika goot!”
My stomach is beginning to turn, but the crowd applauds, and with one last (I hope) magnificent gesture, Cici hands each person a brown rubber plug. One thing I can tell about Cici already is that she doesn’t know when to stop, so I allow her one last “Absarupa,” grab her by her good arm, and shove her toward the exit. We move pretty fast, considering her afflictions.
A minor miracle strikes somewhere between the lipstick counter and the front glass doors, and when we burst into the street, she’s completely cured; Grabbing hands, we charge down the block, zip across the street and down the next block, yelping with laughter, gasping for breath. With a tug from Cici we go flying slam into the ticket booth of a movie theatre. Still hysterical.
“You’re crazy,” I tell her between giggles and snorts. “I can’t believe we got away with it. He must be some kind of a moron.”
“I’ve got this terrific idea for when we go back later,” says my lunatic friend. “1 got this thing we can do with our jackets that’ll make us look like Siamese twins. We both get into the same jacket. Here, all you do is …” And she starts to wiggle out of her jacket.
“Show me later,” I say, pushing her jacket back on. “We’ll miss the movie.”
No question about it, I was right. Cici is sensational, but she definitely doesn’t know when to stop. Never in my life will I enter that five-and-dime again. I start fishing into my pockets for my money.
“Did you see these pictures?” she asks, and out comes that rolled-up rag again as she digs into her bag for money.
I study the movie posters. “No, but I think they were on TV.”
“Huh?” she says, screwing up her forehead like she never heard of TV or something. “On what?”
There goes that feeling again. “Nothing,” I say. “They look super to me. Actually I’ve been dying to see them.” It’s not true, but it seems to satisfy Cici, and besides, something tells me it’s better not to go into it now. Then I catch sight of the admission price. At first glance I think it says seventeen cents, then I realized that that must be the tax so I study it closer. It’s really weird, but it’s not the tax. That’s the whole price. Seventeen cents to see Laura and Since You Went Away. Even if we are in Queens and they are old movies, still, that’s the most incredible bargain I’ve ever heard of. At that price I can afford to be a sport, so I pay for both tickets.
“Hey!” Cici is delighted. “Thanks. That’s terrif. I’ll buy the candy.”
We go in and it’s one of those gigantic old theaters that looks like a castle in fairyland. It’s even got that funny kind of ceiling my mother used to tell me about. It’s fixed up to twinkle. When my mother was little, her brother, my uncle Steve, used to take her to scary movies and she’d spend the whole time staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out how they did it. If she didn’t tell me that they run a movie of the sky on the ceiling, I would never know. It’s so incredibly real-looking. I didn’t think they had this stuff in theaters anymore. Bet this is probably the last one left in the city.
We find two perfect seats right in the center aisle and start squeezing in past the people when somebody flashes a big spotlight on us.
“Just a minute there, girls. Where do you think you’re going?” It’s a woman’s voice. Cici grabs my arm and starts pulling me as fast as she can in the opposite direction, crunching toes, bumping knees, and tripping over people.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” we keep mumbling.
“Hey, watch it!”
“What d’ye think you’re doing!” Everyone in the row is furious.
The flashing light circle is bounding over us. Whistles, applauding, and angry shouts come from the rest of the audience. Oh, God, it’s like the class trip, only no Miss Fatso. Worse. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a nine-foot-tall Amazon in a white uniform right out of all those women’s prison movies. I don’t even bother to look where I’m going. I just let Cici lead me.
We dash up the aisle and into the lobby and shoot behind a huge goldfish pond with a waterfall and a real goldfish the size of a flounder in it. We spot the monster prison matron coming up the aisle hot on our trail, red-faced, huffing, and furious. She goes right over the next aisle and stands there waiting to catch us. Cici starts to wiggle out of her jacket. Oh, please, God, don’t let it be that awful Siamese-twin thing.
Now I’m really shaking and I don’t even know why. I didn’t do anything wrong. I paid for the tickets. I think. Why is that monster chasing us? And why are we running? Now Cici starts to laugh. We’re going to end up spending the whole double feature crouched behind the goldfish pond. Maybe that’s why it’s only seventeen cents.
“As soon as the witch goes down that aisle,” she says, giggling and loving the whole thing, “we’ll make a run for the end aisle.” And she ties her jacket around her waist, the better to run with. Whew. At least it’s not the twin trick.
“Why?” I ask her. I mean this is really getting silly, running and not knowing why.
“Because it’s against the wall and she won’t be able to see our outline.”
“No,” I say, “I mean why are we running?”
“So we don’t have to sit in the children’s section.”
“The children’s section! Gross! I’m almost fourteen. Why should I sit in the children’s section?”
“Because that thing says so,” she says, jerking her head toward the gargantuan matron. “She’s in charge of the children’s section, and she doesn’t care how old you are. If she says you sit there, it’s tough. You sit there. Now, are you ready to make a dash for the end aisle?”
“You bet« Nobody’s putting me in any silly children’s section.”
With the matron’s back toward us, we shoot for the end aisle. A second before the aisle door, Cici stops dead.
“My dress! I left my dress behind the goldfish pond.”
That ball of rags is a dress? No way.
/> “Leave it,” I say. “We’ll get it later on our way out.”
“No good. Somebody’ll take it.”
Not unless there’s a garbage pickup. I’d really love to know who’d want that thing, but she seems so attached to it I can’t ask.
“You want to wait here?” she says.
“Uh-uh.” No, sir. I’m not about to take a chance on losing Cici. She may be my last friend in the world.
So we race back. Just as I thought, the dress is rolled up in a ball right where she left it. She’s really relieved and jams it into her bag. Here we are again, back crouching behind the fish pond. By now I figure we’ve missed about one-third of the movie. Cici reads my thoughts. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I always sit through them twice anyway.”
“Okay, now’s our chance,” Cici says and we fly toward the end aisle. Just as we hit the door, the matron comes out of the other aisle and spots us.
“Come back here this instant.”
Oh, boy, four huge steps and she’s halfway across the theater. We race through the door and into a wall of darkness. It takes a couple of seconds to be able to focus. I can hear the heavy thud of her feet behind us. Nightmare! Wouldn’t you know I don’t see any empty seats. Then, just as the light begins to crack through the door behind us, Cici spots two seats a couple of rows ahead. They’re not together; one is on each side of a man. We lunge for them. Cici slides in past the man and I take the one closest to the aisle. Just as we thump down into our seats, the ominous flashlight comes bounding down the aisle, leaping up and down the rows searching for the escaped murderers.
I fight down the urge to slide down in my seat. The littler I am, the more I’ll look like a kid, so I sit up as tall as I can. Maybe she’ll think I’m the guy’s wife. Now the other people are beginning to give the matron nasty looks. She’s disturbing them. My idea works—she can’t find us so she has to retreat. I peek around and see her face in the little window of the door. She’s probably going to hang out there waiting to trap us. Well, she’s going to have a long wait because we’re not planning to move for a good four hours.
My Mother Was Never A Kid (Victoria Martin Trilogy) Page 6