“Jackson, who do you think you are, Superman?”
“You called the police!”
“Of course. I knew neither you nor I could tackle those gangsters alone.”
“We nearly did. Nearly.” I could sink into the soft safety of her and fall asleep, just melt away forever. But I can hear Badman talking, right next to my ear, and he’s taking one of Bev’s hands and pumping it up and down.
Badman and I look at each other.
“Thanks, buddy,” says Badman. “That was one brave act.”
“I couldn’t have done it without Asim.”
Badman puts out his hand. “Thanks, Asim. I owe you,” and he shakes his hand.
“You did the quick thinking,” Asim replies.
We’re quiet, watching the police prod Tony, then Rocky, down the hall. Their wrists are cuffed, their faces dark as storms. The left side of Tony’s face is black with gunpowder, and he’s lost one of his eyebrows. We all shrink against the wall as they pass, not wanting any part of us to be close to them.
“We make a good team,” Badman says hesitantly. “The three of us.”
I’m just about to correct him when Esmerelda does that. “Four,” she pipes up weakly from the floor.
16. Esmerelda
“Are you nervous?” asks Lilly.
“Not really,” I tell her.
“I guess after what you’ve been through, this puny concert is nothing.”
“No, Lilly, it’s everything.”
We smile at each other. Although we’ve known each other since we were little kids, it feels like the first time we’ve really seen each other. A lot of that has been my fault. Not saying what I felt. Not telling the truth. Often it’s just easier to go along with what someone else wants—but you never get close that way, never be yourself. It was Badman who made me see it. That night in the cellar, when he asked me why I didn’t sing rock if I liked it so much, I sounded so pathetic in my own ears. “But you’re stronger than that!” he said, and I thought for the first time, maybe I am.
“You know, I really like ‘A Different Door,’” says Lilly, smoothing out her pink dress. “I think it’s very—well, intense. I hope Mrs. Reilly doesn’t notice the swearing. But you know what I like best? Being a backup singer and getting to dance on stage. And wearing this pink dress.”
Catrina comes up, and puts her hand on Lilly’s shoulder. “Me, too. If you hadn’t decided to change everything, Ez, and sing with the Badman, I wouldn’t be about to go up on stage with Lils. What do you think of the dress on me? Is it too tight?”
“No—shows off your curves. Are you wearing a pushup bra?”
“Yeah, it’s pink, too.”
Lilly sits down beside me. She looks at the writing on my cast. “Walk on the wild side,” she reads aloud.
“That’s Badman,” I laugh.
She nods. “You know, this is all kind of a relief, to tell you the truth. I always got too nervous trying to carry the tune. And, well, I hated depending on you, but having to pretend that I didn’t.” She looks down at her pink lap, the sequins practically shouting in the footlights. “But I love all the other stuff about performing, you know, the glamour and the dancing and the clapping! I didn’t want to give that up.” She pauses a moment. “Me and Catrina, we won’t be standing too far back though, will we? I mean, we’re backup singers and all but we’ll be right next to you in the front, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t mind where you stand as long as we’re singing that song.”
“Oh, Ez, none of it matters anyway—I’m just so glad my oldest friend is okay!”
She gives me a hug. There’ve been so many hugs in the last three weeks I’d have sore arms even if one wasn’t broken. But like ice cream, each hug has a different flavor.
Under the cast, my skin itches like a million mosquito bites. Especially down near the elbow where I can’t scratch. I’ve got three pins in there holding my bones together. But I can put up with that. I can put up with anything. Right now, I feel invincible—that’s a line from a famous song, Valerie told me last night: “I Am Woman.” Valerie loves it.
She looks so happy out there in the audience. Jackson said she cried for two days nonstop when Bev brought him home. And when he told her she had to stop crying because if she went on for another day that would make three and it would be bad luck, she started all over again. But since she’s dried up, I’ve never seen her look sunnier. It’s as if she’s put down a heavy package and now she can stand up with her back straight.
Next to her is my family. Wow, look at Mom in her black dress. She went out and bought it especially for the concert. And tonight of all nights there was her annual Bank Banquet. There would have been speeches and awards like at the Oscars, and Mom was marked for a special mention as Achiever of the Year. I saw the invitation. But she didn’t even mention it. She probably bought the dress for the Banquet but wore it tonight, instead.
I remember the argument she and I had before all of this happened. Our words still run through my mind, clear as a tape on rewind. I remember how I fantasized about her saying, “If only I could have this day over again!” It’s weird because when she came to the hospital, she practically said that same thing. She said sometimes one day is like a whole life and when the day is ending, it’s like dying. You lie there and think about how you’ve spent your life and what you might have done differently. Even though it was such a terrible day, she said she was lucky to have had it because it gave her a second chance. She could start again. And there were going to be changes! Dad looked nervous when she said that, but he gave me another hug and said, “Mother knows best.”
One change I have noticed is that neither of them even ask anymore if I’ve done my math homework. Funny thing is, I don’t mind doing it now. None of it seems like such a big deal (even those percentages) because I’m doing what I love, as well.
I’m taking singing lessons with Valerie. We go together to see Ms. Juanita Perez—she’s wild, with those Roman soldier kind of sandals that lace up the leg and a vocal range that is mind-boggling. She says Valerie and I will catch up with her; she can extend anyone’s range and power with her exercises. You have to breathe in a special way and make weird noises in your throat like a wounded animal. It tickles, and at first it seems impossible but she says the throat is like any other muscle, it needs to be exercised and toned to be at its “olympic” best. I believe her, because I’ve reached at least a couple more notes on the scale and Valerie has almost half of another octave.
Mom suggested the lessons. I couldn’t believe it. We had a long talk and she told me stuff about her childhood and how poor her family had been. It ruined her father’s life, she said. Even though her mother kept telling him that they had all the important things—each other, and food on the table and healthy kids, his heart was broken. So when Mom grew up she decided she would take control of her family’s finances. But she was so busy being in control, she forgot anyone else might be different. She said she was kind of jealous of Valerie—having the guts to risk everything for her passion in life. Jealous, too, of how much time I spent with her. “But you’re my mother!” I told her. “No one could replace you.” We had this big hug and I felt like I’d suddenly grown four inches. Daniel came in then and wriggled his head up between us like a puppy. You could practically see his tail wagging.
“Esmerelda, come now and put on your costume,” Mrs. Reilly is breathing over me, “and your … er … make-up. Why do I always have to tell you people twenty times? The concert is starting in ten minutes.”
I look down at my jeans ripped at the knee, my black T-shirt, the cast on my arm scribbled all over in different pens. “But I’m already dressed,” I tell her.
Two bright red spots flare on her cheeks. She flicks her eyes over me and shakes her head. “Why do you always insist on starting a sentence with ‘But’?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Have you made up your mind to sing this ‘Different Door’ song?” Her nose wrinkles on “door�
�� as if she’s just smelled something bad.
“Yes.” I stare back at her. I try not to blink, keeping my eyes level. It’s like staring down a witch.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Esmerelda Marx.” She says my name as if the smell has returned. “If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”
I just keep staring at her. She says the stupidest things. Once, in front of the whole school assembly she shouted, “Every time I open my mouth, some fool speaks!”
She takes one step nearer, and jabs me in the chest. “Have you ever heard of Plato, girl?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “No, of course not, he was only the most famous philosopher of ancient Greece. Well he had a sign above his door: Let no one ignorant of mathematics enter here. That’s the kind of door you should be concentrating on, Miss Marx.”
In one way Lilly was right—after what I’ve been through, Mrs. Reilly’s sneers are as easy to flick away as sand from my feet. Anyway, I know a bit about old Plato. Valerie told me. Plato hated any new music coming out of Greece. He said change would break down the rules of their society. He sounded just like Frank Sinatra. Well, I’m sure Plato knew tons about math and philosophy, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss with him about music and the human soul.
Muttering to herself, Mrs. Reilly hurries off to meddle with the kindergarten. She’s taken to muttering a lot lately, ever since the principal, Mr. Phillips, talked to her. He called her into his office on the day after we returned to school. We saw her coming down the steps with her back all stooped and her mouth turned down.
You see, after the kidnapping, Badman and I decided to make an appointment with Mr. Phillips. Badman gave this wonderful speech—about how he’d woken up to himself, lifted his game, pulled up his socks, and straightened his tie. He used every expression he’d ever heard Mr. Phillips shout at him over the last year. His manners were so polished with politeness and respect you could have slid him like a piece of soap across the floor. He pleaded with Phillips to let him participate in the concert—his first real live audience! He wanted a chance to make a new start, he said, his eyes moist, to make a contribution to the school. Phillips was pretty moved, you could tell.
We walked out of there floating on air. “Maybe we can stop calling you Badman now,” I said as we came out of the principal’s office.
“Nah,” he replied, “I’m too used to it. And anyway, Dad thinks it’s a great stage name for a rocker.”
I look over now at Badman. He’s been checking his strings for the last half hour. He’s standing guarding his own space, snarling if anyone comes near. He’s as nervous as a cat, but he’d never admit it. He sees me looking and his frown lifts. I nod at him. I’d be nervous, too, if I were him. There’s a lot at stake. His dad is supposed to come tonight. When we went missing, his mother totally freaked. She couldn’t find his father and she spent the dawn hours at the police station. When the police finally tracked down his dad in New Zealand, we were already home. That really shook up Mr. Bradman. That he hadn’t even known his son was missing. Badman talked to him on the phone and he thinks his dad must have “woken up to himself.” Anyway, he promised to get back in time for the concert.
I peep around the corner of the curtain and search the audience. There’s Mrs. Bradman sitting next to Mr. Norton. He’s talking to her, nodding a lot, with a sympathetic expression on his face. He’s looking after her. He’s all right, Mr. Norton. You know what he said to us when we returned to school? He said he used to play air guitar in his bedroom. He’d pretend he was Elvis Presley and jive around in his blue, blue, blue suede shoes … He showed us his whole air guitar routine in the coat room. It was a riot! If you get a chance to do that for real, he told us, you should take it.
“Can you see him?” Badman’s looking out over my shoulder at the audience.
“Who, your dad? Not yet. But he’ll be here, he promised you.”
“Yeah, but he’s never on time. Mom told him he’ll be late for his own funeral. He said he hopes he’s so late he misses it.”
“What, the concert?”
“No, his funeral.”
“Well, he’s not the only one who’s late. Have you seen Asim, or Jackson? I wish the four of us were here together right now. It’s our first concert at high school. There’ll never be another like it.”
“Yeah,” says Badman. “Maybe next year I’ll be rippin’ it up in Auckland!”
“Hey look, there’s Asim’s dad. He’s slipped in beside Valerie.”
“He looks pretty pleased with himself … Hey, did you see that? Was that a kiss?”
“Well, whatever, I’m just glad he’s here. There are Asim and Jackson coming up the side. I was beginning to think we might have to do without a drummer.”
“No way. Rock is drums.”
Asim hurtles up the stairs of the stage and comes panting over to us. I give him a hug, seeing as they’re more common than colds around here.
“You got your sticks, drummer?” says Badman.
“Yes.” He wrings his hands. “But I don’t know about this. We haven’t rehearsed much—”
“Only every day and night for three weeks!”
“Yes, but I’ve never had any proper lessons or…” Suddenly he gives a huge grin. “I’ve got some news—”
“Oh, Jackson, look everyone, how cute is that puppy!”
We all look to where Catrina is pointing and see Jackson holding something out in front of him. Kids are crowding around until he’s entirely lost in a wriggling mass of arms and legs. I decide just to wait until all the excitement has calmed down. But a deep thump of happiness pounds in my stomach. Now we’re all together, just as it should be.
Two weeks ago, when Badman and I decided to do our own song, Valerie said we would need a place to rehearse. She cleared out the garage and put matting down on the floor. She worked for days, with Jackson and me helping after school. Asim’s dad repaired the broken windows and tiles on the roof, and checked the electrical wiring. And that’s how we became a garage band. Valerie moved in like a one-woman army and took over the musical arrangement. She convinced Asim to be our drummer, helped us with the lyrics, and brought over a guitarist she knows to go through Badman’s solo with him.
Badman loved those jam sessions. He kept falling over himself to be helpful. And he smiled so much I think his jaws must have ached. Funny, every time Asim got low in confidence, Badman was there to back him up. I think it was Badman who actually convinced him to keep going. He kept beaming like a flashlight around the garage saying, “If we can defeat the friggin’ Mafia, we can do anything!” He gave Asim such encouraging pats on the back that once he fell clean off his stool.
It’s so strange, if I hadn’t spent that incredible night in the cellar with him, I’d think his evil twin had flown away and a good guy has come in his place. But Valerie just shrugs about it. “Everyone wants to belong,” she says. “You kids are like a family now. And besides, as John Lee Hooker says, ‘Let that boy boogie woogie, ’cause it’s in him, and it’s gotta come out!’” Someone ought to have told old Plato that.
We’ve all been practically living in that garage. On the same night Valerie brought home the puppy, she brought in the keyboard. She didn’t show any of us the puppy at first. She hid it in the laundry. But you could tell she had a secret. She cornered Jackson and told him he was going to play keyboard for the concert. She’d teach him an easy bass part, and that way he could be part of the band.
“It’s really only nine notes you’ve got to learn,” she said.
“Make it an even number and I’ll consider it,” he said.
“Oh, stop counting,” she said, “and let yourself go! God knows what I’ve done to make you so anal!”
“I thought musicians had to count to stay in time,” he argued.
They fought till we started playing to drown them out. But they just moved off to the garden. Sometimes they can go on for hours. I think Jackson does it just to prove a point. Make h
imself different from her. He thinks when you battle Valerie you have to use every weapon you’ve got to resist her. But when she brought the puppy out of the laundry, Jackson melted like ice cream in the sun.
“He’s always wanted a pet of his own,” Valerie told me, “but you can’t keep an animal in an apartment. You watch, he’ll want to build a dog kennel now, just like he built that possum house.”
“Have you given him a name yet?” I ask Jackson as he pushes his way toward us.
“Yeah. Eight.”
“He’s got eight names?”
“No, just Eight.”
“So guess what,” Asim tries again. He doesn’t wait for anyone to say what? “Our visa came through! It was so sudden. It has been extended for another three years, which means we can probably get our permanent residency here in this beloved land.” He puts his hand on his heart and grins like a maniac, but I know he means it.
“That’s fantastic!” I give him another hug. Then I turn to Jackson. “Have you told Valerie yet?”
“Yeah.”
Asim is laughing and punching Jackson’s shoulder. I’ve never seen him look so happy. Almost out-of-control happy. He looks, for once, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Valerie was mad as hell,” Jackson tells me. “She says funny, isn’t it, how there was an election coming up and suddenly all the kids are let out of detention centers, and look, hey presto, a visa is granted. Mehmet had to take her by the shoulders and tell her all over again and then finally it sank in and she cried. When she hugged Asim he couldn’t breathe for about two minutes. I counted the seconds.”
More hugs!
“What are you all DOING up here behind the curtain?” Mrs. Reilly stalks up to us like a snapping crocodile. “And what on Earth is that creature doing hiding in your shirt, Jackson Ford? It’s made a wet spot right there under your collar!”
“I’m taking him out now, Mrs. Reilly.”
She stalks off to yell at other kids, and Asim and the others make for the stairs at the side of the stage. But Jackson stands still, reaching his hand out to me.
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