The Bad Kid

by Sarah Lariviere

  So. I see you’re making friends in Sunset Park. Are you from here? Because I’m from here, and your face don’t look too familiar.

  Forget I mentioned it.

  Let’s be friends!

  In person. I am willing to travel to your “hospital,” wherever it may be. Then we can talk until our faces turn green and learn everything we ever wanted to know about each other. Please send me your address and a time to visit you as soon as possible. My schedule is flexible.

  Sincerely,

  Claudeline LeBernardin

  I hit send and shut my laptop. Then I looked at Brett’s house, felt annoyed, and shut my curtains. I threw on my black jean skirt and a red T-shirt and a pair of black socks, slid down the hallway into the living room, and nestled into the corner of the couch, with the remote.

  A marathon of a show on PBS sucked me in. Every episode was the real-life story of an artist. For instance, there was a lady in China who invented a city made of floating shapes and colors, and people could go live there in their imaginations. And another lady who built spiders so huge you could walk underneath them. She was born in France and died in New York City and lived to be almost a hundred years old. These were my type of ladies, I decided. They had a front-row seat in life and took notes. If you looked them in the eye, they’d be looking right back at you.

  When the marathon ended, I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for it to be Thursday. My official appointment with Brett. How stupid. What was it, a job interview?

  No. Brett needed a surprise visit from his best friend, and he needed it today. It wasn’t like he had that much more of a life than me.

  The sky was gray clouds, and the hot air made my T-shirt stick to my skin. I threw four or five garden decorations and watched them death-spiral to the sidewalk. Then I observed the shadow of a king penguin, ducking out of sight.

  Did he think I wouldn’t notice?

  I found a few rocks and was chucking them as hard as I could until I heard Mother Fingerless unlocking the front door and ran to the N train, which was crowded and smelled like feet.

  Walking up the sidewalk toward Guillaume’s, I dodged elbows and smokers, feeling humiliated.

  And Mom wasted no time snuffing any hope I might’ve had about our family going back to normal after television night. When I walked in the door, she said, “Please don’t be here,” held up her hand, and walked away.

  I took my stool at the bar. For the first time, I noticed that the mirrors along the dining room wall all tilted at slightly different angles. I looked unhappy from every direction.

  Rita the Producer was also in a lousy mood.

  Here is a thing I’ve observed about lousy moods. Sometimes when two people are in one, and those two people run into each other, their lousy moods block off traffic, light up a barbecue, and before you know it, the two people are somewhat enjoying themselves.

  “Everybody in this city is an egomaniac,” said Rita. “If dating doesn’t do me in, show business will.”

  Rita’s hair had lost some of its usual poof, but her eyes made up for it.

  “You look awful,” I said.

  “Thanks,” said Rita. “So do you.”

  Phil gave Rita a drink. “Actors and directors, the writers and showbiz whatnot, they’re needy people. They got lotsa problems, from what I can tell.”

  “I don’t know how long it’s been since I went on a date with a man who had a sense of humor about himself,” said Rita. “Everybody sucks.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’m sick of sucky people.”

  “Just remembered!” said Rita. “Not supposed to use the word ‘sucks’ around kids! My sister consistently points that out. Guess what? Don’t know the rules! No boyfriend! Not a parent!”

  “Parents are overrated, Rita,” I said. “Stay how you are.”

  We both looked toward the hostess stand. Mom was winding her hair around a pen.

  Rita pulled a spotless handkerchief out of her black suit jacket and dabbed around her nose, like she didn’t want to risk denting her face. “Know what I’m gonna do, Claude?”

  “If I was a fortune-teller, maybe . . .”

  “Quit my job, take down my online dating profile, and sit in cafés all day, by myself, and write my screenplay,” said Rita.

  “A screenplay is a movie?” I asked.

  “It’s the script,” said Rita. “Your turn. Tell me a story, Claude.”

  “I got nothin’,” I said.

  Rita elbowed me. “Make me laugh. Tell me one about you and Brett.”

  Brett, who’d just pretended not to see me. My heart felt like a ball that had lost its bounce. If I was a different person, I would’ve said something like, “I need a hug, Rita.” But I was not a different person, so I said, “Brett’s boring, Rita. I need a new friend who’s more like me. Brett’s too much of a . . .” I closed my eyes, which were starting to ache, like they didn’t want to keep looking at the whole dumb world.

  “Your family, then,” said Rita. “Okay, so secretly?”

  I put my fists on my eyes. “Secretly?”

  “Secretly, Claude, I want to put your family, all those gangster characters, in my screenplay. If I ever write it. Which I won’t, but still.”

  “Why won’t you write it?” I asked.

  “I can’t,” said Rita.

  I moved my fists just far enough out of my eye sockets to give her my statue stare. Like I was two or three thousand years old.

  “Rita,” I said. “You’re a Manhattan rich lady. You can do whatever you want.”

  “Money I’ve got. Talent? Forget it.”

  “Write a bad movie,” I said. “Bad movies are better, sometimes. All Brett’s favorite old-timey alien movies . . .” I sighed. I hadn’t meant to say the word “Brett.”

  “Brett’s favorite movies are what?” asked Rita.

  “Are bad,” I said. “Which is what makes them so good.”

  Rita sniffed. “Use your family stories to write a bad gangster movie? There’s a career move.”

  I sighed again, louder. “Who cares? And Grandpa Si would’ve loved having somebody make a movie about him. My only suggestion is to leave out my mother.”

  “I can’t write in New York anyway,” said Rita. “Hollywood is where I should be. California is mellow. That’s the problem with my life, Claudeline. New York.”

  “You can’t write your screenplay in New York,” I said, “but it’s your ticket to Hollywood. So how are you gonna get to Hollywood?”

  “I’d never fit in with that California beach crowd, anyway.” Rita sniffed. “What would I wear?”

  For a big-time Manhattan player, Rita sure was scared of a lot of stuff.

  I talked quietly. “Here’s what you write in your screenplay, Rita. It happened a long time ago, in a whole other country, back when Dad was more active.”

  THE FUZHOU CREW

  My friend, can your heart stand the shocking facts of grave robbers from outer space?

  —Plan 9 from Outer Space, old-timey alien movie

  The place is Fuzhou, China. The time is a long time ago. My dad, Simon Song Junior, is about my age, and he’s on a long vacation on account of the fact that his mother died and nobody knows what to do with him.

  Over here, Dad likes the same normal kid things he likes at home in Brooklyn. Stealing motorcycles. Collecting throwing stars. Getting tattoos.

  One day, though, he and his Fuzhou crew—since we’re speaking English, we’ll call ’em Gino the Goon, Farmer Mary, and the other girl, we’re gonna call her . . . Sheila. Sheila the Electrical Meltdown. Dad and his crew are sittin’ on the edge of the Dumpster behind the toughest dumpling palace in town.

  And they’re starving.

  Sheila the Electrical Meltdown, she’s Dad’s best friend. His partner in crime. And also she has an unusual personal style, for a kid. Like she’s got short yellow hair and wears a treasure chest of bracelets and necklaces. She also likes books, but she takes pride in the fact of putting t
hem away when her friends come over.

  Gino the Goon is the one with the muscles. There are so many people in his family, he stopped counting at 257. They all love to drink protein shakes and argue. Gino’s a master of every sport, including a special kind of swimming where you do the backstroke and judo at the same time. It is very rare.

  Farmer Mary hides out in the country with her cat. Every day at the crack of dawn she and her cat jog into Fuzhou along the highway, arguing about politics and whatnot. The whole time, Farmer Mary chucks handfuls of seeds into the ditches along the highway, which will grow into cornstalks so people can eat free corn. When she gets to Fuzhou, she gambles all day and all night. Farmer Mary is a high roller in the gambling world, even though she’s a kid. Her favorite outfit is a red jean skirt and a black jean jacket.

  Now. This is the most twisted dumpling palace in the whole city of Fuzhou. People say the owner trains mice to work in his kitchen chopping onions. People say that when cursed fishermen pull up nets full of deformed mermaids instead of squid, they sell ’em to this place, and the owner makes ’em his kitchen slaves. Through the windows you can see mermaid shadows rolling out dumpling dough, even at three o’clock in the morning.

  And the owner, well. He’s psycho. He’s got crossed eyes and a purple face, and he only ever whispers, or screams at the top of his lungs.

  That’s why Dad and his crew love hanging out on the Dumpster. They love to watch the psycho owner. Because his favorite thing to do is throw customers into the Dumpster. Because he always thinks his customers are insulting him. Women, dudes, babies, grannies, teenagers—­it doesn’t matter. The owner kicks open the back door and runs out in his chef’s apron, haulin’ a customer by an arm and a leg. Then he alley-oops the guy into the trash heap. The customer is drowning in paper napkins, yellin’ and screamin’ he wants his money back. And Dad and his buddies laugh. It’s their nightly entertainment, you might say.

  Until the night they’re starving. Sheila the Electrical Meltdown, she’s about to have a meltdown. She’s like, “Yo. I need dumplings, and if I don’t get them, I’m gonna melt down.”

  Sheila, I forgot to tell you, wears a lavender jumpsuit and pink sandals.

  And Dad says, “Me too.”

  Everybody agrees. They need dumplings. So they jump off the Dumpster and go around to the front door of the dumpling palace.

  But they don’t have any money.

  They’re gonna have to rob the joint.

  While I was telling my story, Guillaume’s was filling up with fancy-schmancy adults. The whole place smelled like shaving cream and new shoes. Rita scooted her stool closer to mine.

  “You are Miss Tall Tale,” she said.

  “What’s a tall tale?” I asked.

  “A highly exaggerated story,” said Rita.

  “This is a true story,” I said.

  Rita used a teasing voice. “Oh yeah? Your father robbed a lot of dumpling palaces when he was a kid?”

  “Dad robbed tons of places,” I said. “According to Grandpa, he had more motivation back then.”

  Rita’s voice turned less enthusiastic. “I suppose he taught you to rob people too?”

  “He’s not teaching me anything!” I said. “I tell ya, Rita. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with the business.”

  Rita snuck another look at Mom, who was surrounded by customers.

  I felt the Thing’s steamy breath condensing on my neck and got the shivers. “Don’t worry, already,” I said. “It’s a whaddayacallit. Tall tale. I’m giving you material for your screenplay so you can move to Hollywood and be mellow. You wanna hear the rest of this thing or what? Phil, is it okay to stay?”

  Phil handed a glass of champagne to the customer next to me. “You need another pineapple and olive,” he said. “Be right back with it.”

  “Sorry, Claude,” said Rita. “I grew up on Cape Cod. My father was a marine biologist, you know? He never robbed anybody. Go on, though. I really do want to hear.”

  I decided to skip some of the better details, about rival crews, poisonous darts, murderous robots, and all these other things I was going to bring in. Make it nice for Rita, so she wouldn’t worry about me.

  Well, they go up to the counter, Dad and his crew, with drool dripping down their chins.

  Dad yells, “EVERYBODY FREEZE!”

  But nobody does. Millions of people live in Fuzhou, and most of ’em are in this dumpling palace. You can’t even hear him. Plus, like I say, this is the toughest joint in town. Any one of the customers, from the one-­hundred-year-old granny with the beard to the fat guy with the beret, could dribble Dad outta there like a basketball.

  Sheila and Farmer Mary and Gino the Goon all yell together, “FREEZE!” but nobody notices. Everybody keeps elbowing each other out of the way to grab more sauces.

  It’s time to insult the owner.

  Gino lifts Farmer Mary onto his shoulders. Dad grabs Mary’s elbow and climbs them like a tree. Sheila crawls up the human trunk to be on top. All together, they yell:

  “WE WANNA TALK TO THE OWNER ABOUT HIS LOUSY STINKING DUMPLINGS!”

  The palace goes silent.

  Except for the chopping. The mermaid and mouse slaves in back never take a break, no matter what.

  A cloud of smoke poofs out from the kitchen. And who’s in the middle, coughing his head off?

  The psycho owner. His hair is white, and it sticks out in every direction on account of the lightning that has struck him many, many times. He walks toward the crew, dragging one foot behind him.

  Step, drag.

  Step, drag.

  Step, drag.

  Step, drag.

  He’s the exact same eye level as Dad.

  He whispers, “You want to talk to meeeee?”

  What Dad can’t see is that, behind his back, the owner is carrying a cleaver big enough to chop a ­cabbage—or something bigger, such as a kid—in half with one swipe.

  “Gimme four double orders of dumplings,” says Dad. “I want lots of hot sauce. And I want them for free.”

  Dad and the owner peer into each other’s eyes. The whole restaurant holds its breath. Slowly the owner pulls the cleaver from behind his back and raises it over his head.

  The fat guy with the beret screams.

  “What. Do. Good. Boys. Saaaaaay?” whispers the owner, with his cleaver quivering.

  “Stop! This is terrifying!” said Rita.

  “Just shh,” I said. “I’m gonna make it nice for you.”

  “Don’t kill the kid!” said Rita.

  “Shh!” I said. “Remind me to never go to your movie with you, Rita.”

  I went on.

  The Goon and Farmer Mary and Sheila and Dad lean over like that leaning-over pizza tower from the posters in Italian restaurants. They lean over so far that Dad’s nose touches the tip of the nose of the psycho owner. They can even smell each other’s cologne. Which smells like oranges and soap. Yep: Dad and the owner wear the same cologne.

  And Dad says:

  “What I said was, four double orders of dumplings. Lots of hot sauce. I want ’em for free. And I want ’em now.”

  The owner’s crossed eyes open all the way.

  He screams, “Now, what?”

  And my father says, “Now, Dad.”

  Grandpa Si spins around and hacks the cleaver straight through a cabbage. “Four double orders of dumplings for my son and his crew!”

  And everyone in the dumpling palace can breathe again, even the guy with the beret. And they all get back to their dumplings at my grandfather’s restaurant, the meanest, most delicious, most gangster joint in all of Fuzhou.

  “The end,” I said, and took a sip of pineapple juice.

  When Rita laughed, her silver tooth flashed.

  Phil slipped me an extra plate of snacks from Chef Guillaume. The restaurant felt like a party where nobody ever has to go home.

  “Claudeline, I relove my life,” said Rita.

  I dipped a green bean in l
emony sauce. It tasted like Central Park on the weekend, with the grass and the fresh air.

  “So write your bad movie already,” I said.

  “You are such a good kid,” said Rita.

  There was a first. She was kinda fancy-schmancy, and somewhat hypersensitive, but she was my true friend, Rita the Producer. I hoped she’d stay a regular for a long time.

  TALL TALES & TRUE STORIES

  I got people in my family, I wouldn’t believe ’em they told me the sky was blue.

  —Law & Order, television show

  When I got home, I kicked off my sandals and peeled off my socks. “Dad?” I called, but it was quiet. I dragged my fingers along the bumpy plaster hallway wall and around the corner into my bedroom. The smooth wood floor felt calm underneath my bare feet. I belly flopped onto my bed, which made my mattress springs bounce and squeak, and flipped on my back to stare at my ceiling, which was blank.

  Funny how things work out. One day you’re the only kid in a sketchy Brooklyn dive bar with no windows, the next you’re the only kid in a fancy-schmancy restaurant in Manhattan.

  Grandpa wasn’t a regular customer at the Wharfman’s Shore—regulars sit in chairs for way longer than Grandpa ever could. But when he came in, everybody paid attention. He was the loudest person in the room, and he talked fast, like an actor in one of Brett’s old-timey movies. He was the best dressed, too, with his shoes that clicked when he walked. If he got curious about somebody, he’d ask a zillion questions, whatever popped into his head. And if he got going with a story about why he was late or whatever, it was hilarious. You could never tell what was true and what he made up on the spot. “I had a ten-thousand-dollar bet with the Brooklyn borough president. He said I couldn’t train a poodle to play roulette. On the news tonight, you’re gonna hear that the man was on official business today, in New Jersey. I’ll tell you where he was: on official business with me. Gambling in Atlantic City!”

  I used to see my other grandfather, Pepe Renaud, at the Wharfman’s Shore too. He had thick, hairy arms and oversized fists. Mom said a tattoo of a whaling ship covered his chest, but I had to take her word for it. Pepe Renaud never talked to me—Mom said he hated kids. She said the only thing he liked was spouting off in French from his barstool to anybody who could understand him. He blended right into the place, with its dark walls full of paintings of boats tipping into crashing waves. I remember Grandpa speaking French with him, laughing and whacking him on the back.