At Pepe’s funeral Grandpa told me, “Be proud you come from people who don’t wait for life’s punches, Claudeline. We swing first.”
Incidentally, about the gangsters after gangsters in my life. You gotta remember that for me, it’s the same as if your family is heavy on the teachers, or jam-packed with dentists. Careers clump together in families, I’ve noticed.
And gangster families are like dentist families in other ways too. Like how you’re closer to some relatives than others. Since Grandpa died, I’d been obsessed with wishing I was named Song. As if having different names put us further apart than being dead and alive. When I asked Dad why I got stuck with the French last name, he told me Mom wanted to name me after her because she couldn’t wait to have somebody brand-new in her family. A whole new person, with no history, to share her name with. It still shocked me that there was a time Mom was so thrilled about me that she wanted us to have our own club.
I grabbed my toes and stretched my legs in the air, like a newborn baby who just discovered her feet. And I thought, You know, Mom is insane. Nobody has no history, including a newborn baby. Before you even open your mouth, people make up stories about you. Not to mention the stories you get born right into the middle of, whether you like it or not.
I looked out my window at Brett’s and thought about his stories, and the people who asked about them, even when it was none of their business. Such as asking as soon as they meet him, “How did you lose that finger?” Or, “So wait, are you African American or Iraqi or from the DR or what?” Try answering “What are you?” when the obvious answer is “A human being,” or “What’s your dad’s job?” when you’ve never met your dad, because he’s in jail for life.
That was something I loved about Brett. He didn’t mind if people asked him questions. He just didn’t answer unless he felt like it.
I let go of my toes and splatted flat on my bed.
Brett.
Hmph.
I shut my curtains and decided to check my e-mail. Maybe the dying poet had written me back. She’d ask me to transfer ten thousand dollars to a bank account on an uncharted desert island, and I could show it to Mom, and we could bury this charity case forever.
And whaddayaknow:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
dear claudeline, so jealous of yr pretty name i am obsessed with french. bonjour!
thanx 4 writing 2 me. u know what’s weird? we prolly saw each other hundreds of times in the park and never noticed. u sure u live in s.p.?? anyways, we have much in common i can tell ;)
i only have 10 minutes per day the doctors allow me 2 write email so please 4give me if i don’t write back fast. will u tell me more about yrself? i get crazy happy when people email me. which should tell u how lame my life is right now! anyways, everybody has problems, right?
xo alma
p.s. keep yr eyes open 4 Untitled #206. i’m gonna ***try*** 2 make it cool like u.
p.p.s. u really do seem cool. and funny!!
FRIEND COUNT: 206
Never underestimate the POWER of FRIENDSHIP
almalingonberry/circleoftenthousand/joinus
---sent from my phone---
I leaned back and reread the message.
Kinda disappointing she hadn’t straight-up asked for my parents’ credit-card numbers.
Oh well. Now that some time had passed, I honestly didn’t care who Alma Lingonberry was, or what Mom had to do with her. I just didn’t. I’d been staring at my closed curtains for at least two minutes before I remembered I didn’t care about Brett, either.
I sighed and reread Alma’s message.
everybody has problems, right?
u really do seem cool. and funny!!
Was it more fishy than it was boring, or the other way around?
Did I just say I didn’t care who this girl was?
Yeah. Well, here is a thing I’ve observed. When something is sitting right in front of your face, it’s hard not to mess around with it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Alma—or whatever your name is:
Although it is nice hearing from you, possibly I did not make myself clear. I know a lot of people in Sunset Park. It would be a smart idea for you and me to speak to each other. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Meanwhile, please answer a few questions:
1. Which street did you live on before “the hospital”?
2. When can we meet in person?
3. What school do you go to?
Nobody in my neighborhood has time for frauds and psychos, especially me. I’m trying to make this easy on you. Confess now, we forget you ever existed. Keep posting flyers? Expect problems.
Claude
P.S. I’ve observed that you have a phone. Please send your number, so I can call you.
I reread Alma’s message; then I reread mine.
Hers just sounded cheesy. Mine sounded kind of insane. Maybe I was overreacting?
I sighed. And sighed again.
This whole thing was ridiculous.
I hit send, set my laptop on the floor, and crawled under my covers. I’d never wanted to be some kid detective, and I still didn’t. But whoever Alma Lingonberry was, she’d better start being more careful. If she kept popping up in my face, she might just end up getting looked at.
MOTHER FINGERLESS
I’m just trying to change the world, one sequin at a time.
—Lady Gaga, musician
“‘The universe is sacred. You cannot improve it. If you try to change it, you will ruin it. If you try to hold it, you will lose it,’” said Brett, reading from his philosophy book.
Finally it was Thursday. I had almost not showed up. I had almost stayed home and waited for my next Alma e-mail so I could spend the day becoming the kid detective I did not want to become, but would become, anyway, out of spite, simply to show Brett that I had other stuff to do besides wait for him to have time for me again.
But I couldn’t help it. I missed him. I wanted us to go back to normal.
My view was an upside-down version of us in the mirror on the back of Brett’s bedroom door. Upside-down Brett in his black hoodie and shorts, pacing. The upside-down poster of the old-timey alien movie. My upside-down head with my upside-down ponytail dangling off the edge of his bed, where I was stretched out, in my green sundress, which I’d worn to make a joke about how getting together was all of a sudden such a special occasion.
But Brett hadn’t noticed that I was dressed up. He’d barely noticed me walk in the room. He’d been having a conversation with his book ever since I got there.
I was waiting for him to stop talking so I could start. I’d had a nightmare that a pair of tall black boots was waiting for me outside my bedroom door. Boots reaching up to the sky, with nobody inside them. When I woke up, I knew I needed to show Brett the Thing in my photograph as soon as possible. If I didn’t, it might stomp me in my sleep.
And so there I was, lying on Brett’s bed, waiting for my opening, while he paced back and forth, and up and down, and in circles, and rectangles, and trapezoids, reading aloud from his book.
“A sage. That’s what I’d like to be. Possibly a monk. I’m not sure of the difference. In some jails, priests talk to the convicts. Do they let monks do that too? Or sages? Like, what if a sage dropped by my father’s cell to talk about the meaning of life. And then, what if he found out the sage was his son?” Brett laughed. “Wow. That would be—”
He wasn’t really giving me an opening, so I decided to make my own.
“Aooouuummmm,” I said.
“What?” said Brett.
“Aooouuummmm. Aooouuummmm.”
“Claude, stop.” Brett’s desk lamp shone behind his head. He looked like an upside-down glowing cutout of himself. All shoulders and curls.
“I’m meditating,” I said.
“You’re making fu
n of me,” said Brett.
“No. I just have no idea what you’re talking about. And sometimes other people have things they need to talk about.” I sat up and leaned on my elbows. “Whoa. Head rush.” I scooted off the bed, straightened out my sundress, and slipped into my sandals.
I don’t know what possessed me to fling open his bedroom door; maybe it was something I’d seen on television. But I did it too hard, which made me feel like a drama queen, which was embarrassing. And once the door was open, I told myself, Now you have to go through it. Again, possibly that was something I’d seen on television.
I clomped down the stairs, thinking, This time Brett will wonder what is wrong with me, and I will leave him alone for a few days to stress out about it. Then, when we do talk, he’ll listen, for once. I stuck my hand in my pocket. My photograph was getting soft from all the messing with it.
“Mother Fingerless!” I yelled. “I’m starving!”
A jazzy Frank Sinatra song blasted from the record player.
Mother Fingerless yelled, “I knew it, because you never get fed, because your parents are running around. Sometime I’m going to talk to your parents, Claudeline.”
“I was joking. We always got fermented soy sauce and leftover broccoli, even if it is a couple months old.”
“A couple of months?” yelled Mother Fingerless. “That’s it. I’m calling social services.”
“Ma, I’m joking! Jokes! They’re funny,” I said, hopping off the last step and landing on the spotless kitchen floor.
Mother Fingerless looked down at me. “You’re not funny,” she said. “Sit.”
I took a seat at the kitchen table underneath the dangling lamp with the multicolored shade while Mother Fingerless clanged around heating up salami soup. When it was ready, she set a bowl in front of me along with a paper napkin folded into a triangle and a big silver spoon. Then she started in with the complaining, first about my behavior, then about everything she needed to do and how hard it was without help since her sisters died, and without any men around except Brett. The bright spot was her fund-raiser. She was crafting toy animals to raise money for Alma Lingonberry. It kept everything in perspective. She was setting up a table at the Sunset Park carnival in a couple weeks, and she had a great idea, which was that I help her.
I unfolded my napkin. “Sure, I got an idea for a crafty creature. It’s a skeleton of a baby eel with angel wings, writing a poem.”
Mother Fingerless sank into the chair across from me and flapped open her napkin. “Every night, Claudeline, I pray for you. The day is coming when you wake up and say, ‘I wanna be good.’ Then we’ll go to church and you’ll start the right direction. You know what, Claudeline? Help me raise money for Alma. No joking. For real.”
“What a coincidence, Mother Fingerless. I pray for you, too. To the god of salami.”
“Seriously! Learn something from an honest girl, you bad kid.”
When I heard Brett’s heavy footsteps on the stairs I talked somewhat louder than necessary.
“A young monk once told me that if you try to change the universe, you’ll ruin it for everybody. Meaning, when Annabelle Lollipops bites it, she bites it. It’s called destiny.”
“Claudeline!” said Mother Fingerless. “Who on this green earth says such nonsense?”
Salami chunks bobbed in my soup.
“Philosophers,” I said.
I heard Brett stop. I felt him watching me, from the stairs.
I wasn’t sure where I was headed with the topic of destiny, but my mouth didn’t know that, so it kept going.
“See, Ma,” I said, “I’m a philosopher. I think about the universe, and all that.”
“What’s your philosophy, I’d like to know,” said Mother Fingerless, stirring her soup.
I thought about that for a split second. “My philosophy is that bad guys are the new good guys. Have you ever watched television, or movies?”
“Don’t sass me, Claudeline. You know I never miss my shows.”
“So you know how many bad guys are heroes. Everyone is always rooting for them. That’s because there’s no such thing as bad guys anymore. It’s like, bad guys are secret good guys, plus about ninety-nine times more fascinating, so people should do whatever they want, as long as they’re not too boring.”
“Who are you kidding?” said Mother Fingerless. “Yourself?”
“C’mon, Ma. Whose soul would you save if the bad guys stopped coming around?”
“I want you to come around every day and finish your soup and gain about ten pounds. And you’re gonna help me with my fund-raiser, too, okay? For Alma. This is a conversation between two hearts, and I know we’re gonna get somewhere with it. I’m not scared of the devil in you.”
“Thanks, Ma. I’m not scared of you, either. But I don’t got time for fund-raisers. I got my own destiny to live up to.”
“What destiny?” said Mother Fingerless. “Crowing around like a rooster, like your father and his friends? Being idle?”
I stirred my soup slowly. Salami chunks and green flakes bobbed in the cloudy broth.
“Or whatever,” I said.
Did I mean what I was saying? Did I know what I was saying? I wasn’t sure. The Thing was glaring at me, with its jaws wide open and about seven rows of razor-sharp teeth ready to chomp. When I got close to it, my brain waves scrambled my security system so it couldn’t get me.
I scooped up a bite with a chunk in it and heard Brett’s bedroom door shut.
LALA THE POET
Right is not right; so is not so. If right were really right it would differ so clearly from not right that there would be no need for argument. If so were really so, it would differ so clearly from not so that there would be no need for argument.
—Zhuang Tzu, philosopher
As I went up the steps to my apartment, my head was quiet, like my thoughts had gotten exhausted of each other and quit speaking. When I unlocked the front door, I heard, “Hey, kid.”
“Yo, Dad,” I said.
I took my time slipping out of my sandals, retying my belt, and straightening out my necklace from Grandpa, the gold chain with the heart. Normally, my outfits don’t have pieces that need adjusting. When I remembered how much I’d been looking forward to seeing Brett when I’d put on this one, I sighed.
Sliding down the hall in bare feet was impossible, so I walked to the kitchen on tiptoes, like a ballerina. When I poked my head in the doorway, I lifted my foot behind me for a dance move. Dad was sitting at the table, playing cards by himself. My heart dipped. The cards were Grandpa’s. I fell into a seat across from him.
Dad dealt and flipped, flipped and dealt. “Look at you, Claude. Swanky. You got a date?”
I stared at him.
“Sorry. Pops aren’t supposed to notice stuff like that, right? You’ll always be my baby girl, that’s all. You’re growing up.”
“DAD!”
He chuckled and flicked my hands off his cards. “How you doin’, kid? Feel like I never see you anymore.”
I leaned on my elbow, smooshing my cheek. That’s identical to how I feel was what I felt like saying, even though I saw him all the time. But the Thing was outside the kitchen door, growling, and I needed a break from yelling “Sit! Stay!” So instead of saying “Me too, Dad. What’s the deal with our family?” I said, “Is Mom friends with the psycho poet?”
Dad flipped, dealt. “Who?”
“Alma Lingonberry,” I said. “The girl on the flyers, who is supposedly sick. Remember, Mom had a bunch of them the other day?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dad.
“Um, liar? We had a whole conversation about her at Skippy Chin’s? You said I was mean and cold-hearted, plus I got a big mouth? Nobody’s gonna help me when I need it and whatnot?”
Dad stood. He was wearing his leather vest and the red T-shirt with the skull with the flaming eyes. “Want some popcorn?”
“We have popcorn?” I made an event of stretchin
g my neck like a periscope to inspect our bare kitchen.
From the darkest corner of a cabinet Dad pulled out a bag of popcorn. He read the back of the bag, unwrapped it, and stuck it in the microwave.
“Whatever,” I said. “I don’t care about that girl, or why Mom is in love with her.”
Dad sat back down. His chair scooted forward in tiny jumps, eek, eek, eek. Then he flipped, dealt, dealt, flipped.
I pulled the elastic out of my ponytail and shook my hair. It smelled like flowers and honey from having gotten washed that morning. I could also smell the chemical-buttery scent of the popcorn. Kind of interesting, having food getting made in the kitchen. Not quite the same scene as the restaurant, but not terrible. I shot the hair elastic at the warped calendar.
“What do they call girls your age?” said Dad. “Tweens? Pretty soon I’ll be working overtime, keeping those romantic type of thugs away from you.”
“Stop,” I said.
When Dad smiled, his scar jumped. He took one card and used it to scoop up the rest of them in a smooth motion, the same way Grandpa had taught me. That motion turned into a wave of sadness so strong it almost wiped me out. Except for the scar, Dad was still the cute boy in my photograph.
That’s when the Thing buzzed into my ear and stung me. Your father knows me, too, Claudeline, it hissed. I’ve haunted him for his entire life.
My face felt hot, like I was swelling up. It was true, wasn’t it? The Thing had bullied Dad, and now it had locked its yellow eyeballs on me.
What did it want from us? I mean, seriously.
“When are you gonna teach me Grandpa’s business?” I asked.
“I told you not to worry about that, Claude,” said Dad.
“Have you ever thought,” I said, “that if you answered my questions about the stuff I’m worried about, I might be less worried about it?”
The Bad Kid Page 6