The Bad Kid
Page 9
After everything she’d told me, it felt wrong to leave her hanging. That’s all.
To: Lil.Poet123@xmail.com
From: ClaudelineLeBernardin5@xmail.com
Dear Alma,
My computer is out of service due to my deranged mother. But try me anyway, next time you want to chat, because I have one to borrow (plus I’ll get mine back, soon).
I have been thinking about when you mentioned that people are afraid you’re going to die. I just wanted to tell you I am sorry you have to think about that.
Death is a hard thing to get stuck living with. My grandfather died a few months ago, and everything reminds me of him. Even stuff he had nothing to do with, such as the way the rain drips down my window, or some stranger’s scarf.
And this stuff that reminds me of Grandpa, I feel like it’s asking me a question. And that question is, did I ever even know him, at all? It’s like he’s gone, but he’s here more than ever, at the same time.
I want to talk to my best friend Fingerless Brett about it, but I’m making him wait (long story). I still have my girl Lala, but she’s got a boyfriend and you know how that goes.
Sometimes I feel like that tree you mentioned in Untitled #206. Lost at sea.
Do you have a best friend?
If your mother would let me bring you some durian ice cream, I would. Hopefully, somebody is.
Sincerely,
Claudeline
P.S. Feel better soon.
After I hit send, I heard thumping, shouting, and a blasting video game. It was physically impossible for the Ramirez boys to be quiet after dinner, no matter how many times Mrs. Ramirez asked them to tone it down. Lala’s squeals were the whistle in the drum line.
I swiveled in the chair. What was I gonna do after this? You hear people talk about those delectable long summer days of childhood. They forget that some days are too long.
Mrs. Ramirez poked her head in the doorway of her bedroom. “Claudeline? Five-minute warning.” She smiled at me like she’d decided I was a decent person. “You have fun with my crew here tonight?”
I nodded.
“That was some story. My sister Nina gets going like that. You remind me of her.” Mrs. Ramirez was wearing a shirt with a graph-paper pattern tucked into flowy lavender pants. When she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, I saw Lala in her again. But this time it didn’t seem funny. I saw how Lala might be when she grew up. Organized. With a feeling all around her that, way back when, life and her had made a deal to get along. “Of course, sometimes Nina laughs because she wants to cry.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Humans,” said Mrs. Ramirez. “Anyway, hope you’ll come back, Claude, and tell us some more. Maybe you can make us cry next time.”
“That sounds horrible!” I said. “Why would I do that?”
As Mrs. Ramirez disappeared down the hall, I heard her repeat, “Five minutes!”
She’d forgotten to ask how I was going to help out at the Sunset Park carnival. But I’d been thinking about it, and I’d made a decision. I decided to tell her next time I came over.
For the next five minutes I inspected the framed photographs on Mrs. Ramirez’s desk. This was what a regular family looked like. Cheerful. People wearing smiles so big they overflowed into their eyes. Not a single dog pile of gangsters posing with deadly weapons. What did Nina have to cry about, I wondered?
Everybody’s got something, I guess.
That night, walking down Fifth Avenue, I noticed all the scam flyers, the ones that say that if you call a certain 1-800 number, you can get a car loan without a job, or that someone will pay cash for your house or turn you into a fashion model overnight. But I also noticed non-scam stuff, such as restaurant menus, ads for cleaning services, and pictures of lost pets.
There’s something about a flyer. When one catches your eye, you’re not clicking through Internet land. You’re walking down a certain street, in a certain mood. Paper gets wet. It tears, and dissolves.
I stuck my hands in my pockets. My photograph was folded in half. The hot air wasn’t as thick as it had been earlier in the day. When the sun dropped off the scene, everything around me, the buildings and the cars, the street signs and the sidewalk, turned from orange to gray. The neighborhood felt soft and familiar, like I’d invented the place to fit me perfectly.
When I turned onto Sixtieth Street, I saw Brett on his stoop, reading.
It was getting dark—he was gonna ruin his eyes. Seeing him made me feel soft inside, like the neighborhood. I couldn’t wait one more day.
“Brett!” I yelled.
The king penguin closed his book.
“BRETT!” I kept walking toward him. I waved.
He got up and looked in my direction. Then he turned and walked the other way. Fast.
The kid was going blind. I breathed in to yell as loud as I could.
Then I held my breath.
He wasn’t going blind.
I stopped in my tracks and watched my best friend walk, almost run, down Sixtieth Street and turn right onto Fourth Avenue, to get away from me.
MILLIONS OF PEOPLE
When I lose my temper, honey, you can’t find it anyplace.
—Ava Gardner, actress
The next morning, sunlight dripped off spiky leaves, splattering on my feet and the sidewalk while the wild parrots of Brooklyn cawed and flapped like there was everything in the world to be delighted about. Do you know about our wild parrots? A long time ago, a few people let their pets fly free; those pets started families; now they’re just New Yorkers, like everybody else.
As I took the cap off the fat permanent marker, I felt a burst of revenge energy. I divided the first words that popped into my head over the steps going up Brett’s front stoop.
YOU
ABOUT
CARES
NOBODY
CONGRATULATIONS
Then I threw the marker at his window and ran down Sixtieth Street. The squawking parrots got louder and louder, like they were chasing me off the block. When I turned right onto Fourth Avenue, I slammed smack into a man in a plaid raincoat pushing a walker. I said, “Sorry!” way too loud and kept running. I wasn’t sure where I was going until I spotted the library. Those places have the Internet! But the sign said it wasn’t open for a couple hours.
That’s when the hurting started. First it stung my eyes; then it rang in my ears. My fingertips ached, and my stomach felt like it was dipped in cement. As I walked down Fourth Avenue toward Downtown Brooklyn, everything made me want to cry. Rusty gates opening for another long summer day of selling the same old junk. People standing in groups around bus stops, avoiding eye contact with each other. I was halfway to the clock tower, which is a landmark they built in the center of the action to look out over everybody, and remind us not to waste time, or something, I guess, when I felt so heavy I almost sat down in the middle of the sidewalk to wait for my life to make sense.
Instead, I turned around. By the time I got back to the library, I didn’t want to cry anymore. I just felt stupid. I sat on the gritty sidewalk waiting for it to open. Sometimes people passing by noticed me and smiled, like they thought I couldn’t wait to burst through the door and read every book I could get my hands on.
My heart banged its head against the wall. What was wrong with me? What was wrong with my entire family?
Concrete is not easy on your butt. I was relieved when a young-looking lady with turquoise hair and huge red eyeglasses skipped toward me with a ring of keys. She smiled like we were part of the same club. “Finally, right?” she chirped.
“Finally,” I said.
“C’mon in.” The lady stuck her key in a socket on the wall and said, “Let there be light!”
I didn’t want to disappoint the lady, so I pretended to be thrilled, running to the shelves and pulling off books, opening them and moving my eyes around. I even collected a few lightweight ones. When enough people came in that the lady seemed busy, I sat at a
computer.
When I saw Alma’s name in my inbox, I felt instantly better.
To: ClaudelineLeBernardin5@xmail.com
From: Lil.Poet123@xmail.com
Dear You,
Hey. My doctor won’t allow me to write personal responses for a while (honestly I feel awful) ***but please keep writing to me*** Your news and views mean THE WORLD now. More than I can say.
Love, Me.
Alma Lingonberry.
P.S. 2 those of u who have decided 2 make donations 2 help us pay our medical bills, i dunno what 2 say. except, we r humbled. as some of u know, my mother would not accept these payments at 1st. but recently, she has been unable 2 pay our rent. and so 2 u we humbly say, thanx. so i’m a long way from 10,000 friends, but this doesn’t make me sad. i’m truly thankful for the friends i have. won’t u spread the word?
xo almz
FRIEND COUNT: 396
Never underestimate the POWER of FRIENDSHIP
almalingonberry/circleoftenthousand/join us
---sent from my phone---
I reread the e-mail a couple of times, feeling disappointed.
But when I went back to my inbox, another one had come in.
To: ClaudelineLeBernardin5@xmail.com
From: Lil.Poet123@xmail.com
dear claudeline SHH sneaking this, sorry have 2 make it fast
thanx 4 your note and everything u said. u have a lot of sadness in your life, girl, u don’t deserve it. wish we could talk on the phone. hang in there k? tell me more b/c i’m worried about u? how do u stay strong?? maybe i can learn from u. xo alma
p.s. sorry so short. more soon promise.
p.p.s. this whole place smells like soup. i hate soup!
FRIEND COUNT: 396
Never underestimate the POWER of FRIENDSHIP
almalingonberry/circleoftenthousand/join us
---sent from my phone---
To: Lil.Poet123@xmail.com
From: ClaudelineLeBernardin5@xmail.com
Dear Alma,
Maybe you should tell your doctors about the soup? It’s rude to force you to smell something gross while you are sick. Like torture.
How are you doing? I mean, what’s going on with your sickness? Also, what is it that you are sick with, again? If you feel like talking about it. I know you can’t write back at the moment. But I’m thinking of you.
You ask me to tell you how I stay strong, well the answer is I don’t. For instance, I just did something, to try to make a point. And the point I was trying to make was, who needs you anyway? (Not you. Somebody else.) But I made a different point, by accident. Which is that my personality is a disease, and hurting people is my destiny, and it’s coming for me.
That probably makes no sense. The problem is, Alma, my grandfather died because he was a gangster. My whole family is gangsters. I didn’t used to think much about it.
But what if it’s a curse?
Sorry for the sob story. By the way, I’m gonna help an old lady I know who is making stuff and selling it for you. I’m supposed to volunteer at the carnival anyway so it’s no big deal.
Your friend,
Claude
After I left the library, I took my photograph out of my pocket and walked around trying to force myself to think about Grandpa and the Thing. No, his personality wasn’t a barrel of sugar cubes drizzled in butterscotch, I thought . . .
But that was as far as I got. I switched to writing an imaginary e-mail to Alma in my head, describing the salt-and-pepper-haired lady who works at the post office and chews on the inside of her cheek and who always tells me to look sharp. Not that I ever go into the post office. I only see her when she’s opening the gates or locking them down. “Look sharp,” she says, like she’s my lookout and she’s been standing there chewing her cheek and keeping an eye on possible threats since the last time I passed by. I even added custom details I thought Alma would appreciate, like a street poet who collects change in a construction hat and the pet python he keeps in his duffel bag.
Laughter was the best medicine. Just pretending to write to Alma, making everything as funny as possible, put me in a better mood. When it started getting dark, I jogged home, coughing BQE dust and feeling relieved, like I’d discovered the secret to life. Focus on the funny parts.
When I turned onto Sixtieth Street, I saw soapy bubbles melting down Brett’s steps. The words I’d written had faded, but even in the sunset they weren’t completely gone. They were fingerprints from a heartless ghost.
The secret to life went, Poof! Nice try.
A voice inside my stomach said, Ugh.
SHADOWS
Death and life have their determined appointments.
—Confucius, philosopher
From the sidewalk, I saw three orange-gold rectangles lighting up our apartment. A human must’ve been home. Why tonight, of all nights? I was sick of humans. I let myself in and shook my feet to make my sandals fly off and hit the wall. The two humans were in the kitchen, arguing. One of them was the mama human, who must’ve come home from work early, saying, “They’re sending money without being asked,” and the other was the papa human, saying, “Let me handle it, Sara,” and then the kid human shut her door, put on her nightgown, and went to bed early. The excitement I’d felt about writing to Alma had dribbled down the gutter through the metal drain in the street to wherever that goes, the sewer or maybe the sea.
All night I lay on top of my comforter with my eyes pasted open like a fish. When it felt like morning—had five seconds passed? Five years?—I threw on my red jeans and a blue T-shirt and headed back outside. From the hallway I noticed Mom, sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. She wore a satiny violet pantsuit thing with black high heels. It was a little early to be dressed for work. But we hadn’t talked since that argument in the middle of the night, so I decided not to ask about that, and went with a casual conversation-starter instead.
“I like your outfit,” I said.
“Don’t push it, Claude,” muttered Mom.
I swear, I didn’t know how Mom kept her hostess job. She couldn’t make pleasant small talk if you paid her. And Guillaume did pay her—to do exactly that.
“Gimme back my laptop, lady, and I won’t,” I said.
The look Mom gave me could’ve turned fireworks to snow. “Stay outta trouble, and I’ll consider it.”
“Trouble,” I mumbled as I collected my sandals and unlocked the front door. “Tell it to stay out of me.”
They say a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. I used to wonder about the reason for that. I still can’t tell you what it is.
A scrub brush and a bucket of suds propped open Brett’s front door to let in the breeze. You couldn’t see the kitchen table underneath the ribbons, buttons, and doodads Mother Fingerless was using to craft her creatures. You almost couldn’t see her behind the pile of furry fish, patchwork snakes, and shiny puff balls that might have been . . . chipmunks? And she ain’t the daintiest dame who ever stuffed a teddy bear. The hanging lamp with the multicolored shade reminded me of a circus tent.
I took a seat. “Yo,” I said.
Mother Fingerless poked her head around the pile. “Baby girl! I knew it!” She slapped the table and shoved a poofy donkey—or was it a horse?—in my face. “You want to help. Decorate this!”
“Aw, I’m gonna help you with your table at the carnival. I gotta decorate stuff too?”
“That’s the spirit, baby girl! And yes, you gotta decorate stuff too. Neon, spotted, natural. However you want. Look at my sequins. I got eight colors. Where you been lately?”
Creak, trudge, creak, trudge. I heard Brett’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. His personal soundtrack. He was holding his Chinese philosophy book and an envelope. He went into the living room and turned on the television.
Mother Fingerless wasn’t paying much attention to the donkey-horse as she scribbled on it with a smelly pink marker. She whispered, “My son is in a mood today.
He still thinks that guy is gonna write him back. I tell him that man has never been no help to anybody, and Brett is gonna get his heart broke. Like me. But Brett has his own ideas.”
I took a stuffed turtle with a painted-on grin from the creature pile and twisted open a glue bottle. “Who’s supposed to write him back?” I whispered.
“His father,” she whispered.
I squirted glue on the turtle. “His father gets e-mail in jail?”
“Letters.” Mother Fingerless made her mouth into a line, like a ruler.
“His father didn’t write him back?”
Mother Fingerless shook her head.
I looked at Brett, hunched over his book, with an old-timey movie in the background. The envelope was next to him, on a splashy throw pillow.
Mother Fingerless was having a hard time attaching sequins to a bird, or a dolphin, maybe, that she’d stamped with orange stars. She stuck out her tongue. “This one is bleh. It was a fish, but now it looks more like a cat. Maybe somebody will love it like this.” She crossed her eyes and held her throat.
I kept an eye on Brett. “It’s a sea turkey.”
Mother Fingerless whooped loudly. “Brett! Come help us make sea turkeys for Alma!”
“Yeah, come help us,” I added quietly.
Brett turned up the volume.
My heart felt like a swamp, and I was sinking in it. The sticky turtle was still in my hand. I used it to mop up green glitter from a paper plate, and then I set it on the table, facing me. Now it was alive, twinkling and grinning. It didn’t know any better.
I whispered, “If his father didn’t write him back, what’s in the envelope?”
Mother Fingerless calmed down her laughing. “A letter from his grandmother. His father’s mother.”
I felt relieved. “So somebody did write him back.”
Mother Fingerless shook her head in an exaggerated way and spoke quietly. “The lady says as far as she’s concerned, her son don’t exist, and therefore Brett . . . Well, it’s not a good letter, and I keep trying to throw it away, but Brett says he has to keep it. He carries it with him so I can’t grab it. If you get a chance, snatch that letter, Claude. Burn it up, because that type of thing don’t do nobody no favors.”