The Bad Kid

by Sarah Lariviere

  When I got back to Brett’s, the front door was propped open, and I heard Mother Fingerless yelling.

  “Fine! Abandon your mother!”

  “Ma, don’t you think you’re exaggerating, slightly?”

  “That sweet lady with the music-video hair. She’ll help me.”

  I went into the kitchen. Brett was holding the back of a chair at arm’s length, like he needed it to keep from falling over. He shook his head. Lala was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of soup, trying to make herself look extra small. Mother Fingerless was standing beside her, holding a big brown vase full of red plastic roses with one hand. With the other she scrubbed the table underneath it hard and fast.

  Mother Fingerless looked up. “Claudeline! You know about computers. You’re coming to the library with me. We raise two hundred dollars at the carnival, for charity, and my son tells me, ‘Ma, you gotta keep it’?” She crumpled her paper towel and stomped around, like she’d forgotten where she kept the trash can. “I should’ve been firmer with you, Brett. When you told me you were finished with church, I thought, ‘Okay. Better to let him fly back when he needs comfort and education than force him to stay.’ But you know what? I was wrong. Claudeline, let’s go.”

  Mother Fingerless slammed the vase on the table and left the room with her crumpled-up paper towel. The vase fell on its side.

  “Let’s go!” she yelled, from the hallway to the front door.

  Brett stood up straight and pulled his curls.

  “She doesn’t believe us about Alma,” said Lala.

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “Claudeline!” yelled Mother Fingerless.

  “She’s busy, Ma!” yelled Brett. “Give her a break!”

  I heard Mother Fingerless knocking around like she was gathering her things to leave. “Fine. The lady with the rock-and-roll hair. She’s respectful . . .”

  The door slammed.

  “She’s processing,” said Brett.

  Lala went to the sink to rinse out her bowl. “Whoever is putting your moms through this needs to get taken out,” she said. Then we all headed back to my place to invite Alma to our party. Technically that party would be a funeral for a girl who didn’t exist, but we were calling it a celebration of her life.

  My legs dangled over the edge of my bed, and my sandals dangled off my toes. Lala was on my right, lying on her belly with her head propped on her fists. Brett was on my left, sitting cross-legged. My curtains were closed so we could all see the computer screen.

  To: Lil.Poet123@xmail.com

  From: ClaudelineLeBernardin5@xmail.com

  Dear Alma,

  Sorry I haven’t written since the carnival. How was your emergency treatment? Even though I have not written, I have been thinking of you.

  Especially, I have been thinking about how hard it is for you to pay for all those treatments. That has really been bothering me. So I would like to solve your problem, once and for all.

  My family is in a highly profitable business, as I mentioned to you before. And we know people. People who can make things look good on paper.

  “I feel like we’re in a spy movie right now, Claude,” said Lala, wiggling around.

  “Awesome,” said Brett, shaking his head.

  I’m gonna be straight with you, Alma. We know a television producer. She wants to buy your life story. She can offer you as much money as you need, beginning with a check for ten thousand dollars.

  No questions asked.

  Naturally, we will take a small to medium percentage of the proceeds in exchange for making these arrangements. Of course, getting well is more important than money. But sometimes money makes you feel better. Much better, even.

  If it works out? You never know. Maybe we can keep doing business together. We’re always looking for new partners.

  This is a limited-time offer. We can meet you in person, this Sunday, at noon. If you’re interested, call me for the details. Sending e-mails sprayed with perfume might work for small businesses like yours. We prefer to look people in the eye.

  I understand if you want to avoid my family. Most people do. What can I say? This kind of thing is in my blood. At least, I had to make the offer. I always take care of my friends.

  Love your very best pal in the whole wide world

  “That’s a bit much,” said Brett, pointing at the word “love.”

  I deleted the last line.

  Yours truly,

  Friend #206

  Claude

  I added my phone number, sent the e-mail, and shut my laptop. I could tell you that I felt woozy, or drunk on power, or had an urge to do the electric slide, but the truth is, I felt normal. Like what I was doing had a destiny of its own, and I’d be smart not to get in its way.

  “In the movies,” said Brett, “this is the part where we say, ‘Now, we wait.’”

  Lala giggled. “Now,” she said, “we—”

  But she couldn’t finish her sentence, because my phone rang.

  THE PHONE CALL

  When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.

  —Sun Tzu, philosopher

  Nobody ever calls me. Nobody. Ever. The few times I’ve heard my ringtone, which is the theme music from an old-timey horror movie called Psycho, which Brett and I chose after listening to about a hundred options, my first thought was, Somebody needs to answer that. It rang twice before Lala grabbed the phone and shoved it at my ear.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Brett and Lala pressed their ears to the phone.

  “Claude?” whispered a husky voice.

  Lala gripped my arm. I felt Brett stop breathing.

  I said, “Is this—”

  The voice had a loud coughing fit, so loud I had to lean away. Brett frowned. Lala scrunched her nose. Finally, the voice whispered, “It’s Alma. Can’t talk.”

  “I can barely hear you,” I said. “Can you—”

  The voice interrupted. “Can we do this over PayPal?”

  Now I stopped breathing. Brett, Lala, and me all looked at each other.

  And we were all thinking the same thing.

  Since the carnival, we’d known in our hearts that Alma was a fraud. But we knew it in the way you know the North Pole exists, and polar bears live there, building igloos. Which they don’t—build igloos, I mean. What I’m saying is, we knew Alma didn’t exist, but we weren’t clear on the details. Now we had a voice on the phone asking us to send cash. Was it a man or a woman? A boy or a girl? I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter.

  Alma wasn’t real, but our situation had never been realer. The voice on the phone was asking us to send cash. Cash it knew for a fact was dirty.

  The voice on the phone was a criminal.

  Something inside me sat up, put on a fresh coat of lipstick and straightened its bow tie.

  Unfortunately for Alma Lingonberry, criminals were my comfort zone.

  Lala and Brett had to lean away slightly as I wiggled my fingers into the pocket of my black jean skirt. I balanced my photograph on my knees. Grandpa Si’s eyes glimmered.

  Whaddaya think, Grandpa? I thought.

  You’ve set the wheels in motion, Claude, said Grandpa. Let’s get the sick girl on board and roll.

  I cleared my throat. Not because there was anything stuck in it—it just felt like the thing to do.

  “No offense, Alma Lingonberry,” I said, “but online transactions are an amateur’s game.” Lala and Brett leaned back in to the phone. “You want the cash, you gotta meet with my family, and our television producer, in person. And we want this to look legit, so you better rustle up a legal guardian, too.”

  There was a pause. Then the voice whispered, “Okay. So where do we do this?”

  Lala made an Eee! face at Brett and me.

  I started to tell her. “Come to—”

  Brett shook his finger to interrupt. He mouthed, Let’s send a car to pick her up.

&nb
sp; I nodded. “Give us an address, Alma. Our people will pick you up.”

  There was a pause. For a few seconds, I couldn’t hear anything.

  Then the voice said, “The clock tower.”

  Lala leaned away and mouthed, Not the hospital? She did a massive eye roll.

  I couldn’t resist asking. “You won’t have any problem getting out of the hospital, then?”

  There was another pause.

  “This sounds like a swell adventure,” said the voice. Then it hung up.

  Lala jumped up and stomped across my bed in her yellow dress. She looked like a baby chick on springs. “This! Is! Happening!”

  Brett put his hand on my shoulder. “Well done, Claude. Couldn’t have gone smoother.”

  This was one of the many times since I’d met Brett that I would’ve given anything to be able to crawl into his deep brown eyes and take a nap. Unfortunately, it wasn’t time to rest yet. Instead, I sighed, Brett squeezed my shoulder, and we all reviewed the plan for Sunday. When he and Lala went home, I tossed my phone on my pillow, but the scruffy voice lingered in my ear.

  I put my photograph on my desk and took a seat. As far as I was concerned, the Tale of Alma Lingonberry and her Circle of Ten Thousand Friends couldn’t have been over soon enough.

  But endings are not easy. They make everything that already happened look different, like it was all leading up to that. And once you’ve got your ending, it’s time to start something new.

  I’ll never know why my grandfather became a gangster. What he went through on the raft to New York City, or in the terrible jobs, or the exact shape of every hole he left behind.

  Maybe it was like what Brett said about his father. Sometimes people take a wrong turn in life and never figure out a way back. Now it was up to me to try to make it to the happy ending Grandpa was walking toward, all along.

  You don’t have to love everything a person does to love the person. After all, you don’t know what it’s like to be someone else unless you have been there.

  On the other hand, use your imagination. That’s what it’s there for.

  THE SUNSET PARK CREW AND THE BUST OF THE CENTURY

  Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.

  —Unknown

  The Sunday of the bust, Mother Fingerless was sitting on an easy chair with her feet up, watching a television show with dramatic music. When Brett called, “Bye, Ma,” she said, “Hmph!” It was obvious from the way she’d quit asking to send money that she finally believed us about Alma. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit that yet, so she was pouting.

  “Why aren’t you at church?” I asked. “Devil getcha?”

  “You scamp,” she said. “I hurt my foot.”

  “I’m gonna make your rascal son here bring you back some takeout, okay?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, sounding like she was a little kid.

  “Well then, we’ll bring you some ice cream,” I said. “Ice cream’s good when you’re not hungry.”

  “Hmph,” said Mother Fingerless. “I like the black sesame flavor they got at the place on Eighth Avenue.”

  “Got it,” said Brett, and we blew her some kisses and headed out the door.

  We spotted Laliyah on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sixtieth Street. She was decked out in a ruffled peach skirt and a shiny yellow T-shirt. Silver ribbons wove their way through her braids and shimmered in the brightness as the seconds ticked closer to high noon. That’s what they call it in westerns. When the sun lets nothing hide.

  “You guys look smooth,” said Lala.

  I was wearing my green sundress with my gold heart necklace. Brett was in black jeans and a short-sleeve black button-down I’d never seen before. We all looked very professional.

  “Thanks,” said Brett. “What did you tell your mother?”

  “Brunch with Andrew,” said Lala. “Noodles count as brunch, right?” She handed me a pile of greeting cards.

  “Um . . . ?” I said.

  “So I’m at the drugstore, doing my nails,” said Lala. “And Kelvin’s birthday is coming up. I’m like, yeah, lemme check these out. Open one.”

  The top card on the pile had a picture of a laughing baby. Inside, it said:

  How precious life seems

  When you’re following

  Your dreams

  “Okay . . . ?” I said.

  “No?” said Lala. “Do the next one.”

  A glittering green tree on a creamy background.

  For a girl

  Who’s like a tree

  I’m glad to be

  Your friend.

  “Wait,” I said. “That’s almost the same as my Alma poem.”

  “They’re all Alma poems,” said Lala. “She pretty much stayed in this section called General Inspiration. It’s between Happy Anniversary and Get Well Soon.”

  So I could’ve bought the poem that touched my heart at the drugstore for a dollar ninety-nine. Good to know.

  “I can’t wait to send Alma our condolences,” said Brett.

  “Right?” said Lala, taking the cap off a purple marker. “I’m about to sign all these. ‘Dear Alma. Go ahead and bite my style next. See what happens.’”

  “Nobody could bite your style, Lala,” said Brett. “You’re completely original.”

  That was true. No matter how much you might pretend to be somebody else, you can’t fake the person you really are. The truth is out there in the shadows, waiting to tell the world the rest of the story.

  We all jumped different directions to avoid Money’s speeding scooter. He crashed into the street sign. “Sorry, kids,” he said, dusting himself off.

  “Don’t text and scoot,” said Brett. “You’ll impale somebody.”

  “Gotta keep in touch with my Scott Jones friends. Just because you guys forced me to leave the office doesn’t mean I ain’t still workin’. Though I admit I’m looking forward to shaking Alma’s hand. She’s my guiding light.”

  “Remind me, please, why I like you?” said Lala.

  “Because I’m bad news,” said Money.

  Lala looked him up and down. “Yeah, you’re a real threat.”

  Money waggled his eyebrows and shoved his phone in the back pocket of his khakis, and we all headed up Eighth Avenue.

  The spicy scent of the noodle shop made me glad we were meeting Alma on our home turf. Customers filled most of the tables, except for the one Mr. Chin had marked with a paper tent that said RESERVED.

  “Hey, y’all,” said Dad, knocking on the counter beside the cash register. He wore his usual leather vest and jewelry, but he had added a cheerful blue stripe to his hair. I kissed him, right on his scar. He fist-bumped Lala and Brett and pointed at Money. “Who’s this kid?”

  “I’m one of them!” said Money, sounding hurt.

  “Sorry,” said Dad. “I just never see you out with these guys.”

  “He’s an indoor kid,” said Lala, patting Money’s back.

  “Time for places?” asked Brett.

  Mr. Chin led Brett, Lala, and Money through the kitchen.

  Dad was giving off the comfortable-uncomfortable vibe.

  “Having second thoughts, Dad?” I asked. “I’d be happy to trade places with you.”

  “No way,” said Dad. “When I said I didn’t want you in the room with whoever shows up today, I meant anywhere in the vicinity. You guys shouldn’t even be on this block.”

  I didn’t need him getting to the next stop on that train of thought.

  “Love the stripe!” I said. “It brings out your eyes.”

  Dad smoothed his hair. “My stylist is amazing.”

  “Claude!” called Rita as she waltzed into the noodle shop in a red pantsuit, swinging her shoulder bag and waving with two fingers at Mr. Chin like she was a regular.

  “Ready to meet some new characters, Rita?” I said.

  “I couldn’t be less ready, Claudeline,” said Rita. “But sometimes you get an offer you can’t refuse. Get it? That’s a lin
e from one of those famous gangster movies. ‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse.’ That also happens to be exactly what I plan to do to Alma Lingonberry.”

  Dad and I looked at each other.

  “Um, Rita?” I said. “You do know that ‘Make him an offer he can’t refuse’ means ‘threaten to kill him.’ Right?”

  Rita’s jaw fell halfway to her knees. She clutched her pearl necklace. “Nooo.”

  Dad folded his arms and puckered his lips like he was about to whistle.

  Then Rita shook off her suit jacket, plopped her bag on the floor, and pulled out a leather folder. “Just playin’ with ya. I’m down. Where is this Alma knucklehead?” She shook the folder. “I’m ready with the contract. The offer, that is.”

  Dad covered his mouth and laughed. He stuck out his hand to Rita, who shook it. “I’m Claude’s pop.”

  “Margarita Flannigan,” said Rita. “Let’s do this.”

  Through the one-way mirror Brett, Lala, Money, and I could observe the whole noodle shop, crystal clear. The red-and-cream checkerboard tile, the sprinkling of square tables with napkin boxes, the yellow counter with the cash register, the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The same view that was being transmitted via Mr. Chin’s hidden cameras to his living room on Eleventh Avenue, where we’d sent Federal Agent Hank “Gotcha!” Banazio to watch the bust go down.

  At first I’d figured Banazio would be with us, behind the one-way mirror. But as soon as I’d explained that part of the plan to Dad, he’d ruled it out. “Pop always told me to keep guys like Hank at a distance. He’s got power, but he’s unpredictable. Let him watch from Skippy’s house and send over his cops to arrest whoever shows up. If he feels the need to take a bow, by the time he gets to the noodle shop it’ll be too late for him to screw anything up.” So we’d given Banazio the date, the time, and the address, like he’d asked for, without even telling him whose house it was. Mrs. Chin had agreed to be there to let him in and point him toward the TV screen.

  Mr. Chin set a pot of hot tea, some cups, and a bowl of potato chips on a turned-over crate.

  “Remember,” he said, “you can hear us, but we can’t hear you. I’ll be taking customers as usual.”