“Maybe you should change him before he falls asleep.”
“In a minute.” She turned on the kitchen TV and leaned on the counter. The talk show was interrupted by a news bulletin. A blond man wearing a navy blazer stared from the TV screen.
“Police say that a twenty-two-year-old woman was abducted as she walked to her apartment on Costilla Street at approximately one a.m. last night. Police say the woman was raped, beaten, and left . . .”
Corinne flipped through the channels with the remote. “Top Chef’s coming on in five minutes. Have you been watching?”
My head rang like someone was pressing a doorbell and wouldn’t let off. Jimmy felt like he weighed three hundred pounds and would pull me over onto the kitchen floor that was covered with hair and splotches of dried spaghetti sauce. “Corinne, take him! I feel like I’m about to pass out. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Corinne sighed and pushed away from the counter. She pried Jimmy from me. “Come on, Fatso. Let’s go change you before Mom gets home.”
I said, “I shouldn’t have let Kristy go alone.”
“She’s fine,” Corinne said over her shoulder as she carried Jimmy to the bathroom. “She’ll get over it.”
I called Kristy from Cindy’s landline at ten and eleven thirty, just to see if she’d answer. It went to voice mail both times.
The next day I walked into chemistry, suddenly barely breathing, numb, not sure at all what I was thinking or feeling, but Carl’s stool was empty. The whole room seemed emptier and bleaker. An announcement came over the intercom: “Musicians who will be performing at the end-of-school assembly should meet for the duration of second period in the cafeteria.” I had to do the lab alone.
In language arts, Dan Manke stood in front of the class and struggled through his five-paragraph essay: “Why Guns Are Great for Society.” Everyone — except me, LaTeisha, and Mr. Calvino, but including all of Dan’s friends — hooted when he mispronounced words. But at the end, Dan said, “Are guns great for society?” and everyone but me, LaTeisha, and Mr. Calvino roared, “Yes!” Mr. Calvino, looking haggard, checked off boxes on the assessment sheet and totaled up the score. Dan succeeded in his competency.
At the end of class, on my way out the door, Mr. Calvino tried to nab me. “Leah Lobermeir. A word.”
I pretended that I hadn’t heard him and pushed out with the others.
I went to lunch and carried my tray to the Anita’s table. “Can I sit here?”
Iris and Maria huddled together and cackled over a video Iris was playing on her phone. Iris had dyed her hair bright blue and looked remarkably like a cartoon character. Jamie Lopez sat next to Anita. He wore thick black eyeliner and black nail polish, and still had his Zen Buddhism book.
Anita looked up from her drawing pad. “Have a seat, if you’re willing to lower yourself.” She tipped her head to the side and bit her pencil.
She narrowed her eyes and watched Kristy for a minute. Kristy hunched at her table with her hands buried in her hair. She was talking in a rapid-fire monologue to Corinne, who looked patiently irritated. A football player in a letter jacket wrapped his arms around Kristy from behind and said something in her ear. She punched him.
I stared down at my tray. Lunch was cheese bread with a puddle of grease on top, watery tomato sauce, and a black banana. I threw the banana onto the middle of the table. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in twenty-one hours. I had the chills and felt twitchy. I hid my face in my hands.
I uncovered my face. “Anita,” I said, “can you come over today? Please? I quit smoking and feel like I’m having a nervous breakdown and I’m going to throw up.” I slid my tray across the table. “Do you guys want this?” Iris and Maria looked with disdain at the tray, then Maria picked up the cheese bread. Iris dipped a baby carrot in the tomato sauce and licked it.
Anita paused in her drawing and watched them for a minute. She erased a hand, then blew away the little pink bits of eraser. “I’m a bit fatigued today and I’ve got a lot going on. But I can come over for a while.”
I felt a shadow and smelled a familiar perfume, strawberry-kiwi. Kristy stood behind Anita with her fists on her hips. She leaned over, pushed her hair behind her ears, and studied Anita’s drawing. “How’s it going, Anita Sotelo? Am I saying that right? Slutella? Wow. That is such a good drawing. I could never do that. Hey, Leah, what are you doing over here? We missed you. So, tomorrow night, right? It will be the bomb. OK, see you after school, Leah?” Kristy gave me a stern look as she turned.
Kristy stopped and looked back. “Slutella. The po’ bitch!”
“God, Kristy! Just go,” I said.
She winked at me.
The skin over Anita’s cheekbones tightened. She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands together, and pressed them against her mouth as if considering one of the mysteries of the universe.
“Sorry, Anita.”
“That girl is your friend.” She squinted at her drawing.
Kristy wove between the tables toward the door where Corinne waited. Kristy was wearing knee-high boots with three-inch heels and tried to swagger, but stumbled and wobbled a little with each step.
“Not exactly.” Whatever it was between me and Kristy felt like a weight, like a huge heavy duffel bag slung over my neck and shoulders. I’d borrowed a picture of her and stuck her in a dream. The dream had come to life, but it wasn’t Kristy in it, and it wasn’t me. “I’ve known her a long time and feel kind of obligated. . . .”
Jamie leaned toward me with his velvety eyes and shaggy black hair. He tapped his finger against his nose. “Leah, listen to me. It’s OK for you to be friends with Kristy even if she’s a total ass wipe. Because Kristy is just reacting to pain inside of herself, but Anita doesn’t let Kristy get to her, so the shit, the chain of suffering, stops with Anita.”
“Oh, I might punch her one of these days.” Anita rested her face on her fist and closed her eyes.
“Leah, do you understand what I’m saying?” Jamie stroked the back of my hand.
“Kind of.” What I did understand was that high school was a giant science experiment. Question to be tested: How much misery can your average kid inflict, and how much can they take? Hypothesis: There is unlimited capacity.
Anita licked the corner of her mouth and hunkered down over her drawing. Jamie leaned over her shoulder and watched her work. “Do you mind?” he said. Jamie and Anita were real. They were real and solid in a horrible simulated high school where everyone else was a hologram.
Someone opened the door, and Kristy disappeared in the bright-white light that flooded in from the hallway.
Half a block from the school, the bus stopped. I couldn’t see his face, just the dashboard, the steering wheel, part of his lap, the shiny black hood of the Mustang. He had a six-pack jammed next to the gearshift. His hands ran up and down his thighs, then came to rest on the steering wheel.
Kristy’s red Civic was third in line to leave the parking lot. She turned and drove the opposite way down Navajo Avenue. The line of school buses blocked Kurt King’s view; he didn’t see in his rearview mirror as she drove away. He sat there and tapped the steering wheel with his dirty thumbs.
The bus jerked and started to move forward. Anita looked at me with her tea-colored eyes. “You look like you’re going to puke.”
“I have to get off.” The world had gotten shiny and slippery like glass. My head felt huge and empty.
“What?”
“I have to get off the bus. Wait for me in front of my building. I’ll be there soon.”
I stood up and staggered like a drunk to the front of the bus. Everything was reeling. The bus driver’s round grizzled head sunk into his collar. “Get back in your seat!”
“I need to get off.”
“Not allowed. This ain’t a stop.” He had chubby hairy hands, and a dirty Band-Aid around his thumb.
“I’m gonna to throw up. I’m going to throw up all over.” I hung on to his seat with both hands.
“Swear to God. Please.”
“For Chrissake.” The driver pulled the bus to the side of the street and yanked open the door.
I ran, coughing. My backpack banged against my shoulder. The thudding of my feet and my breaths rang through the air as though there were no other sounds. The black Mustang was still there, half a block from the school. A trail of exhaust rose from the back.
I slowed to a walk. Sunlight glared off his windshield, and I couldn’t see his face over the steering wheel. I walked up to his car. I stopped two feet back from his passenger-side window. The window was open. Kurt King didn’t turn his head. He twisted the knob on the radio: static, classic rock, news, hip-hop, country, laughter, a man’s loud, fast voice . . .
“What do you want?” Tired, bored.
I wanted to take it all back, and undo it, and never have done it. Roll back time as if it were a huge cloth wound over a cardboard tube. I wanted Ashley to disappear.
“I need to tell you something. But first . . . can I borrow your phone? Just for a second?”
He looked at me. I had no idea what he saw and I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. He was all hands and eyes and mouth and streaky bangs.
“Nah.” He shifted. The car shuddered and jerked forward. The engine popped like a gunshot as he took off toward the downtown.
Anita sat hugging her knees on the steps of the Belmont Manor. “What the hell was that about? I have approximately ten minutes.”
She followed me into the building, through the entryway, down the stairs, and into our apartment. I grabbed a box of protein bars, and we went into my room. I tossed her one.
I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall, and chewed. We sat in silence for five minutes. When I finally opened my eyes, Anita’s head hung down and her hair hid her face. She looked up at me through the strands. “You don’t want to tell me?”
“No.” I tore open another one of Cindy’s protein bars — I could just hear her screaming, Don’t eat my food! Now I have to go to the store again! You eat as much as a family of five! I didn’t care.
Anita pushed her bangs out of her eyes, studied the wrapper, then took a tiny bite. “Why don’t you have fire egress?” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The bars?” She pointed to the window. “How are you supposed to get out of here? If there was a fire, you’d roast.”
I looked back at the black-barred window. “This was a one-bedroom apartment, so this is just a closet or a storage room. Listen, Anita, I need to buy a phone. I only have three dollars.”
“Man, you can’t get away with that in public housing. . . . So, you need money. You want to buy a phone. So you can fix the problem you won’t tell me about.”
“Yeah. I need to use the same number. I had a phone, but . . .”
“I remember what you did with your phone.” Anita propped her feet up on the cracked green wall. “You can’t tell me anything more?”
What could I tell her? That guy, in the car, that was him. I dreamed about him, the smell of him, and it yanked me out of sleep. I heard him whisper when I was alone. I could tell her how raspy and monotonous his voice was. He called me Ashley. He could already see her in his hands, in his bed. The me in the dream. But he saw Kristy.
I pressed my head back against the wall and breathed in. “It has to do with Kristy Baker.”
“Kris-ty Baker.” Anita twirled her hair and stared at the ceiling.
“Yeah . . . Kristy Baker. She’s in danger. I’m not joking.”
Anita tipped back her head. “What’d you do? Pay someone to kill her? Having second thoughts?”
“No! God, Anita.” Everything that I’d done and said and pretended and faked walled me in. I looked out at Anita through an icy little window. “Anita, this is serious. That guy . . . I can’t explain.”
“OK, sorry. This is stupidly mysterious.” She reached up and ran her thumb along the bottom of her left boot where it was tearing from the sole. “Cheap-ass fake leather boots . . . OK, sure, I’ll lend you some money. I have to leave anyway. Come on.”
“We’re going to your house? I’ll pay you back.”
“Apartment. And, yeah, pay me back sometime. That would be super.” She marched out of my room and left the rest of the bar uneaten on the bed.
I picked it up and followed her.
We walked without talking down Vargas Avenue. It was dreamlike walking through the beautiful afternoon when I felt so sick. I was glad I was sick. I deserved to be sick. What I did was sick.
The light glittered as if it were shining through crystals. A jet whined miles overhead. A kitten staggered through the grass in front of a little house with a sagging porch. Anita dropped to her knees and pulled off her messenger bag. She lay in the grass and rubbed the kitten’s tiny throat with her thumb.
She got to her feet and tossed the kitten toward the porch. “Go home, dummy.”
Anita lived ten blocks from me in a five-story building made of rose-colored bricks. There was a playground next to the building. Chains without seats dangled from the swing set.
Anita waved her arm toward the swings. “The most disgusting playground in the city,” she said. “Used condoms, broken glass, human feces, and needles.”
Her building was called the Briarwood. In the entry was a wall of locked metal mailboxes. She had a key to get in and a key to use on the elevator, which was tagged with graffiti inside and out. We rode up in silence, facing the scratched silver doors.
The fourth floor had a narrow dim hallway with a shiny green floor and door after door after door. One of the doors creaked open, and someone peeked out from a dark apartment. Except for some hip-hop thumping in one apartment and TVs blaring from a couple more, it was quiet. Cooking smells oozed out from beneath doors.
Anita commented on each door in her hallway. “Nice family . . . Real quiet guy . . . Old lady . . . Sweet kids . . . Drug dealer . . . Old lady . . . Old lady . . . Mentally ill guy who goes through everyone’s garbage . . . Really sweet old lady, super-duper tiny . . . The mom here weighs six hundred pounds, but super-cute kids . . .” She tapped on #417. “I like to bug him. Hoarder, big-time, you wouldn’t believe.”
We walked farther down the hall, and Anita unlocked her door, #428. As she pushed it open, she said, “Home, sweet home.”
It was completely dark in the apartment except for the TV and a light over the stove. A man sat on the couch in the glow from the TV. He was watching Jeopardy! A contestant gave the correct answer, and the people in the audience applauded.
Anita threw her keys on the counter, walked over, and leaned over the back of the couch. She combed her fingers through the man’s hair. “Hey, Dad,” she said. “How was your day?”
He whispered to her in Spanish. She nodded and continued to pet his head. TV light flickered across his face. In the kitchenette, a black frying pan coated with white grease and a little sink stuffed with crusty plates and a haystack of forks and knives waited for Anita. The refrigerator was duct-taped shut.
Anita took my wrist and pulled me down the hall. “You stay in my room while I go get Evelyn. I’ll be right back.”
I grabbed her sleeve. “Let me come. Who’s Evelyn?”
“My little sister. Her bus is coming in two minutes. It’ll be faster if I go alone. Wait in my room.” She opened a door. “I’ll be back in four and a half minutes.”
There was a white pencil of daylight beneath the shade. I felt around for the switch and the room exploded with color.
The walls and the ceiling and even the floor were covered with art. Van Gogh’s The Starry Night, kid artwork, manga drawings on every size of paper, concert posters, a bookstore poster for The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, pictures torn from magazines, a huge blue print of an old man curled up and playing guitar, paintings in unpainted wood frames. A heart-shaped frame decorated with sequins and paper flowers hung over the bed. The frame held a photograph of a dark-haired woman hugging a tiny girl.
Pi
erce the Veil and Escape the Fate posters were taped up sideways. Her bedspread was bright blue and woven through with little metallic threads. She had TEST TUBES, NOT BUNNIES and FUR IS DEAD bumper stickers stuck to her headboard. Orange and purple spirals of construction paper hung from the ceiling. Postcards were taped in a crazy mosaic over the whole floor.
Charcoal, pencils, and pens were lined up on the top of an old-fashioned yellow wooden school desk. A sketchbook waited in the center of the desktop.
I heard a cough from the couch and stepped back into the hallway. Anita’s dad’s eyes were black and shiny. He had long fluffy bangs over a skinny, wrinkled face. He stared and said nothing.
“Hi, Mr. Sotelo.” I waved, stepped into Anita’s room, and shut the door.
One thought pounded my brain: If I could just have one cigarette, every problem in my life would be solved.
Five minutes later, the door opened and Anita came in holding a large child. She set the child on the bed. The little girl was about seven years old, with long stringy brown hair, huge teeth, and glasses with brown frames propped crookedly on her nose. She had little blue studs in her pierced ears. She squinted up at me.
Anita sat down next to the kid, put her arm around her, and pulled her so close they looked like a two-headed person. “This is Evelyn.”
“Hey, Evelyn.”
The little girl snorted and looked away as if I were the most boring person she’d ever seen. She was wearing lavender stretch pants and had a round stomach. She swung her little leg.
“Let’s get that patch off,” said Anita. She pulled down the waist of Evelyn’s stretch pants and the top of her polka-dot underwear, and peeled a white patch off Evelyn’s hip.
Anita dropped the patch into the black-and-white garbage can. “I hate this stuff. It makes her dopey, but her social worker says she has to wear it to school and the nurse checks. I’ll go get us a snack.” Before I could say anything, she left me alone with Evelyn.
Someone I Wanted to Be Page 14