The King of Jam Sandwiches

by Eric Walters

  She retreated to the other side of the counter to answer the ringing phone. Harmony sat down in the chair beside me.

  “Hand me a couple of those,” she said. She took a couple of the paper towels from me and began patting my face. It was tender when she touched close to my nose.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I guess I should be the one thanking you, Robert.”

  “Everybody calls me Robbie.”

  “Do you think I care even a little what everybody else calls you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Besides, you’re much more a Robert than a Robbie,” she said.

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “Robbie is sort of a cartoony, friendly creature who smiles all the time. Maybe the name of the mascot for the Olympics or something. That’s not you.”

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Mascots always wander around smiling at people. That’s not you. You, you’re not the smiling sort. You’re the serious kind, the always-trying-to-figure-things-out kind.”

  I shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, but how did she know all of this?

  “I saw you watching people in class. I do that too,” she said before I could ask. “It’s important to pay attention. You never know where danger is going to come from.”

  “That was definitely proved today.”

  She laughed. “You’re funny too. And smart.”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait to see how I did on the test today.”

  “Don’t you usually do well?”

  I nodded. “Top of the class…even though I’m the youngest.”

  “December birthday?”

  “March, but a year after everybody else. I skipped a grade.”

  “Then your being called Robert makes even more sense. More serious. Studious.”

  “If we’re changing names, then maybe I shouldn’t call you Harmony,” I suggested.

  “What should my name be?”

  I pretended to think for a second. “Hmm. Well, from what I’ve seen so far, maybe Disharmony would suit you better.”

  She laughed again. “You really are funny.”

  “I hope you mean funny hilarious, not funny-looking.”

  “It could be both. But let’s go with semi-hilarious.”

  “I’ll take semi.”

  She continued gently dabbing the wet paper towels on my face. It was a bit strange to be this close to her, especially since she was staring so intently at me. It almost felt like she was trying to look inside me. I wanted to move or turn away or get away completely, but I couldn’t. Besides, the wet paper towel felt good against my nose.

  “Do you get in a lot of fights?” she asked.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “The way the principal grilled you and the secretary looked at you. I just thought it had happened before. You know.”

  “It’s just that they were worried about me. People worry, you know.”

  “Not that I’ve seen. People don’t worry as much as they give you reasons to be worried.”

  I wanted to tell her I understood what she was saying. But how could I say that to a stranger, especially one who’d just punched me?

  “There. You’re all cleaned up, and the bleeding has stopped, I think,” she said.

  She took the red-stained wad of paper towels and threw it into the garbage can. It landed with a thud.

  I was feeling strangely shy and didn’t know what to say or do next.

  “It seems only fair that I should clean up what I caused,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” I smiled and then stood up and dropped the ice bag into the garbage can as well.

  Mrs. Henry looked up at the sound. “You okay now? There’s still twenty minutes before lunch is over,” she said. “You should try to grab something to eat.”

  “We will.”

  As we stepped out of the office, I said, “Senior lockers are this way. Let’s grab our lunches. I can finally show you to the cafeteria.”

  When we got to my locker, I angled my body to block her view as I dialed in the combination numbers. The lock clicked. I removed it and opened the locker door.

  “Wow, that’s impressive. Or a little scary,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen a locker so organized.”

  “I just like to know where everything is. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No, I guess not. It’s just that the only person I know who was that organized is my uncle Joey. And he’s in the federal penitentiary now.”

  “I’m not going to go to jail. I’m going to university.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that,” she said.

  “I am. I get good marks, and I haven’t had a single detention for more than a year,” I said—and almost instantly regretted it.

  “Strange. I’ve known you for less than a day, and already you’ve been in a fight and lied to the principal.”

  “I thought we both agreed that my getting punched didn’t really qualify as a fight.”

  She laughed. I felt confused. Was she laughing at my joke or at me?

  I put all my morning-class books away in their spots and pulled out my lunch and what I’d need for my afternoon classes.

  “So why didn’t it turn into a fight?” Harmony asked.

  “You mean why didn’t I punch you back?”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t want to get suspended.”

  Part of me wanted to tell her I hadn’t had a fight in close to two years. But I was worried she would make fun of me for not fighting. I guess I could have told her how many fights I’d been in before that if I wanted to impress her in a different way.

  I closed the locker and snapped the lock back in place. “Where’s your locker so we can grab your lunch?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer, and she also didn’t move.

  “Look, it’s no big deal. Let’s get your lunch and head to the cafeteria. Don’t make me force you into punching me again.”

  She laughed and shook her head, and we started walking.

  “Look, I don’t have a lunch, so we don’t have to go to my locker. Besides, I really don’t want to go to the cafeteria,” she said.

  “How about I share my lunch with you?”

  “It depends on what you’ve got,” she said.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not, but could we still just eat somewhere else?”

  “Why not the cafeteria?”

  “It’s just hard, you know, to walk into a new place and not know where to sit and feel like everybody is staring at you.”

  “Which is exactly why Mr. Yeoman wanted me to take you there to begin with.”

  She gave me a sideways glance that clearly told me to shut up.

  My nose and I decided to listen to her wordless warning.

  “Where do you want to eat instead?” I asked.

  “Here is good.”

  “The hall?”

  “Why not? It’s quiet, and there’s nobody to bug me other than you.”

  Harmony hoisted herself onto the ledge of a window. I threw up my pack and sat down on the other side of it. I pulled out an apple, a banana and the zip-lock bag that held the jam sandwich.

  “Is that it?” Harmony asked.

  “I was rushed this morning and didn’t have time to pack anything else.”

  “Your mother doesn’t pack your lunch?”

  I could have told her that I didn’t have a mother—that she’d been dead so long I didn’t even really know her. But I didn’t. That was none of Harmony’s business.

  “I like to take care of myself,” I explained.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re doing such a great job,” Harmony said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re so skinny.”

  “I’m thin, not skinny.”

  “No, you’re so skinny that I feel guilty eating part of your lunch—is that jam?”

&
nbsp; “Strawberry.”

  “If it’s going to be jam, it has to be strawberry. That’s my favorite,” she said.

  I opened up the bag and handed her half of the sandwich.

  She took a bite. “This is good.”

  “Yeah, I’m planning on being a chef when I grow up.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, my restaurant will feature jam sandwiches, toast and boiled potatoes.”

  “I’d eat there.”

  She downed her half of the sandwich before I had even taken a second bite of mine.

  “Apple or banana?” I asked.

  “Which do you want?”

  “I like them both. You choose.”

  She took the banana, and again it disappeared in a few bites.

  “I know you don’t want really want to be a chef,” she said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you said you want to go to university.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “That is so strange. What person in eighth grade talks about going to university?” she asked.

  “Everybody needs a plan.”

  “But university? Where’d that idea come from?”

  I shrugged. “Education is the way to become somebody.”

  “Do you even know anybody who went to university?”

  I shook my head. My father hadn’t graduated from high school.

  “From what I’ve seen so far,” said Harmony, “I figure this neighborhood produces people more likely to do time in jail than in university.”

  That was impossible to argue, because it was the truth. Lots of the older brothers and fathers of kids I knew were either in jail or had spent time there. Regardless of what he did or didn’t do, my father had never gotten himself arrested.

  “Not that the neighborhood I’m from is any better,” she added. “And at least you have a plan.”

  “Don’t you have a plan?”

  “Sure. My plan is to get out of the foster home.”

  “You’re in a foster home?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never known anybody in foster care. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anybody.”

  “I don’t care if you tell everybody. It’s not like it’s my fault I’m there.” She stopped and stared at me. “Besides, I get the feeling you’re not somebody who blabs things. You’re probably great at keeping secrets.”

  I was. Especially my own.

  “You know, I didn’t really forget my lunch today. I refused to take one, just like I refused to eat breakfast this morning.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I’m not going to let them bribe me with pancakes and bacon and a roast-beef sandwich.”

  I tried to remember the last time I’d had any of those things. I pushed the apple toward her.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “I had breakfast. You must be starving.”

  I thought she was going to argue, but she took the apple and immediately took a big bite out of it.

  “So how long will this hunger strike go on?” I asked.

  “It depends on what they’re having for supper —unless you’re having something better at your place and you’re inviting me.”

  I laughed. “The odds are, whatever they’re serving is better.”

  “Are you saying your mother isn’t much of a cook?” she asked.

  Once again she’d mentioned my mother. Had she heard something? No, probably not. She hadn’t had time to talk to anybody, and it wasn’t like many people knew to begin with. I never talked about not having a mother, and I wasn’t exactly a subject of interest around the school.

  “I won’t even have time to eat a real supper tonight,” I said. “I’ll have to grab something fast before I go to work.”

  “You have a job?”

  “I work at the butcher shop. I sweep the floors and clean the display cases and deliver groceries. It’s just a couple of days a week after school and on Saturdays.”

  “How much do they pay you?”

  “Enough. I’m not doing it for fun.”

  “Then I’m confused. You have some bucks of your own, but it’s not like you’re spending money on clothes. Look at you.”

  I was surprised how much her comment hurt my feelings. Why should I care what some random girl thought about what I wore?

  “You have a strange way of saying thank you,” I said.

  “Look, I’m just trying to keep it real. You have to know your pants are way too short.”

  “They’re just what I threw on this morning as I was rushing out. I don’t pay attention to things like that.”

  “You should start paying attention.”

  I had noticed. I knew. I paid attention to everything.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit insensitive?” I asked.

  “Everybody, all the time. Apparently I can be a real jerk sometimes.”

  “That’s hard to argue with,” I said, nodding. “You know, you could change.”

  “And you could change your pants,” she snapped. “That would be a lot easier.”

  Before I could respond—if I could have thought of something to say—the bell rang. Lunch was over.

  I got up. “We better get to class.”

  “Wait!”

  I stopped, and she came up close, practically putting her face in mine. She put a hand on my chin and moved my head slightly from side to side as she stared at me. What was she—

  “Nobody will notice,” she said.

  “Notice what?”

  “Your nose. The ice did its job. It’s not really swollen.”

  She released her grip, turned and walked away. I stood there, stunned, for a few seconds before I ran to catch up.

  FOUR

  “Hey, Robert!”

  I recognized the voice and the name. I turned around.

  Harmony was running toward me. “It looks like you’re going in my direction.”

  “Oh yeah? Where do you live?”

  “On Silverthorn. You’re going that way, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I’ll walk with you.”

  Great. I’d done what Mr. Yeoman had asked, shown the new kid around. But this was above and beyond. I’d only known Harmony for half a day and already I knew she was trouble. All afternoon I’d watched her in class without letting her know I was watching her. It wasn’t anything she’d said, but I’d seen how she sneered or scoffed when people were talking. I was thankful nobody had noticed my nose.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Chambers—170 Chambers. That’s only two streets over from Silverthorn.”

  “Then can you walk me right home?”

  I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t. “No problem. It’s on the way, more or less.”

  We walked in silence. I thought about my pants being too short and my shirt being bloodstained. It wasn’t that bad—nobody had noticed. My stomach growled. Maybe I’d make myself an extra jam sandwich to eat on the way to work.

  “Looks like you didn’t have to worry about that test,” Harmony said finally.

  Mr. Yeoman had marked them during lunch hour and handed them back. He always announced who had the highest mark. Part of me liked that, and part of me didn’t. I usually tried to fly under the radar as much as possible, though everybody knew I was really smart. But sometimes being younger than the others and getting top marks was a bad combination. I’d learned that the hard way more than once.

  “I did all right.”

  “All right? You got the top mark in the class.”

  “Not perfect though. I missed a couple.” Saying things like this was what sometimes got me in trouble.

  “Close enough. My mother would assume I’d cheated if I ever brought home a mark like that.”

  I had a pretty good idea what my father’s reaction would be. I didn’t want to talk about it. But there was something I did want to talk about.
“Can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask me anything,” said Harmony. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to answer.”

  I hesitated. I’d been thinking about something all afternoon. It had just seemed like such a coincidence, meeting her after what my father had said the night before.

  “What’s it like living in a foster home?” I asked. This was safer than asking her why she was in foster care. Besides, I wanted to know about it for me, not for her.

  “Some are okay.”

  “Some? You’ve been in more than one?”

  “If you include what they call receiving homes, then more like a dozen. Some are good and some are, well, terrible.”

  “And this one, the one you’re in now, what’s it like?”

  “Too early to tell. So far the food certainly smells good.”

  “You might want to try eating it and find out,” I suggested. “What are the foster parents like?”

  “Why are you so interested?”

  I wasn’t about to say because my father threatened me with one last night. “I’m just curious, that’s all,” I replied. “It’s like I said, I’ve never known anybody who was in a foster home.”

  “Glad I can expand your world. Some of the foster homes are kind of creepy—you know, peeling paint and even cockroaches.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “But mostly they’re just regular houses with regular people.”

  “And are there other foster kids with you at these places?”

  “It’s different at every place. At this one I’m the only foster kid there. I like that. I like having my own space. How about you? Do you have your own room?” Harmony asked.

  “Yeah, I do. I don’t have brothers or sisters.” But talking about me was too personal and wasn’t helping me get answers. “Foster parents—they get paid to take in these kids, right?”

  “Sure, but I don’t think it’s a lot of money.” She stopped walking. “This is it. Here we are.”

  “This is the foster home?” I asked. It was just a regular house.

  “What were you expecting? A big sign out front? A run-down shack with broken windows?”

  “No, uh…I wasn’t expecting anything. Sorry.” Now I was the one being a jerk. “Okay, see you at school tomorrow.”

  “If I haven’t run away,” she said.