Jane keeps talking. Nick still has that blank look. I find Chapter Six again and flip to the page with the questions we have to answer. No need to read the whole thing. I finish most of the questions before the end of the period. This stuff is way boring, though, without Cortez’s stories. I’m wondering if this is going to be Irritable Teacher Day for Mr. Lowe, in English, but it turns out he’s the same old, not happy, not mad, boring guy.
We’ve finished American poetry, and now we’re on to an American novel. Lowe has us come one at a time to his desk where he writes the number of a book next to our name in his roll book, hands us a copy of The Grapes of Wrath, and tells us he wants to see it with a cover tomorrow. John Steinbeck. It may not be boring. Not all assigned books are boring.
Back in the 8th grade, in Redville, we read The Red Pony, by Steinbeck. I don’t know why I liked it so much because all four of the stories in the book were sad. Maybe I liked it because it showed how a ten-year-old boy thought. I was more than ten in the 8th grade, but I could still relate to how the boy thought and how he had to balance that with the way the adults around him thought.
To tell the truth, I’m tired of The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I liked it a lot at first. It was amazing what that guy experienced—when he was six his dad was killed, probably by white racists, though that was never proven. When he was thirteen, his mom had some mental breakdown and he and his brothers and sisters were all sent to different foster care families. Malcolm pretty much took care of himself any way he could from the time he was fourteen on. He was in prison by the time he was twenty. That’s where he joined the Nation of Islam and then became a leader. That’s pretty interesting, but then he goes on and on about black supremacy, and the importance of keeping black and white Americans separate, and the blue-eyed white devils, and it got tiresome. I know Malcolm X is a hero to William, but so is Martin Luther King, and they didn’t exactly stand for the same things. Ready for a change of reading material, I’ll put William’s book back in the black bookshelf and start The Grapes of Wrath this evening.
Brent and Cameron already have our favorite table under the big oak tree, lunch trays full of what they call food. Third period they both have classes near the lunch court. My class is clear at the other end of campus. If it weren’t for Brent and Cameron, I’d probably be eating my lunch standing up most of the time. Not today, though. It’s not so crowded today. I slide onto the bench and unpack my lunch. I take sliced tomatoes and lettuce out of a baggie and add them to my sandwich.
“Epstein was so on the rag last period!” Brent says.
“I think today is an official Irritable Teacher Day,” I tell them.
“I guess. I mean, Epstein? He’s always on the rag but you can measure how pissed he is by his spray level. Today was as high as I’ve ever seen it. He even managed to spray when he said ‘Calculus’ this morning. I feel sorry for the kids who sit in the front row. ‘Solution’ even caught some kids in the third row back!”
“Can we talk about something besides Epstein’s spray while I’m eating lunch?” I ask.
“I was supporting your ‘Irritable Teacher Day’ hypothesis,” Brent says.
Meghan waves at Cameron from the cute-girls table. Cameron smiles and waves back. I guess Cameron’s got a thing with Meghan now. I don’t know what happened to Nora. Maybe she’s only his girlfriend when her parents aren’t home.
“Hey, Brent, do you want to go out with me and Meghan Friday night?” Cameron asks.
Brent looks at Cameron as if he’s suddenly lost the capacity to understand English.
“We could double date. Me and Meghan and you and Brianna. You know. Brianna Kaufman. She’s friends with Meghan.”
“Brianna?”
“Yeah, she said she’d go with you. Probably ‘cause she doesn’t know you yet.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”
“Listen, Meghan’s dad won’t let her go out alone with a guy, but if she double dates it’s okay.”
“What’s she look like?” Brent asks.
“She’s cute. You’ll like her. C’mon, you’re always whining about not having a girlfriend.”
“No. I’m always whining about not having Adele for a girlfriend.”
“Brianna’s cuter than Adele,” Cameron says.
“Doubt it,” Brent says, then turns to me. “You know Brianna?”
“Yeah. She and Rosie are good friends.”
“And?”
“She’s not as cute as Rosie but she’s cuter than Meghan,” I tell him.
“That’s cold, Hook!” Cameron says, throwing his empty, wadded up french fries bag at me.
“Okay for me to tell her you’re on for Friday night?” Cameron asks.
“I don’t know. What’re you doing?”
“Maybe go to a movie.”
Brent’s quiet for a minute, then suddenly he gets this big grin. “I know! We can play cornhole!”
Cameron groans. “Is that all you can think about? Practicing cornhole?”
“My ticket to freedom from tutoring, freedom from math camp? Yep, that’s all I can think about, getting good enough to beat my dad.”
“I don’t know,” Cameron says. “Maybe Artie from History would do it.”
“Maybe,” Brent says, like he’s got the upper hand.
Cameron’s quiet for a while, then he says, “How many games?”
“Five,” Brent says.
“How about two?”
“Can’t have an even number. One team’s got to win.”
“Okay then, one?”
“Three. Take it or leave it,” Brent says. Then, “Why don’t you and Rosie come over, too?”
“Yeah, you should,” Cameron says.
“Maybe. I’ll check with Rosie.”
I finish my strawberry/coconut protein drink and carry my trash and recycle stuff over to the bins. I know how this is going to turn out. Brent will hang out with Brianna. He’ll think she’s okay, but they’ll never go out again because Brent’s been crushing on Adele since ninth grade and no one can measure up to his Adele fantasy. Maybe I’m wrong about that, though. Maybe he’ll get real with Brianna.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Different Wednesday
The first Wednesday of every month I leave Yoga a little early so I can be there when Imani gets home from school. Joe’s cool with it. I’ve been doing that for the past two years. William usually gets Imani from school and takes her back to wherever he’s working. She does her homework, and sometimes William lets her paint a little section of a wall. On first Wednesdays, though, he and Max always go to some veterans’ support thing. They go to help other vets who are having a hard time, but I think it probably helps them, too. William’s big on supporting vets. Whenever we get behind with work and William has to hire extra help, it’s always a vet.
It’s okay, staying with the pest on first Wednesdays. Her BFF, Olivia, comes over to play, and they’re always so busy pretending to be Anna and Elsa, I don’t even have to come up with a joke to get them to leave me alone.
Olivia’s mom, Carla, and Max have been good friends ever since Max started working for Dr. White. Carla does the front desk stuff, Max is the dental hygienist. That’s how they met. Then, when Imani and William moved in with us, Imani didn’t know any other kids at her school or in the neighborhood so Max invited Olivia to come play, and they both loved “Frozen.” They’ve been best friends since they were five, and they still love “Frozen.” Max and Carla took them to see “Moana” and “Finding Dory” and a bunch of other movies, but they stay obsessed with “Frozen.”
This first Wednesday, things are different. I’ve only been home for about five minutes, long enough to take a swig of orange juice from the fridge, toss my backpack on my bed, and wrestle around with Buddy, when Imani comes barreling through the door, wailing, and runs straight to her room where she throws herself across the bed, face down.
“What’s wrong?”
She sobs.
“Are you hu
rt?”
More sobs.
I sit on her bed next to her. “C’mon, Imani. What’s wrong?”
“Olivia didn’t...” short little gasps... “come...” gasp, gasp... “to school today! And she was supposed to come play ‘Frozen’ with...” gasp... “me. Like she always does!”
“Do you want to watch ‘Frozen’ on the big TV?”
“No! I want...” gasp... “Olivia to play Anna and Elsa with me. Like she’s supposed to!”
“Well, maybe she stayed home ‘cause she’s sick. I bet she’ll come home with you next time.”
“But...today...”
“Hey! I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you call her? If she’s feeling better, we can go get her and bring her back to play with you.”
Imani sits up and rubs her eyes.
“You know her number?” I ask.
She goes to her dresser, pulls out the bottom drawer, takes a little pink notebook from it, and turns to a page that’s labeled “contacts.” On the first three lines are numbers for William, Max, and me. They’re in William’s writing. I know his writing because sometimes he leaves notes for me in case I get to a job before he does.
Below the first three names, in careful eight-year-old printing, beside a big pink heart, is “Olivia” and her number. I hand Imani my phone, and she taps in the numbers. She waits a moment or two, then, “May I please speak to Olivia?”
William’s a stickler for good phone manners, and I guess it’s worked with Imani.
“Olivia?...Can you come over?...Eddie and I can come get you...Why not? ...But it’s Wednesday...Really?”
Imani hands my phone back to me. “She can’t come over.”
“Is she sick?”
“She has to stay with her family. All of her family have to stay together.”
It looks like she’s about to start crying again so I ask if she wants to play Legos. She rubs her eyes and nods her head. I carry the giant Lego bin out to the living room.
I actually like building Lego things with her. I mean, I’m seventeen, I guess I should have outgrown Legos, but I haven’t. And Imani likes when I build things with her. Max and William like it, too, when me and Imani are being nice to each other. “The bliss of domestic tranquility,” is what Max always says when Imani and I are on the floor with the Legos.
Imani starts building a house. I start a super car. That’s what we do, except sometimes she insists on building an ice castle. I’m thinking maybe Rosie and I’ll play cornhole with Cameron and Brent and those other girls. It might be fun. And I’m wondering about going over to Rosie’s after I walk Peppy, and Buddy, and maybe we’ll hang out in Tilly the Trailer? Probably not, though. Weeknights are nothing but homework and studying for Rosie.
“I want a chimney on my house,” Imani says.
“Well...build one.”
“I did. But it doesn’t fit.” She shows me the chimney she built, which is as big as the house she’s built.
“Okay. The house either needs to be bigger, or the chimney needs to be smaller.” We poke around in the Legos to find better pieces.
Max calls to say they’re bringing lasagna from Dimitri’s. That’s the place where Max and Mario and I used to always go before Iraq and running away to Josie and Hector’s. And it’s still there, with Dimitri and his family still running it. And it’s the best.
“Any special requests besides the lasagna?” Max asks
“Double garlic bread,” I say. “Imani? Special request?”
She shakes her head, not looking up from her house-expanding project. I add to my super car, then text Rosie: See u later?
We’re still trying to get the chimney to fit the roof of the house when Max and William come in carrying two big Dimitri bags.
“Ah! Domestic tranquility!” Max calls out.
Imani runs to William and holds on. “Hey,” he says, looking down at her. He sets his Dimitri bag on the counter and kisses her head. “Whasup?” He lifts her up, places her on one of the kitchen chairs, and bends down to eye level. “Whasup?” he says again.
“Olivia didn’t come play ‘Frozen’ with me. Like she always does. Like she’s s’posed to,” Imani says, starting to cry all over again, then gasping out the story of how Olivia wasn’t at school, didn’t come to our house like she’s supposed to, and she wouldn’t even come over when we were going to go get her. And her whole family had to stay together. And it’s not fair!
“Ummm,” Max says. “Carla wasn’t at work today, either.”
William gives Max a look, like they know some secret or something. He says to Imani, “Well, go wash your face now, and come back for lasagna. You’ll probably get to see Olivia at school tomorrow.”
Imani drags herself to the bathroom like her shoes are made of cement. Max gets her phone from the counter charger and takes it into the living room. Parts of Max’s end of the phone conversation drift into the kitchen while William and I empty the Dimitri bags, open cartons, unwrap garlic bread and put it all out on the table.
“I know...Yes, it’s awful...Oh...I didn’t know that...But you can’t keep the kids out of school...I know...Oh, Carla...” Now it sounds like Max could cry, except she won’t. She doesn’t.
It’s a quiet dinner.
This is one of Joe’s late-night classes in L.A., so after dinner, I go over to his place, take his extra key from the fake rock, and let myself in. Peppy jumps up and down, turns in circles, then sits right in front of me, waiting. I grab her leash from the hook by the door, fasten it to her collar, and we’re out of there. Peppy lives up to her name. She rushes to the front gate, sniffs, scratches at the latch until I open it. Then it’s out to the tree in the neighbor’s yard, sniffing, circling, running back to me, then bouncing back to the tree. Really, she bounces, not like Buddy, who mostly shuffles along, slow and relaxed.
I’ve heard people refer to the houses in our neighborhood as California Ranch. None of the lots is big enough for horses or cows or any ranch stuff. William says California Ranch is mainly single story with a long, low roofline. It’s funny about William. He knows a lot about architectural styles. We’ll pull up to some big painting job in Pasadena, and he’ll say, “Monterey Revival,” or “Mediterranean,” “Spanish Colonial,” or “Craftsman.” Well, that one’s easy. Even I recognize “Craftsman,” lots of wood, simple lines, lots of windows...Well, I guess that’s not much of a description, but I know one when I see it.
Anyway, in our neighborhood the houses are almost all single story, usually three bedrooms, two baths, with attached garages. It sounds boring, but I like to notice how the yards are planted. Ever since the drought, a lot of people have dug out their lawns and put in native plants that don’t take as much water. Lots of lavender and sage and poppies and rocks. Lots of native rocks.
We’re coming up to the Husong’s yard, still with a lawn and Peppy’s favorite place to stop for a pee. Sure enough, she tugs at her leash to change direction and angles onto their lawn. Mrs. Husong told me once that she didn’t care if Peppy peed on her lawn because she was such a delicate little thing, not big enough to turn a patch of lawn yellow. But she didn’t want Buddy emptying his copious load of urine on her lawn. That’s what she said, “copious load of urine.”
While we circle around the neighborhood, I’m thinking about the day. How worried Max and William seem. And so many irritable teachers! And then I think about Ms. Cortez, and Olivia staying at home, and I guess it’s because of the way the election turned out.
Back at Joe’s, I check to be sure Peppy has water, give her a quick ear-rub, and go out the kitchen door into the garage/studio. Most people bring their own mats, so there are only two that need to be wiped down, rolled up, and put away. I vacuum the carpet, dust the Buddha in the corner, rub his belly for luck, straighten papers, wipe the desk in the corner by the door, lock up, put the key back in its rock, and leave.
Buddy’s waiting by the door, thumping his tail, when I get home. I grab his leash and take him in the opposite d
irection of where I walked Peppy. For a while, I tried walking both dogs together, wanting to save time. But I spent so much time untangling their leashes that it took about as long walking them together as it did separately. And untangling’s not fun so I ended that trial pretty fast. Besides, walking’s good thinking time. On this round, I’m thinking about Rosie again, wishing she’d answer my text. Thinking about how intent Brent is on winning the cornhole bet, thinking about the job I’ll be working on with William after school tomorrow. While William’s painting a master bedroom, I’ll be painting someone’s wrought iron patio furniture, unless it rains.
By the time I get home, Imani’s in bed, Max has gone out for groceries, and William’s in his recliner, watching “Game of Thrones.” I watch with him for a little while. I like dragons and ancient kinds of armor, but I haven’t been watching it much lately, and I don’t have a clue about what’s happening.
Walking back toward my room, William calls after me, “Don’t forget the black spray paint for tomorrow’s job.”
“Already in the car,” I tell him.
I sit at my desk in my ergonomic, rolling, adjustable desk chair, doodling Simba/Vampire sketches. I love my chair. Last summer, we were working in one of those giant houses, painting the lady’s home office. I mentioned to William that I liked her desk chair. I didn’t even know she heard me, but on the day we finished, she wrote a check for William and she rolled the chair out to me. “A bonus,” she said, smiling. Really, I was speechless. Well, by now you know I’m often speechless. But “thank you” didn’t seem like enough. That’s what I said, though, after being speechless, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
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