Jumpstart the World

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  I hadn’t eaten in so long. I mean, really eaten. I’d nibbled. The food was making me feel more grounded.

  I said, “Would it be tacky to ask for seconds?”

  “Are you kidding?” Molly said. “It’s the highest compliment. Besides, you’re so skinny. We need to put some meat on those bones.”

  Frank and Molly had two tabby cats, George and Gracie. They both rubbed against my legs at once. I wished my cat would do that. I reached down and picked one up and held him tight. Or her. I didn’t know if I had George or Gracie. I didn’t care. I loved friendly cats.

  “Well, at least you were eighteen,” Frank said. Then I just waited to see if he was smart enough to figure it out on his own. “Hey. Wait a second. Your birthday is next week? Your mother said you just had a birthday.”

  Bingo.

  “That was a little white lie,” I said. “It’s next week. I’ll be sixteen.”

  In the silence that followed, I watched them look at each other. I think I learned a lot from that look.

  It’s not like I didn’t know that it’s pretty radical to dump a kid in her own apartment at barely age sixteen. I knew. But my mother insisted on acting like it was no big deal. And even though I didn’t believe her, I saw it all over again through Frank’s and Molly’s eyes. It was a pretty dicey thing to do.

  I felt vindicated.

  Also scared.

  “That’s not even legal,” Molly said.

  That scared me even more.

  “Oh, God, please. Don’t say anything. Don’t get Child Protective Services in on this. Please. That’s about the only way this could get worse.”

  “But you have to have someone looking after you.”

  Frank hadn’t spoken yet. I was waiting to hear what he would say.

  “She’ll look in on me,” I said.

  “From the other side of town? That’s criminal!” Molly had a highly developed sense of outrage. I could tell. She wanted life to be fair. I think I’d given up on that.

  “We’ll look after her,” Frank said.

  It was the sweetest, nicest, most wonderful thing anybody had ever said to me. It was the closest thing to open, unguarded caring that had ever been thrown my way.

  I could have kissed him.

  Then I sat a minute, wondering which left field that weird thought had come from.

  And then I did something I don’t do every day. I said thank you like I really meant it. Because I really did.

  THREE

  The Heartbreak of Too Many Guys Named Bob

  When I woke up the next morning, Toto was up on the bed with me. As far from me as he could possibly get, but up on the bed.

  And get this: he was purring.

  Not at anybody or anything in particular. Just huddled there with his front legs all tucked under him, purring.

  Then I thought about Frank.

  Or maybe it would be better to say I felt about him. Felt something. Something weird.

  But that little uneasy something was probably just about school looming. The Frank thing was fine. He was my friend. A nice new friend. I really liked him, sure. Who wouldn’t? But just as a friend. Anything else would be pointless and stupid. And completely embarrassing.

  So that’s what I felt. Exactly what I said I felt.

  I just really liked Frank as a friend.

  Toto was still sitting there purring. I reached out to touch him. Or, I guess this would be a more accurate way to put it: I gave my hand a nerve signal to move, and before it even could, Toto sensed what was coming and split.

  I just lay there, thinking, Well, that was nice while it lasted.

  After that, I stuck my head out the window a lot, to see if Frank was sitting out on the fire escape. But he had school four nights a week.

  Molly said he was working as a veterinary technician all day and then going to school to be a veterinarian at night. I ran into her in the hall one day, and she told me that. She said it would take him a long time.

  I took it kind of hard. Hearing that he wasn’t around much. But then again, I don’t have tons and tons of friends. And only one ever offered to look after me. Even my mother isn’t entirely committed to that.

  It took me five days to find him out there.

  When I did, I crawled out.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said.

  “Hi, Frank.”

  Then I felt kind of awkward and couldn’t think what to say.

  We just sat quietly for a while.

  It was a Sunday, late afternoon, and still mostly light. The light was just barely starting to fade. The traffic was pretty thin, being the weekend. But you could still always hear sirens. Always. That’s one thing you can count on in the city. There will always be some disaster going on somewhere.

  Right underneath us on the street, there was some kind of trouble going on. Some guy in a raggedy old trench coat running around yelling at everybody. Telling them to get off his street. If they didn’t go, he’d run at them, waving his arms like a madman, and then they’d get scared and run away.

  Frank and I just sat and watched this for a while.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Oh, yeah. We all know him. His name is Harry. The neighbors call him Crazy Harry. He’s not exactly crazy, though. He has schizophrenia. So long as he takes his meds, he’s fine. But sometimes he stops taking them. I don’t know why. I guess nobody really knows why. I think a lot of people who need to be on psych meds do that from time to time. But I’m not sure anybody really knows why. Then he’s all different. When he’s off his meds, he never washes himself, and then after a while he starts thinking he owns the street. Then some family member or social worker or somebody comes by and gets him back on his meds. Then he’s just the nicest, quietest neighbor you could possibly want. For months.”

  “Is he a homeless guy?”

  “No, he lives in that rent-controlled building across the street. If you saw him when he was on his meds, you wouldn’t think he was homeless. He looks clean. Normal, just like anybody else.”

  We were quiet for a little while longer, watching Harry chase people off his street.

  “How’s the cat getting along?” Frank asked.

  “Well, better. I guess. For him, anyway. But, better for Toto is still pretty lame.”

  “Toto, huh?”

  “Oh, right. I didn’t tell you what I named him.”

  “Interesting choice,” he said.

  “Long story,” I said.

  We sat there for a few minutes longer, each on our own little piece of fire escape. It was getting dusky now, the time I like best in the city.

  Crazy Harry was running up and down the empty street, making sure none of the people he’d chased off could sneak back again.

  I had a really bad feeling that I was beginning to know why I suddenly felt so awkward and strange and tongue-tied with Frank. Even more horrifying, I thought Frank might know, too. In fact, I had this disturbing thought that Frank might have known longer than I had. Maybe I was crazy to imagine that. But I don’t think so. Somehow, I think it was true. That it was just right there, lying on the fire escape in front of us, and anybody with eyes could see it.

  I hoped I was wrong.

  After an agonizing silence, I said, “Frank?”

  But then I had no idea what I was going to say. Maybe something like, If this gets awkward, I just don’t think I’ll be able to stand it. Like I already couldn’t cope with my life if he were not my friend.

  But I couldn’t say any of that. Besides, it already was awkward.

  So I said, “Do you and Molly play Scrabble?”

  Stupid, I know. But probably not as stupid as all that other shit I didn’t say.

  “I play Scrabble,” he said. “I like to play better than Molly does. But I warn you. I’m pretty good.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll consider myself warned.”

  Then he said good night and climbed back inside. And I just kept sitting there. Tr
ying to climb out of the way I felt. Trying to get out of myself, like I was a bad-fitting suit I could just peel away.

  I guess it goes without saying that it’s never that easy.

  After an hour or so, Crazy Harry gave up and went back inside.

  And then so did I.

  At school the next day, I ran into that girl with the blue hair again. Walking down the hall. It was the start of lunch period, and I had this little carton of cut fruit in my hand, from the deli. Just like I did every day.

  I’d brought lunch with me every day since my first day of school. Since the horrible locker incident. Because that way I didn’t have to step foot in the cafeteria. I just sat on the stairs in an empty piece of stairwell and ate by myself.

  Anyway, I was still sort of walking next to the blue-haired girl. Because, you know. Once you say “Hey,” and she says it back, and you seem to be walking in the same direction, well … it just sort of turns into walking together.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I said. And then I felt pretty stupid, because why would I know it? I hadn’t asked her name and I hadn’t told her mine. “I guess I never really introduced myself. Elle.”

  “As in the magazine?”

  “As in Ellen. Which I totally don’t relate to.”

  “Oh,” she said. Then, just as I thought she might not be planning on saying any more, she said, “Shane.”

  Which sort of surprised me. “As in the boy’s name?” One of those statements you wish you could grab on their way out of your mouth. Hook them and drag them back in before it’s too late. But of course you can’t. It’s just too late.

  “There are girls named Shane.”

  “There are?”

  “Yeah. I’ve known at least two.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry. My mistake. I guess I’ve led a sheltered life.”

  “Unfortunately, so did my parents. So they were totally not cool enough to name me Shane. So they pathetically named me Larissa,” she said. “Which I totally don’t relate to.”

  By this time, I’d gotten a bit distracted by the conversation. When I looked up, I saw the door to the cafeteria. The door I’d never planned to go through. We were headed right for it.

  I stopped dead.

  She stopped with me, and waited a minute. There was something a little different about Shane. Different how, that might be hard to say. Like she just waited sometimes. Like she knew there was something to ask, but she’d just let some silence fall before she asked it. Like sometimes she didn’t really bother to talk much at all. I wasn’t used to that. I was used to people who were constantly filling the air with sound.

  “Not going to lunch?” she asked after a bit.

  “Not sure,” I said.

  “You could sit with us.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly who “Us” was. But somehow, with all the empty apartments, and cats that wouldn’t come near me, and solitary lunches in empty stairwells, “Us” sounded like a step in the right direction.

  I was getting tired of just “me.”

  “That would be very nice,” I said. “Thanks.”

  There were two boys at an otherwise empty table when we sat down.

  “This is Bob,” Shane said, exaggerating the formality of the introduction, “and his boyfriend, Bob. Bobs, this is Elle. She’s not gay. Don’t get that wrong. Get that straight up front. She’s a little sensitive about that.”

  “Bob and Bob?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  One Bob was a big guy. Probably six feet or so, with these really big bones. Huge wrists and hands. A big nose. Sandy hair falling into his eyes. Bob number two was small and slight and blond, and a little more obviously gay. He had bad skin. Teenage acne. But he managed to be good-looking in spite of it.

  Little Bob said, “It’s really Bob and Bobby. I go by Bobby now. For obvious reasons. Shane just thinks it’s funny to introduce us like that.”

  Big Bob said, “Shane should be careful of that thing where she has a laugh about other people’s names. Since it’s only out of the goodness of our hearts that we don’t still call her Larissa.”

  I found myself glancing over my shoulder a little too much. In case there was any trouble back there. Anything I should know about. I think they all noticed. But they didn’t comment.

  After a few minutes of that, another guy sat down. He was a little on the tall side, taller than me, but really willowy thin. Jetblack hair, short on the sides but kind of long and poufy on top. He had a soft, very gentle face, and I noticed right away that he always looked down. Never right at anybody. And he was wearing a stretchy tank top. And eye makeup.

  Shane said, “Elle, Wilbur. Wilbur, Elle.”

  “No, seriously,” I said. Because I just assumed Shane was playing games with names again. Because nobody was really named Wilbur. Right? But in the silence that followed, I gathered that this guy really was. “Okay. Sorry,” I said. “Wow. I do have a special talent for sticking my foot in it. Don’t I?”

  Wilbur said nothing. But I got the impression that Wilbur usually didn’t say much.

  The awkwardness held steady for a couple of silent minutes, then gradually faded.

  Shane looked at my little plastic cup of mixed fruit. “Is that the whole lunch?”

  “I guess.”

  “That explains why you’re so thin. Hey. Where’s Annabel?”

  Bobby said, “She skipped out on lunch to go sit in a study hall and stare at that boy she’s got the big crush on. What’s his name?”

  Shane said, “I no longer bother to keep track.”

  I was making mental notes. Or rather, editing my mental notes. I had assumed that all of the “Us” people had sexual preference in common. Except me. If I even classified as part of “Us” at this point.

  I saw Wilbur glance up at me, and then away again before our eyes could meet.

  Bobby said, “Okay. Enough small talk. Your story.”

  “What story?”

  “You know. The story. The background. Around here, we begin our stories with parental status. That is, whether you live in an unbroken home, or with one parent. That sort of thing.”

  “Neither of the above,” I said.

  I had begun to abandon looking around for trouble. Looking over my shoulder. I guess if there was trouble, it would have found us by now.

  “Ah,” Bobby said. “Third category. You live with an extended relative.”

  “Nope.” Silence. I supposed they were getting tired of guessing. “I live alone.”

  Three out of four jaws dropped. Literally. Both Bobs and Shane actually opened their mouths and kept them that way. Wilbur just kept looking at the table.

  A long, reverent silence.

  Big Bob said, “It’s like a beautiful recurring dream I have.”

  I said, “It’s not as much fun as it sounds.”

  Little Bobby said, “I would kill to trade places with you. Seriously.”

  I said, “It’s one of those things that look better from the outside.”

  Shane said, “Does anyone else besides me smell a party?”

  I said, “I’m going to have to think about that.”

  Wilbur said nothing at all.

  The first time I played Scrabble with Frank, he spelled the word “quixotic.” I nearly died. The q was on a double-letter square, so that was worth 20, which made a 36-point word. Plus the whole thing stretched out to hit a triple-word square, so that’s 108. Plus he used up all seven of his letters, and you get 50 extra points for that. So, by the time he was done, that turn was worth 158 points.

  I couldn’t believe it. My head was spinning. There have been times when I haven’t managed to rack up 158 points in a whole game.

  “A lot of it is luck,” he said. “I just happened to get the letters.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Quixotic?” He pronounced it like it started with the word “quicks.” I wouldn’t have known how to pronounce it. “It comes from the legend of Don Quixote. It means fanciful, like th
e visions of the windmills he fought in his head.”

  “If it’s after Don Quixote, why isn’t it pronounced ‘ key-oh-tic’?”

  “Damn good question.”

  Molly brought us a plate of organic fruit for the third time in less than one game. She said people didn’t eat enough fresh fruit. This time it was a mango, with the pit cut out, sliced into eight long strips. They still had the peel on. I imitated Frank, eating a piece by scraping the flesh away from the peel with my teeth.

  “I’m starting to make some friends at school,” I said.

  “Good for you,” Frank said. “I know you need that.”

  Which is funny, because I hadn’t known I needed that. Well, I don’t know. Maybe I did. Maybe part of me did. And then another part of me, not so much.

  “Thing is, they’re all pretty much gay. Except this one girl I haven’t met yet. So, now I’m sort of worried, like … I mean, I like them and all. But if I keep hanging out with them, then everybody will totally think I’m gay. I mean, even more than they already do.”

  I saw Molly and Frank exchange a quick look.

  Frank finished chewing a bite of mango. Then he said, “Does it really matter what other people think? I mean, you know who and what you are. Right?”

  But see, that was just the thing. That was the actual problem. Right there. Only, part of me hadn’t wanted to admit it was the problem. Until the moment he said that. But then, when I didn’t answer, it was kind of obvious that he had hit on something.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

  And we played a few more rounds. A few words each. I didn’t really have the right letters and I couldn’t concentrate much. So the game wasn’t going well on my end.

  Molly was out of the room by then. And I guess I was starting to think of Frank as somebody I could talk to. Or at least, I wanted him to be. And I think I was wanting to push a little harder at my friendship with him. So we could talk on a different level.

  So I said, “I really don’t think I’m gay. I mean, I know I’m not now. But up until recently, I was a little freaked out about it. Because when I was, like, twelve, I had this crush on my math teacher. Mrs. Harman. Not that anything like that has happened since.”

  “Oh, Elle,” Frank said. I thought he was going to say, You are in such denial. “Oh, honey, that is so universal.”