The Genius of Little Things

by Larry Buhl

  “Um, wha—?”

  “I said I didn’t have any idea where you were. I thought it was interesting, to say the least. She was pretty upset. If I stayed out all night, my mother would have a fit.”

  I tried to put it all together. Janet had called Rachel, which meant she would have dug into my Box o’ Crap to find Rachel’s number. Possibly she phoned other numbers in my box, like my old science teacher and Levi. And Janet may have passed herself off as my biological mother. This was so wrong. To top it off, Rachel blamed me for the call, which would have been maddening if I hadn’t been caught off guard by her green high-top sneakers. One lace on each shoe dragged on the ground. I had a momentary compulsion to re-tie them.

  Rachel sat on the bench next to me and stared into my eyes. “Are you on drugs? You can tell me honestly. Consider me a person and not a reporter.”

  “Wha—? No.”

  “Because your mom thought you might be, and I have to say it’s kind of unnerving having that conversation at six in the morning.”

  I needed to tell her two things—that Janet was not my real mother, and that I worked nights—but I couldn’t decide which order to say them in, because now I was distracted by Rachel’s hand, which gently rested on my forearm.

  “At least you kept my number. I didn’t think you would. I’m glad you did.”

  The bell rang. I picked up my stuff quickly and promised Rachel that nobody would call her house again. As I walked away, I thought I heard Rachel say, “I don’t mind if you call.”

  I kept my cell phone in my upper vest pocket all day. By the end of the day I had received no response from Janet. No text, no voice mail, nichts. So I sent another text. We should talk.

  After school I went back to the house. Janet sat at the dining table, facing away from me. There was a sweating glass of wine in front of her. Her arms and legs were crossed tightly, as if she were a human washcloth attempting to wring herself out. You can’t do anything to me because I’m emancipating. This was at the top of the talking points I created during downtime in English lit class. The second talking point was, my Box o’ Crap is private.

  I didn’t say any of this.

  On the walk back to the house I considered what my BiMo might have done if I had started a night job without telling her. The conclusion I reached was, nothing. More likely, I would be the one questioning her for staying out all night. “I trust you, honey.” That’s how BiMo explained not hiring a sitter for me. I always told her it was all right, just leaving me alone like that. But it wasn’t all right.

  Janet turned but didn’t look directly at me. “Fiona and Carl said to go easy on you. They think we should let you do whatever you want. Fiona always did what she wanted. I was the responsible one.”

  She turned away and snatched the wine glass. She took a gulp, almost like she was using the glass to stop her mouth from saying anything else. She was still not looking at me. I decided to stay out of her line of vision. It just seemed like a good idea.

  “I should have told you about the job,” I said.

  “We can’t stop you from working but you need to find an earlier shift. And you have to cut back to part-time.”

  I told her there were no openings on the second shift. It was the most popular and I didn’t have seniority. First shift was impossible because I had classes. And there were no jobs at Colonial Gardens with less than 38 hours a week. I crossed my arms, because that’s something that people do when they refuse to give in.

  “Then we’ve reached an impasse,” she said. She stared at her wine glass for a long time. I had nothing more to say.

  “You can keep working nights as long as you don’t endanger your health or your grades. If we see any signs of you falling behind, you have to quit.”

  “Okay,” I said, not certain whether I’d won or not.

  I couldn’t remember being scolded by my BiMo. It must have happened, though. This was what parents did, wasn’t it? My BiMo must have disciplined me, at least when I was very young. But I usually stopped myself from doing bad things. I did this to avoid turning her good mood bad, or her bad mood worse. Now, here I was, with someone not related to me who was making demands.

  “And I’m driving you to work,” Janet said. “Don’t tell me I don’t have to do that. I know I don’t have to.” She made a gesture with her arm and accidentally knocked the glass off the table. It shattered on the tile floor. I made a lunge for it.

  “Leave it,” she said.

  “You’ll take me to work and pick me up?” She looked at me as if I had just started quacking.

  “Yes. Both ways. And if I can’t, Carl will.” She started picking up the glass, less gingerly than I would have recommended.

  “So I don’t have to leave?”

  She swiveled to face me. “What are you talking about? If you have somewhere to go, leave.”

  “I mean, you’re not kicking me out?

  “You’ll be leaving us in a few months. Isn’t that your plan?”

  I nodded.

  “Until then, you’re stuck. If you can stand it.”

  “I can stand it.”

  “Oh. Good.” I recognized her tone as sarcasm.

  I thanked her. The conversation started off as a reprimand and ended up with free chauffeur service, so I guessed I’d won. So why did it feel like I had lost?

  FIFTEEN

  November 6. Emancipation, a cost/benefit analysis.

  Benefits:

  · No more check-ins with case managers.

  · A prelude to adult life, living alone.

  · No chance of the Foster-go-Round sending me to another FoHo.

  · No rules or demands or expectations.

  Costs:

  · Living expenses for nine months.

  · Savings potential for Caltech (or other college) significantly reduced.

  · Preparation for the emancipation trial.

  · Writing the emancipation essay.

  · No more free money from the state.

  **

  On Saturday afternoon, after my morning routine, journal writing, and two hours of productive research about honeybee viruses, I walked past Carl’s office. The door was ajar. I wouldn’t have peeked in—I had avoided the room ever since I replaced the broken glass in the picture of the mystery kid—but I couldn’t help myself. Carl was strapped to a board and hanging upside down. It looked like a torture device.

  “Come on in.”

  I pressed the door open, tentatively. He swung right side up with a thwump.

  “Don’t worry about Janet,” he said. “After what happened with Scott, well. She’s concerned about you. We both are.”

  I was trying to think of a response, but couldn’t come up with anything. “If she puts up any more fuss, let me handle her,” he said. He went upside-down again, and I took this as a sign to leave. I was a little uncomfortable with the idea of him “handling” his own wife on my behalf. I had no idea what that entailed. But if he could keep her from restricting me, that wouldn’t be so bad.

  I did make a mental note to ask him who Scott was. I assumed he was a previous foster kid who caused trouble.

  For some reason, my interaction with Carl gave me unanticipated optimism. Or maybe it was the cooler weather, or the fact that my polo shirts came out of the dryer without needing any ironing. Instead of heading to the library, I dug Rachel’s number out of my Box o’ Crap and punched it in to my phone.

  I panicked. I hadn’t rehearsed anything to say. I pressed END after the second ring. Ten seconds later, my phone surprised me with a loud marimba sound. I nearly tossed it across the bedroom.

  Rachel sounded mad. “Did you just call and hang up?”

  “No.” Dummkopf. “Yes. I was afraid to wake you up.”

  “At eleven thirty?”

  “I thought you’d be at church.”

  “It’s Saturday.” She laughed. I should have prepared for this conversation.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry that Janet
called you the other day. Even though it wasn’t my fault, technically. I thought they knew my schedule.”

  “You should talk more with your parents.”

  I was momentarily irritated by this comment. I considered hanging up. “How’s the Clarion story?”

  “Let’s see. You study a lot in the library and you bring the same lunch to school every day. Not enough for a story, is it?”

  “And allergies.”

  “Right. That’s all I know. And now it doesn’t matter because too much time has passed since your speech, and the editor probably won’t give me another chance to write.”

  I told her I had started Firebird High’s official German club and we were throwing a big party. I said she should write about that.

  “How can a reporter write about German club when the founder won’t open up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a long pause. I wondered whether she had hung up, until I heard a small sigh.

  “Maybe I can open up a little,” I said.

  She said she was stopping at Baja Fresh on Green Valley Parkway and that lunch was on her.

  “You mean, you’re inviting me? Today?”

  “Yes.”

  “To join you.”

  “Yes.”

  I was silent.

  “So are you coming?”

  “Yes.” I pressed END.

  There was no place to chain up my bike outside Baja Fresh, so I removed the front wheel and wrapped my chain around the back wheel and the frame. I carried the front wheel into the restaurant. I kept an eye on the bike, except for a few seconds when I was blinded by the place. Every seat was either in the sun, reflecting sun or reflecting the reflection. I kept my sunglasses on.

  Rachel bounded through the door, out of breath, as usual. She was wearing light green baggy drawstring pants and a very tight pink top, as if she couldn’t decide whether to do acrobatics or belly dancing. “You know what you look like?” she said.

  I was getting tired of people telling me what or who I looked like. I waited.

  “A hip safari guide. Or a photographer, a safari photographer in a witness protection program.” She laughed. I convinced myself she was laughing with me, not at me, even though I was not laughing.

  She ordered a burrito. I asked for a taco salad and made sure they knew I wanted no mayo. I was pretty strident about it. The counter person said that it didn’t come with mayo. From experience, even things that weren’t supposed to come with mayo were mysteriously slathered with mayo. It was a universal mayo conspiracy, against me.

  “What’s your grudge against mayonnaise?” Rachel asked, as we found a table.

  I told her about my concern with food poisoning, the fact that mayonnaise goes rancid easily, and that I hated the taste. I left out the fact that it was made with eggs.

  “You have strong opinions,” she said.

  “Some. Other times I’m ambivalent.”

  I noticed Rachel hadn’t brought a recorder or a notebook. I had thought she convened the meeting to get information on me for the Clarion story. Apparently not.

  “Do you ever want to get crazy?” she said.

  “Crazy? As in… what?”

  “You know… wild.”

  Oh. Wild was all right. Crazy made me think of my BiMo. I never wanted to be crazy. Never.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re wound up a little tight. No offense. It’s kind of… not endearing exactly. Anyway, forget I asked. It’s stupid.”

  She was one to talk about being wound up tight. She moved like a hummingbird. Her eyes darted between me, the fattish people at the counter, and a table of rowdy kids. She seemed embarrassed now. I had reacted defensively. That’s not the Tyler I wanted to be. I wanted to make this situation all right.

  “I ride my bike fast. Sometimes I yell at drivers. In German.”

  “In German?”

  “So they don’t know I’m cussing at them.”

  “What if they speak German?”

  “Then I guess I’d be in trouble. But it’s a wild thing to do, isn’t it? That I would risk my life that way?”

  She found this amusing. She snorted a little when she laughed. With anyone else this trait would have been grotesque. Not with her. She could snort all she wanted to, as far as I was concerned.

  “What about you?” I said.

  “What about me?”

  “Do you… get wild? Or crazy?”

  “I might if I had time.” She explained that she worked forty hours a week checking in guests at the Luxor spa. She booked massages while attempting to “up sell” them on facial treatments and body waxes. “About once a week we have an incident where someone gets a massage and wants a happy ending. We have to ask him to leave. But it’s not so bad, because one of the masseurs has been giving me tips on how to give massages. Without the happy ending, of course. I could give you one if you want.”

  I didn’t know whether she was serious or not. I was about to ask her what happy ending meant, but I didn’t have a chance. She was already on the next topic. “I have to work because my mother has this disease. Fibromyalgia.”

  “I know what it is.” I had written a research paper on it, for fun, in tenth grade. I had an urge to share some findings from my research. There was some dispute in the medical community about whether fibromyalgia was a legitimate ailment or not. It had a variety of symptoms and was different in every person. A few scientists thought it was a name given to an assortment of ailments that couldn’t be identified.

  But what I really wanted was to tell her something about me. I wanted to share this with her for weeks. I thought it was more important than fibromyalgia. “If I say something personal do you promise not to print it?”

  She stuffed a triangle of burrito into her mouth while staring at me. I took that as a yes.

  “That wasn’t my mother the other night. She died four years ago. I live with foster parents. My BiMo… biological mother was allergic to eggs and shellfish. That’s how she died. I don’t know anything about my biological father.” I stabbed a wedge of avocado with my fork. My pulse was elevated. I felt flush. I concentrated on my salad.

  “I see.” That’s all she said. Under the table she touched my knee with her hand. It wasn’t accidental. She had to go out of her way to do something like that. Kicking me or stepping on my foot might have been inadvertent.

  She was about to cut another wedge of burrito. She stopped and looked down in disgust. At the bottom of her plastic basket, a triangle of the burrito had been cut out. In that triangle, where there should have been wax paper, was the red plastic tray. “I’ve been eating my wrapper.”

  I told her the amount of waxed paper she consumed was harmless. She was grateful for the information. She began cutting her burrito daintily, as if it were spring-loaded. She examined the next forkful carefully. Finally, she gave up and stared at the thing.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot that I don’t like burritos.”

  Just then, I wondered whether I might be falling for her.

  A noisy family sat down next to us. Rachel’s eyes got big and she made a deliberately fake smile. She asked if I wanted to go. I told her we should wait a minute. I had just figured out what happy ending meant, and the thought of Rachel giving me a massage with a happy ending had made me aroused. Standing up was not the best idea. When my arousal subsided, I told her we should go.

  Outside, Rachel stood over me as I replaced the front wheel on my bike.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” she said.

  I could have continued sharing the whole gory truth about my BiMo’s death, but I didn’t want to push it. That was enough revelation for one afternoon. I had a momentary urge to reach for her hand, but my hands were dirty from the bike wheel. I had already used my last moist towlette.

  The bus arrived just as we approached the stop, something that never happened when I was trying to catch one.

  “Are you coming to the
German party? It’s next weekend.”

  “I think I can,” she said.

  The bus door opened and a large man waddled out, squinted at the sun and aimlessly wandered away. Rachel was standing directly in front of me, almost too close, saying nothing.

  “The doors are going to close,” I said. “It’s twenty minutes until another bus comes.”

  “Okay.” She sounded huffy. She turned and sashayed onto the bus.

  I yelled thanks for lunch, in German, just as the doors hissed shut. She looked back at me from the window. I couldn’t decipher her expression. She might have thought I was swearing at her. I made a mental note to clarify that, next time I saw her.

  Around 1 in the morning Milagro Sanchez wanted to show me more photos of her non-family. This time I had a plan. I was armed with my own photos. I was already on a roll, personal revelation-wise, having started with Rachel.

  I pulled out three photos from my breast pocket. One was of my BiMo, dressed as a cowgirl waitress. I told Milagro that she enjoyed the job because she was able to sing. I couldn’t remember whether the job was in Texas or New Mexico, but I told Milagro it was Texas. “She didn’t hate being a waitress most of the time,” I said. “She said it was like being on stage. She liked people.” I gave her another photo of my BiMo holding a fishing pole. It must have been Colorado, because there were snow-capped mountains in the background and she was wearing a parka. Maybe one of her boyfriends took it. I told her my BiMo—I called her mother for Milagro’s sake—liked to fish, and was good at it. This was not true, as far as I knew.

  The third photo was of me at my tenth grade science fair. I was standing with two older men, in the process of explaining my exploration of spore dispersal in basidiomycetes. My BiMo was dead by then. She only attended one fair, my first, in seventh grade. She didn’t even stay the whole time. Later, she explained that she felt intimidated by all the “smarties.” She was very smart, just not book smart. I didn’t invite my BiMo to any other fairs, to avoid sending her into a depression.