by Susan Vaught
“You’ve still got one more on that list. Number Six, that Arroyo girl.”
“Awful guilt. It’s got to be guilt. I wouldn’t blow my head off over a girl. I like my head.”
The next thing I heard was a big cackle. “Boy, you used to dress up in your mother’s yoga tights, stick a Viking helmet on your head, and bash into the furniture—and that was just a prelude to football. You never treated your head very well.”
“Viking? Tights. No way.”
Mama Rush was belly-laughing now. “They were pink as this piggy bank, and yes, you did.” She waved her hand and chopped up one of the smoke-fog-pieces. The butt-face alien pig rattled when she stamped out her cigarette in the glued ashtray. She used the ashtray I made her every time we talked. It had lots of burned spots, but she didn’t act like she cared.
“Not fair!” I grabbed my memory book and dragged it across the table to me. “I didn’t know you when you were little. If I did, I’d have stories on you. Butt-alien-pig. Tights? Tights.”
My face was hurting from smiling so big. And I was laughing in little chokes. Pink tights. Viking helmet.
Not possible.
Frog farts.
“Catherine,” said a deep voice.
“Farts!” My bad hand clenched tight. My teeth clamped together.
Mama Rush quit laughing fast. Her face went flat. Her eyes got squinty and her lips tightened up.
Both my hands made fists as I looked up at the man standing between us. Farts. Tights. He scared me. Sneaking up and talking. He was tall. Looked like he might have had muscles a long time ago. Talk. Talking! He must have come through the door while we were laughing. Sneak. And he called Mama Rush by her first name. I didn’t know a single person who did that. Except the tall sneak. Whoever he was. Not Big Larry. At least Big Larry didn’t make Mama Rush look like she’d eaten Dad’s toast and oatmeal.
“Kool-Aid glue.” I tried to relax my fingers. My bad hand throbbed. And my jaw. And my head was starting to hurt, like a toothache behind my brain.
The man stared at me. Mama Rush stared at him. She tapped her fingers on the table, sighed, and said, “Carl, this is Jersey. Jersey, Carl.”
Carl wasn’t anything like Big Larry. He didn’t act like Big Larry, either. No red face, no crying, no bad arm in a sling, no scooter. Carl had on jeans and a black shirt, and he would have looked lots younger except his hair and beard were silver white. He was frowning like my dad used to Before, right before he grounded me or took my computer or did something else creepy “for my own good.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said in that deep voice, “but Catherine, can we please talk for a moment?”
Mama Rush still had that flat, narrow-eyed, tight-lipped look. Carl might not have been Big Larry, but he wasn’t any smarter. If Mama Rush looked at me that way, I’d duck. Or run. Probably both. But I’d known her since Viking helmets and pink yoga tights, and maybe Carl hadn’t.
She didn’t hit him, though. She just said, “We have nothing to discuss.”
Whoa.
My pragmatics might have sucked, but even I heard the ice falling off those words.
Carl—who must have been stupider than me and Big Larry put together—folded his hands and tried again. “Please. If you’d just hear me out, you might understand. It was a bad moment. A weak moment. I—”
“You what?” Mama Rush got loud in a hurry. On instinct, I scooted the alien butt-face pig and the glued ashtray closer to me before she could throw one of them. “You don’t have any better sense than God gave a box turtle! You got one mashed-up brain cell that can’t tell right from wrong? Don’t make me get off this scooter, Carl. And don’t make me keep talking. You won’t like anything I have to say.”
This time, Carl got the message. People on the street in front of The Palace probably got the message. Part of my brain got the message, too. For a second, I saw faces. Girls. Not Leza, not Elana. Girls I didn’t know. Faces. Three or four at least. Some laughing. Some crying. Then Elana, or maybe it was Todd’s girlfriend, looking at me like Mama Rush was looking at Carl. Bad look. Faces. Faces. Bad. I shook my head to make the faces stop.
You’re so self-centered….
No. Not that. Not that now. Need to be quiet.
Carl—really, really, stupid Carl—he wasn’t quiet. He tried to talk again. I blinked. Faces. The faces stayed and went, came back and went. Self-centered, self-centered. You’re so self-centered.
Mama Rush started to yell. She didn’t take a breath, and she used lots of words I was never supposed to say again because I shot myself and brain-injured people don’t know when to use words like that and when to shut up.
If I were Carl, I definitely would have shut up. Even if I couldn’t see faces. But Carl needed stupid-marks like me, great big shiny ones on both sides of his head, because he kept going, “I—I—but, I—”
Mama Rush talked so fast and loud I only got pieces in between the faces.
“Floozy” and “faithless” and “far-fetched.” F-words to go with faces. Lots of f-words, and another one I can’t say. She used that one a few times, in different ways.
Girl faces. I shook my head again. Too many faces.
You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.
Faces. Attila the Face. No. Attila the Red, who was still wearing red, appeared at the patio door, hit the autoopen button, and hurried over to where we were sitting. She had her hand on her credit card headset and she was breathing hard like she ran all the way from wherever Attilas come from.
“Is there a problem here?” Her eyes automatically went to me.
“Faces. Tights and Vikings.” This time, I did duck. Just put my head down, hugging the alien pig and the ashtray. Too many faces. Too much yelling.
You’re so self-centered….
You’re so self-centered….
“Young man, do you need to go home?” Attila asked.
Mama Rush came off her scooter. “How many times do I have to tell you people? This boy’s with me. He’s my visitor. And I say when I’m finished with my visitors, not you! Jersey, sit up straight.”
I sat up fast.
“See what I’ve been telling you, boy? See? You don’t loosen up, you’ll end up like her.” Mama Rush glared at Attila, then back at me. “Do you want to go home or not?”
Butt-face. Pigs. Faces. Tights. No matter what I said, I was so dead. Aliens! What should I say? No? Yes?
You’re so self-centered—no. No. Shut up.
My lips started working. I tried to swallow, but that part of my throat didn’t work. Nothing came out but an idiot-sounding “Aaah, uuuhh …”
Carl folded his arms. Attila kept tapping her headset.
Mama Rush’s expression softened a little. “Listen. I don’t want to let you down, Jersey, but today’s probably not the best day for me to help you. Maybe you should go on home, and let’s do this tomorrow or next weekend. Do you have money for a cab?”
“Tights.” I croaked, scrubbing my pocket with my hand. “Pigs. Aliens. Faces.”
“Okay, then.” She patted my shoulder. Her eyes were starting to look a little wider and more watery. “Go up front and call a ride.”
When I stood, she reminded me to take my memory book, and she asked me to put the pig and the ashtray back in her room. She said all that calm and sweetlike.
Without looking at Carl, she said, “Why don’t you catch a cab, too, Romeo man?”
She didn’t say that sweetlike at all.
I wondered where she wanted the taxi to take Carl, but I didn’t stick around to find out. As fast as I could, I tucked my memory book under my bad arm, picked up the mended presents, lurched over to the auto-open button, elbowed it, and got the hell off that patio.
Without looking behind me, I headed toward Mama Rush’s room with the alien pig and the ashtray full of ashes. Would she hit Romeo man with her scooter and turn him into ashes? If she did, Attila might throw her out. Ashes. Where was I? This hal
l didn’t look familiar. My bad hand burned. I looked left and right. The numbers on the doors blurred. This place did look lots like all the hospitals I’d been to. Smelled bad, too. Like raw stink here and there. Did Romeo man ever stink like this?
Carl had to be Mama Rush’s boyfriend, not Big Larry. Carl, the Romeo man. Nice. But, also, sort of gross if I thought about it too much. This Juliet was way unhappy with her Romeo man. Tights. If I’d stayed on the patio, she might have gotten unhappy with me. Pink tights. Pink pigs. Butt-face aliens. I had no idea where I was going. I couldn’t remember Mama Rush’s room number.
“Frog farts,” I said out loud. “Hoochie-mama. Frog farts. Frog farts.” I kept saying it, made myself walk slower, made myself breathe slower. “Frog farts.” Little by little, I stopped walking. Didn’t even drop my memory book, or the ashtray, or the alien pig.
“Frog farts.” More deep breaths. Look around. Look around. Tights and frog farts. Okay, the next hallway looked right. A few steps later, I found it. The door was cracked, so I just pushed it open.
Mama Rush’s room was about the same size as mine, except it had a kitchen on one wall. She had a bedroom and a bathroom, too, but those were so little only one person fit inside them. Just her. Not Romeo man. Good. Because that was the gross part.
I put the pig and the ashtray on her bedroom dresser where I knew she kept them, and for a minute, I stared at the pile of clay and ceramic that hadn’t been fixed. It was right there, beside the mended presents and her glue.
Probably no way to save that mess. I couldn’t even tell what those presents used to be. They were just broken pieces of nothing now, but Mama Rush hadn’t told me she couldn’t fix them, so I figured she hadn’t given up yet. Or maybe she didn’t want to hurt my feelings because she was scared I’d cry like Big Larry. Romeo man would have been smarter if he’d just cried. She might not have told him to call a taxi if he’d cried, even though she was mad.
Only, halfway home, in the back of the stinky-sock-smelling cab, I remembered what was waiting at home. No Dad, no Mom. No friends. No girlfriends, no tights, no Viking helmets. Just J.B.
J.B. and the box in Dad’s closet.
By the time I got to my house, I was sick of the faces.
Sick of the pictures and words in my head.
You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you.
God. My head hurt so bad I wanted to throw up.
Who were those faces?
You’re so self-centered … so self-centered … you’re so …
Head, head, head. I wanted to beat my head against the front door. It hurt. Hurt bad. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, so Dad wouldn’t be home for hours. I’d be alone with the faces. And the box. If I stayed downstairs, maybe J.B. would stay quiet. But the box was upstairs, and the box felt like a big magnet even though I was still standing outside the front door.
I kept squeezing my memory book as I squinted at the Rush house, hating the bright sunlight. No cars. Leza was probably at the track, so I couldn’t call her yet. Maybe soon, though. If I could last long enough. I unlocked the front door and stuffed the keys back in my pocket. It would be okay. I’d just stay downstairs and rub the sides of my head until I could move without my brain exploding. I wouldn’t go upstairs, so J.B. and the box wouldn’t bother me.
No box, no note, no bother. No being selfish, no being a Big Larry, and definitely no being a Romeo man, even if I had taken a cab. Faces. Faces, faces, faces.
Don’t drop the memory book, turn the doorknob, close the door behind me. No air-conditioning the neighborhood. See, Mom? I remembered. My pragmatics were better. I didn’t look up at all the ghost pictures, just put my memory book on the steps and stood still. Little by little, the faces faded away. No faces. Thank you. No faces. Thank you.
No faces now.
Just the box.
The box was up those stairs, in my parents’ room, in their closet. Just sitting there waiting. Maybe waiting for me. J.B. was up there, too, in my room. He got on my nerves, but at least he talked to me, even if he was a ghost.
The box. Closet. Ghost.
My fingers curled hard, making me grind my teeth. My throat ached. There was no way I left a suicide note. Did I? Ghost.
But if I did …
No, no, no. Ghost. Tights. Viking helmets. I needed to talk to Mama Rush again before I looked in the box. Or Leza. Somebody. If I found a note, my dad …
“Note,” I whispered. My voice sounded awful. I needed a glass of water, or maybe Dad didn’t drink all the milk with his pizza. Viking helmets.
I started for the kitchen and heard a noise.
Stopped. Listened.
Nothing.
Was I hearing things?
Shoelaces. Tights.
Had J.B. come down from my room and gotten in the kitchen? Tights! My heart started beating, beating. I didn’t know whether to go to the kitchen, go upstairs, or go back outside.
Another noise.
“Tights!”
And then, “Jersey?”
Mom’s voice.
My knees almost bent and made me fall. Mom came out of the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of bank clothes, and she was smiling. Then her eyebrows jumped together over her nose. “Are you all right, honey? You’re pale and shaking.”
“S-Scared me,” I managed. “Thought—bank—tights. Aliens.” Get a grip! If I go Big Larry, she’ll just get mad and leave.
But she didn’t get mad. She came up and gave me a short Mom-hug. “I’m so sorry. I came home because I knew your father had a conference, and I thought you might be … um, that you might want to do something together today. Like, have a big lunch and go to the movies?”
She smiled and looked all hopeful and kind of nervous.
I was too surprised to say anything, but I thought about butt-face alien pigs in tights and Viking helmets and pragmatics and a whole bunch of other stuff I needed to keep inside my mouth. My hand hurt. My head hurt. I didn’t even care. My mom wanted to go to the movies. This was my mom. Mine. The mom I used to know.
Refusing to scream anything about Big Larry or frog farts, I made myself smile at her and say, “Sure.”
The word came out right! Just one word, but it made her look bright and shiny. My mom. The mom I knew. Pragmatics. I wanted to fall down again, I was so happy.
“It’s a date, then.” Mom ruffled my hair. “I’m—I’m so proud of you for trying so hard. Now come to the kitchen. I promise not to make oatmeal or toast.”
chapter 14
Sunday felt new and happy, even though it was raining.
I woke up early and smelled eggs. Eggs and biscuits and unhealthy bacon. Probably gravy, too.
Mom was cooking!
No oatmeal. No toast. No Kool-Aid glue. Hallelujah. This might be the best day since I came home. Yesterday was pretty cool, too. The movie was fun, and I ate lots of popcorn to keep from saying idiot things and upsetting Mom. It worked. She stayed calm and shiny all through eating dinner out and coming home. She even said nice stuff to Dad about how he was dressed and about the brochures he brought from the conference.
Now I was about to get a real breakfast.
I couldn’t get my arm and leg braces off fast enough.
J.B. didn’t even open his loud mouth until I was tugging up my shorts. Of course, when he did, he tried to ruin my morning.
You haven’t looked in the box yet. You need to look in the box.
“I went to the movies with Mom. Box. Note. I mean, I don’t want to look in the box. If there’s a note, I don’t want to read it.”
Yes, you do.
“Do not. Frog farts. These laces aren’t so springy now.” Maybe Dad would change them for me. Or Mom. She might not get weird about springy shoelaces since she was cooking breakfast. If she was cooking breakfast, she had to be happier. “Blue laces. Maybe yellow this time. New laces. Shoelaces.”
That sort of rhymes. You’re a genius.
“I’m a five-y
ear-old genius. But I’m trying harder, and sometimes I focus. Sometimes I slow down and get it right like they taught me at Carter. And I’m eating with cheerleaders and doing my homework and wearing my braces every night, so maybe I’m six now, or seven. I think I’m a little older, at least. Shoelaces. Not so Big Larry. Not so selfish.”
J.B. laughed while I did my best to tighten my shoelaces even though they weren’t so springy.
You’re still selfish. His voice changed a little, got higher pitched. You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you …. Remember that, genius?
“Not listening to you.”
That was a lie. For a second, I saw faces again. Girl faces. Yelling in girl voices. Self-centered. So self-centered.
Humming to make J.B. shut up and keep the faces away, I grabbed my memory book but didn’t open it. Inside was the list with two numbers still not crossed off. If I opened the cover and flipped a few pages, I knew exactly what I’d see.
1. Maybe on drugs.
2. Did something awful I felt guilty.
3. My life sucked.
4. Heard voices telling me to off myself.
5. Parents really brother and sister/aliens/abusive.
6. Elana Arroyo—ask Todd.
I did something awful and felt guilty, and Elana Arroyo. Sooner or later, I had to get Todd to talk to me.
Maybe you did something awful to Elana Arroyo. Maybe that’s why you keep remembering her yelling at you. Maybe you did something really awful. Ask Todd. He’ll stuff your teeth down your throat.
The cover of my memory book was dirty. I needed to wash it. I needed a new string and a new pen. Maybe I should use one of the not-so-springy green shoelaces so they wouldn’t go to waste.
You’re so self-centered….
Did J.B. say that, or did I think it?
I looked toward the corner of the bedroom, into the dusty shadow where J.B. lived. Rain blew against the windowpane. I blinked, but I didn’t see any sign of him, not even sparkles. Had I ever seen sparkles, or did I imagine those, too?
“Shoelaces.”
“Jerrrr-seeeeey!” Mom called. “Breakfast!”
“Breakfast,” I muttered. “Shoelaces.”
