Facts of Life

by Gary Soto

  "Yeah, we wont mess up," Rachael agreed. She figured that she and Freddie had already messed up earlier in the day when they'd been jumping from their neighbor's plum tree. They returned home with bloody elbows. Freddie's lip was swollen and a baby tooth had become as wobbly as a restaurant chair.

  Their parents were divorced, but neither of the kids missed a father who sent them presents and money only now and then. Life was like the game of jumping from trees: Sometimes it was fun, and sometimes you got to your feet crying.

  The kids watched their mother put on earrings. They were excited for her—a girlfriend was picking her up and they were going to a dance. Rachael and Freddie were going to get a babysitter they'd never met; they hoped she would be fun. They had a rented movie to watch, and their mother had bought them a frozen pizza as large as a sombrero.

  "You look pretty, Mom," Freddie said.

  "You smell pretty, too," Rachael added. She was about to compliment her on how her dress matched her shoes when the doorbell rang.

  The kids jumped and screamed, "It's her!" "Her" was a girl recommended by her mom's comadre Lucy. The babysitter had dropped out of school at seventeen, Lucy had said, but she was a good kid and needed work.

  When Rachael opened the door, she was surprised to find a girl whose nose was spiked with two chrome rings. She had dark liner under her eyes, and her hair was orange. Studs adorned her ears, six at Rachael's quick count. Her fishnet stockings were pulled awkwardly over her pale thighs.

  "Are you the babysitter?" Rachael asked, slightly frightened.

  "Yeah," the girl answered flatly. She entered the house, her big boots ringing against the floor. Her long black coat dragged like a shadow.

  Girls aren't supposed to be dressed like that, Rachael found herself thinking, noticing that the coat covered a dress that was too, too short. Her fingernails were painted black. And was that a tattoo circling her wrist?

  When her mother clip-clopped into the living room to meet the babysitter, Rachael could see that she was transfixed for a long second before she snapped out of it and said, "You must be Keri."

  "Yeah," the girl answered. That one word revealed a chrome ball on her tongue.

  "What's that?" Freddie asked, pointing.

  "What's what?" his mother peered down at him.

  "In her mouth?" Freddie's own tongue appeared, then quickly retracted as if someone might staple a chrome ball to it.

  Embarrassed, Rachael squeezed her eyes shut and wished the babysitter's arrival could begin again. Her little brother was such a punk! Rachael expected her mother to admonish Freddie, but she only sighed and looked at her watch. She set rules: one movie, the pizza for dinner, no answering the front door, and no use of the telephone. If they played the stereo, they shouldn't turn it on too loudly.

  Soon she was out the door, with a kissy peck for Rachael and two gentle kisses on Freddie's cheek—his lip was still tender. To Keri, she offered a reminder that she should call if there was trouble.

  After the front door closed, Keri sat at the kitchen table, her chin in the palm of her hand. Rachael attempted to liven things up. She showed Keri the scrapes on her elbows and recounted how these injuries had occurred. But this display didn't move Keri. Rachael pondered. She decided to inform this babysitter that they were excellent students. Rachael told Keri that she was ten and that her little brother was seven, but they could—and did—already read novels. She described a book about a boy whose parents had moved away without telling him. Rachael chuckled as she recounted a scene of the boy washing the dog in the bathtub.

  Keri yawned and revealed a second chrome knob in her mouth.

  Rachael then foolishly asked, "What grade are you in?"

  "Grade, like, you mean, school?" Keri's eyes were flat. "I'm, like, outta school." She bit a fingernail.

  "I'm in second," Freddie said. He then displayed his scraped elbows and showed Keri his thumb, which a fishing hook had punctured when he was real little.

  "I'm bored," Keri announced as she brought out a cigarette from the inside of her shirt pocket.

  "You smoke?" Rachael asked.

  Keri lit up and blew a perfect halo of smoke that hung in the air for a few seconds before it broke apart.

  "Smoking's bad," Freddie claimed. "I burned my fingers once."

  Keri inhaled and held the smoke in her lungs. Then she slowly let it unfurl and take shape in the air; for a second it resembled a dragon with a whipping tail. But like the halo, it, too, broke apart. She rose and went to the refrigerator.

  "What do you got to eat?"

  "Pizza!" Freddie screamed.

  "Mom also rented us a movie," said Rachael, who was a little put off by this girl. She was unfriendly and just too weird. Rachael surmised that was why she had dropped out: no friends to hang out with. Who would wear a big black coat when it's not cold or raining? And all those metal things in her face? They reminded Rachael of her dad's fishing tackle.

  Keri brought the pizza out of the freezer. With a fork, she stabbed at the plastic that encased the pizza while the cigarette hung from her mouth. The ash grew and the cap of red brightened each time she stabbed and struggled with the plastic wrapping. Finally, she fit the pizza into the microwave, but discovered that it was too large—she had to bend it slightly.

  Rachael watched as Keri punched in the time and inhaled on her diminishing cigarette. Not wishing to get caught in the stinky smoke, Rachael scooted out of the kitchen and into the living room. Freddie had slid in the DVD and was sitting inches from the screen. He turned and announced, "It's Nemo."

  Rachael could feel her mouth tighten. How many times had they seen that babyish movie? Rachael was suddenly aware that Keri was a lot older, especially in experience. Why else would she have a tattoo circling her wrist and one on the back of her neck? Rachael had spied them when Keri had pulled back her hair. Didn't that mean maturity?

  Keri appeared in the living room. "What are you going to watch?" she asked.

  "Nemo!" Freddie screamed.

  "Whatever." Keri plopped on the couch and opened her cell phone. No messages. She slunk into the couch, eyes closed, her legs splayed. She scratched her orange hair and breathed deeply.

  She thinks were babies, Rachael realized as she sat a few feet behind her brother on the floor. I don't care. She stinks of smoke.

  The movie drowned out the hum of the microwave. They watched Nemo, and Rachael found herself pulled into the narrative. She was startled by a loud pop.

  They all jumped up, even Keri, who had fit a grape-flavored lollipop into the corner of her mouth. They scampered into the kitchen, where the window of the microwave was lit more dramatically than the TV screen.

  "Oh, my God," Rachael let out.

  The microwave beeped. Rachael opened the door slowly. Through the curling steam, the pizza appeared to ooze from the microwave. It reminded Rachael of the movie The Blob.

  "I guess fifteen minutes was too long," Keri remarked. She tapped the crust and licked her finger. "It's still tasty."

  "I'm hungry," Freddie said.

  "You can eat the pizza like soup," Keri said seriously. "I could put it in a bowl."

  Pizza in a bowl! Rachael grimaced. "How about a sandwich?" she asked. "With all the chips you want."

  Freddie rolled his eyes as he judged his sister's recommendation. "No," he concluded. "I want something better."

  "How 'bout a hamburger?" Keri suggested.

  Freddies mouth arched into a smile, but he released his show of happiness because his spreading grin disturbed his swollen lip.

  "We're going to have to drive," Keri said. "Burger King's far away."

  "You have a car?" Rachael inquired, searching for a spatula to scrape the cheese from the walls of the microwave.

  "I walked. We can use your mom's car."

  Rachael stopped. "My mom's car?" She pictured Keri turning corners at ninety miles an hour. "That's, like, against the rules. Mom will really get mad."

  "So are you hungry
or not?" Keri bent over, fiddled with her fishnet stockings and pulled her ringing cell phone from her boot. She frowned at the number and coolly ignored the call.

  "We'll just have sandwiches," Rachael replied.

  Rachael made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the three of them, and poured potato chips into a bowl. Keri waved her sandwich away, but pinched up a few potato chips. She pulled a candy bar from her purse and took a bite. She then handed the candy bar to Freddie.

  Rachael didn't like Freddie eating candy before his meal, even if it was just a sandwich and potato chips. She's just awful. Rachael brooded and bit into her sandwich. She munched dramatically to demonstrate that the sandwich, prepared by her own hands, was a tasty treat. She then crunched on a potato chip hard—the chip broke noisily.

  But Rachael slowed her eating when Keri brought a slick chrome projectile from her boot and spanked it against her thigh. She uncapped it and applied the black filmy gloss to her lips.

  "Black lip gloss," Rachael commented, disgusted.

  "Ugh." Freddie rested his candy wrapper on the coffee table.

  "It's just makeup. It's like when you dress up for Halloween." Keri stood up and rifled through her coat pocket until she found an earring. "Here, put this on." She unscrewed the post and said that it would look nice hanging from his nose.

  "Don't!" Rachael warned. The idea of her little brother wearing an earring in his nose—or any other part of his body—was too much. Rachael began to wonder if there was a law against babysitters like this one.

  Freddie studied the earring. "It's for girls," he concluded.

  Keri posted her hands on her hips and barked a single laugh. "Are pirates girls? They wear earrings."

  "Not in their noses!" Rachael spoke up.

  Freddie seemed to think deeply. "Nah, pirates ain't girls. They got, like, swords and knives."

  "Ain't isn't a real word," Rachael corrected with a growl.

  "Ain't so!" Keri said, and laughed. "It's a real word. I ain't got a problem with it." She ran a hand through her hair and applied her black lip gloss again.

  Rachael became starched with surprise when Freddie fit the earring onto his nose and slowly turned the knob until it stayed. He shook his head, and the earring wiggled.

  "How do I look?" he asked.

  "Ugly," Rachael answered.

  He ran to the bathroom with Keri to apply the black lip gloss.

  "Don't!" Rachael scolded as she followed in long strides.

  "Relax," Keri said. "We're just having fun. It's better than watching a stupid movie."

  Rachel had to admit that it was sort of fun seeing her goofy little brother with an earring hanging from his nose. Still, she had to take a stand. "But it's not normal," Rachael countered.

  "What's normal?" Keri stated that there were all sorts of ways to dress. Look at Africa, she argued. People wore bones through their noses and cheeks.

  "Yes, that's okay there," Rachael argued. "But we're here in America."

  "Shallow people in America wear jeans and T-shirts. Get with it."

  Rachael was hurt, and it showed in her reddening cheeks. "So it's okay to wear ugly stuff like those stockings of yours? They're cheap!"

  "No, they cost quite a bit." Keri gazed at her long legs and adjusted her fishnets.

  "Did it hurt?" Freddie butted in.

  "Did what hurt?"

  "Those things in your face." He pointed.

  Keri let out a small barking laugh. "Like, yeah, it hurt." But she contended that she had suffered greater pains in life than what it took to staple her lip, nose, ears, and belly button. She bent over and brought out a small packet from her boot. "Italian coffee—it's the best."

  "What's Italian coffee?" Rachael asked.

  Keri didn't bother to explain. She went to the kitchen, with Rachael and Freddie following. There she brewed the coffee in a saucepan and strained it into a coffee mug.

  "Here," she said, and presented the cup to Rachael, who searched the surface of the hot, steamy brew. She could see her reflection, and suddenly she could see herself with a stud in her nose—something small as dust, something dainty. She then brought the hot coffee to her lips, sipped, and gave her tongue a few seconds to appraise the taste. She then uttered, "Strong."

  "You have to get used to it," Keri advised. "If you want, add sugar."

  Freddie said, "Let me try." He loaded the coffee cup with sugar and slowly brought it to his lips. He sipped, smacked his lips, and sipped again. "It's good."

  Rachael took the cup from Freddie, sipped, and had to admit that it's deliciousness agreed with her. Is this what Goth-types drink? she wondered. She drained the cup.

  "You know what?" Keri said after they drank two mugs of coffee each. "Rachael, you need to punk out." She went to her coat draped on the couch, brought a small bottle out of her pocket, and shook it. "Let's color your hair."

  "No way!" Rachael screamed. She took a step back.

  "You can wash it out," Keri argued. "It's not permanent. Come on, be mellow."

  "Let me," Freddie begged. His grin revealed what was left of his baby teeth.

  "Okay," Keri said. She seemed to weigh the wisdom of coloring the hair of a seven-year-old.

  Rachael was amazed when, in the bathroom, Freddie bent his head over the tub and allowed Keri to work the dye into his hair. It lathered into a mountainous, orange frothy concoction.

  "Close your eyes tight," Keri warned.

  Rachael was worried that Freddie's eyes might turn orange as pumpkins and perhaps grow just as large if they became infected. After all, the dye had been in Keri's boot and there was no telling if maybe some of her foot germs had rubbed off when she opened the bottle. But when his head was toweled off, Freddie fluttered his eyes open. They weren't orange, but his head sure was. Keri then streaked his hair with green gel.

  "Cool," Keri crowed as she stepped back to appraise her creation: a seven-year-old punker with scrapes on his elbows!

  He's like a parakeet, Rachael thought.

  Standing on a stool, Freddie looked in the fogged-up mirror. He wiped the mirror and judged his appearance after he turned his head at different angles.

  Keri next attached a row of screw-on earrings to his earlobes. She dabbed a dark substance under his eyes.

  "I look like the dudes in the Raiders Black Hole," Freddie said.

  Rachael could picture those wild fans at the Oakland Raiders games. They were hideous and dangerous. "You sure it'll come out?" she asked.

  "I'm sure," Keri said. "How 'bout you now?"

  Rachael stepped back, her hand on the doorway. "No, thank you. I like my hair the way it is."

  "Don't be a chicken!" Freddie sneered. "Before Mom comes home, we can wash it out."

  "No, I don't think so." She posted her hands on her hips.

  But when they returned to the living room and Keri put Spew Face on the stereo, Rachael had to giggle and join in bouncing to the music. It felt fun; it felt wild. At first she just jumped lightly but then picked up speed when she and Freddie leaped on the couch. He began to jump and touch the ceiling.

  "Go, boy!" Keri encouraged over the blare of "Ugly Mom, Ugly Sister." They stopped when the song ended, but got up again when the next song, "Dog Breath Friendship," started with a howling dog and a guitar solo. They were punishing the living room, jumping wildly.

  But when Freddie leaped from the couch to the hassock to the end table, he slipped on a doily and went headfirst onto the carpeted floor.

  "Ahhhh," he cried, hand on top of his head. Between his fingers, blood bubbled and rolled down his wrist.

  Rachael's eyes widened. Were her little brothers brains—his one important possession, because she had to admit that he wasn't cute—about to come out? She should have known that dancing in close quarters to a group called Spew Face would bring them to disaster. His hair was now a psychedelic mixture of orange, green, and red.

  "You'll be okay," Keri said without emotion.

  But Rachael could t
ell that she, too, was a little nervous. Was he really going to be okay? Freddie was leaping around the living room again, and for a moment Rachael believed that he was still dancing to the music. But he was leaping from pain, or fear, or both. The earring fell from his nose, and the black under his eyes began to crawl like fingers down his cheeks.

  The dance party was over. "Is he going to die?" Rachael asked.

  "Of course not!" Keri led Freddie to the bathroom, and started to bathe his head.

  "It hurts." Freddie bawled.

  "It's not that bad," Keri said. She washed his head gently with a bar of soap and then started to scrub when the dye didn't rinse out. "The orange isn't coming out." She examined the washcloth and could see the green gel, the black from under his eyes, and pinkish blood.

  "Mom's going to be really mad," Rachael predicted. "I told you you shouldn't have."

  "Well, he wanted it."

  "But you said it would come out."

  Keri stood up, her chest heaving. "Well, sorry, it doesn't. What's the big deal?"

  "What about the cut on his head?" Rachael asked.

  "It's no biggie. It's already stopped bleeding."

  Rachael parted Freddie's hair and probed the wound with her finger. It was a bloodless slit, which made her wonder whether all the blood in his head was gone. She looked at her brother, who seemed pale as he stood up, a stream of water rushing down his neck. Was he about to faint, or "succumb," a grown-up word she had learned meant to die?

  "Are you sure you're okay?" Rachael held Freddie's shoulders. "Do you feel like you're going to ... succumb?"

  "No, I'm not going to throw up," he answered.

  Rachael left it at that.

  "It just hurts a little," he said, sniffing.

  But his tears stopped when Keri brought from her boot a Butterfinger candy bar. She unwrapped part of it, and said, "Here." He bit into it, a flake falling from his lips.

  They all went to the living room, where Finding Nemo was muted and Spew Face was blaring. When Keri turned off the music, the house became suddenly silent. She bent down and picked up the earring.

  "What are we going to tell my mom?" Rachael asked.