Subject to Change

by Karen Nesbitt

  My heart’s pounding in my chest. What’s taking Leah so long? “Why don’t you keep them in a pocket?!” I blurt out.

  She looks at me for a second from under her hat, which matches her mittens and jacket perfectly, and goes back to digging. She mumbles, “Why don’t you have a schoolbag?”

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  Robbie guns the motor. It roars on the quiet street.

  Finally, Leah pulls out a set of keys on a butterfly key chain and sorts through them for the right one.

  The Taurus makes a noisy U-turn, and fishtails before passing in front of Leah’s house. Over the rumbling exhaust I hear, “Blah, blah, blah, fuckin’ blah, blah, dickhead, blah, blah, blah!” as Seamus screams at me from the car. He obviously does see me. His arm arcs out the window. A spray of little red cylinders flies from his hand and rains on the street and Leah’s front lawn. On impact, the cylinders explode about fifteen feet away from us. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!!

  God fucking damn my stupid asshole brother! I want to run after the car and rip him out of his seat! I want to punch the shit out of him! I’ve lunged in front of Leah without thinking, and now I’m frozen in place. She’s watching the car speed up the street, its exhaust spitting and popping as it goes. Her eyes are huge, her mouth open wide like she’s screaming, but there’s no sound coming out. She’s halfway up from crouching, and she’s holding her hat on top of her head. The butterfly keychain is dangling from her other hand.

  We both stare as the brake lights brighten at the corner. The blue car gives a final roar as it turns and disappears.

  Dead. Silence.

  “Who was that?”

  Her voice startles me. “Huh?”

  “He was yelling at you, wasn’t he? Do you know who it was?”

  I don’t want to say it was my brother. I decide to focus on the driver of the car and not mention Seamus. “Sort of. He’s a kid from school.” I shrug my jacket up around my shoulders and ram my hands back into my pockets.

  “One of your friends?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, that was insane. I can’t believe it. What if someone had been walking by?” She shakes her head, and her voice is hard and angry. “What a jerk. He could kill someone driving around here like that. What were those exploding things?”

  “They’re poppers. Firecrackers.” Mr. Helpful. I couldn’t have pretended I didn’t know?

  She grunts and shakes her head, like she’s not surprised. “I’ve seen that blue car there before.” She gets busy unlocking the door.

  Does that mean she’s seen Seamus too? My heart slides into my stomach. I don’t want her to know we’re related. Boy, if she only knew. She probably shouldn’t be letting me into her house at all. If he’s hanging around here every time I show up, something even worse is going to happen.

  What’s it like to be a smart, normal person who lives in a nice house and cares about school? With no crazy family members who can show up any second and ruin everything?

  I make a mental note to murder my brother in his sleep.

  “Declan? Are you going to come in?” Leah’s waving her hand in my face like she’s trying to bring me out of a trance. The door is open.

  “Sorry. ADD moment.”

  “Do you have ADD? Is that your…uh…is that a problem for you?”

  “Not officially. I think my official diagnosis is stupid asshole. At least, according to my friends.”

  “Nice friends.”

  My stomach flip-flops as I step into the entranceway of Leah’s house. The first thing I notice is the smell of something cooking. It’s awesome!

  Curls spring out when she takes off her hat. “Uh-oh, I smell stew. My mom is with a client—she’s a real estate agent—and Bubby’s not supposed to be cooking. Stay here.” She leaves me standing in the hallway.

  I take off my boots and hang my jacket on a hook. I think that’s what it’s there for.

  Leah comes back and motions for me to follow her. “Come meet Bubby.”

  Old people make me nervous. I’m always afraid I’ll say something offensive by mistake. What if this bubby of hers doesn’t like me?

  There’s a lamp in the corner of the living room, behind a reclining chair. It’s shining on a little old woman who’s fast asleep with her mouth open, a book face down on her chest and a clicker in her hand. The news is on the TV, but the sound is off. Leah gently takes the clicker out of her grandmother’s hand and pulls a blanket right up over the book. She holds her finger to her lips, and we leave Bubby sleeping in her chair.

  “Sorry. I’ll have to introduce you another time,” she whispers, like she means it.

  I try to contain my disappointment.

  We go into the dining room, and Leah turns on the chandelier over a large table. There are these huge brass candle holders on a lacy thing in the middle of the table. They’re really shiny and have carvings all over them. They’ve gotta be two feet tall. She sees me looking at them. “Those are for Shabbat. We light them for dinner on Fridays and high holidays.” She moves them over to a buffet one by one, using both hands.

  I’m just staring.

  “I’m Jewish,” she says, as if it should be obvious.

  I know what Jewish is. But where do the candles fit in? Shabbat sounds like a racket sport.

  “Oh, right. I forgot. You didn’t bring anything with you. How do you manage with no books or anything?”

  “Look, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. I’m sure there are lots of other people you could tutor instead. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I’m sure Miss Fraser can find someone else.”

  She stifles a smile. “Sorry. I know this isn’t your idea of a good time. I’m sure you’d rather be doing… ”

  She has no clue what I’d rather be doing. I help her out. “Just about anything.”

  She nods. “So did Ms. Fraser make you get a tutor?”

  She calls her Mizz like they say on the school intercom, not Miss like the non-suck-ups do. “Not exactly. Mr. Peters made me go see her because I got in trouble. Tutoring was her idea, but I have to or it’s back to Mr. Peters.”

  “Oh.” She nods and smiles. “So what’d you do?”

  “A lot of things, I guess. I think this is, like, a last resort.”

  “Well, what kind of things?” I’m pretty sure this is how rumors start. Why is she so interested in my life?

  “Stupid stuff, like smoking on school property, being late, refusing to take off my jacket. Stuff like that.”

  “That doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “I know, right? But he says I’ve had twenty-one detentions, and most of them I skipped.”

  Her jaw drops. There’s a silver filling in one of her molars. “What?!”

  I thought things were going a bit too smoothly.

  She laughs. “How does anyone get twenty-one detentions? I mean, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Right.” I feel like I’m the entertainment. Does she practice insulting people, or does it just come naturally? I’m sure she thinks I’m a loser, the whole thing about not having my stuff. What business is it of hers why I don’t have my stuff? She’s my tutor, not my mother.

  I’m obviously not as amused as she is. She stops laughing and says, “Cool. I’ve never even had one.”

  “Why would you want a detention? They’re boring and stupid. That’s why I stopped going to them.”

  “I don’t know. There are some things maybe you should have to go through in high school. Things you don’t get to when you’re…”

  When you’re what? Too good for detentions? She really is lame. The only people who think it’s cool to have a detention are people who never get one. You get detentions because you suck at something—or like, in my case, everything. Little Miss Perfects don’t suck at anything. Well, too bad. I don’t want them there anyway, stinking up the DT room.

&
nbsp; I don’t go off on her though. I settle for some sarcasm. “Sounds rough, never getting in trouble.”

  She wrinkles up her nose. “Oh, some days nothing I say comes out right. I didn’t mean it that way. Sometimes it seems like there might be more to high school than I’m getting, that’s all.”

  Right. I’m sure she’s a rebel at heart.

  She checks the time on her phone. “We’d better get down to work. I’m just going to get my old history stuff from last year. I’ll be right back.”

  I watch her as she leaves the room. A perky rebel. With long bouncy hair and a cute ass. I wish she’d quit leaving me alone. That old woman is still in the next room.

  There’s a lot to look at in here. Everything’s big and old. The table, the chairs, the buffet. The doorframes are trimmed in thick, dark molding. As I’m casing the joint, my eyes land on those candle holders. They look heavy. Really heavy. I glance over my shoulder to check for bubbies, push my chair out silently and walk the few steps over to the buffet so I can get a better look. I reach out and feel the cool metal, run my hand over the curves and angles of the decorations. I check both doorways and pick up one of the candle holders.

  I was right.

  This baby weighs a ton! I hold it in my right hand like a barbell and do some bicep curls—one, two, three. It’s kind of hard to grip because of all those decorations, and it’s long and wobbly.

  The candle holder starts to roll out of my hand. I try to grab it with my other hand and miss. I’m afraid it’s going to crash onto the buffet, where there’s all kinds of breakable stuff. Instead, it lands on my foot and rumbles onto the hardwood floor.

  “Shit!” I yell. It’s out before I can stop it, but my hand flies to my mouth anyway. My foot hurts like crap. I’m hopping on the other one, with my hand covering my mouth, when I hear something behind me.

  I whip my head around to see Leah’s bubby standing with one hand on the doorjamb. With her other hand she’s pointing accusingly at me, looking like she’s caught a home invader in the act.

  Too bad Leah’s not here to introduce us.

  “Sorry, Miss…Bubby…Uh…I’m not going to hurt you or anything,” How do I explain the candle holder on the floor? I heave it up and wave it at her, but because it’s so heavy, it seems more like I’m swinging it at her. “These are beautiful!” She looks terrified and steps back, bracing herself on the doorjamb. “Oh, sorry! It’s okay. Leah’s my tutor. I mean, I’m here with your granddaughter.” I put the heavy brass candle holder back beside its twin. “We just came in. She—”

  “Declan? What are you doing?”

  I’m actually happy to hear Leah’s voice, even with that hint of snarkiness.

  “I was just looking—”

  She squinches up her face like she’s having trouble figuring out what’s going on, then sees her grandmother standing in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Bubby. You’re—have you two introduced yourselves?”

  The old woman lets go of the doorjamb, and her eyes return to their normal shape. She attempts a smile, but she has no top teeth, so she looks more like a fish in a flowery housedress. She’s wearing socks and men’s slippers.

  I want to die.

  Leah puts her stuff on the table and goes straight to her grandmother, hugs her and kisses her cheek. She takes her by the elbow and leads her closer to me, so I hold out my hand, pretty sure an introduction is about to take place. I step toward them. Pain shoots through my foot. I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink.

  “Bubby, this is Declan. I’m going to be tutoring him in history.”

  Bubby nods and shakes my hand. “Oh, that’s nice, dear. So you’re not here to rob the place.” She jokes! Or at least I think she’s joking.

  “Sorry about that, Miss…” I look to Leah for help.

  “Mrs. Zimmerman. Bubby used to be a history teacher. She’d make a much better tutor than me. And she tells great stories.” Leah elbows her so hard I’m afraid Bubby will fall over.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Zimmerman. I’m really sorry for scaring you.” We’re still shaking hands. Hers feels tiny and fragile in my nicotine-stained paw.

  “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t know who was more scared, you or me.” She smiles her toothless smile. “Declan. That’s a good Irish name, isn’t it? You don’t meet many Declans nowadays. Very nice.”

  Yeah, that’s me—I’m one of a kind. “Thank you. My dad was Irish.”

  Her bony little fingers slip out of mine. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  It takes me a second to realize she thinks he’s dead. “I mean, is. We just never see him.”

  Leah’s eyebrows are scrunched up in the middle of her forehead.

  Leah’s grandmother nods. “Well, you two carry on. I’m going to go read.” She starts to turn around, steadying herself again on the doorjamb. “Oh, there’s russela on the stove, dear.”

  “I know. It smells great.” Leah’s words sound loving, but she’s shaking her head at the same time. “You know you’re not supposed to use the stove, Bubby.”

  Leah’s grandmother ignores the scolding and asks, “Will Declan be staying for dinner? There’s plenty.”

  “Oh, I can’t stay. I…my mom expects me to be home for dinner. Thank you.” The idea of eating with Leah’s family terrifies me.

  “As you wish.” Bubby shuffles back to the living room in her corduroy slippers.

  “She makes the best russela in the world.”

  “Russela?”

  “It’s a Jewish name. It’s what my family calls beef stew.”

  “It smells great.”

  “It is, especially when Bubby makes it. Unfortunately, she knows that. If you want to stay for supper, no one here will mind.” But I get the impression she means no one but her.

  “Thanks, but my mom really does expect me to come home.”

  “Bubby’s a great cook. She taught Mom to cook, and now I’m learning too. That’s one thing Jews know how to do—eat! Bubby used to have a friend who kept food hidden in all the drawers of her dresser. She was in a concentration camp during the war, and she learned to hide food so they wouldn’t starve. After the war she just couldn’t stop. So sad.”

  “You mean you actually knew someone who was in a concentration camp?”

  “Knew someone! I know someone. Actually, so do you. Bubby was in a concentration camp during the Second World War.”

  “No shit?!”

  “No shit, Declan.” She’s trying to look pissed, but she can’t keep a small smile from twitching at the corners of her mouth.

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the greatest choice of words. But it’s kind of cute the way she’s pretending to be a tough guy.

  “She was just a teenager. Her family was in Theresienstadt. It was a special camp the Nazis used to fool the world into looking the other way while they killed Jews, homosexuals, political prisoners.”

  “The Nazis killed gays?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t just Jews. Bubby’s parents were eventually sent to Auschwitz, where they died. She and her brother were left behind, but her little brother died of tuberculosis in Theresienstadt. She’s the only one who made it out.”

  She looks away and shakes her head. I know a bit about Jews and the Holocaust from history class, but I obviously haven’t been super keen on history. It’s different when you meet someone who was part of it. And I had no idea there were gays in concentration camps. Maybe I should have paid more attention in class.

  “Wow,” is all I can think of to say.

  “My grandmother had a beautiful voice. She sang in a children’s choir in the camp. There were a lot of artists and musicians there. When the Danish Red Cross visited, the Nazis made the prisoners clean up the camp and put on a show. They thought it would stop the Allies from looking for the death camps. But you can see pictures online. It was terrible.”

  “Wow,” I say again.

&nbs
p; “When I said my bubby was a good storyteller, I meant it. Once I was old enough, she started to tell me everything. It scared me at first, but my parents thought I should know.”

  I have to be honest: I’m enjoying listening to Leah talk about her grandmother. Learning about history never felt like this in a classroom. “Your grandmother seems awesome.”

  “I’m really proud of her,” Leah continues. “She’s been through a lot. She’s very strong. Well, she was. Now she lives with us because last year she had a stroke. She can’t live alone. And she can’t read or write anymore. I hate that, because it meant so much to her.”

  “But in the living room, wasn’t she reading?”

  Leah smiles, but she wrinkles her forehead at the same time. It makes her smile sad. “She acts like she’s reading, and she’s trying to learn again. A speech and language therapist comes to the house to help her. Right after her stroke, she didn’t know who we were, but she never forgot her stories.”

  “Wow.” I shake my head.

  “You say wow a lot.”

  “Yeah.” Little Miss Perfect’s back.

  “It’s getting late, Declan. Since you didn’t bring books or anything, maybe for the rest of our time today we’ll just make a plan—get organized. The final exam is in less than three months. We should see each other at least once a week, right?” She’s looking at the calendar in her phone. “Okay, that means we’ll get to meet about ten more times before the end of term, and if we throw in a few quizzes…”

  Back to tutoring. Back to reality. Time to prove I’m not a loser lowlife.

  Nine

  Why the hell do there have to be so many different kinds of pens? I just need something to write with. And a notebook. I grab a light-blue notebook off the pharmacy shelf. It looks like the Hilroys we used when I was a little kid, but thinner. I guess they don’t make ’em like they used to. Where’s the list of things Leah said to get? I pull the crumpled note out of my jeans. One-inch binder. Check. Loose leaf. Check. Notebook. Check. Pen.

  How are you supposed to choose a pen? What the hell is a gel pen? Red pens. Purple pens. Sharpies. Mom used one of those to write my name and phone number on my clothes when I was in elementary school. Why? I guess she thought if I got lost, the first thing someone would do is look inside my underwear for contact information.