Stick

by Andrew Smith

  Four little girls in yellow frilled dresses, and wearing pale white leggings that wrinkled around their ankles, with black shoes polished like mirrors, came through the doorway. Each one of them carried a basket of flowers, and they scattered petals and blooms down onto the sidewalk where they walked. Then eight little boys, Mexicans, stepped out from the church, lined up like soldiers, and all dressed in matching green suits and ties, their hair slicked down across the tops of their heads, shining like the shoes worn by the flower girls. More men and women, young and old, all brown-skinned, shining, swaying in their dresses and suits, walking proudly like hunters carrying a trophy, and waiting beside the open cars with their gleaming eyes fixed on the façade of the church.

  Finally the bride and groom emerged through the doorway, and the voices of their party rose in happy and musical salutes. The man looked scared. I knew how he felt, with all these people watching him. He was thin, with barely a trace of mustache, and he wore a very simple suit with a yellow shirt. His eyes met mine, and it was like we both knew something about the other.

  He looked to be about seventeen.

  And I thought he looked brave.

  But I didn’t feel bad or out of place watching as the groom nervously led his bride into their car. And when the people forming the lines caved in behind them, a pathway cleared through the crowd, so I continued up the sidewalk, looking for anything I could find that said Angel Street on it.

  I stopped in front of a shop with the word CARNICERÍA painted in blue across its wide glass storefront. At some time, the letters had been rained on, and they dripped down the window like melted wax.

  Inside, I saw a glass case that was filled with meat, pale sausages, and parts of animals. A beautiful girl in a white apron stood behind the counter, and an old woman with her back to me pointed and waved her hand, “no,” at things she wanted the girl to turn over, lift.

  No, again.

  At the back of the shop, a stocky man, bare-armed and wearing a T-shirt smeared with blood, hacked away at a leg joint, swinging a wide and flat cleaver while a lit cigarette dangled from his lips and smoke curled back into his eyes.

  Even from where I stood on the sidewalk, I could hear the drumming whacks of the cleaver, and I could see the bone dust and marrow that flecked out across his wooden block.

  And in front of the girl, at the very center of the meat case, was an enormous pig’s head, blanched white, smiling at me, his eyes squinted like he was laughing, as if he was so happy I had come there to see him, surrounded as he was with curved platters of cow brains, tongues, and tripe.

  I thought he was like the king of all the dead things, the ruler of all the pieces that had been so carefully arranged around him, all the missing parts everywhere in the world.

  I had never seen anything like this before—certainly never seen an entire pig’s head for sale—and I tried to calculate if there was a price you could pay for something like that.

  His ears looked nice, too.

  I wondered if anyone could just buy one ear.

  A scale with a stainless metal pan hanging beneath it dangled over the counter. It reminded me of a prop you might see in a horror film. The girl who worked there dropped something red and wet into it, and she watched as the needle danced its clockwise, twitching response. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and she was saying something to the old woman customer, who nodded. I was mesmerized by her mouth, the whiteness of her teeth.

  She was perfectly beautiful.

  She must be the daughter of the butcher, I thought, because she couldn’t have been much older than I was. And I wondered if she had ever kissed a white boy from the state of Washington before.

  One with anotia.

  I looked at the pig head again.

  When I lifted my eyes, I noticed that the girl had seen me. Maybe she knew I’d been watching her; but we just stared at each other for a while. She didn’t smile. Neither did I. It was like she knew me.

  She pulled a piece of brown paper out from beneath the case and scooped the contents of the metal scale onto it. As she tucked the paper around the piece of meat, flipping it over, turning it around, I saw that her slender left arm ended just below her elbow.

  But she worked quickly, like missing a hand was nothing to her.

  The butcher kept chopping.

  The old woman counted out money from an orange wallet.

  I watched the girl behind the counter, and I wondered if Mrs. Mendoza had a word for this girl, too.

  She looked at me again.

  I left.

  I was sorry I watched the girl. It made me feel like I’d stolen something from her.

  Maybe she thought the same thing about me.

  Maybe that’s what the pig was smiling about.

  * * *

  I almost walked right past Angel Street without noticing it.

  Well, there wasn’t much to notice in the first place; just a crooked, hand-painted sign nailed to the top of a heavy door with a small, grated window cut into its center. The door was squeezed inconspicuously between two storefronts, and when I pulled it open, the only thing on the other side was a dark and worn, narrow flight of stairs that led straight up to another doorway.

  It reminded me of the way up from my basement. The stairs that would take me to Saint Fillan’s room, to Mom and Dad. But these stairs at Angel Street smelled like piss.

  I stood in a puddle of it at the bottom landing.

  A bare, yellowed lightbulb hung down from the ceiling above the stairs. It dangled on a blackened cord of wire. When the door shut behind me, it was like I’d stepped into another world, or maybe another time.

  The stairs creaked under my feet.

  I looked back and saw the patterns of my shoe soles printed in piss on the lower steps. When I got close enough to the upper doorway, I could read the words that had been stenciled in black with spray paint:

  ANGEL STREET YOUTH SHELTER

  I didn’t want to wait anymore. I imagined pulling open that door and looking right into my brother’s eyes, seeing him the way he was the last time we were together and happy, on that Easter morning when we surfed together at the Strand.

  But the door opened onto another dark and quiet room.

  I went inside.

  It smelled like smoke. I stood with my hand on the door, inside an old lobby, very small, with a torn sofa and a table that had equally torn magazines and coverless books on it. A mute television sat on the floor beside one wall. It had only one rabbit ear. The other was missing; and I thought, I have come home.

  At the back of the room was a curved, wooden registration counter, like you’d see in an old run-down hotel.

  A man smoking a cigarette leaned behind it, like a tired bartender.

  He didn’t have any hair on top of his head, which helped spread the light from the flickering artificial-flame glass bulbs in the fake electric candles behind the desk. But the hair on the sides of his head hung down to his shoulders.

  He said, “You’re the last one.”

  “Uh. I am?”

  It was all so surreal, like the guy had been expecting me. And for just a moment I thought that maybe I was dead, and maybe this was where you go to get sorted out or maybe to find your missing parts.

  I watched him, hoping he might give me some kind of clue. Like we were speaking in code or something.

  As my eyes adjusted, I could see a hallway behind him, and a door with a brass number nailed onto it.

  He took another long drag from his cigarette.

  “The last bed. You never been here before?”

  I shook my head, and kept my back pressed against the door out to the stairs.

  “Room two has three beds. Two boys checked in today. You’re the last one.”

  The bald man pinched his cigarette between his lips and pulled a clipboard up from beneath his registration desk. He started to write something on it, and checked the time on his wristwatch.

  I looked at the door again.
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  “You’re new on the streets, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Um. I don’t think I’m on the streets.” I cleared my throat. There was no window in the room, and I became aware of how much smoke had filled up the space between me and the guy at the desk.

  “I’m looking for my brother. He called me yesterday and said he was going to be here.”

  I took a cautious step forward.

  On the wall in back of the man, there was a sign. It said, ANGEL STREET RULES.

  I guessed it was there to make boys like me and Bosten feel at home.

  NO DRUGS.

  NO SMOKING IN THE DORMS.

  IF YOU ARE UNDER 18,

  CALIFORNIA LAW REQUIRES

  ANGEL STREET TO CALL

  A PARENT.

  YOU MUST LEAVE AFTER 2 NIGHTS.

  At the bottom of the poster, in what looked like red crayon, someone had scribbled, “No Sex,” and, below that, in pencil: “Especially not with Steve.”

  I assumed Steve was the bald guy smoking the cigarette—the guy who ran this place. He put down his pencil.

  “My brother’s name is Bosten McClellan.”

  “I know Bosten.”

  For some reason, just hearing Steve say he knew my brother made my heart start beating faster. “Is he here?”

  Steve shook his head. Ashes dropped onto his desk and he swiped them away with the underside of his forearm. “Nuh. He checked in today, but he’s out on the street right now. You know that kid. He needs to straighten his shit up.

  Slow down a bit.

  He’s going to end up dead.

  Everyone’s tried talking to him.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know if it meant I should leave. “Is he going to come back?”

  “He knows to come back before midnight.”

  I thought about the man who was going to lock the gate at ten pee-em.

  “My brother is only sixteen.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve sounded annoyed. He pressed his cigarette butt down into the lid from a pickle jar and twisted it around.

  I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. I just wanted Steve to tell me Bosten was going to be okay.

  I shrugged.

  “Look. Every time your brother’s come in here…” Steve flipped back through the pages pinned to his clipboard. “Three times in the past two weeks. He stayed here three times, counting showing up this morning.”

  Steve did the math.

  He pivoted the clipboard around so I could read it.

  “See that phone number?”

  Steve bit his nails. And his finger was yellow. He put it down right under the phone number next to Bosten’s name. It was our phone number in Washington.

  I nodded.

  “Look familiar, kid?”

  “It’s ours.”

  “Every time he’s been here, I’ve talked to your dad. We have to. To get permission. I talked to him about an hour ago.”

  “My dad knows Bosten’s here?”

  Steve let out a heavy sigh, the kind people would make when they were about to call me retard.

  “You know the drill, kid. Your dad doesn’t want the boy to come home, anyway. Why wouldn’t he give permission?

  If he didn’t give permission, we’d kick your brother out.

  You’re not dumb.

  You know what happens to

  boys like Bosten

  on the street.

  Your old man even sent him some cash a few days ago.”

  I didn’t know what happened to boys like Bosten on the street.

  So I supposed I was dumb.

  “My dad sent money?”

  “And you know what boys on the street do with their money. Or the things they’ll do to make money.

  And Bosten needs to slow it down a bit at both ends of the cash-flow gig.”

  I didn’t know anything.

  I decided not to ask him any more about boys on the street, because I thought he didn’t know how stupid I was about things yet. And maybe I was afraid of finding out too much about Bosten.

  I swallowed.

  “I came to take him home.”

  “To Washington?”

  “We stay with my aunt now. In Oxnard.”

  “Well, good luck making that happen.”

  “Does he have any stuff here?”

  “Bosten? That kid never has nothing but the clothes on his back.”

  Steve took another cigarette out. “Smoke?”

  He held the pack out to me.

  “No.”

  “Yeah. You’re not a street kid.”

  “I know.”

  Steve lit the cigarette. He squinted his eyes when he dragged in the smoke, like it was painful. I thought that looked cool.

  I said, “Can I stay here and wait for my brother?”

  Steve pointed at the rules on the wall. “You can wait for two nights, if you want to.”

  I didn’t want to.

  I sat down on the least-ripped part of the couch I could fit on, and Steve added, “And the TV doesn’t work.”

  Then he put his clipboard away.

  I stared at the wall, at the TV with a missing ear.

  I could feel that Steve was just standing there, staring at me, but I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. There was a plastic lid from one of those really big coffee cans sitting on top of the torn books and magazines on the table. It was filled with all kinds of cigarette butts. I tried counting them, identifying the brands.

  I picked up a book.

  The cover was torn off. I turned it and looked at the spine of the book. For just a moment, I thought, with the cover gone, it was like the book was missing an ear, too. Down the spine, it said, The Catcher in the Rye.

  I never heard of it.

  “What’s your name, anyway?”

  Steve was still watching me.

  I guess when all you have is a broken television set and a bunch of torn books, you might as well watch the back of an ugly kid’s head.

  And I almost said Stick, but stopped myself.

  “Stark McClellan.”

  “Do you want to talk to your dad?”

  “No.”

  I put the book back, spun the lid of butts around, counted.

  “What happened to your ear?”

  “Nothing.” I said, “I have anotia.”

  “Oh.”

  Steve said it like he knew what I was talking about.

  He probably thought something else would fall off me if he just watched long enough.

  * * *

  I thought about

  the girl in the carnicería.

  How she might be an angel.

  And I fell asleep,

  sitting there on that torn couch

  in Angel Street.

  BOSTEN

  I know

  I am floating.

  And I see all the people

  that come and go,

  and come and go,

  carried by tides we can’t swim against.

  Sometimes we reach out

  and our touch is a passing thing.

  Paul Buckley, Willie, April,

  Sutton,

  Emily.

  * * *

  Only the sounds

  and words

  stay trapped in my head.

  * * *

  Here are five bullets.

  Here is the saint.

  * * *

  Bosten and I could never let that sea

  separate and drown us.

  We were all we ever had.

  Someone’s arm wrapped around my shoulder. There was warm, thick breath against my neck.

  “Stick?”

  My eyes were shut, and I expect this will sound strange, but I smelled Bosten.

  I know my brother’s smell, whether he’s clean or dirty, wet or dry. Before my eyes opened, I knew it was Bosten, there, next to me, and the words in my head pleaded

  don’t let this be a dream.


  “Sticker?”

  And then I saw him.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Bosten grabbed both of my shoulders, his eyes were just inches from mine.

  I couldn’t talk.

  He looked different. I guess I did, too.

  Because everything had changed.

  * * *

  Bosten was thin and pale, gray. His eyes were so dark, and he looked like a man. There was a patch of golden fuzz growing out from his chin, and more down the turn of the jaw in front of his ears.

  And he was wearing the same clothes he had on that day Mrs. Buckley drove him home, but they were filthy. His T-shirt had gone brown, and his flannel had holes in it.

  But it was my brother.

  I grabbed on to him and put my face against his neck. And I didn’t talk; and I didn’t let go, either. I realized Bosten was crying.

  That was something my brother never did in front of me.

  “I’m sorry, Sticker. I didn’t mean to scare you or nothing.”

  I put my hand in his hair and rubbed his head.

  “I was so goddamned scared.”

  Then I really was scared that maybe this was a dream, so I pushed him back and looked at him again. His eyes were wet, and I wiped at them with my thumbs.

  “Goddamn it. Fuck, Bosten.”

  I started crying, too.

  “I like your hair.” Bosten combed his hand over my head.

  “You need some clothes. And a bath.” I pulled at the soft hair on his chin. “You need to start shaving, too.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Steve was gone. There was nobody in that small lobby room except for me and my brother.

  “Did you bring any clothes for me?” Bosten sat back on the couch. He had his arm around my shoulder, so it made me lean forward with him when he reached out and grabbed the cigarette he’d been smoking.

  “No. And you don’t smoke.”

  Bosten shrugged. His eyes smiled at me, but his face was so tired.

  “Just watch me, Sticker.”

  Then he took a big drag from his cigarette, and he didn’t even make any expression at all. I thought that was even cooler than how Steve smoked. Bosten exhaled a cloud through his nostrils.

  “How about money?”

  “I have money. But you’re coming home with me. To Dahlia’s.”