Text copyright © 2011 by Steve Brezenoff
Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Carolrhoda Lab™
An imprint of Carolrhoda Books
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.
Website address: www.lernerbooks.com
Front cover: © iStockphoto.com/TheCrimsonMonkey. Back cover: © Infocus/ Dreamstime.com (left); © Micw/Dreamstime.com (right). Brooklyn map © Alexis Puentes/Dreamstime.com.
Main body text set in Janson Text 11/15.
Typeface provided by Linotype.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brezenoff, Steven.
Brooklyn, burning / by Steve Brezenoff.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Kid, who lives on the streets of Brooklyn, loves Felix, a guitarist and junkie who disappears, leaving Kid the prime suspect in an arson investigation, but a year later Scout arrives, giving Kid a second chance to be in a band and find true love.
ISBN: 978-0-7613-7526-5 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)
[1. Street children—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Musicians—Fiction. 4. Alcohol—Fiction. 5. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B7576Bro 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010051447
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 - SB - 7/15/11
elSBN: 978-0-7613-7945-4 (pdf)
elSBN: 978-1-4677-3188-1 (ePub)
elSBN: 978-1-4677-3189-8 (mobi)
For Beth, the “you” in my love story.
—S.B.
“Love is friendship set afire.”
—JEREMY TAYLOR
“Here comes Dick, he’s wearin’ a skirt.
Here comes Jane,
ya know she’s sportin’ a chain.”
—“ANDROGYNOUS,” THE REPLACEMENTS
(The Mural)
On the corner of Franklin and India streets in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, is the north wall of Fish’s bar. If you stand across India from Fish’s, you get the best view of the mural, twenty feet high and thirty feet wide. It hasn’t been there long, and in this part of the neighborhood it doesn’t get much attention. Even folks going to Fish’s bar don’t notice, because they usually walk up from Williamsburg to the south, or along Greenpoint Avenue down from Manhattan Avenue and its bus and subway lines. Those who do see it, stare at it from the launderette across the street instead of watching the clothes go round.
It spans day and night, with the sun rising way to the left—out of a blast of yellows and golds and reds—and the moon and stars blossoming at the right, all indigo and silver and purple and deep, deep black. In between the beginning and the end is our Brooklyn—mine and Felix’s—with its blocks and bridges and bottles. Beautiful. Right in the center is the warehouse, looming over the river, stout and ancient. Above it all are our mothers and fathers: the skyscrapers and dazzling glass across the river, holding back while looking down over us, an air of protection (imaginary) and authority (meaningless). And then there’s Felix—blink and you’ll miss him—walking into the night, with his head low and swinging, and his eyes closed.
On the sidewalk under his loping right foot is written 1986–2005, and beneath that, the signature: KID.
Scout
“What about you?”
I asked you that question for the first time on the morning I found you, sitting against the dropped gate of Fish’s bar. The sun wasn’t even up, and my feet were sore from wandering all night with my bag on my back, looking for nothing but too excited to sleep and unwilling to stay in one place.
You probably don’t remember it like I do.
“Are you waiting for Fish?” I said. You didn’t even look up from under your dark black bangs, so I kicked your foot gently. “If you’re waiting for Fish, she won’t be here for like seven hours.”
Then you looked up. I didn’t notice that your ears stick out, just a little, so you look like a pixie sometimes, or an elf. I didn’t notice that the corners of your mouth always seem like they’re trying to smile, while the rest of your mouth wants to pout. I didn’t notice the little bump on your nose, near the bridge but slightly to the right—the bump I’d trace with my finger over and over, not soon enough. I didn’t notice your long hands and rough fingertips, or the dozens—is it hundreds?—of bracelets on your left wrist, made of busted guitar strings.
I noticed your eyes, because they looked wet; maybe it was a trick of the light—the fluorescent and neon lights falling over your face from the bodega next door. But I didn’t think about neon or fluorescence, not then. I didn’t think about love, and I didn’t see right down to your heart. But I must have stared—did I?—because there was your spirit, right there before me, and when you found my eyes I knew I’d pulled that spirit back from someplace amazing, not Greenpoint, not the summer sidewalk in front of Fish’s bar, smelling of old alcohol and piss.
But it must have been a trick of the light, because when you stood up, you were smiling, and your bright eyes looked alive and right there, with me, on Franklin Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, Earth.
You didn’t answer me, not directly. Instead you reached into the back pocket of your jeans and pulled out a slip of paper and held it out to me. “I’m looking for Felix.”
I took the flyer. I’d seen it a hundred times. I was there with Felix when he’d made them. That they were still out in the world … It felt like forever ago.
DUO LOOKING FOR MORE. PLAY ANYTHING, BUT
BE AMAZING, BECAUSE WE ARE. COME TO FISH’S
ON FRANKLIN ANY TIME AND ASK FOR FELIX.
“Felix is gone,” I said. I crumpled the flyer to hide the shaking in my hand and tossed it into the street. “If you want to join a band, I’m all that’s left of that project.”
“What do you do?”
You looked confused, or maybe you didn’t believe me. You made me distrust myself, and I looked at my feet, then swung my bag off and pulled out my sticks as evidence. “Drums.”
With a little willpower I got my chin to rise and looked at your face. Your eyes were leaving again, going wherever they’d been, so I tried to hold them there. “I can let us in,” I said. “If you want.”
“Is there a band?”
I noticed for the first time the gig bag leaning against Fish’s dropped gate and shrugged. “There can be,” I said. “I mean, we can make one. Anyone can make one.”
You didn’t say anything, just picked up that gig bag, so I dug around in my backpack again and found my key ring to let us into the cellar. When I swung open the gate in the sidewalk, you looked down the steps into the darkness.
“Down there?”
“It’s just a practice space,” I said, heading down. I found the dangling chain to turn on the naked bulb. “It’s nothing fancy. I sleep here most nights.”
“I don’t think I want to go down there. I don’t like being cooped up like that.”
I stood at the bottom of the steps, rolling my eyes up at you. “It’s barely seven steps down. And hey, we can open the back doors to the garden if you want.”
You shouldered your bag and took two steps down, then ducked a little to get a look. It was nothing impressive, of course. I mean, Felix’s Christmas lights were still up; if he
hadn’t come back for three amps and a drum set, he wasn’t coming back for Christmas lights. They gave the place a certain charm. I figured I’d plug those in for the full show, and you jumped a little. I admit I laughed.
“Come on,” I said, unplugging the lights, then I reached out my hand with a sigh, like you might need help with the steps.
You took my hand and another step. From there I guess you spotted the ratty couch and the back door and windows. They must have made you feel safe. Or maybe I had. I felt your fingers close over my hand, tightly, and then you came all the way down.
“You can put that down if you want to,” I said. “What’s your name?” I went to the back, toward the garden door.
“Scout.” You laid your gig bag down on the couch but didn’t sit down yourself. “Can we open that door? For some air?”
I nodded and laughed a little, then opened the heavy bolt and swung the back door open. You followed me as I stepped out into the garden. I sat down on a cast-iron chair, part of Fish’s patio set, and lit a cigarette. “The sun’s starting to come up,” I said, gazing over the buildings behind Fish’s place, “from way out at the tip of Long Island. The east end is where the sun comes up. It goes down in New Jersey.” That’s what Felix told me.
A little panic started rising in my chest, so I took a long drag and exhaled it slowly and coolly into the east.
You sat opposite me, just staring at me for a while. I could feel your eyes on me. When I faced you, you turned and looked at the sunrise. I guess I must have sounded pretty crazy to you just then.
“So, who are you?” you finally said.
“I’m the drummer,” I said. “I help out Fish at the bar upstairs when she lets me. I haven’t seen my parents in about nine months, but I still go to school for most of the day. Or I did until last week; school’s out. I’m also the genius who painted the mural on the side of the bar.”
“I saw it,” you said. “Where do you live?”
“Right here, like I said. Lately.”
“What’s your name?”
“Everyone calls me Kid,” I said. I don’t even look my sixteen years. “As in ‘Billy the.’”
“Is your name really Billy?”
“My name is really Kid.” I clenched my teeth. “Okay?”
You nodded. “Do you want to play something?”
“Fish would kill us if I started drumming at this hour. Her neighbors are terrible people. They’d have the cops here in no time, and I’m not exactly old enough to be hanging around a bar.” I found a scratch in the center of our little patio set and picked at the paint with my chewed-down fingernail. “What about you?”
You looked at my finger as it worked. “Are you asking my age?”
“Why are you here? Where are you from? What’s your story?” I prodded.
“It’s summer, isn’t it?” you asked, and I nodded. “Then it’s summer, and none of that matters. For now, I’m whoever I want to be.”
I looked up from the table for a minute and into your eyes, saw myself in them, but you seemed to be sliding off again. Your chin went up and your eyes let out for the horizon.
“I need sleep,” I said, getting up and stamping out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table. “I’ve been walking all night just to hit that couch. You’ve already interrupted my schedule. I should be fifteen minutes into Sleep Town by now.”
“Well, do you mind if I plug in?” You jumped up and went in ahead of me. I caught how your jeans sat halfway down your ass, and your long shirt, tucked in, didn’t hide how slim you were, almost skinny—hungry. If not for the studded belt holding up those jeans they’d have been around your ankles.
“I’ll keep it very low. I can play you to sleep.”
I didn’t even answer, but you pulled the gig bag off the couch and I took its place. As I closed my eyes and let myself slip away, I heard one of Felix’s old amps crackle to life, and then crackle again as you plugged in. You strummed and tuned and strummed again.
The tone was like honey, better than anything Felix had ever gotten out of that amp, and your voice was more delicious still—warm and sweet, but there was a darkness in it, and it showed me all those places I’d seen in your eyes. Your song crept over me as I drifted, the room spinning ever so slightly, and I rolled onto my side and pulled up my knees, facing the back of the couch, and put my hands up together by my chin, like your music was a blanket I could gather around me.
School’s out
We never talked about where you planned to stay. That first night—I guess it was morning already, really, when I met you—I don’t even know if you slept. I woke up still on the couch, but my arm wasn’t under my head, going numb pressed against my ear, like usual. Instead your lap was there, and your hand was in my hair, like I was the family dog, and when I rolled onto my back and the side of my face pressed against your belly, your wide-open eyes shined back at me.
I sat up and quickly got on my feet. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” you said, letting your hands fall onto your thighs. “I wasn’t sleepy, so I just sat down and…”
I took a step out into the garden, grabbing a cigarette on the way. “Don’t get the idea we have some connection now, okay?” I said over my shoulder. “You showed up with a stupid flyer I made a year ago. That doesn’t mean you get to pet my head and act all lovey-dovey, okay? It’s meaningless.”
I lit my cigarette and let the smoke roll between my lips and up my face, up the side of the building, past the fire escapes and along the windows on the second and third floors, over the roof, toward the river.
“Got it,” you said, and I heard the amp pop as you switched it on. “No connection. Meaningless.”
You started playing, and I told myself the music I remembered as beautiful—ethereal—last night wasn’t special. I’d just been tired, riding a little drunkenness. But that was a lie, because I was already feeling my chest about to burst, so I took another desperate drag before pulling the garden door closed and sitting down.
…
I burst in through the back door of the bar the moment Fish opened the latch. It wasn’t even eleven.
“Is everyone getting an early start this morning?” she said, and I smiled and threw my arms around her neck and wrapped my legs around her hips. She’s a goddamn Amazon, and I’m scrawny as hell, so that’s no trick. “Nice to see you too.”
“School’s out!” I shouted next to her ear, then spotted Konny walking toward us through the otherwise empty bar. “Think Jonny’ll show up this morning?”
Fish smiled and I released her from my hug to meet Konny halfway.
“I hope so,” Fish said. She switched on the jukebox. “I could use the extra income right about now.”
Konny and me sat in a booth near the front window and a few moments later a pair of Cokes showed up on the table.
Fish wouldn’t ever serve us drinks, of course, outside of Cokes. Coke is fucking delicious, especially on hot summer days like those, and Fish’s fountain Coke is the best I’ve ever had. If you need it flat and fast, it is. But if you’re sipping and relaxing for hours at the booth past the stage, it pops and fizzes every time.
“Thanks, Fish.”
“Mmhm,” she said, and sat down next to Konny. The two of them sitting there could have been related, with their so-black-it’s-blue comic-book hair and tattered black leather and lace. “The cellar was wide open when I showed up, Kid. How about that?”
“Oops, sorry,” I said. I leaned forward and took a sip from my Coke. “Someone showed up last night—or this morning, I guess—with a flyer, one of the ones we made up last summer.”
“Felix’s?” Fish asked. Konny turned to look out the window, and I nodded.
“So what happened?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. I came up here to say hi and got sucked in. You know how it is.”
“You left a total stranger down there alone?” Fish asked. Konny laughed. “With all that equipment?”
“I
don’t think Felix will mind,” I said, then I took my turn looking out the window. Fish got up and went behind the bar when a couple of hipsters came in, probably looking for Bloody Marys or mimosas or some other morning drink. Konny took advantage to slip a flask from her huge bag and happy up our Cokes a little.
We hung out in the window like that through most of the afternoon. At three, Fish ordered a pie from Danny’s pizza place down Manhattan Avenue. When it arrived, Fish paid for it and dropped it on our table. Our jaws must have fallen open.
“You’re both going to help out tonight, isn’t that right?” she said with a smirk, her hand flat on the top of the pizza box, preventing us from digging right in.
She meant after closing: crating up empties, sweeping up, mopping the bathrooms. Konny and I nodded stupidly and Fish smiled, then let us open the box as she grabbed our empties. “I’ll get you two another couple of Cokes.”
…
My stomach was full and my head was down when someone stepped up to our booth. I saw black jeans and checkered Vans but didn’t lift my head. Konny didn’t feel tactful; she never does: “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Scout.”
Your name and voice made my chest sink for an instant, and I lifted my head. “What are you doing here?” I felt like I had to cover you with a sheet, pull you into a closet, lock you away.
You looked at Konny, then back at me. Konny and me get that type of glance a lot, people wondering what we mean to each other, so I rolled my eyes.
“We talked about starting a band,” you said, glancing back at Konny. She was busy smirking at me, no doubt wondering if you were mine, and how soon she could get your pants off. The idea of you becoming another notch on her belt bothered me more than it should have.
“Are you around all summer?” Konny said. She slid deeper into the booth to make room for you, but you nodded and didn’t sit.
“You want to play, huh?” I said. I got up from the booth and grabbed your wrist. “Let’s go, then. See you, Konny.”
I pulled you through Fish’s place to the back door, past the bar, past the jukebox, past the quarters pool table. Konny shouted after us through a smile, “Awwww!” Two drinkers were leaning just outside the door to the garden, so I shouldered through them, pulling you along, and jerked you down the four steps into the cellar, then went to close the door behind us. I remembered early that morning, your fear of being enclosed, and left it open so you could breathe. Though why you thought breathing Greenpoint’s air was any better than breathing in our own steam and CO2, re-circulating in the basement, was beyond me.
Brooklyn, Burning Page 1
