I’m trying to be cool—I’m trying really hard to be cool enough for this fourth grader. It’s pathetic, but I think I pull it off.
“Okay, thanks,” he says.
I smile, and he begins to walk away. “Oh!” he says, like he forgot something. “Here’s one more book to put back on the shelf. I think you missed it.”
He hands me the book he’s been holding. I look down at it as he walks away with his friends. It’s The Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo. I’m totally blindsided. I’ve read it. Of course I’ve read it. This book is like the bane of my existence—the book and the stupid cartoons and movies it has spawned over the years. Frickin’ Quasimodo.
You probably know the name, even if you’ve never been called it on a playground. He’s the guy in the title. His job is to ring the bells of Notre-Dame Cathedral, and he’s got all kinds of problems. He’s honestly written more like an animal than a person. And because he’s so “hideous” and “monstrous” and everyone is so mean to him, he completely loses it over a pretty girl who’s nice to him for like one hot second. It’s a good story and super dramatic, but the characters are all kind of stubborn and one-dimensional. I think that’s the word. What I mean is they’re all just one main thing. The ugly bell-ringer, the pretty girl, the vain captain of the guard …
Except in this book, they aren’t saved by who they are. They’re destroyed by it. Doomed by their looks, ruined by their vanity. No one changes at all, and no one learns anything—it’s depressing!
The fleshy slap of high fives snaps me back to reality. I look up and see the three fourth graders walking away, shaking visibly as they try not to crack up. I can feel my face burning, turning red. I look down at the book, trying to comprehend what just happened. It’s not a kids’ book, not at all, but everyone has heard of it, so he must have gone looking for it in the Advanced Reader section. Just to give it to me.
Just to make fun of me.
I can’t help but be a little impressed. Innocent on the outside, devious on the inside … The kid’s got a brilliant career as a serial killer ahead of him.
“Did Jerome apologize?” I hear.
I hide the book behind my back as I turn around. It’s Ms. Verdi.
“Huh?” I say. “Jerome?”
“I told him to come over here and apologize for what he said before.”
What exactly did he say? I wonder.
“Did he apologize?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
“Good,” she says.
I stand there for a few long seconds. I can feel the book’s weight behind my back. This stupid book … I sort of want to show it to her, to tell her. But snitching on a fourth grader? I just can’t do it. She’s looking at me now, waiting. I have to say something. I just blurt out the first thing I think of: “What’s going on in the maker space? I didn’t know we could sign in during lunch.”
“Normally, no,” she says. “We’ve always held maker space during study hall. But with the Building a Better Norton contest going on, we wanted to give kids extra time to work on their models.”
Nephi and the others are filing out of the back room now. I know at least some of them are regulars during study hall—but giving up their lunch? They must be really into this contest.
“You could sign in next time,” says Ms. Verdi.
I look at her closely. Does she know I’m avoiding the cafeteria? Can she see how much I need somewhere else to be? “Maybe,” I say. The truth is, I tried maker space a few times before. I’ve always liked building things. I still play Minecraft sometimes, and when I was a little kid I was the LEGO king. But the regulars in there are a tight-knit group. I felt like a cat in a dog run—even more than usual.
“Thanks for the help today, Ked,” she says, turning to go. “You always do such a good job shelving.”
“Thanks,” I say as she walks away. I take the book from behind my back. “Just one more to go.”
AFTER SCHOOL, I play Xbox until it starts to get dark out. I don’t bother to get up and turn on the lights. I have a lot of blowing-stuff-up to get out of my system. Many suckers get light-sabered. Just as I’m about to respawn for the umpteenth time, I hear shouting out in the yard. The words are muffled by the insulated window glass, but I recognize both voices. Dad wasn’t careful enough, and Mr. K caught him. This is bad.
I get up and walk over to the window, my legs stiff from sitting for so long. I look down from behind the dark window, and now I’m glad I never turned on the lights. I can see them standing there like two gray ghosts on the patchy white snow. They are both shouting at once, both waving their arms around in big violent gestures.
I reach down and quietly crack open the window. I hold my breath and listen to what they’re saying. It isn’t good.
“Heartless?” Mr. K shouts. “You think I don’t need that money for anything? The mortgage, for one. You’re delinquent!”
Dad shakes his head and sputters: “I’m just a little—”
“Yeah, you’re always just a little,” shouts the landlord, cutting him off. “Just a little short, just a little late—just about the worst tenant I ever had!”
It’s rough hearing your dad get yelled at like this. It makes me feel mad and embarrassed and helpless all at once.
“Just give me a little more time!” Dad shouts, not like a question at all. And that’s how I know for sure he doesn’t have this month’s rent, and since it’s pretty early in the month for this kind of showdown, that means he didn’t pay last month’s either. My heart drops. We owe at least two months’ rent.
“You’ve got till tomorrow!” says Mr. K. “For all of it!”
“Give me till the eighteenth!”
Why the eighteenth? It seems random. He’s up to something—and with Dad, that’s never good. I guess he’s got a payday before then—every two weeks—but if we’re really that far behind, that wouldn’t be nearly enough.
Mr. K is just as confused. “The eighteenth?” he says, and now he’s not yelling so much as just talking loudly. He takes out his phone, checks the calendar, I guess. “You want to pay on a Saturday?”
Dad is still panting from yelling, but now he pauses, considering the question. “That Monday, then,” he says. “The twentieth.”
“Okay, two months’ worth, on the twentieth,” says Mr. K. “Or you’re gone.”
No! You can’t just kick someone out. There are laws. I don’t exactly know them, but I know there’s a whole process. It could at least buy us some time. I mentally beg my dad to keep putting up a fight. But if Dad gives his word … My dad is a screwup, but he’s still got some pride left. If he makes a promise, shouting for the whole neighborhood to hear, he’ll keep it.
“Yeah. We’ll go,” he says.
And just like that, it’s over. Our heartless landlord heads one way, and the world’s worst tenant heads the other. I slowly slide the window closed: click. A second later, I hear Dad’s heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs, old boots on old wood.
He throws open the door and I’m playing Xbox with the sound up.
Pew! pew-pew! go the blasters.
Pish-shhwong! goes the lightsaber.
“I need the TV,” goes the father.
He has no idea I heard.
DAD SPENDS MOST of the night on the couch watching shows about fishing and people who live in Alaska. I watch with him for a while. I want to talk to him about this. I want to know how much of the money he has and if he has a plan for getting the rest. But I don’t know how. He never really talks to me about money, and he gets mad when I ask too many questions.
I head to my room, but I’m still thinking about it. Maybe he is too. I don’t know. He’s just quiet, watching those fish. What I do know is this: He’s asleep on the couch when I head to the kitchen later for a snack. It happens—especially since he watches sleepy-voiced shows about fishing and simple living. I was half expecting it. Maybe I was even hoping a little. I pause only long enough to take a d
eep breath. Any longer and I won’t do it. I need answers, and I think I know where to find them.
I head toward Dad’s room.
One more look back. His head is lolled to the side, eyes closed, his face lit by the TV. I open the door to his room, slip inside, and close it softly behind me.
It’s dark and smells like a bear cave. I have no choice: I flip the light switch. If he wakes up now, he could see the light under the door. I never thought I’d do this, never thought I’d go this far. I look around the room and spot the little metal box on top of the dresser where he keeps the rent money. The fact that it’s always in cash tells you something already. This is an under-the-table thing, another cut-rate deal in a town full of them.
I need to know how short we are, how bad it is. My pulse is pounding in my ears as I walk quietly across the room in my socks. The rent box is next to a junk-filled bowl that’s painted like an Easter egg and used to be Mom’s. It feels like a crime as soon as I touch the box. I shouldn’t be doing this, but there’s a momentum to it that’s hard to explain. If I’m being honest, it’s kind of exciting. Not fun, but electric. I need to know.
There’s a button on the front, right under the latch. I press it, and the latch flips open. I lift the lid. Money. Not in grubby little wads like I’m expecting, but in one neatly folded stack. My hands are shaking as I start to count Dad’s money. Our money, I correct myself. Our rent money. It looks like a big stack, like a lot. I see the hundred-dollar bill on the outside, and think: We’re fine.
Hundred-dollar bills are so cool. But there’s only one of those. Then three fifties (also cool). After that it’s twenties, then tens, then a few fives. It goes fast, and when I’m done counting, we’re not fine. We’re short, seriously short. We don’t even have enough to pay February’s rent—which obviously means there’s nothing for this month.
I run through the figures one more time in my head. Being poor is like always being in math class. We owe two months’ rent. We have less than one. Dad has promised to pay both. His whole paycheck won’t cover the difference—and that’s if he hasn’t already taken an advance against it, like he usually does when he’s short.
What’s strange is that there’s usually a reason we’re short. Because the car broke down or I had to go to the hospital for my back again or something like that. We are short some specific amount because of something unexpected. But not this short, and not with a running car and a back that’s no worse than it was yesterday. Dad’s been going to work every day, as far as I know.
I refold the money, thinking: Where’s the rest?
And then I find out. When I go to slide the bills back inside, I see a single slip of yellow notebook paper at the bottom of the box. Oh no. I’ve seen one of these before. Mom found one before she left. At least one. I put the bills down next to the box, pull out the slip, and unfold it. Here’s what it says:
St. Paddy’s 12–4
1k 10/1
It’s Dad’s handwriting. Here’s what that means, in case you’ve spent less time puzzling over my dad’s notes than I have:
He bet on St. Patrick’s Day, just like I did, but his bet is between noon and four o’clock. That’s got to be the tower. He bet a thousand bucks and got ten-to-one odds.
That $1,000 plus his paycheck would have been more than enough for the rent. Now, if he loses, he loses it all. If he wins, we’re golden, but Dad never wins. Instead, he just gambled away our home.
There’s one more thing written at the bottom of the note: “SB.” I know what that means too: the Stubbs brothers. That scares me. They’re bookies. They take bets. It’s illegal, but they have a talent for never being in jail at the same time. There’s always at least one of them around to take Dad’s bet—and always at least one of them to collect when he loses.
I fold the paper up and put it back in the box. I put the bills on top of it. I close it and back slowly toward the door.
I turn off the light and slip out into the living room. Dad is still asleep on the couch, his head tilted to the other side now. I close his door behind me: click.
He doesn’t even flinch. I take a few steps away from the scene of the crime. If he looked up now, he’d never know. For a split second I think: Now I can relax. And honestly, that has got to be the single stupidest thought I have ever had. Relax? I am vibrating with shock and anger and disappointment and fear.
I want to shout at him and tell him I know and he’s an idiot and maybe break the TV over his head. But this is exactly the reason Mom left us—or at least the reason she left him. So the next thought I have I can’t even help: Will it be the reason he leaves too? I am so angry at him now, and so utterly aware that he’s all I’ve got left.
So instead I just slip into my own room like I’m the thief.
IT’S SNOWING WHEN I WAKE UP WEDNESDAY. I walk over to my window to size up any chance of a snow day, just out of habit. But I can see immediately that it’s not going to happen. It’s just those little flakes, not much bigger than table salt, doing a twisty dance in the wind. God is salting us.
Last night comes back to me. Looking out at the snow, I have to face some hard facts. Dad isn’t just hoping to win that money. He’s counting on it. That’s why he asked Mr. K for the eighteenth—the day after St. Paddy’s. I can practically hear him now: I’ve got a good feeling about this or It can’t miss or any of the other dumb things he says.
I put my palm up against the windowpane. It is freezing out there. That tower might make it to St. Paddy’s, I think, but then I shake the thought away. I can’t fall into that. I can’t be like him. When my mom left, she left me too. I don’t know why, but I know what she used to say to me sometimes: “You’re so much like your father.”
It’s time to start getting ready. The school doesn’t want me either, but it has to take me. I grab my backpack and stuff my homework inside. Sometimes I walk by Dad’s door and whisper “Bye,” but I don’t today. I just head down the stairs and out into the light, swirling snow. It’s one of those March days in Maine where it feels like winter will never end.
School feels the same way: endless. It also feels kind of pointless. All day it’s like there’s a pane of glass between me and my classes. How can I worry about a test when I could be homeless soon? But I get through, and the final bell rings. On the way home, I stop in the pharmacy. I still have some money from last week’s bottles and cans, and I want to buy some candy. I just want to feel a little better, even if it’s only for the duration of a Snickers bar.
But as I walk past the counter I see that this week’s local paper is out and I get a total brainstorm. The paper has classified ads in the back—maybe I could get a job! Something quick or something that pays up front.
I pool up all my change and buy the Norton News. I know I could read it for free at the library, but this feels like a secret. I want to be able to take my time with it and cut things out.
I don’t have to check to see if the coast is clear on the way home or worry that there will be a big old padlock keeping me out. Instead, when I get there, it’s like there’s an invisible clock hanging over the whole place. The full rent by the twentieth or we’re gone.
Inside, I get a Pop-Tart and plop down on the couch. I open the paper and flip straight to the classified ads in the back. The “Help Wanted” section is all the way at the end, and before I even get there something else catches my eye. Two words that feel like they were meant for me: “NEED MONEY?!”
I read the rest:
“NEED MONEY?! CAN’T MISS BIZ OP!”
Biz op? It sounds like a space blaster in a sci-fi movie: Biz-op! But then I get it: Business Opportunity. I keep reading:
“Vintage Rd R-kit. Needs wrk bt grt valu! Fix it! Sell it! Profit!!! Srious offers only.”
And that’s it, except for a phone number. I read it again. It’s the word “kit” that I latch onto. I don’t know what an R-kit is, but I know a kit is something you put together. Dad’s got some old tools around here somewhere.
I like to build things—and I definitely “NEED MONEY?!” A bizarre idea starts to form in my tiny lizard brain. I know from the start that it’s basically impossible. It says right there “Srious offers only,” and I sriously have nothing to offer.
I flip to the help-wanted ads and scan the page. It’s all adult stuff, like “account supervisor” and “bookkeeper.” I can’t imagine anyone hiring me for those. Even more depressing is the “Services Offered” section right after that. Just a bunch of down-on-their-luck dudes offering to paint your house or fix your sink for “lowest rates around!!!” I guess that’s where I would fit in, but these guys already beat me to it—and who’s going to let me anywhere near their sink?
It’s a total washout. I tried, I think. And then, very slowly, I flip back to that first ad. I stare at it for a while before deciding to take the next step and at least get some more information. What’s an R-kit, anyway?
We don’t have internet at home anymore, otherwise I could’ve read the paper online. We had to give up that or cable, and Dad makes weird decisions. No Xbox Live for me. It’s basically a medieval existence. I don’t have a cell phone anymore either. (I used to have an “emergency” one but it broke.) It’s embarrassing. Almost everyone else in my grade has one. I do have advanced-level knowledge of all the public computers in town, though. I tear the ad out and leave the rest of the paper there like a gutted fish. Then I pick my jacket up off the floor and head to the public library.
The Norton Public Library looks like a normal house, except for the sign out front and the wheelchair ramp. Those make it look more like a dentist’s office. It’s just a low, squat building with grimy white siding, but it’s still my favorite place in town. Inside, they can get you pretty much any book in the state of Maine through interlibrary loan. It’s like magic. Book magic. I use it a lot.
On Thin Ice Page 4
