There were no two-dollar bills at the A&P, and when I got back to Jimmy’s with the lightbulbs, the kids were gone and Julia herself was standing in front of the sandwich counter. Annemarie and Colin had started making their lunches already. Jimmy had said no, I guessed, to the meatballs, because they were picking through the cheese.
Julia, who was pretending I hadn’t just walked in, seemed to be in the middle of a long speech about how American cheese wasn’t even real cheese, strictly speaking. I saw her long fingers gesturing toward the not-cheese, and I knew instantly that her V-cut would be flawless, that by Monday she would be behind that counter with Annemarie and Colin, and that her apron, the same kind that looked gray and baggy on everyone else, would somehow be perfect on her. She would have a way of tucking it up to fit, some trick a waiter in Paris had taught her.
Then Jimmy came out from the back room holding a stack of dripping plastic trays. “You.” He pointed at Julia with an armful of trays. “Out. I already told you once.”
Julia snatched her hand back from the setup tray. Annemarie flushed. “We’re just talking,” Annemarie said. “There’s no customers here now.”
“Actually, I’m a customer,” Julia said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I came to buy a sandwich. I have money.” She stuck out one pretty boot so that the green leather tip pointed at the ceiling.
“Out,” Jimmy said, practically growling. “Now.”
After she left, I pretended along with Annemarie that Jimmy was a little bit crazy, but as we walked back to school with our cheese-and-lettuce sandwiches, I carried a new warm feeling inside. Jimmy could be a grouch, but he saw right through Julia, just like I did.
Salty Things
On the Friday after Thanksgiving there was no school, but Mom still had to go to work. I’d been trying hard not to think about them, but I spent a good chunk of that morning worrying about your notes. I held one in each hand and read them over and over. The part about writing a letter wasn’t too scary. The scary parts were “I’m coming to save your friend’s life” and “Oh, by the way, where do you keep your keys?” and “P.S. Don’t ever tell anyone about any of this.” Seeing my name written out on the second note was also pretty creepy, because I was still trying to pretend the notes weren’t really meant for me. And also where you wrote “I won’t be myself when I reach you.” I didn’t like that part at all.
Come to think of it, there were a lot of scary parts.
After a long time, I put the notes away and turned on the television. I had been watching TV for two hours when I heard Louisa’s regular knock.
“Potato-chip drop,” she said when I opened the door. She was in her uniform, holding up a plastic bag.
Louisa is always bringing Mom food from the nursing home where she works. She doesn’t steal—it’s leftovers from lunch, mostly little bags of potato chips or animal cookies. The health department says that once something has been served on a tray, it has to be thrown away even if no one touched it. So Louisa takes all the little bags home and gives them to Mom, who brings them to the pregnant-jailbird “parenting group” she runs downtown.
Once a month, Mom takes the subway down to this actual jail and talks to criminal pregnant women about what to expect after they have their babies. They all think she’s some kind of saint for bringing them potato chips and animal cookies. Mom says that jail is a hard place, and that it can make people hard, too.
“It changes them,” she told me once. “Jail stops them from becoming who they might grow to be.”
“Isn’t that the whole idea?” I asked. “It’s supposed to stop them from being criminals!”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. A lot of people make bad mistakes. But being in jail can make them feel like a mistake is all they are. Like they aren’t even people anymore.”
Her bringing the chips and cookies is supposed to help somehow. It’s not really the cookies, she says. It’s the fact that someone brings them.
I took the plastic bag from Louisa.
She smiled at me. “You know what? You’re getting tall.”
I leaned against the doorway. “You think?”
She nodded. “I miss you, Miranda.” It was the first time either of us had said anything about the fact that I was never at her apartment anymore.
“Yeah.”
Her saying she missed me made me feel sort of hopeless for some reason. When she left, I lay on the couch with the TV off and my eyes closed, and I listened for Sal’s basketball. Hearing it made me feel better, for once. That sound was like the last thread connecting us.
Mom didn’t talk much at dinner that night. She was still in her work clothes, a denim skirt and a T-shirt with a picture of a coffee cup on it and the words Get Your Own underneath. Richard had brought strawberries over for dessert.
“Darn it.” Mom threw down a strawberry. “SSO’s again.”
“I bet the grapes are delicious.” I gave her a fake smile.
“Don’t start, Miranda. I had a lousy day.”
“You did?” Richard’s eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know that.”
“How would you know?” Mom asked. “You were in court all day. It isn’t much to you if the copier breaks, is it? Did anyone ask you to type three copies of a sixteen-page document?”
Richard shrugged. “But you’re done now. It’s over. Why let it wreck your whole evening?”
“Oh, stuff it, Mr. Perfect!” Mom stomped off to her bedroom without even giving him a chance to tap his right knee.
Richard looked at me. “What did the zero say to the eight?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nice belt.” He’d been telling me that one for at least a year.
Later, Mom stacked the dishes in the sink, turned the faucet on, and went to change her clothes. I stood there and watched as the greasy saucepan overflowed onto the plates underneath. The oily water reflected the light and made the whole thing look like a sparkly fountain. Sometimes I can stare at something like that for a long time.
Mom came back wearing sweatpants and started washing the dishes. I opened my math workbook at the kitchen table. A minute later, Richard came in and said, “Didn’t I leave that extra pair of work shoes here a few months ago? I know they were in the closet, but I can’t find them anywhere.”
Mom’s head snapped up. “I knew it. I just knew it.”
We had been robbed after all.
Things You Pretend
The Monday after Thanksgiving we were stuck in the school cafeteria for lunch. The naked guy was back, running down Broadway, and they wouldn’t let any kids out of the building.
“Kind of cold out to be running around in your birthday suit!” Colin called over to us on his way to a table of boys. Annemarie giggled. I could see Sal over there. He’d glanced toward us once, but acted like he didn’t see me.
I watched the boys for a few seconds, all of them trying to talk louder than the other ones. Sal was doing it, too—every once in a while I could hear his voice on top, and it reminded me of this game we used to play on the crosstown bus on our way to the city pool. Sal would be holding on to the silver bus pole, and I would grab the pole right above his hand. Then he’d move his hand so it was right above mine, and I’d put mine on top of his, until we were on our tiptoes, holding on to the pole near the very top, and usually some grown-up would say to stop fooling around, couldn’t we see the bus was crowded and one of us was going to fall and knock somebody over.
Annemarie picked at her food. The worst part of being stuck inside for lunch was that we had to get school lunch, which was gross.
“I wonder if Jimmy will count the bread order himself,” I said. “I bet he won’t. I think he just likes to make me do it.”
She nodded. “To give you something to do.”
“Gee, thanks.” I threw my milk straw at her.
“Hey! I didn’t mean—”
“Sure you didn’t!”
Then her smile faded. She was still looking at me, but somethin
g had changed, like a switch had been flicked inside her. Like she was still there but was doing something else in her head.
“Annemarie?”
“Don’t.” Julia was standing behind me with a carton of milk in her hand. Before I could say anything, she slid onto the bench next to me, still looking right at Annemarie. “She’ll be fine in a minute.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Just wait.” Julia hadn’t even glanced at me. Her eyes never left Annemarie’s face.
Annemarie moved her head a little. She put her arm down on the table, blinked, and said, “What?” as if she had maybe missed something I’d just said.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Julia hit my knee with hers under the table. “Don’t ask her questions,” she hissed.
Annemarie noticed her just then. “Hi, Julia,” she said, and a smile came over her face.
Julia smiled back. “Hi.” Then she turned to me. “So, Miranda, how’s the playground going? For Main Street, I mean.”
She wanted to talk about Main Street? Now?
Her eyes held mine. “I heard your proposal was approved. Congratulations.”
Congratulations? “Uh, thanks.”
“Will there be swings? How are you going to make them?”
It was dawning on me that Julia was showing me something, teaching me how to help Annemarie.
“Paper clips,” I told Julia. “I’m using paper clips to make the chains for the swings, and I’m going to cut pieces of rubber tire for the seats.”
Julia was nodding. “That sounds great,” she said. I could almost imagine us being friends, having this conversation for real.
“What else?” she asked.
“What?”
She looked annoyed. I wasn’t catching on fast enough. “For the playground. What else?”
“Oh—well, seesaws. Definitely seesaws.”
Then Annemarie spoke. “You know, balsa wood would be perfect for the seesaws—it’s really easy to cut. I think my dad might even have some.”
“Really?” I said. “That would be great. We could paint them orange, just like the ones in Riverside Park.”
“Yes!” Annemarie said. “We can start them at my house—maybe even today if you want.” She looked at Julia. “Want to come? And start Miranda’s seesaws?”
Before Julia could answer, I said “There’s no rush. I just got the plans approved. We can start next week. Anyway, Annemarie, you were coming to my house today, remember?”
I felt Julia pulling away. “See you guys,” she said, and stood up.
“Bye!” I said.
Annemarie looked up at her. “Bye, Julia.”
A few minutes later, the PA system crackled to life and Annemarie was called to the nurse’s office.
Annemarie shrugged, smiled, and walked away, saying, “See you in a minute.”
But she didn’t come back.
Things That Crack
Outside our classroom, Julia waited for me with her hands on her hips. “God, you’re an idiot. You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“I’m an idiot?”
“She’s been eating all that bread at that stupid job you got her. She’s not supposed to eat any of that stuff. Idiot.”
“I didn’t get her the stupid … I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
“It’s her epilepsy, idiot. You total idiot. Her dad has her on this special diet. He makes her special food. She’s not supposed to eat bread, or drink soda.”
“She’s not?”
“No, she’s not. Idiot. And by the way, what’s your problem with me, anyway? I’d really like to know.”
“What?”
“Your problem. With me. What is it?”
“Besides the fact that you’ve called me an idiot six times in the last minute? Besides the fact that you shot a rubber band at my head?”
She waved all that away as if I had mentioned some silly detail. “I’m talking about way before that. You’ve hated me forever. You’ve been giving me dirty looks since like third grade! Are you going to pretend you haven’t?”
I stared at her. Some feeling had started in my stomach and was traveling up to my face, and I knew that when it got there I would turn bright red and hear the ocean, which is what happens when I get put on the spot. If I don’t cry, I turn red and hear the ocean. It’s a lose-lose situation.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“I have no idea,” she said. “I really don’t. But a person knows when someone hates her—at least, I do!” She flung her arm down and her little silver watch flew off her wrist and hit the floor with a crack. A very sharp, final-sounding sort of crack.
Her precious watch. I’m not proud of this now, but that sound, which echoed in the tiled hallway, made me really happy. I sucked my bottom lip so that I wouldn’t smile.
Julia bent down to pick up the watch. I thought she would start to screech, but she just flipped it over in her hand and looked at it. A web of tiny cracks covered the face like a cobweb.
“Oh, great.” She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled slowly. “This whole day just stinks,” she said, and she walked away.
On the way home I found myself walking half a block behind Sal again. I’d learned not to run and catch up to him—he would only look at his sneakers and not talk. So I watched him bobbing along in his navy blue knit hat, his head going from side to side a little, like it always does when he walks. I think he thought that hat looked tough the way he had it pulled down to his eyebrows.
Then Marcus came out of his dented front door next to the garage, wearing that green army coat he always wore. He started walking down the block—toward Sal.
Even half a block behind him, I could see Sal’s body hunch and slow down. I knew what he was doing. He was looking for a way out. Should he pretend he needed to cross the street all of a sudden? That he had just remembered something he needed to buy at Belle’s? But it was a little late for that—Marcus was almost in front of him.
I could have called out to Sal at that moment. It would have been easy. He would have had an excuse to turn around and start walking away from Marcus. And then Marcus might have stopped to talk to me for a minute, and Sal would have seen that it was all okay. He could have dropped his fear of Marcus right then and there. I’ve thought about this a lot, because I realize it would have changed everything that happened later.
Instead I watched. And what Sal did was squat down and pretend to tie his shoe. It was a plea for mercy. Dropping to tie your shoe was an I-can’t-fight, I-can’t-run, I-bow-down-before-you sort of a move. Plus, just in case some hitting did occur, it protected important body parts. I kept walking while Sal crouched there on the sidewalk and Marcus walked right by without even noticing him. And then Marcus walked right by me.
Things Left Behind
“Guess what?” Annemarie said when I called her at home that night to see if she was okay. “Someone left a rose on our doormat.”
“For you?”
“I don’t know… maybe.” Of course it was for her. Who else would it be for?
“Was there anything with it? A card?”
“No. Just the rose.” Her voice sounded all thin and excited. “Weird, huh? I wonder—”
“Hey, can I ask you something? Are you not supposed to eat bread?”
She was quiet.
“It’s not a big deal, just that Julia said—”
“No,” she interrupted. “It is sort of a big deal. I should have told you. I have epilepsy—”
“Oh.”
“—and I’m not supposed to eat bread or starches. It’s this crazy diet my dad read about, but it actually works. I’m usually fine. People don’t even really know I have it, because for years I’ve hardly had any seizures at all.”
“Is that what happened today?
“Yeah. I sort of took a break from my diet. It’s been nice, working at Jimmy’s with you guys, eating whatever I want and not having anyone look at me
funny or lecture me.”
Someone had lectured her, though. Julia had.
“You can still work at Jimmy’s,” I said. “Just don’t eat his crummy food.”
She laughed. “I know. Actually, my dad makes me a lunch every day. I’ve been throwing it in the garbage on the way to school. He’s pretty mad.”
That was hard to imagine.
“Anyway, my mother found this rose on our doormat when she got home from work. It’s like this really perfect-looking rose. Weird, huh?”
I let her talk about it a little more, about who might have left it, and why. I knew she wanted me to say that Colin probably did it, but I just couldn’t make myself say the words.
The Third Note
The next morning was the first really cold day of December.
“You need the jacket with the hood,” Mom rasped from her bed. Her voice never sounded normal until after coffee. “Look in the front closet.” She seemed to think that it was really helpful to lie in bed, listening to the radio and calling out weather reports. I couldn’t help thinking about how, in my book, Meg’s mother had French toast waiting for Meg in the morning. She was a single mom too, with Meg’s dad being held prisoner halfway across the universe.
I found the coat, still streaked with gray from last year’s dirty snow, and put it on. A little stiff, but it seemed to fit okay.
“Where are my gloves?” I called.
“No idea. Sorry.”
“Can I take some money?”
“Coat pocket.”
I felt around in her coat and found a five-dollar bill and three singles in one pocket and her striped scarf rolled up in the other. I grabbed the singles and the scarf.
“Bye!”
The laughing man was still asleep with his head under the mailbox. He had found some cardboard to put underneath him. Still, he must have been freezing. Some mornings, I’d seen kids banging on the mailbox and yelling, “Wake up, Kicker!” I hoped no one would do that today.