Living with Jackie Chan

  When Caleb, Dave, and I pull up to my uncle’s apartment building, a wave of sickness rolls up my throat and threatens to spew across Caleb’s dashboard. I will it back down. Breathe. The car idles at the curb, waiting for me to get out. Caleb leans forward and peers up at the building as if it’s the first time he’s seen one taller than four stories.

  “Which floor does he live on?” he finally asks.

  “Second,” I say.

  We’re quiet for a while, but I imagine what we’re each thinking.

  Caleb: You’re making a big mistake, man. You can’t run away from your problems. They always know where you are.

  Dave: This sucks. Who am I going to party with now? Damn, I’m hungry.

  Me: What if Caleb’s right?

  “Guess I better get this over with, huh?” I finally say.

  Dave reaches forward from the backseat and squeezes my shoulder. “It’s not too late to turn around,” he says. “You can come back with us.”

  “Just say the word,” Caleb agrees.

  I shake my head before they can start trying to change my mind and tell me how things wouldn’t be that bad if I stayed home. How our school is so big, it’s easy to avoid people you don’t want to see.

  I can’t really tell them that I don’t want to see anyone. As bad as it sounds, I don’t even want to see them, even though they are my best friends.

  Everyone reminds me of me. Of who I was — am. Don’t want to be.

  “This sucks,” Dave says. He is a master of the obvious. “We were supposed to graduate together, man.”

  Caleb turns around to give him a look, like, Shut up, you idiot. But Dave’s right. We were supposed to leave our sorry excuse of a town together. No one was supposed to bail early.

  Only, that was before.

  When I start to open the door, one end of the armrest on the passenger door slips down. It’s duct-taped together from when I broke it last winter. The day my life changed forever.

  “Sorry I never got around to fixing that,” I tell Caleb. “If you bring the car to my dad’s shop, he’ll take care of it.”

  “No worries,” Caleb says.

  We all sit there for a few more seconds.

  “I’m serious, dude. You don’t have to do this,” Dave says.

  But I do.

  “OK, boys, it’s been real,” I say, opening the door. They both get out, and we pull my stuff from the back. We stand behind the car in our usual circle. Caleb holds out his hand to shake. As I reach for it, Dave puts his arms around the two of us and pulls us toward him into an awkward group hug. Despite my embarrassment, my throat hurts from trying not to cry like a wuss. I swallow the lump down and give Dave a punch in the arm, for old time’s sake. Goofy as Dave is, and as annoyingly perfect as Caleb can be, I know I’m going to miss these bozos. A lot.

  They get back in the car and pull onto the street. Dave hangs out the passenger window, waving. I give them a salute, like we used to do when we were kids. As they turn the corner, Caleb honks the horn a few times. Then they make the turn and disappear.

  My uncle’s apartment building towers over me. I stand here, looking at it. At my new life. No more people staring at me when I walk down the hall. No more whispers behind my back. No one knows me here. No one knows what happened. What I did. I just have to get through the year, get into college someplace far away, and leave for good.

  Before I go in, I think about calling my parents to let them know I got here OK, like I promised. But I can’t bring myself to pull out my phone.

  My dad volunteered to take me and my stuff here in his van. But I was like, “What stuff?” Because honestly, I don’t own much. So he suggested taking me out for our last meal at least. But going out with my dad means going to the pub on the corner, sitting at the bar, and staring at the TV while I eat and he gets wasted, which is the same as being at home, so why bother?

  My mom said she wanted to take me but she couldn’t get the time off from work, which seems like a pretty lame excuse.

  So we said good-bye at home. But it’s not worth describing. Saying good-bye to them was like saying good-bye to some people who used to know me when I was a little kid. Like saying good-bye to zombies. Good-bye to a memory. Good-bye to dust. The real good-bye happened a long, long time ago.

  Instead of calling them, I hike my duffel bag over my shoulder and open the door.

  In the entryway, it’s hot and airless. I scan the list of names on the panel and find number twelve and my last name. Someone’s put a Hello Kitty sticker next to it. I hold my finger down on the buzzer and wait to get clicked in.

  “You’re here!” Larry’s voice on the intercom amplifies the tiny entryway. The inner door clicks, and I push it open. When I step inside, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of carpet cleaner. I start for the stairs just as a door clicks open and a familiar voice calls, “Sammy?”

  A head peers over the railing above.

  My uncle grins down at me. He doesn’t have a shirt on. “Sam, my man!” he yells.

  Really?

  I look up and give him a smile.

  “Get up here!” He actually jumps up and down.

  When I reach the second-floor landing, he bounds over to me and gives me a huge bear hug. His hair is wet and he stinks of recently applied deodorant, which he probably just rubbed all over me. I step away from him, and he checks me out from top to bottom.

  “Samurai Sam! I didn’t expect you to be taller than me.”

  “Guess it’s been a while,” I say. And please tell me you’re not going to call me that all the time.

  Larry has called me Sam since I was eight and spent the summer with him while my parents went on my dad’s last “tour” with his band. Larry didn’t really know what the hell to do with me, so we played this online ninja game called Samurai Sam practically the whole time. I was so good at it, Larry decided to change my name.

  “You’re so big,” he says, shaking his head like I’m some kind of miracle. “When did you get so big?”

  How is someone supposed to answer a question like that?

  “How long’s it been, anyway? Two years? Jeez. How did that happen?”

  I don’t tell him what he already knows. That my parents are in a non-marriage and would never survive the four-hour drive to his place, being stuck in the same car together that long. And I don’t remind him that he probably hasn’t visited us because the last time he came my dad got drunk and passed out, and my mom “got a call” saying she had to go in to work because of an emergency, which we all knew was a lie, and Larry and I ended up spending the whole miserable time walking around the neighborhood in the cold, pretending my family wasn’t completely screwed up.

  I just shrug. And he sighs. And I see in his eyes that he remembers. It seems our reunions only occur during desperate or last-resort circumstances.

  “Where are your parents? Didn’t they bring you?” he asks.

  “Nah, my friends dropped me off.”

  “Aw, that’s nice. You should have invited them up!”

  “They had to get back,” I say. And thank God, because if they’d heard you call me Samurai Sam, I would never live it down.

  “They must be pretty good friends to drive you all this way and then just turn around and drive back.”

  “Yeah,” I say. They are. The best. “They love road trips. They jump on any excuse to get out of town.”

  Larry carries my bag to his apartment, and I follow him inside. There’s a stick of incense burning on the coffee table in the living room. A huge, furry gray cat walks over to us and rubs against my leg.

  “Wow,” Larry says. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “What?”

  “Clover doesn’t like o
ther people. She usually hides.”

  The cat looks up at me.

  “Hey,” I say. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Clover, meet the infamous Samurai Sam,” Larry says. “He’s your new — uh — cousin.”

  She rubs against my leg again.

  “Come on, we’ll put your stuff in your room.”

  I follow him down a short hallway to a tiny room with a foldout couch. I loved staying here when I was little. It was a huge treat because Larry was only, like, twenty-one, fresh out of college, and had no clue about taking care of kids. We’d stay up late watching movies and eating so many Fudgsicles I’d throw up. Then Larry would fold out the couch and let me crash in my clothes. Back then he had this little dog named George who liked to sleep next to me. I loved that dog, even though he had that pukey smell only small dogs have. There was something about how he leaned against you that made you feel — I don’t know — important.

  Clover jumps up on the bed.

  “Are you hungry?” Larry asks. “Want me to make you something? I already ate, cuz I’ve got a hot date. Sorry to leave you on your first night and all, but my girlfriend got tickets to this concert way before we knew you were coming and —”

  “No worries,” I say. To be honest, it’s kind of a relief.

  He punches my arm. “This is gonna be great. It really is.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

  “Of course! You’re my nephew!” He ruffles my hair as if I’m still the little kid he remembers.

  “OK, I gotta go finish getting ready. You make yourself at home. Tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day together.”

  “Cool,” I say. He drops my duffel bag on the floor and leaves.

  Clover mews at me, so I scratch her head. Above the foldout couch, there’s a giant Jackie Chan poster. The bookcase is filled with martial arts movies, including what must be every Jackie Chan movie ever made, and a bunch of karate trophies Larry got when he competed in high school and college. Larry’s always been obsessed with Jackie Chan, even though Jackie does kung fu, not karate. Larry says it’s because when he was a kid and starting to get into karate, there were never any kick-ass karate actors to get obsessed about. I guess there still aren’t.

  I sit down, and Clover rubs against my arm. The bathroom is just down the hall, and I can hear Larry singing “I Gotta Feelin’.”

  I lean back and stare at the ceiling. It’s covered with the glow-in-the-dark stars he put up there for me that summer I stayed here. I remember the first night, I was scared and wanted to go home. Larry lay down next to me and we stared at the stars until they started to dim. He didn’t say a thing. He just stayed there next to me, his huge muscled arm pressing against my scrawny one, letting me know he was still there.

  “You OK, bud?” Larry stands in the doorway. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt and black jeans. His aftershave wafts in and catches in the back of my throat. The cat sneezes and dashes out of the room.

  I sit up. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He gives me a look, like he knows I’m not. But then he shakes it off. “Well, how do I look?” He turns around for me, kind of dancing. The gold chain around his neck sparkles.

  “I dunno about the chain,” I say.

  He fingers it. “No?”

  I shake my head.

  “All right. I’ll ditch it. So, don’t wait up for me. And uh . . . If my door’s closed in the morning, lie low if you can. That’ll be, you know, my sign. That I have company.”

  “Should I hide in here till she leaves?”

  “No, no. No hiding. It’s just . . . I didn’t want you to come knocking on the door or anything. You know. If you need something.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Right. OK! Well, thanks for being cool about me going out your first night here. But wait’ll you meet this girl. She’s really special. You’ll totally understand why I didn’t want anyone else taking my ticket.”

  “No worries,” I say. “Have fun!” He gives me a thumbs-up and sort of bounces down the hall.

  I fall back on the bed again and stare up at Jackie Chan, who looks way too happy. Kinda like Larry.

  My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I know it’s probably my mom making sure I got here safely. But it’s too late for that. It’s too late for checking in and making sure I’m OK. She should have been checking in a long time ago. But she didn’t. No one did.

  When I wake up, the apartment is quiet. It’s 2:06 a.m. I roll over and hear a high-pitched grunting noise at the end of the bed. It’s Clover. I see her in the TV light, stretching out her surprisingly long furry legs. I reach for the remote and turn off the TV. I must have fallen asleep watching Dragons Forever, Larry’s favorite Jackie Chan movie.

  Up above, the floor creaks as if someone’s in a rocking chair. The stars on the ceiling have all faded out, but I stare up and listen. Creak-creak, creak-creak. Slowly. In a definite rhythm. The creaking stops and footsteps cross the ceiling. Then it’s quiet.

  Clover grunts again and starts to purr. I wish I could be that happy when I sleep. But I never sleep well. Not since . . . not for a while now.

  I reach over and turn on the light and wait a minute, then shut it off again. The stars on the ceiling are back. I remember Larry had tried to make actual constellations, but he got frustrated and ended up making his own shapes. Instead of the big dipper, he made a smiley face. I smile, remembering.

  And then I hear it.

  A faint crying above me. Like a kitten, almost. But then it gets louder. And I know what it is.

  A baby.

  My heart starts to thump against my chest as the cries get louder.

  Then footsteps hurry across the ceiling again. A muffled voice, soothing. More footsteps. Then, creak-creak, creak-creak. The crying gets less frantic.

  But my heart is still punching the inside of my chest.

  I put my pillow over my head to shut out the sounds.

  But I can still hear them in my mind.

  And I can see him. My baby. Wrapped tightly in a yellow blanket, a little blue cap on his head.

  And me, walking away.

  In the morning, I get up and get dressed before I leave my room, just in case Larry got lucky. I step into the hall and peer down to see if his door is closed, which it is. I try to imagine what a woman who’s into Larry would be like, but can’t.

  It’s only nine o’clock, so I figure I have time to make a quick breakfast before I disappear for a while and give him and his girlfriend some privacy.

  I leave a bit of milk from my cereal bowl for the cat and go outside. As I walk down the sidewalk, I try to remember the neighborhood, but nothing seems familiar. At the corner, there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts, so I go in and buy some coffee and head back to the apartment building and sit on the stoop. It’s Sunday, and the neighborhood seems to be mostly asleep. I take a sip and lean my head back on the cement wall along the steps.

  Down the sidewalk, I see a woman pushing a baby carriage toward me. My heart automatically skips a beat. I start to get up to go back inside, but I realize Larry didn’t give me a key yet.

  I’m locked out.

  Crap.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes again. I quietly hum the first song that comes to mind to block out any baby sounds.

  “Black Eyed Peas?” a voice asks.

  I sit up. The woman, who turns out to be about my age, is standing at the base of the steps, her hands squeezed around the bar of the carriage.

  “Yeah. Dumb song stuck in my head,” I say. I try to act calm. But all I can think is that here’s this girl, my age, with a baby. And it’s too much.

  “Think you could help me with this thing? This is my building.”

  No, I think. No, I cannot help you.

  But instead, I say, “Sure,” and purposefully head to the other end of the carriage. Together, we lift it up the steps and into the foyer. Then she unlocks the interior door.

  “Th
anks,” she says. She waits for me to do something else. Like leave the building.

  “So, um, this is my building, too,” I say. “But I forgot my key.”

  She gives me a Yeah, right look.

  “No, really. I’m staying with my uncle, Larry.

  “Larry? The Karate Man?” The way she says it, it’s more like she’s saying, “The crazy guy?”

  “Yeah. I just moved here.”

  “To live with Larry?”

  “Just for the school year.”

  She nods. “So you’ll be going to Roosevelt Tech, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What year are you?”

  “Senior. You?” As soon as I ask, I realize that if she has a kid, maybe she doesn’t go to school anymore. Way to be sensitive.

  “Same.”

  The baby makes a noise.

  “Uh-oh, I better take him to his parents before he wakes up.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You’re just babysitting.”

  She laughs. “You thought he was mine? No, thank God. Can you imagine?”

  I fake a laugh. Yes.

  “No. I’m just the babysitter,” she says. “Sometimes I take him on Sunday mornings so his parents can catch up on some sleep. He keeps them up a lot. Um, are you all right?”

  “Huh? Yeah. Fine.” I take another sip of my coffee to hide my face.

  The baby starts crying.

  “Shoot,” she says. “Here he goes. He’s a howler when he’s hungry.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She gives me that creepy look again. “You do? How?”

  “I could hear him last night, I think. He must be in the apartment above mine. Either that or there’s another baby in the building.”

  She nods. “No, just him. Well, see you around, I guess.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look. I don’t mean to be all paranoid or anything, but do you mind if I buzz you in once I get to my apartment? We have strict rules about letting in strangers.”

  Do I really look like a serial killer?

  “No worries,” I say.

  She pushes the carriage through the door and it closes behind her.

  I lean back against the wall and wait, wondering if she’ll really buzz me in. Standing in the stuffy entryway, I feel trapped. And hot. And like I don’t belong here. Not outside. Not inside. Not anywhere.