Ms. Shaw needs to positive-think her way into some social skills.
But once her door is shut, I see the number on the plaque outside. 2085. My grandmother’s is 2086. So . . . maybe she’s in apartment 1986?
I head for the stairs.
The stairwell in my grandmother’s apartment building is rarely used, but it is always very clean and I like the way noise bounces off the walls. There are no windows, and today the light between floors flickers like a birthday candle refusing to light. I struggle against the heavy fire door on the nineteenth floor, and as it gives way, a rush of wind blows past me, nearly knocking me down. I can’t quite figure out where it is coming from, but there must be an open door or window somewhere that is causing a draft.
I look down the hall and see a door that is slightly open and I begin to wonder if this is where the draft might be coming from. Sure enough, air seems to be whistling through the doorway. The number on the brass plate is 1986, with a name below: Earl Johnson. Oh! Earl! My grandmother’s kind-of-maybe boyfriend. Now this all makes sense. I stick my mouth up to the door and say, “Hello?” Nobody replies, but I hear voices. One of them sounds like my grandmother. I do not want to barge in on a private conversation, so I just listen in a little to try to find out if this is the kind of conversation that is private.
I push the door open a little wider with one finger, and I can see just a sliver of Mr. Johnson’s living room. He has a bookshelf that is very neatly arranged, alphabetically, with several copies of The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood at the top. There is a whole section for Stephen King, including The Tommyknockers, Pet Sematary, two copies of Cujo, and four copies of Misery. There’s a section with John Irving. Below that are shelves loaded with classic VHS tapes, like Back to the Future, The NeverEnding Story, The Lost Boys, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Stand by Me, and Pretty in Pink. Nearby, another two shelves are completely loaded with small blue Smurf figurines, and below that are dolls in boxes: Michael Jackson, Rainbow Brite, G.I. Joe. There’s even a Pee-wee Herman doll.
And I think that this is very interesting, because it almost seems as if Mr. Johnson lives in a museum. Like, his apartment reminds me a little bit of the Richmond Room at the Met. It is set up to look like a room in the Federalist historical time period, and this is like that, only it is set up to look like . . . I don’t know. The 1980s, maybe?
I can see Mr. Johnson’s torso and legs in a large cream-colored chair. I can’t see Grandma Hildy, but I can hear her voice, and she’s saying, “—where did you find it?”
“Scandinavia!”
“You’re kidding.”
“The internet is an amazing place, especially if you know what you’re looking for.”
My grandmother laughs, and says, “Let’s play it!” and a few moments later, I hear a crackle of static, then the opening bars of some jazzy pop music—a weird blend of synthesizer and saxophone. Finally, a very familiar voice starts to sing, “Oh, oh, oh . . .” There’s no doubt about it—that’s Cyndi Lauper, but it’s not a song I know.
“I haven’t heard this in years,” my grandmother says. I can’t see her face, but I can hear her smiling.
Mr. Johnson rises from his seat slowly, like a bear waking up, and I’m surprised at how tall he looks. Then he steps forward, and I can’t see what he’s doing, but I imagine that he’s holding my grandmother’s hand, and a moment later, she and Mr. Johnson are dancing around the living room.
“This music makes me feel like I’m in my thirties again,” my grandmother says.
“Oh, but you are,” Mr. Johnson tells her. “When you’re here, you are. It’s called time traveling.”
The hallway feels wavy to me, and I still have that underwater feeling of almost drowning. The light feels strange, as if I can see the ripples over my head and sunlight is far away.
I don’t know what to make of all of this, but it doesn’t seem like the right moment to interrupt my grandmother. So I take a deep breath and skulk-toe down the hallway and slip into the stairwell.
I hurry down nineteen flights of stairs, thinking about Grandma Hildy and Mr. Johnson dancing in his peculiar retro living room. It is a little strange to think that my grandmother is friends with someone who lives in a 1980s museum. I wonder if she wishes that she could go back in time. Would Grandma Hildy really want to go back to a time when I wasn’t even born? I can’t imagine her in her thirties. What would she do if she could get a do-over?
My brain is so busy with this and other deep thoughts that I am three blocks away before I even realize that I forgot all about the two hundred and fifty dollars.
INTERLUDE
In which there is talking on the phone
I HAVE STEPPED OUT of the subway and am hurrying toward the MoMA when my phone buzzes and ugh, ick—Haverton shows up on the caller ID. Crap! Why are they trying to call my mom? I texted them an excuse!
Is there no trust left in the world?!
I push the button and try to disguise my voice. “Hello?” I sound like someone who has been smoking for eighty years and now has a head cold. Just exactly not like my mom, but at least not like me.
“Hello, Mrs. Vitalis?”
I cough in a way that sounds like yes.
“Will Calliope be in today?”
“No—she’s, uh—very sick. She—uh—she has bronchasthma.”
“I’m sorry, that’s—” I hear keys clicking, as if someone is logging information. “It sounded like you said ‘bronchasthma’?”
Is that a thing? “It might be ammonia.”
“Pneumonia?”
“Yes! Of course. Sorry—the connection is horrible.” I’m standing near a construction zone, so I hold my phone toward a man drilling a jackhammer into the ground. Then a traffic light switches from red to green and a yellow cab honks like it’s trying to use sound waves to shove people and cars aside. Satisfied, I hold the phone back to my ear. “She’s going to the doctor today.”
“All right, well, please remember to get a note.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhff course. I will. She will. I will get a note for her because I am her mother, but she will bring it in.” This is going very well, I tell myself, which really shows my commitment to positive thinking.
“All right. I do hope she feels better soon.”
I hang up, thinking, So do I.
Seriously.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In which I learn to critique art stuffs
“ARE YOU OKAY?” CASSIUS asks.
“What? Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve been staring at that for about ten minutes.”
“Yeah—I’m just . . . you know, pondering. This piece. It’s really . . . evocative.”
Cassius leans forward to look carefully at the art on the wall. Then he tilts his head back, looking at it from a slightly different angle. “That’s a fire alarm.”
“Oh.” This is truly the biggest problem with the Museum of Modern Art, in my opinion: not all of the art looks, you know, arty. “This piece is really conceptual,” I add, moving along to a stretch of blank wall.
Cassius squints, then tilts his head back almost as if he is looking at me with his chin, which is something I have noticed he does when he really wants to kind of consider my face. “The minimalism is groundbreaking,” he agrees. “But I prefer symbolism.” He points to the sign for the ladies’ room.
“Look at this one.” A bit farther on is an actual painting by the subject of my independent study project, Piet Mondrian. “See, this is no good. This is just, like, lines. And squares.”
“Right. Where’s the art?” Cassius demands. “We want to see more art like that fire alarm! More art like the blank wall!”
“Not these squiggles!” I gesture toward a painting by Jackson Pollock.
“A kindergartner could do that,” Cassius agrees. “More blank wall!”
“More blank wall!” I raise my fist. “Keep it smooth!”
“Excuse me.” A tall security guard with glasses an
d a paunch purses his lips at us. “I’m going to have to ask you to take a step backward.” He watches us carefully until we retreat from the art. Then, satisfied, he goes back to the doorway, where he can keep an eye on us. Which is clearly what he is doing. I wave at him, and he frowns.
“I don’t think he appreciated the complexities of our critique,” Cassius says.
“Anti-intellectual . . .” I can’t really think of the right insult. “. . . guy.”
We move back to the Mondrian and stare at it. It looks like a city to me. Not like a skyline, but like a city viewed from above, with traffic and blinking lights. The whole thing is done in primary colors and feels like New York, and for some reason, I feel like I can hear jazzy music coming from the paining, which makes about zero sense. I look at it for a long time, and Cassius looks at it, too, with that weird Cassius-style I’m-looking-at-this-with-my-nostrils squint-stare. I really like it; it looks kind of tough, even though it is not easy to make Cassius look tough because he weighs like five pounds and most of that weight is probably hair. I tilt my chin up, too, but the painting’s look doesn’t really change. I wonder what he sees—if it’s different from what I see?
Cassius turns to me. “What next?”
“Well . . . what time is it?”
“Time for a snack?”
“That’s the time I thought it was!” I pull my phone out of my purse. “Yes. It’s 3:10—Frappuccino time!” Seriously, I cannot go too many hours without eating because my blood sugar goes down and also my stomach starts to rumble and then I get hangry. A snack in time saves whine. Note to self: inspirational poster.
We have on our little MoMA stickers that will allow us back into the museum, but I probably won’t need mine because I should really head to the Upper East to catch Grandma Hildy “after school.” It’s only a couple of subway stops away, so it won’t take long. I have enough time for a Frappuccino.
I check my phone and see that there is a Starbucks on Fifty-First Street heading east, so we head that way. I know that Starbucks. I have been there a few times.
About halfway to the Starbucks there is a little boutique selling fake-vintage stuff, like metal Star Wars lunch boxes and et cetera, so I think that maybe they will have something that Desmond would like to replace his Rainbow Puppies bag. I ask Cassius if we can go inside, and of course he says sure no problem. So we go in and it is a jackpot because they have The Flintstones and Lost in Space and Holly Hobbie and Wonder Woman and a Smurfette one and a Hello Kitty and they even have some that are just plaid or just flowered. So I am trying to figure out which one to get as Cassius picks up a flowered teacup with a candle in it and gives it a chin-up stare.
A saleswoman hovers around behind him, kind of looking at Cassius nervously, and she asks, “May I help you?” but I can tell that what she is really saying is, “Would you please put that down?”
Cassius manages to translate this, too, and says, “No, thanks,” and puts the teacup back onto its saucer.
“How much is this Wonder Woman lunch box?” I ask.
“Eighty.”
I seriously cannot believe my ears. “Eighty whats?”
“Eighty US dollars,” the woman says calmly. She is thin and has smooth hair and a smooth dress and smooth red lipstick and probably does everything smoothly and I just want to smack her.
“That’s a rip,” I announce. Then I say, “Come on, Cassius,” and I sort of flounce out of the store, and because I have been practicing my flouncing, I think I pull it off.
We walk up the street and I am stomping, and Cassius says, “It happens a lot.”
“What?” Like I don’t know.
“They like to keep an eye on me.” The corners of Cassius’s lips are turned down, but his eyes are sort of crinkly, as if he is amused, or thinking, or mad, or a mixed-up smorgasbord of all of that. “Store owners. They don’t trust me with the merchandise. But if I call them on it, they flip out and act like I’m crazy.”
And I want to say something to turn it all into a joke, or something that will make it go away, but I can tell you one thing for sure—I have never, ever had a security guard tell me that I was standing too close to the art before I met Cassius. Now, maybe that is because there is something about Cassius that makes me stand closer to art than usual. Or maybe there is something about Cassius, in particular, that makes people not want him to stand close to art or pick up teacup candles. But I’m pretty sure that it has something to do with his light brown skin and crazy curly hair. I remember that time he got mad at me because I accidentally accused him of taking my wallet, and it makes a whole lot more sense now.
“I’m sorry,” I say because I do not know what to say.
“It’s because I look—Puerto Rican.” He pulls open the door to Starbucks, and I can’t see his face anymore. Just his back. And I wonder about his expression.
Someone says my name, and who is standing right there with a giant cello backpack on her back? Zelda! “Callie!” she cries, giving me a hug. “You weren’t in again today!”
She is holding a giant pink Frappuccino-type thing and suddenly I remember that the reason I have been to this Starbucks a few times is because it is close to where Zelda takes cello lessons and I have met her here before.
“Min was really freaking out and wanted to make you more soup,” Zelda says, and then she seems to notice that someone is with me and she looks at Cassius and says, “Hi,” and then turns back to me. “I thought you said you were coming in today!” She looks totally confused, and I realize she is staring at my uniform.
“I was! That’s why I’m dressed for school—I just . . . My cousin is in town unexpectedly and so I’m showing him around New York!” I turn to Cassius and give him this crazy look because I did not even mean to just say all of that, but somehow I said it and I don’t really know how to take it back or what to say next.
Zelda looks at Cassius, like she isn’t sure what to make of this information, and Cassius says, “Yeah! I just love it! It’s so different from—Cleveland!”
“Oh, you’re from Cleveland?” Zelda says. “My grandparents live there! I love Ohio! Go, Buckeyes!”
For one second, Cassius looks horrified, and then he says, “I’m from Cleveland, Nevada.”
Zelda’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Go, Slot Machines!” I add, to make this seem more realistic.
Zelda is disappointed, but Cassius changes the subject like a pro. “We just went to the MoMA. And I think we’re going to hit Chinatown later!”
I am impressed by this outstanding improv.
“Oh, I wish I could join you!” Zelda really does look like she wishes she could join us, which is interesting, because a) I did not invite her, and b) Zelda is normally quite shy. “But I’ve got cello . . .”
“Next time I’m in town,” Cassius tosses out there.
“Listen, Callie, do you have the—”
“Oh, right! The money!” I paw around in my bag as if I might just find two hundred and fifty dollars in it. For some reason, I make this whole thing really elaborate, and I unsnap the compartment inside and rummage around in that, and then zip open the zipper on the front outside of the bag and look in there, even though I have never opened that compartment before because I thought it was just a decoration. The weird thing is that, for a moment, I’m actually kind of surprised that there isn’t two hundred and fifty dollars in there, and then my fingers touch something, and my brain says, “Oh, the check!” even though that’s impossible.
What I pull out is an old photograph. It’s a small square with scalloped edges, and the color is faded. Three college-age guys lean against a railing. The tall, smiling one is my Uncle Larry. Next to him is a shorter, skinny guy with a shaggy beard and sunglasses, and beside him, a blond guy stands looking at something off to the side—something we can’t see.
“Do you have it?” Zelda prompts and all of a sudden I come crashing back to earth and realize that this is a photo in my hand and I am never going to
find two hundred and fifty dollars in my bag because I do not have two hundred and fifty dollars. “I—I must have left the check on the table. I didn’t know I was going to see you—”
“No problem, no problem.” She waves her hands and winces slightly, and I realize that it hurts her to have to ask me, and I feel guilty.
This whole situation sucks.
No—wait. Positive reframe: I will be so relieved when the two hundred and fifty dollars manifests itself! Which it will! Soon!
I tuck the photo back into my bag and Zelda gives me a huge hug and says good-bye, and Cassius and I stand in the Starbucks line as if that interaction were perfectly normal.
“So,” Cassius says after a moment. He waits for me to fill the space, but I don’t. Finally, he adds, “I guess it’s not school vacation week.”
“Right.”
“Are you . . .”
“Skipping school. Yes.”
The barista calls out a name, and a hipster girl with pinup hair and rolled-up jeans grabs her black coffee.
We make room for her, and then move back into place. “Why?” Cassius asks.
“Because I do not feel like going to school.”
“Why? Are you failing something?”
“No.” I look at him with narrow, beady little eyes because I am very annoyed that he keeps implying that I am not smart when I am, in fact, very smart, mostly. Why would he think that I might be failing something? And what business is it of his, anyway? “I have some . . . other reasons.”
“Personal, secret reasons?”
“Well, now you made it sound creepy. It’s nothing creepy.”
He tilts back his head. “Okay.” Behind us, a group of slim European tourists enter the Starbucks and cause confusion as they stand there, studying the menu. Cassius doesn’t even register them—he is still studying me.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With your nostrils aimed at my forehead. Look, some stuff is happening at home, and I can’t deal with telling my friends about it.”