Counting by 7s

  At least for right now.

  Maybe it was the acorn.

  Willow had put it on her night table. The kid was slowly beginning to collect things. She had gathered the small, bead-like pods that fell from the trees on Penfold Street.

  She found a white feather at the bus stop and a speckled rock in the gutter out front.

  Mai felt like it was some kind of beginning.

  She knew that any minute they would be told to pack up their things and leave, but up until the very second that happened, Mai was going to enjoy this new life.

  So she took long, hot showers, even though that was wasting water and bad for the planet.

  She arranged and rearranged her clothing at every possible opportunity, admiring the hangers and the shelving in the shallow closet.

  She stretched her arms out wide when she slept so that they dangled over the edge of the bunk bed.

  Because now she wouldn’t be hitting a face or slapping the back of a neck.

  Mai cut pictures out of magazines and put photos of people she didn’t even know, but just liked, up on the walls.

  She found a box of red paper lanterns in the attic storage at the nail salon. She bought a string of Christmas tree lights and threaded them through the round fixtures, which she then hung in the bedroom.

  It made the low ceiling come alive.

  And what she knew for certain was that the weight of the world no longer felt like it rested entirely on her shoulders.

  Jairo drove his taxi across town to the college bookstore.

  He stood in the long line at the cash register waiting to pay.

  Books were expensive. Especially textbooks.

  He held the two pieces of required reading for the introductory course in biology against his chest.

  They were both used. That was a good thing. Someone had taken a yellow pen and marked up one of the books.

  Jairo hoped that the right parts were highlighted.

  Just the idea that there were important sections of the books and other sections that didn’t deserve the swipe of the yellow pen made his stomach hurt.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t do it.

  He hadn’t been in school in fourteen years.

  Now, surrounded by so many young people, he felt old.

  Ancient, really.

  He was thirty-five years old, but hadn’t he recently found gray hair?

  Three strands. They grew on the very top of his head, in the center, shooting up from the thicket of black like the rebels that they clearly were.

  Those three hairs were outlaws with the confidence that one day they would conquer their world, which was his head.

  Jairo was almost at the cash register when he spun around. He should put the books back. Who was he to think that he could take college courses? Why would anyone ever want him to work in a hospital? How would he pay for a degree?

  This was all just a big waste of time.

  Jairo moved back to the maze of aisles. But the large store was crowded and he suddenly couldn’t remember where the books had come from.

  And there was no way that he was going to just dump the textbooks on the wrong shelf. He wasn’t going to be that guy.

  Settle.

  New plan.

  Just buy the things. Owning them didn’t mean he’d go to class. Maybe he could read the stuff in his spare time. Didn’t he have to wait every day of his life for people?

  Who was he kidding? That wasn’t happening.

  Could he give the books away as gifts? They were used and had yellow pen marks all over them. What kind of present was that?

  Jairo leaned back on his heels and allowed his eyes to close for just the briefest of moments.

  He needed to talk to her.

  His angel.

  She’d appreciate the textbooks.

  It was with her on his mind that he stepped back into the line for the third cash register.

  The young woman behind the counter rang up his purchases, and when he handed over the cash she hesitated. Did she look surprised? People didn’t seem to pay that way. The woman hit a button to make the register drawer open.

  Suddenly a light swirled and a buzzer went off.

  Everyone stared.

  At him. At the clerk. At the spinning red ball up front.

  What had he done?

  Jairo felt his face grow hot and then he saw someone who looked official pointing in his direction. The cashier was giggling as she said:

  “You’re our one millionth customer.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about. His expression was blank. She filled in with:

  “You won! Didn’t you hear about it?”

  Jairo shook his head.

  Other workers were now assembling and a man in a burgundy jacket appeared at his elbow. He had a pin on his chest that said MANAGER. He held up a camera.

  “Smile!”

  Jairo tried his best to make his quivering mouth form some kind of grin.

  And then he heard a voice from somewhere in the small crowd say:

  “He won twenty thousand dollars, man! And I was right behind him in line. Unreal.”

  Jairo looked around and realized that the cardboard triangles suspended from the ceiling all said:

  ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION!

  BE OUR 1,000,000TH CUSTOMER AND WIN!

  A woman held her phone close to his face as she said:

  “Can you tell us your name? Are you a student? What are you studying at Bakersfield College?”

  He realized now that she was recording him. He managed:

  “I’m a new student. This is my first time here.”

  The crowd gave a collective groan, followed by laughter and chatter.

  “His first time! Come on. I’ve spent a fortune in this place!”

  As the woman continued to question him, Jairo became conscious of the fact that he was smiling as he spoke.

  And he couldn’t stop.

  After he filled out all kinds of forms–from the bookstore and from the government for taxes–they officially took his picture.

  This time holding a big oversized check.

  And then he was given the real thing.

  Everyone was so nice to him. He was slapped on the back and he shook hands with dozens of students. He hugged people he’d never seen in his life.

  Finally, as he walked back to his taxi, moving across the wide parking lot in the midday sun, he checked his watch.

  He’d been inside the place for almost three hours.

  But in his back pocket, folded in half in his worn-shiny leather wallet, was a slip of paper worth a year’s salary driving his taxi.

  And that money would pay for all the college classes he ever wanted to take.

  Chapter 42

  Every weekend Pattie goes to a farmer’s market on Golden State Avenue at F Street. She likes to be one of the first ones there.

  Today Mai went with her because Pattie’s using Dell’s car and they can get more things and she’ll help carry the stuff.

  They are going to pick up two bags of potting soil for me at the nursery on the way back.

  The best way to grow sunflowers is in the ground, not in pots or planters. They have enormous taproots that burrow deep.

  My plan is to start them off in small containers and then locate a place later for transplanting.

  Dell and I go through the big blue recycling Dumpster in the carport and we find twenty-three containers for me to use as planters.

  We pick out an assortment of tin cans, a few plastic tubs (that once held sour cream and spreadable cheese), and even a few milk cartons.

  I don’t think I’ve seen Dell so happy as when he’s rooting around in the Dumpster.

  After we have what we need, we go to the laundry room
and wash the cans and containers in the deep sink.

  Then Dell punches holes in the bottoms with a kitchen knife, which gets ruined because you’re not supposed to use it for that.

  He doesn’t seem to care.

  When Pattie gets back with the potting soil, we are going to plant nine different types of sunflowers.

  But another thing happens when we are readying our potting containers.

  Sadhu Kumar, who rents his extra bedroom to Dell, comes down with three computers. Dell says:

  “What are you doing with those?”

  Sadhu is getting ready to toss them into the big blue bin.

  “They’re going into the recycle.”

  I size up the machines. They don’t appear very old. I ask:

  “You can’t fix them?”

  Sadhu snorts. Like a horse might do.

  “They are junk. Not worth the effort.”

  I look at the computers. Two are laptops. One is a larger desktop. But the same company makes them all.

  Sadhu Kumar is sort of an angry guy. I think he might have had a lot of disappointment in his life. It can turn a person bitter.

  I wonder if that’s happening to me.

  Nothing’s worse than a sour kid. You should save that for later. When you are old, and it hurts just to get up from a chair, you have a reason to have a permanently pinched face.

  I make a note to myself to be sad, and even mad, but not one hundred percent angry at the world.

  There is a difference.

  Now I ask Sadhu:

  “So I can have the computers?”

  Mr. Sour Bitter Man says:

  “If you want junk, take junk.”

  Dell Duke looks offended. He says:

  “One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure.”

  Sadhu only seems more pained at that thought as he walks away.

  We are still waiting for the potting soil, so Dell and I carry the three machines up to #28 and right away I start to take them apart.

  I think that I might be able to get one working computer from the three.

  I see that it could be possible to use the logic board from the first one, and the chipsets and plug-ins from the other two.

  I’m not sure it will function properly, but if it does, the computer will be a gift to Dell from me.

  He doesn’t know that yet.

  I’m at the kitchen table separating the peripheral wiring when Dell Duke’s cell phone barks.

  He’s chosen a dog as his ringtone.

  It doesn’t seem like what a cat person would do.

  It bothered me while we were cleaning up this place that I didn’t find a single thing to indicate that Cheddar had ever lived here.

  This is a man who couldn’t be bothered to throw trash away.

  I’ve been waiting for the appropriate time to bring this up. Once he’s off the phone I ask:

  “Do you miss Cheddar?”

  Dell looks confused.

  “Say again?”

  I repeat:

  “Do you miss Cheddar?”

  Dell’s eyes narrow.

  “You mean, because Pattie cooks Vietnamese food?”

  I don’t respond. He adds:

  “What I miss is my meat loaf.”

  I’m not going to follow up.

  Pattie and Mai return and we’re ready to begin.

  Pattie says she’d like to help us, but she’s testing some kind of new nail polish and it wouldn’t be fair to the product to stick her hands in dirt.

  I’m surprised when Quang-ha comes downstairs to do the planting.

  He picks out a container. (It is cloudy plastic and previously held strawberry-flavored imported Italian gelato.)

  I must admit that judging by the shape, this is the most intriguing of our Dumpster planters. It is rectangular, but has soft edges.

  Quang-ha is confusing because just when I’m certain he has sawdust for brains, he’ll exhibit some real insight. He picked the best-looking container for his seedling.

  While he obsessively pulls off the stickers from the sides of the former gelato carton, Mai and Dell and I fill up everything else with the fresh dirt.

  When he’s finally ready, I hand Quang-ha the cookie pan, which has the moist seeds, and I say:

  “Plant three. Equidistant. About an inch down.”

  Maybe he doesn’t hear me, because he takes a single seed. I say:

  “Take three.”

  He mutters:

  “I only want one.”

  I don’t want to be bossing anyone around. Especially him. I say:

  “It might fail. They are only going to be in these containers for a short time. We are just starting out here.”

  He will not be persuaded. I can’t read his expression, so maybe he’s making fun of me as he says:

  “I’m putting all my hopes and dreams into this one seed. That’s how I want it.”

  Dell is now watching. His mouth opens and I think he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t. Mai then turns to her brother.

  “We’re doing this for Willow. Don’t be a jerk. She wants us to plant three seeds.”

  Quang-ha looks from Mai back to me.

  “This one is mine. I’m not doing it for her.”

  Dell turns to us.

  “You two girls do your own thing.”

  I get a lump in my throat.

  And it’s not because Quang-ha won’t listen, or because Dell doesn’t support my planting methods.

  I feel moved because they aren’t treating me like I’ll break into a million pieces.

  Maybe that means I’m on my way back to some kind of new normal.

  Chapter 43

  I can focus again.

  If only slightly.

  It doesn’t take long for a routine to really fall into place.

  We all get in Dell’s car every morning.

  We drop off Mai and Quang-ha at the high school and then Dell takes Pattie and me to the salon.

  Most days Mai walks over after school and then she and I ride the bus to the Gardens of Glenwood.

  Pattie stays later, but is home for dinner.

  Mai and I get things started for the evening meal. Pattie can’t just walk across an alley to cook anymore, and a lot of her dishes take time.

  This means that we’re in the kitchen in the afternoon, which opens right up onto the living room.

  I can’t help but observe Quang-ha, and later Dell when he gets home from work and positions himself next to Quang-ha in front of the TV.

  The two somehow understand each other.

  Maybe because they are both on the outside of something.

  I’m invisible to them, unless it comes to Quang-ha’s homework.

  I helped him with a math problem, which is how it started.

  I can do his assignments in a few minutes, but I take a lot more time than I need so that he won’t feel bad.

  I know that doing his schoolwork is morally wrong, so I try to explain basic concepts before I hand over the material.

  I can’t say that he is a good listener.

  His only serious activity, besides watching anything on the TV, is doodling.

  He draws cartoon-like people with large heads.

  Quang-ha has a somewhat large head.

  I’m not sure if there is a connection.

  Every day Dell asks me when I plan to go back to middle school.

  I want to say:

  “How does never sound?”

  But I don’t.

  Instead I usually pretend not to hear or mumble something that has a few indistinct syllables.

  Today Dell adds:

  “There’s a lot you are missing there.”

  I can’t help myself. I s
ay:

  “Name one thing.”

  Dell looks confused.

  But it’s not a trick question. I really want to know.

  I can tell that while Quang-ha is changing channels, he’s paying attention. He can’t stand high school. Finally Dell says:

  “You don’t go to P.E.”

  I just stare at him.

  Dell’s belly looks like he has a basketball under his shirt. Yes, he’s lost some weight in the last month, but he’s got a long way to go before he’s any kind of athletic specimen.

  But it’s as if he’s some kind of mind reader, because he says:

  “I’m going to start running. Tomorrow is my first day.”

  Quang-ha shoots him a look of total disbelief, but I’m the one who says:

  “Really?”

  Dell nods. I say:

  “Are you training for something?”

  Dell says:

  “I’m going to be joining some teams in the spring and I want to be in shape.”

  Quang-ha is giggling now. Not laughing. Giggling. It’s different. It is suppressed and high-pitched and contains an element of disbelief.

  I’ve never heard Quang-ha giggle.

  It must be a very unusual sound, because the next thing I know, Mai is out of the bedroom and standing in the hallway.

  “What’s going on?”

  Quang-ha starts to answer, but he can’t. He is a giggling mess.

  Somehow, this form of high-pitched laughter is contagious, because Mai is now giggling. She’s watching her brother, and whatever he’s doing is spreading.

  Dell has had enough.

  He gets up from the couch and goes into the kitchen.

  I follow him.

  We stand there. We can still hear the giggling in the other room. I say:

  “Are you really planning on running?”

  Dell mumbles a form of yes. But then adds:

  “But I’m not going to join any kind of team in the spring. I made that part up. I’m just going to run for myself.”

  I don’t think that’s strange because almost everything that I pursue is for my own understanding or amusement.

  I believe having an audience naturally corrupts the performance.

  I might be self-justifying.