Tamio: “Some people think Medusa is Harryhausen’s masterpiece.”
Mike: “I still like the half woman, half snake in Seventh Voyage better.”
I put up with a lot, keeping an ear on these conversations. Then they play a video game. Mike and Tamio talk about how they don’t like computer-generated imagery because it looks too real, agreeing, agree in that Harryhausen’s stop-motion is more dreamlike and fantastical.
As they destroy each other in the game:
Mike: “This new girl… Valerie… she’s amazing.”
Tamio: “Why don’t you ask her out?”
Mike: [nothing]
Tamio: “Don’t be scared! Maybe she likes you, too.”
Mike: “You think so?”
Tamio: “She talked to you a lot, right? You told me everything she said about a million times. Just ask her to a movie or something. Worst that could happen? She’ll say no.”
Mike: “It’s easier for you. They always say yes.”
I can already see Tamio and Valerie laughing at Mike as she rejects him, but Mike can’t bear to think about it. He just thinks he needs to work up his courage.
When Mike walks home, he sees a homeless man on Seventy-Seventh Avenue. Mike sees him a lot, leaning his back against the brick wall of a bodega. When it’s cold, the man wears all the clothes he owns, layers and layers. Mike gives him a dollar.
Homeless Man: “Have a nice day.”
Mike: “You too.”
Then Mike hears how awful that must sound—how can a homeless man have a nice day?
CHAPTER 7
TO NOT BE HEARD AFTER I’D BROKEN THROUGH TO Mike several times is like being thrown back into the murky depths of a scummy pond. I’m like an unplugged appliance. I observe Mike as if he’s in a movie—there’s Mike, hanging around with Tamio, who keeps telling him not to be so nervous and to ask Valerie out already; there’s Mike, unable to work himself up to ask Valerie out; there’s Mike, eating much too much.
One morning Valerie shows up at school with a tiny limp. The way Mike reacts, you’d think the universe was collapsing— he practically gushes with concern.
Mike: “What happened to you? Are you all right?”
Valerie (with a shrug): “Oh, it’s nothing. I landed badly after a jump.”
Mike: “You shouldn’t carry such a big backpack.”
Valerie: “Mike, I’m fine. I’ll be dancing this afternoon.”
The bell rings, and a few kids bump into them.
Mike: “Be careful.”
Mike actually offers Valerie his arm. It’s a ridiculous gesture and Valerie almost laughs. Then she looks at him with those smoky gray eyes. She doesn’t laugh. She takes his arm and they walk like that, just halfway down the hall to homeroom. The hall is crowded, so the other kids can’t see. It’s their pathetic little secret.
Then, unexpectedly, one afternoon in the third week of September, things start to go my way again. Mike comes home from school to see his mom standing in the living room, dressed in a light-gray suit and holding her enormous book.
Mom: “I have a client in Spruce Hills. Do you want to come along?”
Mike: “Not really.”
Mom: “It’s only a studio apartment.”
Mike: “I don’t want to clean out someone’s apartment.”
Mom: “It’s only a closet. One closet.”
Mike remembers those closets. He used to go with his mom in seventh and eighth grade, before he started working at the baseball camp. One woman slept on a bed piled high with mail and magazines; she squeezed into a narrow space between the papers and the wall. Another kept bank statements in her oven.
Mike: “I have homework.”
Mom: “Can’t you do it after? Mike? Please.”
Mike is weakening. She hasn’t worked in a couple of weeks. He thinks maybe this will help her get back on track. He notices that her skirt and jacket are covered in black cat hair, and he brings her a lint brush so she can take it all off. There’s really no reason for Mike to go, but then, I’m not part of this decision.
Mike: “Fine.”
They take the Q22 bus to Spruce Hills. Mike wonders where Valerie Braylock was born. Was that her house, the one with the big leafy tree out front, full of shrieking birds? Was that where she had her accident, the one that gave her that tiny scar below her left cheek?
Mom: “Look at that. Do you see my hair sticking up?”
Mike: “What?”
Mom: “In the reflection.”
Mike’s mom isn’t looking out the window. She’s looking at herself in the window.
Mom: “I just had it cut last month. It’s supposed to be in layers. It’s not supposed to be sticking up.”
Mike: “Your hair’s fine.”
Mom: “Remember Grandma Celia?”
Mike: “Of course I remember her. She died like a year ago.”
Mom: “Closer to two. She was so critical. ‘Why don’t you sit up straight?’ ‘Why do you bite your nails?’ ‘Why do you have circles under your eyes?’ If I said anything in my own defense, she said, ‘You’re full of excuses!’ I can hear her just now—‘Why is your hair such a mess?’ Her voice was so big, bigger than she was. I can still hear it.”
Mike (suddenly interested): “You hear a voice in your head?”
Mom: “Grandma Celia was so quick to anger. Not like you, Mike.”
Mike wonders why he isn’t quick to anger, and is that a good thing?
Mom: “Grandma Celia never understood a word you said. But you never got mad—you just repeated yourself until she did. I hated her for it. I thought she was torturing you.”
Mike: “It’s okay.”
Mom: “Oh, God.” She sighs. “Is your father as tired of me as I am of myself?”
Mike: “What?”
Mom: “A month ago I was at a museum with your father. He didn’t want to go—said he was too busy—but he went. At one point I thought he was right beside me and I started talking to him. But it was a pole. I was standing next to a pole and I thought it was my husband. Then, when I started talking to him for real, it was like I was still talking to the pole.”
She gazes at her reflection for the rest of the ride. Mike stares at her reflection, too, and has no idea what to say.
The client lives right near the new shopping center, in a tall red-brick apartment building with tiny square windows that casts a shadow over the street. As soon as Mike and his mom get off the elevator, a short woman with spiky black hair greets them.
Woman: “Hi, Mrs. Welles! I didn’t want you to get lost! I’m in six-G and some people knock on six-C—the letters look so similar. I’m Megan, but please call me Meg!”
Mom: “I’m Regina, but please call me Gina.”
Meg (glancing at Mike): “Is he with you?”
Mom: “This is my son, Mike. He wanted to come.”
It bothers Mike that his mom lies so easily about why he’s there. And Mike can’t lie at all.
Mom: “No extra charge for an assistant.”
Meg: “Great! Well, come on in—don’t be shocked—here’s the closet.”
The closet is so stuffed, the door can’t close—it’s just pushed to the side. Cartons, papers, and clothes on hooks spill out the door. Mike notices the rest of her place looks fine.
Meg: “Gina, are you shocked?”
Mom: “Nothing shocks me.”
Meg lets out a breath like she’s been holding it in all this time.
Meg: “Great! That closet… it always gives me a drowning feeling. It’s ruining my life. I can’t have people over. I’m too embarrassed.”