Read Every Single Second Online
Authors: Tricia Springstubb
Every Single Second (19 page)
Vinny toddled over, holding out a toy dish with plastic food. Nella pretended to gnaw a chicken leg.
Tell me that guy wasn’t on drugs. They’re all on drugs.
Someone else had posted a link to an article from—wait. Nella needed paper and pencil to figure out how long ago. Over forty years ago. It was about race riots in the Garfield neighborhood. Stores were looted, cars were
burned. The National Guard was called in, and the photos looked like a war in some other country. People were shot, and some died.
Nella leaned forward. She read how Little Italy formed its own armed guard, teams of men patrolling around the clock. Late one night, two of them spotted a man sitting in a parked car at the bottom of the hill. Back then, there was a big lumberyard down there, and they became convinced that the man, who was black, meant to set it on fire. Somehow shots got fired. Somehow the black man was dead.
The faces of the smoke shop men flashed through her mind.
Vinny was back with a plastic green bean in each fist. He solemnly set them on her knees.
Now she read how the shooters claimed they were just protecting their families. They were quickly acquitted, and the city councilman commented, “If only that guy had stayed home where he belonged, none of this would have happened.”
Nella started to feel light-headed. The stories were about another neighborhood, not hers.
Great-uncle Vito on his big horse. A horse with hooves the size of a newborn’s head.
She read how outraged Little Italy was when black students were bused into the neighborhood school, how the school eventually got closed down. (This was the
school where Clem lived now, where the smell of chalk still swirled through the halls.) She read about rocks thrown at passing cars, a beating behind Mama Gemma’s. Another Feast disrupted by fistfights.
Vinny brought her a fried egg, and she was so dazed she actually bit it. She knew there’d been troubles, but Mom said they were exaggerated. Did she remember wrong? But wait—she wasn’t even born then. All her parents knew was what they’d heard, the stories passed down to them, other people’s memories.
Mi ricordo.
I remember.
She thought how Dad couldn’t remember any other mother except Nonni. That was wrong, but for him it was true. He’d rewritten the past.
The past was the past. Except maybe not.
Maybe people were like cameras. They saw what they focused on, and left out all the rest.
Nell’s brain spun. It tried to piece these bits together, to make some sense of it, but all she got was more questions. What if D’Lon had been white, not black? Would Anthony still have shot him? Would he have tried harder to figure out what was happening? Would he have been so scared, so angry, so whatever he was?
Her computer session was almost over, but she read a few more comments.
What a stinking, salami-sucking, grease-ball. Jes’ sayin’.
DeMarco will get off, don’t kid yourself. The Mafia still calls the shots.
They called Anthony “Gino” and “wop.” They said he deserved his own bullet. Clutching her fried egg, Nella’s confusion went deeper.
This is about me, too,
she realized.
Me and my family. They’re calling us and everyone in the neighborhood those names too.
We don’t deserve that.
Do we?
The computer went blank. It was reserved for someone else, and she stumbled to her feet. Now Vinny brought her a book about a little girl and her toy digger, and she read it to him and Bobby three times in a row. The librarians beamed at her. Such a good sister! Afterward, she pushed the wretched stroller back down the hill and used her last bit of money to buy them rocket pops, which turned them into ecstatic, blue-lipped aliens.
A bird dipped low, flashing yellow wings. Goodness felt as small, as flitting as that bird. Hatred and evil were much louder and more powerful. They lasted and lasted, and even time couldn’t rub them out. Nella tried to think what Sister Rosa would say, but today that honeyed voice was too faint and frail.
A
ngela’s phone rang and rang.
Look at the caller ID. It’s me!
“Nella?”
“Oh, Angela! I was scared you wouldn’t answer.”
“What do you want?”
“What?” She expected Angela to be happy to hear from her. Even grateful. “I just wanted to check how . . . Did you go visit Anthony?”
“
That’s
why you called.” Angela’s voice was brittle. “I know you’re in love with him. It’s the only reason you were friends with me.”
“What?” Nella jumped up from her porch chair. “That’s not true!”
“You haven’t called me in forever. So why now?” Angela’s voice turned so steely, Nella barely recognized it.
Angela had once explained about the body armor combat soldiers wear. Metallic, bullet-resistant vests with extra protection over the heart. Helmets made of something called Kevlar, and all of it so heavy you wouldn’t think a person could walk, let alone run. Angela said sometimes it seemed like her father still wore his. He traded the real stuff for invisible armor, so nobody could get to him.
Even the people who loved him.
“You just want in on the excitement,” Angela said. “Now that my brother’s a famous murderer.”
“No!” Nella was horrified. “I don’t think he’s a murderer!”
“Then you’re the only one! Strangers call us up. They mail him death threats. We can’t even step one foot outside.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Other people thank him for shooting. They say . . . You wouldn’t believe what they say.”
“Yes I would. I went online and I saw.”
“The worst thing is my father . . .”
“What? Your father what?”
Silence. Nella’s heart was loud in her ears.
“Never mind. He’s fine. Everything’s okay. I have to go now. Thanks for calling.”
“Angela? Please tell me.”
But she had hung up.
Mom came out on the porch, stretched her arms, and cocked her head at Nella.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Nella.
Right now, she wasn’t even exactly sure who she was.
The “bale” jar wasn’t even half full. Someone had dropped their old chewing gum in. As Nella turned to leave, she almost crashed into Sam Ferraro.
“Reckless driving.” He grabbed her arm. “You’re under arrest.”
“You are so not funny.”
To her surprise, he followed her back outside. “You don’t look good,” he said. Which she was sure was true. Which made her not care what happened next.
“I was all wrong,” she blurted.
“Okay.”
“I thought the world was mostly good. Like if you did one of those graphs that look like a pie, the bad part would be just a sliver compared to the good part. But it’s the other way around.”
Most people would run for their lives. Or at least sloooowly back away. Sam stood his ground, and Nella remembered that time in religion class he told Sister Rosa that you didn’t need to believe in God to be good. Everyone thought he was just showing off, trying to get Sister upset, but to their amazement, Sister agreed with him. All you needed, she said, was to know how to see through eyes other than your own. That, and some courage.
“Like, could you give a specific example?” he asked now.
“Like, I called Angela.” As soon as she said it, Nella realized what upset her the most about the phone conversation. “She sounded cold and hard. She sounded like her father.”
“Her father’s a waste of space.” His glance flicked away. “Mine is too, a lot of the time.”
“But I remember when he wasn’t. When we were, like, five, Mr. DeMarco taught me how to toast a perfect golden marshmallow. My father had already taught me, but I pretended I didn’t know, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He used to take us to the playground and push us on the swings.”
“You’re the only one who was ever friends with her. It’s not like anybody else really cared.”
“I did care!”
“That’s what I just said.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Nella suddenly realized she wasn’t bending her knees, yet she was looking right into those eyes. Which were the color of chocolate kisses. Sam had grown. Since summer started, he’d gotten as tall as she was. She turned away so he wouldn’t see her blush.
“I have to go see a hedgehog.”
“I’m in!”
Nella hesitated, but what harm could it do?
Sam couldn’t believe the Patchetts’ house. He tried out the couch, the low-slung chair covered in sheepskin, the big balancing ball Mrs. Patchett used for a desk chair. When Nella called him Goldilocks, he laughed. Nella’s cheeks did their Duraflame imitation. Making Sam laugh—she could get addicted to that.
“What the freak?” Looking around at Clem’s stuff, he got a funny expression. “It looks like a guy’s room.”
“That is so ignorant. What century are you from?” Nella showed him Mr. T, curled up into a spiny ball in a corner of his tank.
“A cactus for a pet,” he said. “A cactus critter. Yikes! You’re not really going to touch him?”
“You have to be Gentle and Decisive.” She lifted the lid off the cage.
“Is that a quote from Sister Rosa or something?”
“It could be.” It was Nella’s turn to laugh. Mr. Tiggywinkle bristled, but she said his name softly, held her fingers near his pointy nose. Sam moved so close she smelled his clean-T-shirt smell. Sliding her fingers under Mr. T’s soft belly, she scooped him into her palm. One prickle, two—but it was worth it to see Sam jump back, eyes wide.
“He can’t eject those things, can he?”
Little by little, the hedgie uncurled. He poked out his head. His nose twitched. His face was beyond sweet.
“Aw,” said Sam, such a tender sound Nella all but dropped Mr. T. It was like Sam just told her a secret.
Sam had to be the one to feed him. He refilled the water, too. They stood side by side, listening to Mr. T make happy, piggy grunts. Sam told her how cute his dog was when he was a puppy.
“Now he’s so old, he just lies around making toxic farts.” Sam paused. “I still love him, though.”
Nella couldn’t believe he’d said
love
. Even about a dog. Boys didn’t use that word, at least not in public. Which made her understand,
This was private.
When she turned to look at him, he had two noses.
“Umm . . .”
(Later, Nella would think that Clem’s bedroom was the perfect place for what happened next. Which was a kind of cosmic event. Also, later, she would be astonished that
Sam’s lips could be that soft, as soft as her baby brother’s.)
Right now all she could think was . . . nothing. The space formerly inhabited by her brain filled with gold-spun air as Sam Ferraro gave her a kiss.
M
om clasped Nella’s small hand firmly in hers and started clipping. Bits of fingernail flew. Nella hated this. Why didn’t God make fingernails permanent? What was the use of growing them when they just had to get clipped?
“You next,” said Mom, reaching for Angela’s hand. But as usual her nails were bitten down to nothing.
That day, Mom read to them. They leaned in close on either side, and Nella could feel the baby—which baby?—kicking inside her mother’s big, hard belly.
It was a Choose Your Own Adventure book, which
Nella disliked, but it was so rare Mom had time to read to her, she pretended to love it. Angela was the one who protested.
“Couldn’t the author make up his own mind?”
Mom laughed. “I’m sure he could. But he wanted to let you decide.”
“No.” Angela made her stubborn face. “It’s his job.”
“That’s right,” said Nella. “He’s supposed to know how things turn out. Not us.”
The baby—it was Bobby—kicked like he agreed, and they all burst out laughing.
Years later, lying beneath the artificial, glow-in-the-dark galaxy, Clem asked if Nella believed in fate.
“Sort of,” said Nella. “I mean, yes. Do you?”
“I think it’s more like those Choose Your Own Adventure books, where the reader gets to pick the plot.”
“I hate those books! An author should write one ending and stick with it. That’s his duty.”
“So you mean writers are like God? I’m not insulting God! Just asking.”
“Well, yes.” Nella had actually always imagined God with a big book, everyone’s story written down.
“I read an interview with this writer who said she never knows what’s going to happen. She said her characters were
always hijacking the plot and surprising her.”
“Maybe that’s true for human writers,” Nella said. “But God already knows everything. You can’t surprise Him.”
“Being God must be so boring.”
Nella refused to speak to her the rest of the day.
H
olding a book, Vinny climbed into her lap. All he wanted to do was turn pages, but Nella wouldn’t let him. She pointed at a picture.
