No More Us for You (3 page)

Back in September, my dad clipped out a chart from the
Los Angeles Times
and left it on the kitchen counter by the coffeepot. I had just woken up and was moving around the kitchen with the speed of a slug. I took down the box of Cheerios from the top of the fridge, my favorite red bowl from the cupboards, and set them both on the counter. That's when I saw the newspaper clipping. The chart was labeled “Risk of Death” and looked like this:

Risk of Death

This chart lists some causes of death, their annual numbers, and the odds that a U.S. citizen will die of each over the course of his or her lifetime. For example, the lifetime risk of being killed by alcohol poisoning is one in 10,530.

 

 

I set the clipping on the kitchen table and opened the box of Cheerios and shook some out into my bowl. I took the milk out from the fridge and tipped the carton, a long white tongue that stretched into the mound of cereal. The coffeepot gurgled and hissed, and suddenly I couldn't help but see it as an appliance that could kill. Within the plastic black shell of the coffeepot, all the components were already in place for an electrocution: the dripping water, the hidden circuit and wires behind the digital clock, the emerald light beside the
ON
switch. I sat down at the kitchen table with my cereal and tried not to think about it.

My mom came out of the bathroom in her terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers. “Good morning, Izzy,” she said.

“Morning.”

“Aren't you late for school?”

“No, not yet.”

“Is that milk still good?”

“It seems fine to me,” I said, lifting a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.

“You should've checked the expiration date.” My mom opened the cupboard and took down her coffee mug with
the bright yellow happy face painted on it. Its eyes were two black spirals.

“Who clipped out the chart from the newspaper?” I finally asked her.

“Your father did,” she said. “He thought it was interesting.”

“Kinda morbid, don't you think?”

“Yes, in a way.” My mom reached for the coffeepot and my stomach tightened. “It's also good to know,” she said, grabbing the handle and filling her mug.

I picked up the clipping again. “Why's it good to know that one in two hundred and twenty-six will die from homicide? That'll only make you paranoid.”

“One in two hundred and twenty-six? Seems a bit high.” My mom leaned over my shoulder and I pointed to the figure on the chart. She took a sip from her coffee. “Oh look, the death rate by airplane is seven-forty-seven. Isn't that funny?”

“Hilarious.”

My mom bumped me lightly on the arm with her hip.
“You know what I mean.”

“But why is it important for me to know that, on average, seven hundred and forty-seven people die annually by airplane?”

“I was thinking more of the heart disease one and cancer.” My mom leaned against the kitchen counter with her mug held by her chin. The happy face was freaking me out, its dark eyes and maniacal smile. “Now that I think about it, it's time for my yearly,” she said.

I dipped my spoon into my bowl. I'd always thought Cheerios looked like tiny doughnuts, and now I saw them as miniature life preservers. The chart said four hundred and two people drown annually in bathtubs, but didn't list how many drown in oceans or lakes or swimming pools, or in a river channel like Gabriel had. I didn't want to, but I thought of him seatbelted in his submerged car, the bubbles rising from his mouth and his dark hair swaying like some aquatic plant. I felt this twinge in my heart, a pinprick of sadness, and wished more than anything that he was in my life again, on his
way to my house so the two of us could drive to school together like we used to. I could imagine him jogging up the walkway now, the morning sun shining on him, car keys jingling in his hand.

Roland, my little brother, came out of his room yawning with a severe case of bedhead. He had this I'm-technically-awake-but-for-all-intents-and-purposes-still-sleeping look on his face.

“Good morning, pumpkin.” My mom ruffled his hair as if it needed to be more messy.

“I'm not a pumpkin,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can you make me some pancakes?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

Roland dug into his nose. “I'm not a sweetie.”

“That's disgusting,” I said. “Use a tissue, why don't you.”

My brother shuffled to the kitchen table and reached into my cereal with his little hand, plucking a Cheerio from the bowl.

“Mom!”
I hollered.

“What is it?”

“Roland just picked his nose and stuck his hand in my cereal!”

“Stop pestering your sister, Rolo.”

“Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes,” he mumbled.

“Okay,”
my mom said. “Hold your horses.”

Roland sat down at the table and scratched his head. “I don't have any horses.”

The thought that there was maybe a speck of my brother's booger in my Cheerios, however microscopic, made me lose my appetite. I pushed the bowl toward him. “It's yours now,” I said.

“I don't want it,” he said. “I'm having pancakes.” He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“Brat.”

“Poophead.”

“You were adopted.”

“No I wasn't, poophead.”

“Ask Mom.”

“Mom.”

“You weren't adopted,” my mom reassured him.

I leaned in close to him. “She's lying,” I whispered.
“Your real parents are in North Carolina. And they're both big morons.”

My brother stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes.

“They look
just
like that,” I said.

“Okay, you two.
Enough
,” my mom scolded.

She placed my brother's frozen pancakes in the microwave and pushed a few chirping buttons. The microwave hummed, the window glowed a muted yellow, and I wondered about death by exposure to radiation, which was also missing from the “Risk of Death” chart. I realized there were lots of ways to die that weren't included. AIDS. Earthquake. Mauling. Ebola. Killer bees. Drowning in a canal while seatbelted in a car.

My dad hurried into the kitchen dressed in his suit and tie, his shiny black shoes, carrying a leather briefcase. I didn't quite understand what he did for work. Something with computers. One Saturday afternoon I sat beside him on the couch while he clicked away on his laptop, plugging numbers into a grid. I'd asked him what he was doing and he said something about “historical data” and “market
averages” and other things that went over my head.

“I'm running late,” my dad said, pecking my mom on the lips. My dad kissed the top of my head like he always did and then Roland's. “Bye, you guys.”

“Bye, Pops,” I said.

“Take a banana,” my mom said over her shoulder as she buttered Roland's pancakes.

My dad reached into the fruit bowl and twisted one from the bunch. He stepped out into the garage, leaving the musky scent of his cologne behind.

The garage door rumbled open. He started the engine of his car. I shouldn't have looked at the chart again, but I did anyway: 44,933 motor vehicle deaths per year. If Gabriel hadn't been speeding on that day, if he was still alive and actually coming up the walkway at that moment—sunlit, car keys in one hand, the other reaching for the doorbell—would the chart have read 44,932 instead?

I swiped the clipping from the kitchen table on the way to my room and crumbled it up in my hand. There was this knot in my throat, a ball of ache, and when I jumped in the shower I cried under the warm jets of water.

I went to school. I floated from classroom to classroom, hung out with Heidi and Vanessa, and tried not to think of Gabriel, of the chart, of all the ways a person could leave this world.

Later that night my dad came home from work with his jacket draped over his arm and his tie loose, hanging like a stethoscope from his neck. I was happy to see him. Happier than usual, I mean.

Once inside my bedroom, I reached into the wire wastebasket and pulled out the clipping I'd thrown away. I flattened it out on my desk as best as I could, ironing over the numbers with my palm before folding it up and putting it inside my purse.

It was a Tuesday morning when flakes of ash began drifting down. A brush fire was burning out of control in Anaheim Hills and the sky to the east was orange like the light inside a jack-o'-lantern. I passed a driveway where a car was parked, dusted with ash. On the hood was a child's handprint, fingers splayed out like sunrays.

When I got to Millikan, Will stopped me in the hallway. He had this dire look on his face like he'd just run over someone and was now going to ask me to be his alibi. “You got a minute?” he said.

“Yeah, man,” I said. “What's going on?”

Will gazed at the floor, half of his hands stuffed in his pockets, his thumbs pointed at each other. He looked up at me, then down again. He slowly shook his head.

“Spit it out,” I said.

“It's Suji,” he said.

“Did you guys break up?”

He shook his head.

“What is it?”

He lifted his head. “She's pregnant.”

“Oh,” I said. “Shit, man.”

“I know,” he said.

A kid on a skateboard rolled behind Will and down the hallway, weaving around students. A girl laughed somewhere, another squealed “Wait! Wait!” as if she were chasing down a bus. Through the open doors at the end of the hallway, I could see an orange strip of sky above the roof of the administration building.

“I'm screwed,” Will said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked him.

“She wants an abortion.”

“That's probably the best thing.”

“It is. I can't be a father now.”

“I'm sure Suji doesn't want to be a mother now either.”

“Right,” he said. “Look, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” I said.

Will looked down at the floor again. “Suji doesn't want to ask her parents for the money. And I can't ask my pops because he's an asshole.”

Now it was my turn to gaze at the floor.

“I would ask Snake,” he continued, “but he doesn't work either.” Will's eyes started to water. He looked down the hall, at the otherworldly sky. He bit the inside of his cheek. “I know you just started working at that museum,” he said.

“I'm not making much there,” I told him.

“I don't know who else to ask. I thought about asking my uncle, but I think he'll snitch on me.”

I imagined a hole opening under my feet, my body dropping through it. Part of me wanted to help Will, but another part wished he'd asked someone else. Anyone else.

“I don't know, man,” I said, which was the wrong thing to say, I guess, because Will cleared his throat and sniffled and then walked away.
“Will!”
I shouted. But he just kept walking, down the hallway and out the doors and into the orange light.

During lunch, Will was nowhere to be found. It was just me and Snake hanging out by the fences and watching ash tumble from the sky like fish food.

“Where the hell's Will?” Snake asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

“And Mira?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe Will's tagging your woman?”

“Eat smegma.”

“What's smegma?”

“It's that thing you spread on a cracker before you eat it.”

“Man, just tell me,” he said.

I saw Mira across the quad, talking to some guy on the track team. She had her arms crossed. He reached into his back pocket and held a note toward her, but Mira kept
her arms folded. They stood frozen like that while students moved around them, lugging their books and backpacks. Snake was talking to me, but I wasn't paying any attention. A flake landed on my eyelash. Mira unfolded her arms and took the note from his hand.

I left Snake leaning by himself on the fence and made my way across the quad, students cutting in front of me from the left, the right. Two gulls fought on top of an empty table for a bag of potato chips, pecking and squawking and flapping their gray wings. By the time I reached Mira, the other guy was gone, the note was open in her hands. It was a long letter. So much ink it had to mean trouble.

“What's going on?” I asked her.

“Nothing, it's nothing,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Who was that guy?”

“No one. Just someone in my class.” Her voice was shaking.

“Mira,” I said flatly.

“What?” she said, her eyes tearing up.

We stood there for a while, not talking, not moving,
like two mannequins in a showroom.

“Are you screwing that guy?” I asked her.

She lowered her head.

“Answer me.”

Ash swirled around us, the sun burned orange above the cafeteria.

“I'm sorry, Carlos,” she finally said. “I'm so sorry.”

 

After school I had to put on my suit and tie and get to work, which was probably a good thing since it kept me from wallowing in my room.

On the drive to work someone honked at me at an intersection. The light was green, but I was just sitting there behind the crosswalk with my foot on the brake. I looked up at my rearview mirror and saw that the driver behind me was scowling, his face tight as a fist.

The daytime guard, Leonard, was sitting at my post when I got to the museum. Leonard was the coolest guy I ever met, which made me feel like a dork around him. He was in his mid-thirties, dark-skinned, his hair clipped close to his scalp. Leonard's movements and speech were
fluid and confident. Suddenly the way I walked was too stiff, too awkward, and everything I said was obvious. I imagined he had three or four girlfriends, that he wouldn't care if one decided to leave him for another man.

“What's shakin', Carlos?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” I said. I didn't want to get into it, although Leonard was the type of guy who could probably give me some good advice.

He stood up and waved his hand over the folding chair, then he did this thing with his foot like he was slipping on an imaginary banana. “It's all yours,” he said. “I kept it nice and warm for you.”

“Thanks, man.”

He left the museum humming to himself, some ballad I didn't recognize.

I sat down on the chair and let out a big sigh. I reached into my coat pocket and took out my Red Vines. I ate one, then another, then a third. I thought about Mira, how she crumbled when I confronted her. I thought about Will asking me for money, the desperation in his face. I thought about Mira again, saying,
I'm sorry, Carlos. I'm so
sorry
. I thought about the potato chips scattering across the tabletop as one of the seagulls took flight, an empty bag pinched in its beak.

I leaned back on my chair and placed my head against the wall even though I wasn't supposed to.

The phone rang at the front desk, but no one was there to pick it up. Ms. Otto came clattering on her heels to answer it, but when she lifted the receiver the caller was already gone. She grunted and slammed the phone down on its cradle and headed back to her office.

I noticed that the pink neon sign hanging on the wall was busted. It flickered from this:

to this:

The pitch of the sign's buzzing was a few octaves lower and sounded like a bumblebee trapped inside a jar.

The phone rang again, and again Ms. Otto hurried to answer it. She said a few words to whoever it was on the other line and then hung up. She turned to me and put her hand on her waist. “Where's Bridget?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't know who she is.”

“She's supposed to be working at the front.”

“Does Vanessa work later today?” I asked.

“I have her scheduled for tomorrow.” Ms. Otto walked toward me. “You know, if there's no one visiting the museum, you can walk around if you want. Stretch out your legs. You don't have to stay in that chair.”

“Thanks, Ms. Otto.” I pointed at the neon sign. “It's broken.”

“I know,” she said, frowning. “The artist is coming by to pick it up.”

I stood and cracked my back, bending like a yoga instructor.

“I never asked you what you thought about the exhibit,” Ms. Otto said.

“It's nice,” I said, glancing around the room. “Very modern.” What I was really thinking was,
Since when
is a pile of green sand art?

Ms. Otto turned on her heels. “I have to make some calls. Feel free to walk around.”

“I will,” I said.

I ate one more Red Vine and checked out the pieces up close.

I walked over to the neon sign first, my skin and suit blushing in its pink light. I tapped on the glass tube and it sputtered off and on.

The stuffed Jesus on the floor had me daydreaming about knocking out the other guy, the one who handed Mira the note. I pictured myself walking up behind him, calling him a chump, and once he turned around—
Bam!
Right on the mouth.

I moved over to the pile of bright green sand. It was waist-high and illuminated by a light fixture angled from the ceiling. There was a red square of tape that surrounded the sand, a line that visitors weren't allowed to cross. I walked up to the line and my shadow draped across the green mound. For a long time I stood there, thinking. About Mira, about Will. Along the edges of my shadow
the sand appeared to shine a brighter green. I decided then that I would help Will with my first paycheck, and then I changed my mind before changing it again, and then I hovered somewhere between both options—help Will, not help Will—so I wouldn't have to make a decision.

I skipped the large black canvas and headed over to the east wing of the museum. What first caught my attention was a museum guard sleeping in the corner. His hands were folded on his lap, his chest rising and falling under his tie. He wore a dark blue hat like a policeman's, tipped forward, so his eyes were shielded. I thought it was strange that he wore a hat when I didn't have to, that his uniform was different from mine, a lighter shade of blue, with gold buttons down the jacket. My buttons were silver.

There were twin televisions on the floor that faced each other, sitting on DVD players. On one screen was a close-up of a man's face, cropped from the bridge of his nose to the bottom of his chin. He was unshaven, a tiny scar was etched on his cheek like a fingernail's impression. The man whispered,
My starling. Come back. The key is under the doormat.
The video ran for a few seconds more
without the man saying anything before it looped again with his plea. On the other screen, a barrage of images flashed like a shuffled deck of cards: [Back of a woman's head] [Empty chair] [Green dress flapping on a clothesline] [Baggage carousel] [Back of a woman's head] [Plane taking off] [Hairbrush] [Unmade bed] [Back of a woman's head] [Rolling suitcase] [Vase of flowers] [Doorknob turning] [Back of a woman's head].

Next I checked out a giant portrait that was made entirely from wads of bubble gum. According to the plaque beside it, the artist used spearmint, grape, banana, strawberry, and Bazooka Joe. I thought about what I could make with a hundred bags of Red Vines, what sort of landscape in licorice.

Soon after, I noticed the empty chair in the corner of the room. It was the same type of folding chair I had at my post. Dark gray, double-hinged, contoured back. I looked again at the museum guard sleeping at the opposite corner. I was confused. Was the empty chair part of the exhibit? Or did the east wing have two guards looking after the same room? I walked over to the folding chair.
There was no plaque on the wall nearby to identify it as a work of art.

“You taking over my shift?” a woman's voice said from behind me.

I turned around. She was roughly my height and wore the same uniform as I did. She was in her mid-thirties, with glasses and thin lips, her brown hair pulled into a ponytail. “No, I'm not,” I said. “I'm in the west wing.”

“You want to switch posts?”

“No, I was just looking around,” I said. “Hey, why are there two guards for this room?”

She laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Why don't you go over there and introduce yourself?” She pointed at the man sleeping in the corner.

“I don't want to wake him up,” I said.

“Just go over there and say hello. Trust me.”

I looked at the sleeping guard, his chest moving slowly under his tie, and began walking toward him. The floorboards squeaked beneath my shoes.
Why is she having me do this?
I wondered. And just when I thought I
was about to startle the guard awake, I saw what he actually was—a sculpture made from mannequin parts and thrift-store clothing. A whirring sound like a fan came from somewhere within his chest. I crouched and saw that underneath the chair was a motor that made his chest move, a black box with wires rising through a hole cut into the seat. His eyes were painted open on his plastic face. I thought,
He's awake
and
sleeping
.

“What a trip,” I said, standing up. “I totally thought he was real.”

“It freaks me out,” the woman said.

“I keep expecting him to wake up and start moving around.”

“You want to switch posts?” she asked again. “I'm sure Ms. Otto won't mind.”

“Sorry, but I like where I'm at.”

“I don't blame you. It's not bad enough with the creepy guard, I also have to listen to
that
stupid video all day.”

We both looked at the televisions on the floor.

My starling. Come back. The key is under the doormat.

“It's so irritating,” she said. “No wonder she left him.
I'm Nadine, by the way.” She tapped her name tag.

“Carlos,” I said.

“Are you new here?”

“I just started last week.”

Ms. Otto came around the corner with a sheet of paper in one hand and Scotch tape in the other. “Carlos, I need to step out for a bit,” she said. “Richard Spurgeon, the neon sign artist, is going to be here soon to pick up his piece. Would you please put this up after he takes it down?” She handed me the sheet. In all caps it read:
REMOVED FOR REPAIRS
. “Sure,” I said.