Untouchable (13 page)

Darby ejected the tape, set it aside, pulled another out of the box.

The batteries in the cassette player were going. The tape started slowly, smeared sound, finally getting up to speed. Street noise, a bus approaching, stopping, pulling away in a roar. A dog barking in the distance. A woman speaking quickly in Spanish, walking by the microphone, in and then out of range. The Kid on his way to school, maybe, the sounds of his travels, or just standing at the corner with his recorder one afternoon, holding the microphone out to everything that passed.

There was a break in the tape, an abrupt patch of silence, then some muffled fumbling. The Kid turning the microphone back on. And then it was there in the garage. Darby hadn’t quite expected that sound. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. He knew that he would hear it if he played those tapes, but it still shocked him. It filled the garage, overloud, the volume too high. The Kid’s volume, always talking too loud.

“This is Whitley Darby,” The Kid said. “Also known as The Kid.”

Darby couldn’t breathe. He’d forgotten. He hadn’t realized that he’d forgotten the sound of The Kid’s voice.

“Tonight I’m turning the show over to a very special guest host, a person who needs no introduction.”

More fumbling, the microphone being passed. The motor of the recorder whirring in the garage and whirring on the playback of the tape, over a year in the past.

“This is Lucy Darby,” Lucy said. “Honored to be filling in for Whitley on this installment of his popular and long-running show.”

Darby sat. His knees just buckled or he sat on the box behind him, his weight pushing in the top, the sides. Her voice in the garage, speaking clearly, carefully into the microphone. Her teacher’s voice, enunciating every word.

“Today we’re turning the microphone back on our esteemed host,” she said. “We’re going to give our audience a chance to learn more about him, his likes and dislikes, what makes him tick. Thank you for this opportunity, Whitley.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Am I allowed to ask any question?”

“You are.”

“Nothing is off limits?”

“Fire away.”

“Good. Okay. How long have you been hosting this show?”

“A couple of years.”

“And before that, what was your occupation?”

“I was just a normal kid.”

“What were your interests?”

“Talk shows. Comic books.”

“And now?”

“And now, what?”

“What are your interests now?”

“Talk shows. Comic books.”

Darby tried to picture where they had been when this was recorded. Sitting in the living room, maybe, or out on the front porch. There was an end-of-day quality to the sound, a hushed ambient tone, a sleepy softness to their voices. Evening, then. Darby out at a job. The Kid in his pajamas, maybe, just out of the tub, teeth brushed, hair combed, fingertips pruned from the bathwater, sitting with his mother on the top step of the porch, passing the microphone back and forth.

Lucy’s voice again. “Where can we find you most days?”

“Mrs. Heredia’s fifth grade class, first row, front seat.”

“What kind of student are you?”

“About average.”

“Is there room for improvement?”

“Probably.”

“How’s Ms. Heredia?”

“Mrs. Heredia.”

“Actually, it’s Ms.”

“She’s pretty nice.”

“She’s a good teacher?”

“She’s pretty good.”

“And what’s next for you, Whitley? Once the show runs its course. Once you’re grown up.”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You haven’t?”

“Maybe I’d like to do what Matthew’s dad does.”

“What does Matthew’s dad do?”

“He wears a suit.”

“How about your dad?”

“He helps people. He helps people for work.”

“Have you ever seen him wear a suit?”

“No. Have you?”

“Once,” she said, the edges of her voice turning up in a smile. “I’ve only seen that once.”

Darby sat in the garage, the machine in his hands, his body shaking. He listened until the tape ran out, and then he listened to the dead air hiss at the end of the tape, the sound of the blank space and that ringing in his bad ear, bells in the quiet afternoon.

Kid, you got any scars?” Michelle said.

The Kid thought about it, shook his head. No, he didn’t have any scars.

“I do,” Michelle said. “I’ve got some cool fucking scars.”

They were standing in a cluttered aisle of
Gift 2000
, looking at the packages of greeting cards. Fifteen to a pack, twenty-five to a pack, cards that said Thank you or
Get Well Soon
or
I’m Sorry for Your Loss.
The Kid remembered that last card, remembered a number of these exact cards from people who’d believed his dad about his mom dying. They’d come in the mail along with the thank-you cards his dad got from the people he’d helped at his job.

Michelle had been waiting for him at the end of the school day. The Kid had come through the front gate a few steps behind the big wave of other kids, hoping to duck down the street without anyone seeing which way he’d gone, but as soon as he turned down the sidewalk he heard Michelle calling, “Hey, Kid,” and the next thing he knew they were walking up the hill together toward Sunset, right behind the crowd.

“This one’s from punching a wall.” Michelle said. She made a fist and shoved it toward The Kid. There was a rough red scrape across her knuckles that looked pretty recent.

That’s not a scar.

“The fuck you mean?”

It’s a scrape.

“It’s a scrape. What do you know? It’ll be a scar pretty soon.”

She turned her arm over, showing The Kid a cluster of pink bumps climbing her forearm. “Hot fat,” she said. “I dropped a piece of chicken into the fryer at home and it sprayed up all over my arm. I didn’t scream or cry or anything. Even my mom’s boyfriend was impressed.” She held her arm under The Kid’s nose, looking hard at him while he looked at the bumps, daring him to dismiss them.

“You think that’s a real scar?” Michelle said.

The Kid nodded. That was a real scar.

He knew that being seen leaving school with Michelle only made him seem worse than he already was. But it also meant that Brian and Razz would probably leave him alone, that he might get home without an incident. They never said it, but The Kid knew Brian and Razz were afraid of Michelle, afraid of her size, of the viciousness she’d shown a few times in fights in the schoolyard with other kids, both girls and boys. In those fights she’d had to be pulled off the other kids by two or three teachers plus the P.E. teacher. Even then it was tough for them to get her off the other kids, to get her away. The Kid remembered standing against the dodgeball wall with Matthew, watching four teachers drag her across the schoolyard while she kicked and screamed curse words, the veins in her neck bulging, her face stretched and ferocious.

A box of superhero Halloween cards caught The Kid’s eye. Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, running and flying, holding jack-o-lanterns and sacks of candy. The cards had messages on the front like,
You’re Super
and
I’m Glad You’re on My Team.
The Kid thought that the boys in his class would appreciate those cards, but he wondered if there were enough Wonder Woman cards in the box for the girls.

“Here,” Michelle said. “This one’s good.” She pulled the collar of her t-shirt away from her neck. There were three deep brown scratches running down past where The Kid could see.

“We used to have a cat and we all hated it except my little sisters,” she said. “My mom said she was going to put the cat outside and let it run away but my sisters would bitch and moan, so she wouldn’t do it. One day when my mom and her boyfriend weren’t home, I carried the cat outside to let it go. My sisters came out too, bitching and crying at me not to do it. I tried to throw the cat out onto the sidewalk but it grabbed onto my neck and wouldn’t let go. It just fucking dug in. I pulled it off, but it ran back into our building, back to our apartment. My sisters didn’t even care I got hurt, they were so happy the cat wasn’t lost.” She pulled her t-shirt back up. “That’s a good scar. Right, Kid?”

The Kid nodded. It was a good scar.

“Ask me where that cat is now.”

Where’s the cat now?

“All I can say is he got permanently lost. All I can say is that little fucker won’t be scratching anybody anymore.”

The Kid had just enough money for the superhero cards. He thought that maybe buying them would be worth it, that maybe really good Halloween cards would change other kids’ opinions of him.

“Come here,” Michelle said. “Come close to see this one.”

The Kid didn’t move, so Michelle took a step toward him, turning in even though there were no other customers in the store. She pulled her t-shirt out of her jeans, up over her belly. There were little red burns, eight of them, nine of them, angry red and brown circles across the flab on the left side of her stomach.

What are they?

“You don’t smoke cigarettes, so you wouldn’t know.”

How did it happen?

“It wasn’t an accident, that’s for fucking sure.”

Who did it?

“That’s a good question,” she said. “You’ll have to figure it out. Who smokes cigarettes in my house? I’ll give you a hint. It’s not my little sisters. It’s not my mom.”

The Kid didn’t know what to say, just stood staring at the bottom of her shirt, picturing the burns on her stomach underneath, how they’d gotten there.

“Take a step back already, Kid,” she said. “Jesus. What are we, married?” She pulled her shirt back down, tucked it into her jeans.

The Kid moved away, trying not to think about the burns. He looked again at the superhero card box, wondering if they were worth the money.

“We can give you a scar, if you want one,” Michelle said. “Something that’ll keep those assholes away from you. If you had a badass scar, those guys would probably think twice about fucking with you.”

The Kid wondered if this was true. If a scar would make Brian and Razz think that he was more like Michelle, more likely to get uncontrollable in a fight. Or maybe it would just make him uglier, and then even Matthew wouldn’t want to be friends with him, then Arizona would keep away.

“Right across the face,” Michelle said. “A big cut past your eye and down your cheek. A pirate slash.” She pointed a finger at The Kid’s face and mimicked the path of a knife, slicing from his forehead to his chin.

The Kid shook his head. He didn’t want a scar. Not yet. He looked to the other side of the aisle, saw stacks of orange and black construction paper on the shelf, next to the glue sticks and magic markers. Office supplies. He had an idea. He knew what he could do, what would be better than the box of superhero cards.

“If you had a scar, you could wear an eye patch,” Michelle said. “That would be totally badass.”

He remembered his mom making valentines for her class once, a couple of years before. His mom’s students were probably too old to exchange valentines, but she’d sat at the kitchen table the night before with construction paper and glue and made them anyway. She’d written a little note to each student and The Kid asked her to read each note to him as she finished it. The Kid tried to picture each student by the words of encouragement his mom had written about them, the things she complimented them on. Someone had a nice smile or was a thorough reader or always came to class prepared. And The Kid remembered thinking that when he was an older kid he would probably like to get something like that from his teacher, even if he was supposed to be too old for it. Just a little note of encouragement, something unexpected, something handmade that his teacher had drawn at her kitchen table the night before. He thought he would appreciate the time that had been spent.

It seemed like it would be difficult, making 22 cards. Twenty-three counting Miss Ramirez. But maybe he could do it. He was a pretty good artist. If he ran out of ideas for the cards, he could copy pictures from his
Extraordinary Adventures
comics, the ones nobody bought. He could trace the pictures and write things he liked about each student in the word balloons coming from his characters’ mouths, Smooshie Smith and his talk show guests.

“It would keep people away,” Michelle said. She made a slicing sound as she drew another slash in the air across The Kid’s face. “Nobody’d come near you with a badass scar.”

The Kid put the box of superhero cards back on the shelf and added up the cost of the construction paper and a couple of those magic markers, making sure to include the tax in his calculations. He figured he had just enough, figured he’d just make it under budget, and wouldn’t she like this, his mom, wouldn’t she think this was a good idea.

He made a new route home from
Gift 2000
, one that would take him past the burned house. He wanted to see what they had done with it, to see how quickly they’d torn it down, removed the debris, maybe even started building again.

He didn’t tell Michelle where he was going. They parted ways in the strip mall parking lot and The Kid waited for her to walk out of sight before he doubled back down the hill, into the neighborhood of the burned house.

The house was still standing. The Kid was surprised. From a distance, it looked the same as it had before. The smell still hung in the air, old smoke and burnt wood, getting stronger the closer he got. He didn’t even notice what was new until he was standing right in the front yard.

There was a bright red sign nailed to the front wall of the house, black block lettering that said,
Peligro! No Traspasar!
But beside the sign was something else. A wing, the wing of a giant hawk or eagle or something, drawn on the wall in white chalk to look like it was floating out of the front door. A single feather falling from the wing to the porch below.

He stood in the yard, looked at the wing. Who had drawn it? When? The Kid moved closer. It was a very good drawing. There was shading and texture along the wing. It really looked like it was made of feathers, like it had drifted out the front door and was floating gently to the porch.