Untouchable (19 page)

He pulled an empty cardboard box from the garage, some glue, some tape, a halfway-sharp scoring razor. He found a nearly fuzzless tennis ball in a back corner near the drawer where the ring slept, where the snow globe slept. He opened another drawer where he kept odds and ends he’d collected over the years, things he thought might be useful someday in the house, knobs from the original kitchen cabinet doors, snips of multicolored electrical wire, an unused light switch. He carried everything back onto the porch. He cut the box into flat slabs, drew an outline on the cardboard, erased when he screwed up, drew again. The Kid came out with the broom but never started sweeping, more interested in watching what Darby was doing. Darby finally got the outline right, cut out the shape with the razor. Rolled the cardboard into a tube and glued the ends together. Held the ends, waiting for the glue to take. The Kid stood over Darby’s shoulder, trying to figure out what he was making. Darby didn’t say anything. He liked watching The Kid trying to guess, the look of serious concentration on his face. He cut a hole in the bottom of the tennis ball, the same diameter as the cardboard tube, fixed the tube into the hole. Screwed a couple of cabinet knobs into the sides, looped some of the colored wire around the tube’s base, cut another small opening in the side and fixed the light switch into place. He held up the finished creation, tapped the tennis ball a couple of times with his finger, blew into the tennis ball, spoke into the microphone.

“Check, check, one-two.”

The Kid’s face split into a full-toothed smile, a look of genuine, delighted amazement, something Darby hadn’t seen in a over a year.

Darby swept the porch while The Kid tried on the full costume up in his room. After a few minutes he came down the stairs, attempting to hold the microphone and write in his notebook at the same time.

How do I look?
He stood on the bottom step, lifted the microphone up to Darby for an answer.

“You look great, Kid. You look like a million bucks.”

The Kid smiled again, hopped off the bottom stair and did his old trademark move, the soft shoe
ta-da!
sidestep Lucy had taught him, landing with his legs stretched to their limits, his arms extended, hands shaking for emphasis. It was the way he’d once ended every episode of
It’s That Kid!
, the exclamation point of the show, his final goodbye to the audience before leaving the stage. The Showbiz Shuffle, Lucy had called it. Darby clapped for the Shuffle. He and Lucy had always clapped for the Shuffle. The Kid smiled and nodded at the applause, lifted the microphone to his mouth. Darby realized that he was holding his breath, hoping that The Kid would be overcome by the moment and say what he’d always said in response to applause, Thank you,
Thank you very much.
That The Kid would speak into the microphone. But The Kid just smiled and nodded, bowing once, twice, acknowledging the applause, backing up the stairs to his bedroom, making his silent exit.

The Kid woke before his alarm with a different feeling in his stomach. A fluttering in his belly, not entirely bad. Nervous butterflies. He got washed up in the bathroom, rolled deodorant under his arms, brushed his teeth, gargled, zipped up his costume pants, buttoned his costume shirt, wrestled into his blazer, clipped on his tie. Stood in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing his Smooshie Smith smile.

His dad came in from the pickup. They sat at the kitchen table and his dad drank coffee while The Kid picked at his cereal, too nervous to eat. His dad drove him to school so nothing would happen to his costume along the way. The Kid checked his new backpack for the millionth time, making sure the cards were still there, all twenty-three, that none had gotten bent or ripped, that they were lying safe and flat between his math and reading anthology books.

They pulled up outside the front gate. The Kid tapped the tennis ball on his microphone with his finger, moved the mic from one hand to the other, practicing his technique, the smooth exchange from left to right.

Where’s Mom?
He wanted to ask that question and hold the microphone out to his dad. He wanted his dad to know that he knew the truth, that it was okay, he understood, but he just wanted to know where she was, if she was safe. He just wanted to know if maybe she was coming back. The Kid wanted this moment to be an exception from the Covenant so he could ask that one question. That would be it, two words:
Where’s Mom?
It wouldn’t even be him asking, it would be Smooshie Smith. But he knew he couldn’t risk it. He’d kept to the Covenant for this long, he couldn’t go back on it now. He nodded to his dad and got down out of the pickup.

Vampires, cowboys, cops, race car drivers, Lakers players, rock and roll stars. The schoolyard was filled with costumes. The Kid felt dizzy. Norma Valenzuela dressed as a firefighter. Razz wearing a t-shirt that said,
This is My Costume.
Rhonda Sizemore in a puffy blue dress, carrying a plastic scepter, wearing a golden crown on her head. Some of the kids thought she was dressed as a princess, but whenever they said that she corrected them. She was not a princess, she was the queen.

The Kid found Matthew standing by the dodgeball wall, glowering at the other kids in their getups. Whenever someone asked where his costume was, Matthew told them that it was a super-powered costume, that the costume was invisible. The other kids didn’t seem to be buying it.

“Is it true about your dad?” Matthew said.

What?

“That he tried to fight Rhonda’s mom at the mall? That she almost had to call the police?”

Not exactly.

“They said that maybe he’s making the blue stars.”

Who’s making them?

“Your dad. Because of all his tattoos. They said he’s making the blue stars and giving them to older kids to stick onto littler kids.”

That’s not true.

“I didn’t say it was true,” Matthew said. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

Brian was talking to Arizona on the far side of the yard. He wore yellow running shorts, a yellow tank top with a white number 1 on the back, wristbands, a headband. The Kid didn’t know if he was dressed up as some famous runner that The Kid didn’t know about, or if he was just dressed as himself, if that was famous enough. Arizona was dressed as a forest ranger. She wore a wide-brimmed brown hat and a green shirt and slacks, carried what looked like a fishing net on the end of a short stick, something to catch bears, maybe, coyotes in the woods.

The classroom was anxious, fidgety. They did the math lesson, social studies, language arts. They made mail pouches out of orange and black construction paper and taped them to the sides of their desks. Special delivery. The Kid made a sign, taped it next to the mail pouch.
Come be Interviewed by Smooshie Smith, Talk Show Host of the Future.

He was nervous about how his cards would be received. He tried not to think about it. Instead, he watched Miss Ramirez’s hands as she wrote vocabulary words on the dry erase board. He drew Miss Ramirez’s hands in his notebook, tried to get the smooth lines right, the crooks and curves, the shading and shadows that made her fingers look like flesh and blood, like real, alive hands.

At lunch, The Kid and Matthew sat at their table, picked at their food. Michelle wasn’t around. The Kid guessed that she was in Mr. Bromwell’s office, talking about whatever she talked about. Her real dad in Minneapolis. The Kid asked Matthew if he wanted to be interviewed by Smooshie Smith, but Matthew shook his head. He was in a bad mood. He told The Kid that he didn’t care if it meant he would go to hell, he just wanted to wear a stupid Halloween costume.

Arizona sat down beside The Kid, set her fishing net on the table.

“I want to be interviewed,” she said.

The Kid looked at her.

“I want to be interviewed. I saw your sign.”

Sweat started on the back of The Kid’s neck. He tried to get it together, calm down, tried to think back over the talk-show tapes, all the things he’d learned and practiced. He took a sip from his juice box, hoped that his bad breath would go away, even if just for the length of the interview.

He flipped the switch on the microphone, adjusted the volume knob. Turned to a blank page in his notebook. Matthew looked up from his lunch, the only member of the audience.

How do you like it in California so far?

Arizona smiled, self-conscious. She leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.

“I think it’s great. I like it here a lot.”

What’s better about this place than the place you used to live?

“The people are nicer.”

Really?

“The people are much nicer.”

Have you made any friends?

“Lots.”

Name three.

“Rhonda S., you, Matthew.”

The Kid felt his ears burning. He looked across the table. Matthew was looking down at his lunch again, but his ears were red, too.

Let’s take a question from the audience.

The Kid and Arizona looked at Matthew. The Kid held the microphone across the table.

Matthew swallowed the mouthful of sandwich he’d been chewing. “Is Brian Bromwell your friend?” he said. “And if so, why?”

One question at a time.

“It’s a question and a follow up question,” Matthew said. “I know my rights.”

The Kid turned the microphone back to Arizona.

“He is my friend,” she said, “because he’s very sweet and very funny.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, looked back down at his lunch.

Just hearing the name made The Kid turn to find Brian in the yard, make sure he was a safe distance away. He was over on the other side of the pavilion, standing at the head of Rhonda’s crowded table, next to Arizona’s empty seat, watching the interview at The Kid’s table. His eyes were narrowed, trying to figure out what was going on. He was too far away to hear, but The Kid still felt that flush of cold fear in his belly.

How is he funny?
The Kid wrote, turning back to Arizona.
Funny looking?

“No,” she said, giving The Kid a disapproving look.

Funny smelling?

“No,” she said, laughing a little. The Kid felt tingly, felt electric writing this about Brian while he was standing within sight, when he could come over at any minute. He felt brave for some reason, saying these things, brave, or stupid, or both, that little laugh from Arizona egging him on, making him braver, stupider.

Matthew read what The Kid was writing, looked across the tables at Brian, fear on his face, too, but something else as well. Excitement.

Funny how?
The Kid wrote. He waited a few seconds for the anticipation of his guest to build, for the anticipation of his audience, patient, patient, waiting like he’d seen and rehearsed all those times with his mom the mornings.

Funny in the head?

And at this Arizona laughed out loud, a musical jingle, and Matthew laughed along, too, and The Kid could hear the applause from the studio audience, a delighted roar rising, cheers and clapping and guffaws.

Arizona’s hand was holding his arm. She was laughing so hard that she was holding The Kid’s arm without even knowing it.

Thank you
, The Kid wrote when the applause had died down a little.
Thank you very much.

It was time, finally. They opened their folders and bags, reached into the furthest corners of their desks, digging for their Halloween cards. The Kid opened his backpack, carefully slid out his cards. Counted them again quickly, one last time. Gave them the final once-over. He thought that they looked good. He was proud of the cards, the combination of his drawings and his dad’s backgrounds and added details. They’d made a good team.

The kids lined up in front of the board, boy-girl, boy-girl, all clutching their cards to their chests. Rhonda Sizemore went first, threading her way through the desks, dropping cards into the corresponding mail pouches. The other kids followed one at a time. When it was The Kid’s turn, he started down the first row, placing the right card into each pouch. He tried to ignore the kids still standing at the board, holding their noses whenever he passed.

When they returned to their desks and started digging through their mail, they found that Miss Ramirez had placed a card and a few pieces of candy in each pouch, foil-wrapped chocolate pumpkins and bright orange suckers. The kids tore open their candy, reading their cards and chattering while Miss Ramirez sat behind her desk and wrote in her grade book. The Kid didn’t need to count his cards to know that there were far fewer in his pouch than there should have been. Twenty-three kids in the class minus himself plus Miss Ramirez should have made for twenty-three cards. He looked back at Michelle’s desk, thinking that she’d probably received even less cards than he had, but her desk was still empty. She was still at Mr. Bromwell’s office or had gone home or something. He looked over at Matthew’s desk, but Matthew seemed to have quite a few cards. Not twenty-three, but quite a few.

Six cards. The Kid had received six cards out of twenty-three. One from Miss Ramirez that said,
Whitley, I appreciate your spirit and sense of determination.
One from Matthew that said,
Kid, I’m glad you come over for dinner and don’t forget our deal about the comic books
. One from Arizona, a handmade card, a drawing of a buttercup under a bright blue sky that said,
I hope we’re friends long enough for you to tell me the secret.

Six cards. The Kid knew that he shouldn’t feel bad, knew what his mom would have told him, that he should be happy for the cards he got, that he should appreciate those cards and not worry about the ones he didn’t get. He knew he shouldn’t feel bad, but he did anyway.