A Certain October Read online

  Falcone says, “I’m thinking about going to see Gina.”

  I smile.

  There are four things I remember about Falcone’s sister, Gina.

  On Falcone’s fifth birthday she drew an animal on the belly of each and every kid at his party. I’ve looked at the video and there were nine of us.

  Once, when she was walking Falcone, Misha, and me to the park, she chased a kid who knocked an old lady down on his bike but kept going. She made him cry. He was taller than her and might not even have been a kid.

  Third, she used to let me go into her closets and put on anything I wanted. She had beautiful clothes. But it’s the scarves I remember. The colors, the textures, the smell of lavender and fruit spice. Then I’d put on a fashion show for anybody who’d look. But really it was for Gina.

  But most importantly Gina Alguero was the first person to ever let me drink coffee. Okay, it was a teaspoon of coffee, a cup of milk, and so much sugar the spoon could stand up. But it was pumpkin coffee. I was in love from then on. Nobody could tell me she was not the most fabulous woman in the whole world. And anyway—I was looking for a mom then because mine had gone into a hospital and never come home.

  Gina didn’t even walk. She glided . . . in sandals or pumps, tennis shoes or flats. But my favorite shoes she had were a pair of silver thong sandals with pearls inset all around them. They were shoes from heaven. Falcone’s dad told me years later they were shoes from a local department store. But I didn’t believe him. When I asked Gina she just smiled.

  When Gina left, Falcone slept in her room for over a month and wouldn’t let his dad put him back into his room. He says anytime his dad even looked like he’d bring the subject up he’d hold his breath.

  “Yo—do you believe my old man would fall for the holding my breath thing?” Falcone laughs.

  Misha shakes her head, “You were so wrong. Making your poor dad go through that after Gina moved out.”

  “Hey, I’d do it again if it would make Gina move back. Yeah I would!”

  Misha and I look at him.

  “I believe it,” I say.

  Falcone leans back against the orange booth. He looks at a few of the old black-and-white pictures on the wall and drinks his blueberry iced tea to help push down the loaded home fries.

  “True dat. Right now I’d take my sixteen-year-old ass, inhale and hold it, then stand in the middle of the living room floor—cause it’s got carpet and I won’t get a head injury. I was a serious extortionist when I was little. Papi gave me anything I wanted when he thought I would suffocate to death holding my breath. He’d be all . . . ‘Oh shit!’ With that look on his face like he had when I came out to him. But then he’d be promising to take me to see a soccer match or make empanadas or go to the zoo. Now he’d probably wing me the car keys and his debit card he’d be so desperate.”

  I say, “I love your father and again—you are so wrong.”

  Misha just keeps shaking her head.

  Falcone puts his tea aside and starts eating his home fries and dipping them in my bowl of black bean chili. We know Falcone is crazy about his dad too, so he just smiles.

  “I miss Gina,” I say.

  We all know she only lives four hours away. But we all know her husband is an idiot and that four hours might as well be four days. “We should go see her. Just get in the car and forget that her husband is probably in his office somewhere pulling the wings off of insects or squeezing puppies too tight.”

  Falcone smirks.

  Misha eats more fries.

  I take out my phone and start to map the directions to Gina’s house, but then I go into a daydream. I’m suddenly overcome by the smell of lavender and spices. I’m five again, stumbling through Falcone’s house in Gina’s long skirts and scarves. She’s talking on the phone, laughing and wrapping more scarves around me. And it doesn’t really matter that it’s years and years later I’m feeling all this again in an orange booth at the Endangered Species.

  “OKAY, WHAT LIE AM I GOING TO TELL PAPI TO get the car? He can’t know we’re driving four hours—even to see Gina. He prays every time I get the car keys in my hand to go around the corner and up the street to the bodega. If he’s so nervous about me driving—why’d he let me get a license anyway?”

  “And that along with him knowing you are probably lying about where you’re going . . .” Misha hiccups.

  Falcone’s dad believes the lies Falcone tells about being sick, but those are usually the only lies Mr. Alguero falls for. Falcone has gotten out of school and other things he didn’t want to do by faking diseases that haven’t been seen on the planet in hundreds of years, or at least not in East Cleveland. . . . He even tried to convince his dad he had scurvy once.

  No shame, this boy—I swear.

  Falcone looks at Misha. “Time for the story to be about you. Your family is way crazy.”

  Misha kicks him underneath the table, but grins. “What did that woman on TV say? She doesn’t ask people if their family is crazy, she just asks what side are they craziest on.”

  “No buts, Misha,” I say. “I wanna see Gina. Time to pull out one of your wack relatives whose kid has gotten his head stuck in a box or needs to be rescued from a house full of alligators somewhere on the west side. Falcone’s dad will let him rescue people.”

  Misha says, “I don’t have to pull any of them out—they’re just running around looking for something messed up or crazy to do.”

  “I like your aunts,” Falcone says.

  “I like ’em too. I just hope whatever lie we tell to go on a road trip doesn’t end with real hurricanes and drought and locusts—you know, my family,” Misha says, sighing.

  Friendship can be a bitch. Sometimes she rips your best shirt and spills barbecue sauce all over your shoes, then runs all the gas out of your car before stealing your best CD and losing your dog. I hope this trip will be good to Falcone with the least amount of drama, hurricanes, and locusts.

  AN HOUR LATER WHEN WE walk past Ken’s we see Misha’s aunt Caroline running all over the store pointing at dresses, holding more dresses, and shaking her head at anything the dress owner says. When the owner keeps pointing at the dress Misha picked out, Caroline takes the dress from the woman and buries it behind an old-lady opera dress. The saleslady looks at her like she’s crazy, but Caroline is just getting started.

  Me and Falcone grab Misha’s hand and drag her past the window as fast as we can.

  It’s been a long day by the time I go up to my room and yell into Dad and Laura’s room good night. I’m putting on my pajamas when I hear the sound of crunching under my bed. I drop into bed and turn off the light to the smell of peanut butter cookies and the rustling of a bag.

  Only so much can happen in a day, I guess. Only so much in a day.

  PART 2

  Superman

  KEONE TRACES MISHA’S TATTOO WITH HIS FINGER in an endless loop and it doesn’t seem to drive her out of her mind. She’s used to him. But I guess the biggest thing is Keone’s used to her—so everything is quiet in the living room. He’s used to Falcone, too. Falcone sits on the other side of him and is letting him listen to his favorite music on the iPod over and over again.

  Misha blows a huge bubble and says, “Jason is getting on my last nerve about the homecoming dance.”

  Falcone shakes his head and turns the iPod up a little. Keone smiles.

  Then Falcone asks, “Why are you taking a date to the dance, Misha? Isn’t that a bit old-school with your fists-up power tribe of females? What happened with everybody going as an intermingled pack?”

  Misha blows another bubble like she’s thinking. She’s really doing it because Keone likes the bubbles. But in a minute it’s going to be too much stimulation for him. The tattoo, the music, the bubbles. I don’t want him to have an overload meltdown so I shake my head at Misha and the bubbles. She knows what I’m getting at and stops blowing them.

  “I’m going to the dance with him because everybody in the court is supp
osed to have a damned escort. I feel like I’m in the fifties.”

  Falcone laughs, stretches, and looks at me.

  “Don’t look at me, I can’t help this girl. I didn’t even know she knew anyone that was born in the fifties. Did you, Misha?”

  Misha, who looks like she wants to ignore us, says, “Do I what?”

  Falcone cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Know somebody who was born in the fifties, homecoming princess?”

  She hits Falcone with the pillow she’s been reclining on, which means she moves her shoulder so Keone can’t trace the world anymore. But when he tries, his earbud falls out and the whole quiet thing comes to an end.

  Falcone says, “I’ll get my boy some cookies.”

  That chills Keone out and they head out towards the kitchen. Keone follows Falcone, wearing his brand-new pair of Superman pj’s. He’s had about ten pairs of them since he was three. I hope to hell Superman never gets old with the superhero crowd or Laura is seriously screwed. As it is, after a certain age she’s going to have to get somebody to make Keone pajamas.

  . . . and good luck with that.

  Misha is stretched out on the couch now.

  “Why didn’t you talk me out of this crazy stunt? Do I even look like I could be a homecoming queen?”

  I look at Misha. Occasional bad attitude, stubborn, smart, kind-hearted, creative. When we were in elementary school she used to go up to people and hug them if they looked sad. Most people would have gotten punched, but not Misha. Tattoos, grrrrrl, and always raging she might be—but she’s got the heart of an angel and everybody knows it. I’m voting for her and tell her so. But she keeps on complaining. Oh yeah—she’s a whiner, like me.

  “. . . I mean, what’s up with this queen stuff? Now that Mrs. Williams woman is seriously on me about my tattoo. She’s relentless. I wanna tell her where to go, but if I do, the wrath of Jacks, Martha, Adrienne, and the couple of others I’m too tired to mention will come down on my ass.”

  I remember how Jacks made sure one of the slumlords in the neighborhood cleaned up his property. He hadn’t fixed any of his property in years. She took pictures of the plugged-up plumbing, peeling paint, hole in the roof dripping into the kids’ rooms, and the toilet that had backed up in the basement and overflowed. Then she had them blown up poster-sized and sent to the health department and housing people.

  The Aunts can be relentless.

  “Cover up the tattoo then, Ms. World,” I say.

  “I’m not covering up my tat. I went through a lot to get it. Fake ID, lying to the Aunts about my whereabouts, having to wear sleeves on fricking hot-ass days for weeks until the scab fell off . . .”

  “Yeah, Misha. I know you suffered for somebody else’s art.”

  After raising an extremely inappropriate finger at me, Misha lies down again and keeps whining about how homecoming night is going to be a disaster. Then she complains about Jason, who plays baseball, gets really good grades, and is his class president. Everybody loves Jason.

  I say, “Drop him.”

  Misha sits up and almost screams.

  “Why should I drop Jason?”

  “Because he’s probably a serial killer. Didn’t I see him volunteering at the community center last summer and delivering meals to AIDS shut-ins? Didn’t he head that drive to raise money to buy books for that library that burned down across town, too? Serial-killing behavior to me . . .”

  I get another inappropriate finger gesture from Misha, but she shuts up just as Falcone comes back into the room with a smiling, sugared-up Keone.

  Everything goes back to quiet and comfortable.

  But after about half an hour Misha says, “I just don’t want anybody thinking I like Jason like that. I don’t believe in that boyfriend-girlfriend shite. I just worry about staying who I’ve always claimed to be. I worry about what this all looks like.”

  I look at Misha.

  Falcone looks at Misha.

  Falcone looks Misha in the eyes and says, “If I ever cared about what things looked like I’d never have a life.”

  Keone ignores everybody in the room and doesn’t look Misha in the eye like Falcone does because he’s so focused tracing the world on her shoulder.

  KEONE RUNS AHEAD OF ME ON THE TRAIN. There’s not too much I can do about it ’cause my hands are filled with books, packages, and a bag of cookies I try to hide because I don’t want him to completely inhale them before we get off the Rapid. I manage to bodycheck him into falling into the seat that’s about halfway back in the train. He wants to take the aisle seat but I know better.

  I took Keone to his pediatrician’s appointment because Laura had a project due for work. I got a rundown of the dos and don’ts of taking Keone to the doctor. That’s all done; now we’re heading home.

  He likes the train, but doesn’t get to ride it very often. Today’s the day. He usually puts his feet out in the aisle and it’s never good. I put him in the window seat, drop everything in my seat, and try to get it together before the train lurches to a start. I almost make it but lose Anna Karenina as she shoots underneath the seat and ends up about three seats ahead of me.

  “Damn.”

  Keone stops looking for his gingersnaps in my backpack and smiles for about a second. But then he goes back to the cookie hunt.

  “Need some help?”

  Okay—first I have to stop this and say that if this was one of the stories I am always listening to in study hall from some girl who says it’s the truth—she swears to God!—I’d look up with my hair all perfect, wearing a hot outfit, and there would stand this dude I’d been wanting to meet forever. I would have noticed him; his friends might have told him that my friends said I liked him. We probably had liked each other for years, but we just never got together.

  That little fantasy is over now ’cause it’s Kris (of the putting Dubble Bubble gum in my hair, thusly causing me baldness for a very long time) looking down at me holding Anna in his hand while Keone has found the cookies, and at the same time managed to take up both the seats and will probably start whining if I try to move him over. I take the book from Kris and glare at a very happy Keone.

  “These seats are empty,” Kris says, pointing to the ones directly across from my brother.

  I take the book from him and stuff it and more of my school papers back in the pack. I make sure the shopping bags won’t tip over and surround Keone with them. A man behind Keone with a laptop smiles at me and starts talking to Keone about the train. Keone turns to listen, grins, and keeps eating his cookies. Kris laughs. I mouth a silent thanks to laptop man.

  I sit down, crazy tired, and Kris sits next to me.

  Kris and I don’t talk for one and a half stops. Then he makes some crack about how if I’m going to keep monopolizing the conversation he’s going to have to move somewhere else. I start to say something but don’t because at the same time Keone almost spills his cookies and I don’t want to see him eating them off the floor of the train. I get him straightened out again across the aisle.

  “So Falcone invited me to go with you all to the dance.”

  We pass Cedar Hill and I say, “The more crowded the better. It’s good he invited you, I guess; his ex—Nick—was supposed to go. I think the limo is one of those block-long things. If we’re going to help climate change along we might as well do it up and get as many people in the thing as possible.”

  Kris laughs. “So I’m taking the place of the ex-boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, so you’ll have to be kind, funny, and keep Falcone in line. I mean, since you’ll be taking up the space.”

  Kris laughs again. Then he starts talking about music and the job he’s trying to get downtown at a recording studio.

  “I didn’t know you were that into music.”

  “Yeah—I write a little. I even do poetry slams. I guess I’m into the writing part, maybe producing.”

  And in a few minutes I totally forget that he once put so much gum in my hair I almost ende
d up looking like Uncle Fester. Kris’s stop is coming up but he says he’ll stay on and help me get Keone home. I look over at Keone who’s pressed against the window as it starts to rain and he’s holding gingersnaps in one hand and one of my shopping bags in the other. I glimpse his reflection in the window as people get out and Kris stays on. He settles back and starts talking about how his mom made him take up the trumpet—then regretted it.

  I’m laughing so hard that I barely hear the brakes screeching when all of a sudden everything starts to move in slow motion; the people who were talking about getting a new dog three seats behind us sound like they’re going through a tunnel. The man who was working on his laptop behind Keone looks shocked when it flies up in the air. One second later Kris is laughing and then in another he isn’t. I’ve never seen anybody so still. By now the noise is gone, the lights go off, and everyone is not where they were a minute ago.

  I see Keone flying through the air and I think for a minute that he must feel like Superman.

  THREE NIGHTS BEFORE THE TRAIN, I GOT TAKEN home in a cop car.

  I’m afraid of guns. I think people should be afraid of them just like I am. I don’t give a good goddamn what gun people say; people shoot people and they’ve been doing it for years and it’s only going to get worse with more people owning guns. People are crazy and no amount of gun safety and gun handling is going to change that.

  So because of guns—current events have to be modified at my school. Nothing can be about local news, ’cause locally some people are . . . you know . . . crazy. But I go on the Internet to look up other papers across the country and I find out everybody all over the place is the same kind of nuts.

  World hunger, war, climate change, and screaming psychopaths in the streets with signs proclaiming who-knows-what about everybody who doesn’t look like them, believe their religion, or supposedly know what the Constitution says. Mostly the signs are misspelled, though, so they can bite me. Why should I give a second of my time to someone who screams about the Constitution but can’t spell the word “constitution”?