Page 14 of Paging Dr. Hart
My mother had been furious, but I couldn’t feel bad about it. This was how my neighborhood worked. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, you were asking to be a victim. Once that happened, it was over. All the bullies and predators came out to play with you. I had seen it before, kids’ lives ruined because they didn’t fight for themselves. It wouldn’t be like that for us. I would fight for myselfandfor Shelly, too.
I rub Shelly’s shoulder through the blanket. “Just because your mom’s married doesn’t mean she’ll forget you. Maybe things will be even better. She’ll have more money because Mike can pay for stuff. I bet you’ll get a ton of Christmas presents next year.” A twinge of jealousy at that thought. I got two Christmas gifts this year, a book, which I loved, and some new underwear, which I didn’t.
Shelly peeks out from under the pillow. Her cheeks are blotchy from crying. “Mom doesn’t love me. She just wants Mike.”
“I don’t think that’s true. He always has dirty fingernails. Yours are clean and pretty.” I fish under the covers until I find her warm hand. Pulling it out, I look at the chipped pink fingernail polish I had painted on Shelly a few days before. Back when Brandi was still single. At least, we’ve gotten better about not spilling it.
“Just remember—you are smarter, prettier, kinder, and funnier than Mike is.” I tick off my fingers, one for each attribute.
She takes in a shuddering breath. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Her cheeks drying now, she sits up. “My mom doesn’t see me that way. I don’t even think my mom seesmesometimes. She’d rather watch TV or be with Mike.”
“Well, then she’s nuts, because I’d rather be with you than anyone else.” I hug my best friend close. “Don’t worry, Shelly. Everything will be okay.”
Turns out, things aren’t okay. Shelly is moving. Now that Brandi and Mike are married, they want to live closer to Mike’s day job. Shelly and I are distraught. We beg Brandi to change her mind but make no headway. I think back to how Shelly called her mom selfish and have to agree.
“You’ll still see each other at school, girls. You get to be together therepractically every day.” Brandi haphazardly throws Shelly’s clothing into a crumpled cardboard box. “You can sit together at lunch,” she says absently as she frowns at a pair of jeans where Shelly’s worn holes in both knees.
“But Mom,” whines Shelly, “it’s not the same. We hardly have any time to be together at school. The teachers get mad at us when we talk in the hallways, and lunch is only 20 minutes long.”
I want to jump in and agree with Shelly but hold back. Brandi isn’t my mom, so I’m never sure how much to be involved in these family conversations.
“Besides, what about the weekends? We usually spend all of Saturday and Sunday together. Now we’ll live too far away from each other to walk. We won’t see each other.” Shelly makes the weekend sound like a century of time.
“You can figure out the bus schedule. Maybe there’s a bus that goes from here to there,” counters Brandi.
This is a losing battle.
I have to give it to Shelly for determination, though. She won’t drop it, arguing, “You said last month that we’re too young to go on the bus ourselves. You said we couldn’t take it down to the aquarium, remember?”
Exasperated, Brandi throws the torn jeans on the floor and stands up. Her voice is tight with anger as she yells at Shelly, “Find a bus or don’t. I don’t care, but wearemoving. Stop fighting with me about it.”
Brandi rages out of the room, leaving us to finish packing.
11
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 11
Brandi’s move leaves me without a daytime babysitter. That familiar worry line in the middle of my mom’s forehead makes a nasty reappearance. She sits at the kitchen table late into the night, trusty calculator in hand. Her fingers tap over the keys like it’s a genie’s lamp and if she rubs it long enough, it will magically produce the money to pay for someone to watch me while she works.
One day, a couple of weeks after Shelly moved, we unload groceries from our rusted hatchback car as we discuss the problem. Mom’s been missing work to stay home with me, but she can’t keep it up. We need a solution, so I argue that I can stay by myself. I’m 11 now and feel very grown-up. Most of the kids in my apartment building are “latch-key” kids. Shiny silver keys hang on long strings around their necks like badges of honor. They let themselves into their empty apartments after school. All alone, they get their own snacks and do their homework.
Shifting a heavy bag of groceries in her arms, Mom’s brows crease with worry. Her eyes dart around, like she’s looking for a threat. “Maybe if we lived in a nicer neighborhood and I knew it was safe, you could be by yourself. Did you know that last week Mrs. Rodriguez in the next building over had her apartment broken into? It was at 3:30, just when you would get home from school. Thank goodness she was out when it happened, but can you imagine? What if that was you, Kitten? What would you do? No, I’m sorry, but I can’t bear it. Not until you’re older.”
“Is it because you don’t trust me? You think I’ll do something stupid?” There’s hurt in my voice. I tell my mom everything. I get all As at schooland don’t get into trouble, except for that one fight with Dominic. Looping my fingers through the handle of the bag I’m holding, I let it swing, hanging down by my thigh.
Mom’s tone softens. “No. That isn’t it at all. Of course, I trust you. It’s everyoneelse I worry about. You don’t know what it’s like.” Her eyes grow distant. “You haven’t learned how awful some people are. How they can look at someone so pure and young as you and want to spoil it. How some people can’t stand beauty. They want to make everything as ugly as they feel inside.” She’s set a bag of groceries down on the hot pavement at our feet so she can use her expressive hands to explain. She’s just finished talking when a voice speaks behind us.
“She can stay with me.”
We whip around to see our new downstairs neighbor, Mr. Chen, the elderly Chinese gentleman who moved into Brandi’s apartment. He has a newspaper in his hands, having retrieved it from his front doorstep. “I can take care of her after school,” he repeats calmly, ignoring the identical looks of shock on our faces.
Mr. Chen is slim, shorter than my mom, with gray hair cut close to his scalp. He walks slowly with a cane. Friendly since he moved in beneath us, he’s always waving hello and making small talk when we pass him on the way to our car.
But we don’t know him.
