Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (23 page)

The guard is
laid out on a stretcher as the paramedics carry him out the store’s front door. If they hadn’t told me the opposite, I would have sworn he was dead. I’ve never seen any live person so still before.

I’m now seated in the back of the store, in the manager’s office. I guess it’s an office. There are all these boxes and clothes wrapped in plastic and other inventory and stuff. But in the very back corner is a desk with a phone and calendar and calculator and adding machine and pens and things like that. This cop is grilling me about where I live, but I tell him no one’s home. Then he starts telling me he can only release me to an adult. I can’t possibly call Mama. If she has to leave work to come pick me up from police custody, there’s no way I’ll make it to my fifteenth birthday. And forget about Ms. Viola. She’ll have Mama on the phone quick, fast, and in a hurry. I think about calling Aunt Nola, but I don’t want to let her in on my sordid dealings.

“You’re going to have to give me a name and number, or
you’re going with us to the station,” the cop says to me. And it suddenly just spills from my mouth. Ms. Downer’s phone number. But I regret it the moment I say it. The old lady’s going to be pissed or disappointed or both. She’s gonna think I haven’t changed at all since that day we forced ourselves into her apartment. I wish my words were on a cassette tape I could just rewind. But they aren’t. And then I think, What if she’s so angry she doesn’t even show up? Then I will have wrecked it with her and I’ll have to call someone else anyway.

But she does show up. And as she stands at the front of the office/inventory room talking to the cop, I feel my heart sinking. They’re talking in these low voices, so I can’t really hear what they’re saying, although I can imagine. She looks over at me a couple of times. Her eyes are completely still, with no expression registering on her face. And I’m feeling really guilty. Had Mama shown up, I would have probably felt embarrassment and anger, since all she would have done is carry on like a lunatic. But when somebody just remains calm and stares at you, it’s strange. You can’t help but imagine all the thoughts that might be going through their mind.

The old lady finally walks over with the cop trailing behind her.

“They’re releasing you to me,” she says. “I have a taxi waiting outside.”

*  *  *

I can count the number of times I’ve been in a taxi—four. Those other times it made me feel all snooty and upscale
having someone drive me around. Today, the ride is not such a good one. After the old lady tells the cabbie to drive us back to where he picked her up from, she doesn’t say a single word to me. I just sit there staring out the window. I see these two little kids laughing as they skip on home with their parents. They look so happy. I’m pretty sure they’ve never had a day where some old, gimpy security guard’s heart gave out while he was chasing them.

The old lady still doesn’t say anything to me as we walk down the hallway of her building. She doesn’t say anything as we walk into her apartment. She doesn’t even say anything as she makes the tea and toast. There’s only the sound of the plates rattling and the faucet running and her shoes on the tile floor. She doesn’t even really say anything when I ask to use her phone to call the sitter. I take that to mean she’s okay with it, so I go into the living room and talk real low once Ms. Viola picks up. Don’t really need Ms. Downer overhearing this little fib about me having to stay for an extra tutoring session.

When I return to the kitchen, she hands me a tray with the tea and toast and butter and jam on it. I carry it into the living room and watch as she slowly maneuvers herself into the armchair next to the couch.

“What time does your mother get home?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Around seven, I guess. Why?” But she doesn’t answer me.

“You’re not gonna ask me what really happened?” I ask.

“Would that change the outcome of things?”

“But I wasn’t stealing the stuff. I mean, I was, because
Caroline egged me on. But then I felt bad about it and changed my mind. I was actually trying to put the stuff back. And it wasn’t even my idea to begin with.”

“It never is, is it?” And she fixes this heavy stare on me.

“But I never meant for that man to get hurt. I mean, who has a heart attack while they’re chasing somebody? He wasn’t in any shape to be a security guard. Probably had a bad heart to begin with. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No. And I was only there in the first place because I wanted to get some new clothes for our year-end ceremony. You were the one who said I shouldn’t be satisfied dressing like everyone else.”

“So now it’s my fault too? Faye, you need to understand how your actions affect other people. It might not have been your intention, but you were still in there stealing, taking from people who were just trying to earn an honest living, from people who were only looking forward to finishing out their day at work and then going home to their families. That man won’t be making it back home to his family tonight. He won’t be hugging and kissing his loved ones. Now, maybe he wasn’t in any shape to be a security guard. But does that make what you did any less wrong?”

“I know!” I yell. “I know. I’m horrible. Horrible! No redeeming qualities whatsoever. You think I don’t know that? I steal and I lie and I hurt people, and as much as I’ve been trying, I just can’t seem to do any good. I hurt that security guard just like I hurt you before. And I’ll probably hurt someone else in the future.”

I shoot up out of the chair and go into the kitchen to grab my jacket and knapsack.

“Where are you going?” the old lady asks.

“I don’t know. Just away from here.”

“I told those officers I’d look after you. And I meant that. At least until your mother gets home. If you step one foot out that door, I will call them back and have them explain to her what happened today.”

I walk back into the living room and slam my knapsack on the floor. Only, since the floor is carpeted, it doesn’t have much of a dramatic effect. “I don’t get it. Why do you even care?”

“Because when I look at you, I think of my daughter. I think of how her life might have been if I had done things differently. I think of how mine might have been. I think of the confusion and insecurities she must have had because I wasn’t there to answer all the questions a mother should have been there to answer.

“Faye, you think you are this terrible person, and you’re not. You are a sweet, funny, imaginative young lady. And you act as though you don’t, but you care. If you didn’t, you would never have come back here to see if I was okay. But it’s as if you see weakness in caring. Maybe because you think your mom doesn’t care, although I’m certain she does. She simply doesn’t know how to show it. But just because she doesn’t treat you the way you should be treated doesn’t mean you have to treat the world the way you do. You’re better than that. You’re so smart. The world is there for your taking. I don’t want to see you throw that away.
I
care about you too much.”

And then, all of a sudden, I feel my cheeks getting hot. And I feel my eyes blur with water. I swear, I can have somebody call me the worst names—stupid, ugly, not worth a damn—and I just roll my eyes and shrug. It’s like I’m Superman: bad words bounce off me. But I’m not used to anyone saying anything kind to me. I don’t know how to react. But I refuse to cry. So I tighten the muscles in my face and open my eyes real wide. I’m not about to make any noise. Not a moan or a wail or even a sniffle. But then I see the old lady stand and move over to me, and I feel her hands against my back, all bony and skeletonlike. I don’t want her to touch me, so I try to shrug away from her. But she takes a seat on the couch and leans in to hug me. And I feel how frail she is. And it’s becoming harder and harder for me to control the muscles in my face, no matter how much I scrunch it up.

When she moves off into her room, I lie on the couch and replay the events of the afternoon. They’re going around and around in my head but I somehow manage to drift off for a while, because the next thing I’m aware of is her saying, “Faye, it’s nearly seven o’clock. Isn’t your mother home by now?”

I spring up off the couch and quickly get myself together. Shoot. I meant to get back to the sitter’s before Mama got home.

“One moment,” the old lady says. Then she shuffles off to her bedroom again. I want to go, but I wait for her to come back. When she gets to me, she’s wearing a beige sweater over her brown pants and shirt. She’s also put on a little
beige hat. With her white skin, she sort of blends in with all that beige and looks like a Band-Aid.

“You’re going out?” I ask.

“I’m going with you.”

“Where to?”

“Your home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a fourteen-year-old girl who’s had a very traumatic incident, and you need to tell your mother. And if I don’t go with you, you won’t tell her.”

“Nah, I’ll tell her. I was gonna tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“That … well … I don’t know. Tell her what happened.”

“If that’s the case, then why did I hear you leaving a message that you were still at school?”

And all of a sudden, my head starts spinning, and I’m feeling dizzy and outside my own body. And my stomach is starting to do backflips, like there’s an acrobat in there. Or maybe it’s Nadia Comaneci dismounting from the balance beam to a perfect ten. Whatever it is, I don’t feel that well. And I think about just pushing the old lady down and running.

“Why do I have to tell her?” I ask.

“She’s your mother.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t know her. She’s not gonna understand.”

“That you witnessed a man go into cardiac arrest and almost die? I don’t care how difficult she might be. You’re her daughter and she needs to know. Besides, the police might need to get in touch with you again, and then what?”

“Then
you
can come with me.”

But she’s obviously not about to listen. I try everything to change her mind, but it doesn’t work. And so I labor down Parkside Avenue like I’m heading off to my execution. If this old woman whispers a word to Mama about what took place at the Dressy Dress Mart, I’m no longer of this world.

It’s staying lighter a lot later now, and as I look off into the sky, I catch sight of the most brilliant oranges and purples and pinks as the sun gets ready to set. I try to think of a thousand ways of getting out of this situation. I’m a pretty fast runner, so if I took off down Flatbush Avenue like the Flash, the old lady would just have to let me go. I mean, look at how slowly she moves. I could make a break for it, stay away for a few weeks, and when I came back, she’d probably have gotten over it. My brain tells my feet to go, but I look over at her and how she’s concentrating so hard on each step she takes. And I think about how her hug felt and I think about how I never really had a grandma. I think about the nice words she said to me. I think about how we met and I just sigh. I want to make my big escape, but I just can’t seem to.

The thing about
my apartment building is, it pretty much blends in with the others on my street. It has six floors, like most of the other buildings, and it’s made of the same reddish-brown brick. It has fire escapes zigzagging across some of the front windows, and a fairly long walkway from the street to the lobby. But as I round the corner from Bedford Avenue, it suddenly seems so prominent. It’s as if someone has replaced it with the Empire State Building. And as we get closer and closer, my entire body starts to get cold. I’m thinking this is how people about to face a firing squad must feel.

“This is my building,” I say as we turn down the walkway. Moments later, I’m standing in the lobby looking at the call box and at the apartment number, E11, but I just can’t press it.

“Go on,” the old lady says softly.

I swallow, but my throat closes up a little. Finally, I take a breath and push the number. We wait a while and there’s
nothing. And I’m thinking, Maybe Mama isn’t home yet. Maybe there was a fire in the subway and they had to evacuate her train. I get ready to let out a sigh of relief when there’s this crackling sound followed by the words, “Faye, is that you?”

“Hi, Mama,” I say. Before I can finish, there’s this loud buzz. I push the front door open and hold it for the old lady to walk through. As the elevator climbs from floor to floor, I start feeling a little faint. At least, I’m feeling the way I think people probably feel when they’re about to faint, considering I’ve never passed out in my life.

I don’t say anything when Mama first opens the door. I just swallow really hard. But her piercing look toward Ms. Downer prompts me to speak.

“Mama, this is Ms. Evelyn Downer.”

Ms. Downer nods and smiles a little, but Mama just keeps standing in the doorway, puffing away at a cigarette and staring at her. Then she sighs this big “Woe is me” sigh and shakes her head.

“What the hell did you do now, Faye?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Then who the hell is this woman with you and why is she here?”