Trying to Float (7 page)

THE TRAITOR

THE HOTEL WAS
close enough to my elementary school that I could walk home. Most of the other kids lived farther away and took the public bus. Every day, Mother would meet me at the school, and often we would stop for tea on our way home.

As a result of the bonding I had witnessed on the bus ride to Winter Valley (a bonding I was excluded from by nausea), I became convinced that if I commuted with my classmates, they would eventually come to accept me. At the very least, I would get an idea of what they liked to talk about, and that would help me socialize. After lengthy negotiations, my parents agreed to buy me a Metrocard for the NYC bus. My mother worried about this because she thought the bus was dangerous, even though many of my classmates took it as well.

For the first few trips, everything went as I hoped. Though no one spoke to me, I was able to overhear what the other kids were saying, and in a notebook, I would write down the
names of the singers, television shows, and computer games they mentioned.

It was not very long into this new routine that I noticed some girls gathering at the back of the bus, laughing. I didn't pay much attention until one day when the bus was very crowded, and I ended up in one of the back seats. It was then that I saw why they were laughing.

A woman in torn blue-and-yellow checkered overalls, no helmet, with paint splattered across her hands and face was cycling madly, dangerously, in back of the bus.

My mom.

Still very concerned about me, she had decided that if she couldn't walk me home, she would secretly follow me, pedaling after the bus until I reached the hotel. Her outfit was what she wore when she was in her art studio.

Once Mom gave up modeling, she was happy to never worry again about what she looked like when she appeared in public; so it was not unusual for her to go around in her shredded overalls, paint on her face, hair a mess.

Even this, to my amazement and envy, did not affect her beauty. But it made for an odd sight, and I stopped taking the bus.

—

For the few days I was on the bus, my classmates talked mostly about middle school—a concern we all shared because our elementary school ended after fifth grade.

We were required to list five different public schools (in any borough) in order of preference. Some of the schools asked for interviews and supplementary material. Our choices were then fed into a citywide computer program where schools would process our answers. If a student didn't get into their first choice, the computer would shuffle down their list of schools until there was a match.

Parents, school counselors, and teachers were obsessed with the selection process. Parents would spend months looking at schools, reading through pages of catalogues and “inside” guides, and forcing their children to endure endless interviews. Worst of all, we would have to go through it again when we applied to high school. This was how the New York public school system worked, and it was brutal.

If we did not get accepted into the handful of superior middle schools, we would not, when it came time to apply to high school, matriculate into the two or three superior high schools—which meant that we were doomed for college, and thus for life. It was that competitive. Or so everyone thought.

While we skidded down the middle school abyss, a small number of parents received an e-mail from our teacher, Rebecca.

She explained to these parents that their son or daughter was very smart, brilliant even, and that she (Rebecca) wanted to make certain their child got into a top middle school. Having worked in the school system for many years, Rebecca knew
teachers and admissions officers at middle schools across the city and was therefore in a position, she assured the parents, to be very useful.

There were two conditions: the parents whom Rebecca contacted were not allowed to tell anyone that Rebecca was helping them, and they were never to speak to Rebecca about this other than through e-mails.

The parents, of course, agreed.

With that, Rebecca began a lengthy e-mail exchange with these lucky parents in which she described the schools she felt were right for their kids and then set out a strategy for getting them in. Rebecca explained to them that there were a handful of middle schools, all outside the borough of Manhattan, which were little known to the public but full of exceptional teachers.

More important, each of these middle schools boasted exceptional records of getting their students into the best high schools. At these places Rebecca knew someone who could make certain that the child was admitted.

In exchange for Rebecca's help, the parents became slaves to Rebecca: she would send them e-mails demanding that they make cupcakes and drop them off by the end of the day or leave their offices to return a library book that their kid had borrowed from the school.

When I finally heard about this through the grapevine of elementary school gossips, I was very, very upset. My parents were not included in Rebecca's little group, which meant that she didn't care about me.

I already knew that I was not an especially pretty girl (I related more to the “before” people in self-help ads than the “afters”) and that I wasn't all that likable and that some of my interests (Groucho Marx and Oscar Wilde) were different from those of other students. But I knew that when I worked hard, I could usually do as well as the others in my class.

But apparently not, for Rebecca—with whom I had come to identify and whom I considered a friend—had clearly ditched me. I'd been betrayed and didn't know what to do about it.

The sadness inside me was not budging, no matter how hard I pushed at it or how many times I cried.

With Rebecca having abandoned me, the whole thing with Doris's mom, and no one at the school ever wanting to be anywhere near me, I was friendless. I didn't care about playdates or birthday parties or sleepovers—those were out of the question; I just wanted someone to talk to me—a “How are you?” “Pleasant day, isn't it?” would have been nice. But it wasn't going to happen.

I needed a plan.

Once or twice a year, Luca (our neighbor at the hotel) would throw a costume party. There were always thirty or forty people dressed as kings, queens, gangsters and starlets, long-dead painters, poets, and cartoon characters.

Girls in my school liked to get dressed up, so why not plan a princess party? I asked my mom about it, and she thought it was a great idea.

We came up with the idea of the Princess Banquet.

Half a dozen girls received handwritten invitations to meet me at the Chelsea Hotel on a certain date and time.

On the night of the party, I stood outside the hotel in my Belle costume, waiting for the princesses to arrive. The girls showed up on time, all in costume, and I escorted them through the lobby.

I pointed out the sculpture of the obese pink woman swinging above our heads, her plump legs dangling.

The princesses stared.

Beneath the Pink Lady were the Crafties. They were, as usual, arguing. I called out to them.

“These are the princesses I was telling you about!”

Mr. Crafty stood up.

“I hope you princesses have a fucking good time.”

It was one of the nicest things I'd ever heard him say.

I led the girls to the elevator. As the door opened and a crowd rushed out, I explained to the princesses that Stanley, the manager, must be out for dinner. The girls shuffled inside.

The elevator doors opened on the second floor.

A woman in a motorized wheelchair entered. Dressed in black, hunched over, her stringy black and white hair covered all but her toothless scowl. She pushed herself into the pack of princesses.

“BACK, MIDGETS!”

I turned to the girls and made my most polite introduction.

“Smiley, Princesses. Princesses, Smiley. My mom says Smiley is one of the best artists ever.”

As the door closed, Smiley spun her chair, pinning Rapunzel against the wall.

“Where'd you take my electricity?”

“I don't know,” cried Rapunzel. “I want to go home.”

“Me too,” added Cinderella.

“You all have nice homes,” barked Smiley. “No one sneaks in at night and steals your heat. You don't have to sleep in a lawn chair at the front door to catch them.”

Mulan looked mystified. “Who's stealing your heat?”

Smiley's mouth twisted. “They don't leave calling cards.”

The people in the hotel understood that Smiley would accuse each of them, over the years, of stealing her paintings, along with her electricity, her jewelry, and her thoughts. Despite this, the people in the Chelsea liked her and she liked them.

The elevator doors opened onto the sixth floor, and the princesses ran out.

My mom and I had set a long table for dinner. There was an ironed lace tablecloth, which had been my grandmother's, flowers, candles, music, and four courses, with plenty of cakes and pies, served by a waiter from El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant in the lobby. I had been inspired by the ball scene in
Cinderella
.

The girls calmed down, and everything seemed back on track.

My chair was at the head of the table, where Mom placed a pillow to give the effect of a throne. When the princesses took their seats, I knew the banquet was a success. The princesses would go to school the next day and tell their friends, and they would tell their friends. Girls would beg me for an invitation.

Halfway through the dinner, there was a knock at the door. Mother opened it.

“I apologize for the interruption, but is your husband at home? I could use a word or two.”

El Capitan.

But wasn't the Capitan's visit that evening the most brilliant luck? Who better to drop in on the Princess Banquet than a man in uniform with a foreign accent.

“He's visiting his mom in Omaha, but when he returns, I'll tell him to find you.”

The door began to close. But I was determined not to let the Capitan get away.

“Capitan, there are some princesses I would like you to meet.”

“I am certain that the Capitan has many things to do. And now is not a good time for him,” Mom insisted.

“Princesses?” the Capitan responded from the door. “I have known a few in my day, so it would not surprise me if I've already had the pleasure of meeting one or two of your guests.”

“But Capitan . . . ” my mother began.

The Capitan entered the Princess Banquet.

A gasp from the princesses.

The Capitan was not in his uniform. The Capitan was not in anything—save his briefs.

His black hair, usually combed tight against his scalp, was off in various directions; his monocle was cracked and dangling around his neck; and his right arm was red and swelling.

“Good evening, Your Highnesses.”

Rapunzel wheezed, “Please. I want to go home!”

“And I would like to go home as well, my dear princess, but it has been desecrated. The Lady Hammersmith, my beloved, has not been right in the head, which is why I need to visit with the man of the house, my advisor. A magnificent example of pomposity!”

“Lady Hammersmith or my father?” I asked, though I probably knew the answer.

“Why, your father: an ass of the most excellent sort.”

Mother, who was now setting a place for the Capitan, glanced at his arm.

“The hospital?”

“No. I am not seriously injured, though I might well have been. While Lady Hammersmith's intentions were not clear, her first blow with the ax brought down the canopy of my bed, bruising my head and raising me from my sleep. But for this, I am not certain what would have happened.”

“An ax?” I asked.

“A francisca to be exact—acquired from an antiquarian in the south of France,” he reflected.

“And the bed?” my mother called, now back in the kitchen.

Mother had always admired that bed. Set in the middle of the Capitan's apartment, it was over two hundred years old and, according to the Capitan, made of the finest wood in the Far East.

“Kindling.”

With that, Mother began slicing the cakes and pies for the princesses, though none of them seemed hungry.

Minutes before, I'd imagined future dinners with my many new friends, also with flowers, cakes, pies, and ice cream. But that picture was toppling, shaken by what I knew the princesses would be saying the next day about me and the place where I lived.

As the princesses left the apartment, the Capitan bowed to each, his mood improved by the cake.

My mood, however, could not have been improved.

I didn't understand the girls' reaction to my home. I'd lived at the Chelsea all my life. The bickering Crafties amused me. I was worried for Smiley, not scared. And as to the Capitan, he and Lady Hammersmith would make up over lobster and cocktails at El Quijote, as they always did.

I discovered a new emotion that evening—embarrassment.

I was embarrassed by Stormé and Smiley and the Crafties and everyone else who had been kind to me. The Chelsea Hotel was no longer a shining castle, it was a crumbling outpost of outcasts, outbursts, and failure. Those I loved weren't captains, knights, and ladies, they were addicts and
cripples and prostitutes. From that day on I dreaded becoming like them. I strived to distance myself and to fit in elsewhere.

That day I learned I had to keep my Chelsea Hotel to myself. I was ashamed.

MY FRIEND FAN

“YOUR MOOD HAS
changed, and I'm worried,” my mother greeted me as I came through the door.

“Nonsense. Couldn't be cheerier.”

“You can't fool me. You're in a bad state.”

“It could be the gout.”

“Little girls don't have gout.”

“Dad had gout when he was a teenager.”

“He is a man of singular achievements. What you need is someone you can talk to about your problems.”

To be honest, I was still upset over the business with the princesses. And while I would normally share my troubles with the Crafties, I didn't really want to see them. I avoided the lobby as much as possible.

“I'll find someone at school,” I said weakly.

My mother became determined to find me a friend. If you had asked my parents why I didn't have any, they would have said that because I had difficulty learning to read and write,
I was treated as a “special” kid, spending most of my school time in individual instruction and not with my class. Given my reputation for being retarded, she knew it was going to take them awhile to find a friend for me.

In the meantime, my parents bought me a few steps down from human interaction: a hamster. They knew I loved Hammie (Artie's hamster) and thought I'd enjoy one of my own.

The hamster I picked was white and fluffy and I named her Cream Puff. Appropriate to her appearance, she had a sweet personality. I kept her cage in my room and each day would feed her, change her water, and take her for walks.

Taking her for “walks” was complicated. Cream Puff, being no more than a couple inches long, could easily disappear into crevices of the hotel and there encounter all sorts of dangerous things.

The answer to this problem was the hamster ball. Unscrewing the top, I inserted Cream Puff into the translucent sphere and then screwed the top back on the ball. Placing it on the floor, Cream Puff would run in one direction or another, the ball rolling with her, protecting her from other animals and making certain that she did not crawl out a door or window or into the walls.

I would take Cream Puff into the hallway and let her run around. Since the hallways in the Chelsea are long and wide, it proved great fun for Cream Puff. I imagined that from inside the ball, the world whirled by in spinning flashes of light and color—like rolling inside a kaleidoscope. Cream Puff became my happiness, and I could be found sitting in the hallway for hours watching her roll around and around.

—

To add to the riches, halfway through the year, my parents found a girl who would be my friend—Fan O'Malley.

Fan was clever and sunny and, more important from my parents' point of view, she showed unusual concern for other kids, always asking questions about what was going on in their lives and being helpful to them when needed. Unlike the other kids in the school, Fan was not all knotted up about where she was going to middle school. The reason for this, it seemed to me, was pretty straightforward: if you were born in rural China, lived in a Chinese orphanage, and then forced to adapt to life in New York City, middle schools don't seem all that important.

—

Fan and I started hanging out together, and to my surprise, everything I had perceived about her was true: Fan was kind to others and was always there to listen and give good advice. On top of this, she had her own paper shredder. Shredding paper in Fan's bedroom became a favorite pastime of mine.

One day while Fan watched as I shredded paper, I asked her if she wanted to join me. She said no. She just felt happy that others were enjoying themselves, knowing that the shredder was there in case she ever needed it.

That's the kind of kid Fan was.