Every Single Second (10 page)

Angela’s face went slack and rigid at the same time. Her eyes emptied out, and she was a zombie.

“Don’t! You’re creeping me out!” cried Nella.

“Anthony said he was sorry. Papa didn’t say it, but he acted like it. Then they had this long talk, and Anthony promised as soon as he graduates he’ll get a job.”

“But he’s supposed to go to art school!”

Angela twisted her swing tighter.

“Papa said he wants us to be safe and secure. Anthony said he knows all the sacrifices Papa made, and he wants to make Papa proud. They both got tears in their eyes. Even though real men never cry.”

Nella looked down at her hands, coated rusty orange.

“Papa made Anthony eat the extra bacon. It was the first time we were like a real family since . . . forever.”

Angela tucked her feet up and let go. Head down, she
spun in a tight, fast circle. Nella had to look away—just watching made her dizzy-sick. Angela stuck out her foot. Stop.

“Anthony came back on account of me. Otherwise, he’d run away and marry Janelle and be an artist.”

“He didn’t have to come back.” How many times had Sister Rosa told them they had free will? “He wanted to.”

“No he didn’t. He hated to.” Angela’s face was dizzy-pale. “But he did.”

What the Statue of Jeptha A. Stone Would Say if It Could

T
his morning an artiste photographed me and my bird.

Ahem.
The
bird.

I daresay that arty woman found the sight of us quite amusing.

Could I have spoken, here is what I would have told her:

Hark unto me, Jeptha A. Stone! First of all, laughing at the plight of another is a sign of low breeding and coarse character.

Second of all, the true test is not what we choose for ourselves. It is how we deal with what life chooses for us.

Meanwhile, my bird sings. She sings the sun up in the morning and down in the evening. If one could see her song, it would be a pure, golden ring hovering in the air. A halo. Proof of goodness.

Ahem.

THE FUTURE AWAITS

now

T
he school was up for sale. It was being converted into more condos. Or a performance art space. Or a wellness center, with yoga classes and a juice bar.

“Pedicures and massages in our classrooms?” said Nella. “That would be so wrong.”

“My mom gets massages all the time,” said Clem. “Afterward I can ask her for the moon and she’ll say why not.”

Clem didn’t much care what happened to the school. She wasn’t worried about Sister Rosa. She wasn’t attached the same way Nella was—how could she be? Nella didn’t
hold it against her. Not at all. Not a single bit.

On the very last day forever, Nella got to school early. The playground was empty. Wait. No it wasn’t.

“Hi.” Angela stood beside the statue of St. Amphibalus. The spot where they first met. In Another Life.

“Hi.”

Walking away would be so awkward. Nella studied the flowers planted beside St. A. They badly needed water.

“I was thinking something really weird,” Angela said.

Remember the first day of kindergarten? When we didn’t have a clue, and Anthony tied your shoes, and it all began?

If anyone in the universe understood how Nella felt right now, it was Angela DeMarco.

“An-ge-la!” A stampede of abominations. They immediately commenced showing off—throwing rocks, hawking goobers, pulling up shirts to display mosquito bites. Why did they think this would make Angela love them? All these years Nella had lived with boys, and the blueprint of their minds remained a mystery.

Angela poked Bobby in the armpit, the most ticklish place on his hyperticklish body, and he curled up like a sow bug. Kevin picked her a bouquet of dandelions. Nella saw how much they missed her, and a light switched on in some dim, unused room of her mind. Angela must miss them just as much. It wasn’t only Nella she used to visit.
It was Mom, it was the brothers. It was the loud, tangled, anything-goes mess of them all together. Nella’s toe scuffed the edge of the flower patch. Her thoughts skittered away from Angela’s silent land mine of a house.

“What?” she asked Angela. “What something really weird?”

“Never mind.”

“Please tell me.”

“You know that saying, if only these walls could talk, the stories they’d tell? I was thinking, what if this statue could talk? All these years, he’s stood here watching kids run around and play and . . . you know. Grow up. He might have some interesting things to say.”

The brothers loved this. They told Angela she was cuckoo, she was mental, her elevator skipped a few floors. Statues couldn’t see! Statues couldn’t hear or talk!

“I told you it was weird.” Angela gave the smile that turned her into a yellow-haired princess in a tower. “But I’m worried about what will happen to him now.”

Kids began piling in from all sides. The last day! It was the last day forever. Flannel shirt flapping like a cape, Clem skidded up on her banana bike. Angela slipped across the school yard to stand beside Ellen Romano, who was repeating sixth grade and had breasts as big as Nella’s mother’s. Sam and his friends threw an imaginary football,
hug-tackled each other. So much energy and commotion, it was impossible to believe it could be the end of anything. Nella looked up into St. A’s humble eyes. What would he say if he could?

It wasn’t a weird thing to wonder. She wanted to know too. She wished she’d told Angela that.

That afternoon, while scrubbing desks, Nella went for more paper towels. Sam followed her. He’d pulled off his school tie, already finished with uniforms.

“So? Where you going next year?”

“I’m weighing my options.” She bent her knees. Imperceptibly, she hoped.

“Well, I’m
definitely
going to Garfield. In case that helps you make up your mind.”

“You mean, about where I
definitely
don’t want to go?”

Grinning, he grabbed the roll of towels and held it out of her reach. He followed her back into the room, bopping her on the head with it.

“Oh, mature,” Nella said, her face a bonfire. “Extremely mature.”

“Told you,” said Clem out of the corner of her mouth.

And then, just like that, it was all over. Now became then. Sister Rosa stood at the door to say good-bye to each of them. Nella worried her old bones would wear out from
all the hugging. She could hardly stand to look at Sister. She couldn’t believe they’d never see each other again in this world.

In the cemetery stood little houses, some built into the side of the hill and some standing free, all with heavy grates over the doors. Inside were “remains.” Vaults, the buildings were called, and that was what the school already felt like, a locked-up vault of memories.

Outside, clouds hung heavy in the sky. Everyone’s backpack was empty.

St. Amphibalus watched in frozen astonishment.

What’s going on here? Where are you all going? You’re not deserting me, are you?

“The future awaits!” Ninja Clem spun, leaped, and punched the air. “The universe is ours for the conquering!”

She threw a kick. Sam Ferraro laughed, just as the clouds opened up and sudden rain poured down. They ran for their lives.

BECAUSE ANGELA DIDN’T TELL, AGAIN

then

F
ifth grade was a year when everything only became more what it already was.

Nella got taller yet. Mom had another baby. Nonni grew even more intolerable, though how could that be possible?

A few days before sixth grade started, Nella and Angela went down the hill to Value Variety. The summer had been cool and rainy but now it turned steamy hot, the way it always did just before school started. Nella had pimples on her nose. Her hair was a frizz disaster. Angela was walking even more slowly than usual, which was so irritating, Nella
strode ahead, not waiting. Till Angela said something that made her stop and turn around.

“What? What did you say?”

“He can start the training in a few weeks, as soon as he’s eighteen. And he says he’s guaranteed a job the minute he finishes.”

“Anthony? A security guard? That’s not right.”

“I know!” Angela looked miserable. “What if something happens? What if he gets shot or stabbed or somebody beats him up?”

Nella pictured Anthony alone in a dark, empty building, shouting,
Halt! Who’s there?
A man lunged out of the darkness and grabbed Anthony by the throat.

“Will he have a gun?” she asked.

Angela’s pink hoodie was too big—why was she even wearing it, in this heat? She pushed up its sleeves, which immediately flopped back down.

“He says it’s not dangerous at all but I know he’s just saying that. What if something happens to him, Nella?”

“It can’t. It won’t. And . . . he’ll have a gun, right?”

“He hates guns. He’s always making sure Papa’s is locked up safe.”

“Your father has a gun?”

“You have to pray for Anthony. Every night, pray for him, okay?”

“Okay.”

They crossed their pinkies and touched all four fingertips.

(Later, Nella would blame herself for not praying harder.)

They still weren’t supposed to go to Value Variety, or anywhere else in this neighborhood. But Nella wanted nail polish, and where else was she supposed to get it? That afternoon, the store was packed with stuff and people. There was summer clearance, back-to-school, Halloween, and even some Christmas decorations. Binders, notebooks, and packs of markers were scattered on the floor. A display of snack cakes had toppled over. “Uh-oh,” said a baby riding by in a shopping cart. “Uh-oh!”

Nella and Angela studied the million colors of nail polish. The store wanted it to be impossible for you to make up your mind.

“I want all of them,” Nella said, making Angela laugh. But Nella wasn’t really joking. The store was full of stuff to want.
Me want, me want.
Cookie Monster’s voice croaked in her head. “If I had ten, I could do every finger a different color.”

“You know you only have enough money for two. I’ll help you pick. We’ll narrow them down.”

Angela’s own nails, as usual, were bitten to the quick,
and as usual, she had no money. Nella couldn’t stop thinking about Anthony. Being a security guard was all wrong. What if he never got to be an artist? She pictured his heart like one of those farm fields in a drought, dry and brown, with withered tufts sticking up from the cracks.

“Remember when Anthony stole those Disaster Dolls?” she said. “Can you believe he did that for us?”

Angela didn’t answer. She selected two different shades of blue and held them up.

“Security guards catch shoplifters,” said Nella. “Isn’t that weird?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Come on. Pick.”

“Wait. I just thought of something. Do you think he still steals? The bracelets and things he gives you?”

Angela looked shocked. “No, I do not think that. He’d never.” But now she looked anxious.

“He would. He’d do anything for you. Even break the law.”

“Don’t be crazy. Now pay attention. Which one do you like better?”

Some college kids strolled by, laughing, their arms brimming with clothes hangers and detergent and rolled-up posters. (Was Hairy Boy with them that day? Turtle Girl? Nella wouldn’t have recognized them, not yet.) Usually the students fascinated Nella, but today the sight of
them made her angry. They didn’t even know how lucky they were.

“Oh my God, it’s freaking arctic in this store,” one of them said, and Nella realized she was shivering, too.

Angela held up two shades of green polish. Who knew what happened next? Nella’s brain slipped some important gear. Blindly, she grabbed the bottles from Angela and dropped them into her pocket. Angela’s eyes bulged. She went into statue mode, her empty hands frozen in the air, as Nella swiped two more.

“Take some! Pull your sleeves over your hands.” Who said that? Not Nella. Someone else had taken over. The reaching girl, the girl who wanted everything she couldn’t have.

“Nella, don’t!”

“It’s not fair you have no money! This place is so crowded. Go on! No one will notice.”

Nella started toward the doors. Her heart scrabbled and scratched inside her like it had grown claws. Her legs wanted to run, but now she remembered Anthony strolling the aisles, casual as could be. Maybe she
was
going crazy, but she felt like Anthony was showing her what to do.
Act natural,
she told herself, and prayed Angela, close behind her, had the sense to do the same.

The checkout lines stretched all the way back to the
greeting cards. Maybe she should buy something, even something small, to look less suspicious. Anthony had bought bread that day. Her hands shook as she reached for a magazine, and she knew she couldn’t do it. She had to get out of here, right away. Right now.

The automatic door opened, and sunshine threw itself in her face. She spun around to tell Angela
Don’t run till we’re across the street
, but it wasn’t Angela behind her. Someone else, a girl with tattoos, was so close she bumped into Nella.

“Whoa! Excuse,” the girl said, and kept on going.

Panic rose inside her. Where was Angela? What happened? She pressed her palms to the front windows, trying to see between the signs plastered on the glass. Crowds of shoppers. Where was she? Nella moved back to the door. It flew open, making her jump away, and another stranger hurried out.

Angela stood just inside. A scowling man in an ugly tie had her by the sleeve of her pink hoodie. He was talking to her, but Angela refused to look at him. Her face was empty, no fear, no regret or pleading—every emotion was scrubbed off. It was the face she’d made that day on the playground swings, the blank, rigid, zombie expression that freaked Nella out. The face she said Anthony put on for their father.

Nella drew a sharp breath, and Angela turned her head. Their eyes met.

She would point. She would cry,
Her! It was all her idea!
The man would nab Nella and drag her inside too.