Kids of Appetite (11 page)

Interrogation Room #2

Madeline Falco & Detective H. Bundle

December 19 // 4:57 p.m.

“‘Eye of the Tiger'?” I ask. “Or no, wait, wait . . . ‘Don't Stop Believin'.' That was Zuz's favorite. We had it on vinyl, he used to play it over and over again.”

Bundle twists in his seat, his back cracking like knuckles. “I told you. I don't have a favorite song.”

“What? Come on, man.
Everyone
has a favorite song.”

“Well,
I
don't.”

I lick the dry part of my lower lip. “I guess we're all part of the bountiful bourgeoisie.”

“Madeline, for the most part—and don't take this the wrong way—I never know what the fuck you're talking about.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Smoke break?”

“No.”

“No, like, not
now
, or no, like,
never
?”

Bundle stares at me, says nothing.

“It's something Mom used to say”—just saying the word
Mom
is slightly painful, like a pinprick in my palm—“whenever she found something disappointing. She'd remind herself we were all in the same boat, just trying to do the best we could.”

For all Mom's bizarre inclinations, she was a great mother. She instilled in me a sense of independence and did her best to cultivate a creative environment. When I said I wanted to be a fashion designer, she bought me a sewing machine. When I showed interest in archeology, she bought me a dig kit. Growing up, I'd have friends whose parents were always flabbergasted when their kids' interests suddenly changed.
What do you mean you don't like mustard? You've always liked mustard. Mustard is your favorite.
Parents forget what it's like to change so quickly, to feel completely yourself one minute, then the next minute it's like a total stranger wrapped themselves in your skin. But not Mom. Mom was like a mood meteorologist, always ahead of the curve, seemingly unfazed by my adolescent whims.

“Okay,” says Bundle. “Well. I think it's safe to say we've gotten somewhat off topic.”

“You wanna know what my favorite song is?”

“Not really, but I have a feeling you're gonna tell me anyway.”

“‘Coming Up Roses' by Elliott Smith. It's on his self-titled record. Lo-fi and melodic and perfect-perfect. Pretty much everything Elliott ever recorded had that sort of so-honest-it's-terrifying quality.”

“Please oh please, Madeline, tell me more.” Bundle rubs his eyes as if we've been at this for days. How long have we been at this? It does feel like a long time, but with no windows and no clock, it's impossible to tell.

“Before Mom died,” I say, “she always gave me three bucks a week for allowance. It wasn't much, but we didn't have much. I never complained, just saved. After five or six weeks, I'd have enough to buy a record. That was the first one I bought, Elliott Smith's self-titled. A while back I came home
from school—well, not
home
, I mean Uncle Lester's. I went to my room and pulled my crate of records out from under my bed, but it was empty. He'd sold off the record player already, and all sorts of other shit to buy liquor. I knew I'd have to hide the records to keep them safe, and even if I didn't have anything to play them on, I don't know—I found them comforting.”

“Madeline, what does this have to do with anything?”

I twist around in my seat, lift my hair, and pull my shirt collar down a few inches so my left shoulder blade is exposed. “Earlier, you asked about my
abrasions.
Well, here's one for you.”

I close my eyes, imagine what Bundle's looking at: a pink mark of perfectly curved grooves, one-quarter of a circle, five or six inches in length. I sit frozen like this as I talk, the most tragic show-and-tell. “Uncle Les sold all my records but one. He needed that one, he said, to teach me a lesson. Said we were a family now, and families had to ‘share the wealth.' So he held a lighter under the record and asked where I would like this lesson to be taught.”

“Jesus,” says Bundle. “He branded you.”

“Vinyl warps pretty quickly, but you'd be surprised how hot it can get before it melts.” I let my hair drop, my sweatshirt covering the pink grooves, and turn back to face Bundle. And when I speak, I do so fiercely, and I don't even care that it's just Bundle who hears me, because sometimes you say a thing for yourself and not for the person listening. “But the joke's on him because I saw the record he used. Elliott Smith's self-titled. Fitting, don't you think? Saved me a tattoo.”

Bundle clears his throat, looks away, then back. “You moved in with your uncle after your parents died?”

I nod.

“You mind my asking how they passed?”

“Drunk driver,” I whisper, staring at my wristband. “We were all in the car, Mom and Dad and me. They died instantly. I was thrown from the vehicle. Just got this scar.” I point to the shaved side of my head.

Detective Bundle pushes pause on the recorder, and stands. “Okay, let's go.”

“Where?” I ask as he slips on his coat.

“Smoke break.”

I pull my jacket off the back of my seat before he changes his mind. It feels good to stand, productive even. I'm still sore in places, but getting the blood flowing helps. In the corridor, I spot the outline of Vic through the blurred window across the hall, and I think maybe that was all I really needed—more than a cigarette, just the visual reminder of his company.

Down the hall, cops are everywhere, milling about, drinking coffee, whispering in hushed tones. A few eyes land on me, then dart away quickly.

“This way,” says Bundle, leading me in the direction opposite the lobby. “And not a word about this, okay? Lieutenant Bell would have my ass so fast, it'd make your head spin. Against a million regulations, not the least of which is you're too young to smoke.”

On our way out a side door, we pass a clock on the wall.

5:13.

Just under three hours to go.

Outside, it's colder than it was this morning, which I didn't think was possible. Even by Jersey standards, it's been a brutal December.

I pull out my pack of cigarettes, light up, and . . .

Drag.

Blow.

Calm.

I hold the pack out toward Bundle. “Want one?”

He shakes his head. “Trying to quit.”

The sidewalk is completely frozen over; traffic on State Street idles by, bumper-to-bumper during rush hour. One block over is Main Street, with its delis and cafés and a string of markets. Weird to think it was only eight days ago that I led Vic right by this spot on our way to Babushka's. If that was the Genesis of our story, I couldn't help wondering what the Revelation might be.

Drag.

Blow.

Calm.

“So, what exactly is Moebius syndrome?” asks Bundle. “Is Vic, you know . . . a credible witness?”

I almost drop my cigarette. “Bundle, what the fuck?”

“Oh right. I forgot, the bountiful bourgeoisie couldn't possibly understand. Come on, Mad, you know what I mean. Is he, you know . . . ?”

Drag.

Blow.

Calm.

“You waited till we were outside, didn't you?” I say. “That's why the smoke break. So you could ask that question without sounding like an ignorant asshole on record?”

“Madeline.”

“Don't
Madeline
me. You saw Vic's face and assumed there was something wrong with him.”

Bundle blows into his cupped hands to warm up. “Well, is there?”

My knee-jerk is to put my cigarette out on his arm. But I don't.

“You ever read
The Outsiders
?” I ask.

“You know, Madeline, you have a serious problem answering questions.”

“I'm trying to answer your question. Have you ever read
The Outsiders
?”

“Not much of a reader,” says Bundle. “Saw the movie years ago. One too many good-looking guys as I recall.”

I bounce up and down on my toes, try to get the blood circulating. “Okay, well, there's this character called Dally, short for Dallas. He's one of the roughest greasers. Lived on the streets in New York for a while and all that. Anyway, the main character, at one point, says, ‘
Dally was so real he scared me.
'”

I feel Bundle staring, waiting for more. “And?”

Drag.

Blow.

Calm.

Until this moment I'd considered Bundle to be my exact opposite, but it seems we've reached the heart of our Venn diagram, the fractional intersection where Detective Bundle and Madeline Falco cohabitate. I clear my throat and speak quietly, as if diminishing the volume of the statement might also diminish its gravity.

“I thought there was something wrong with Vic too.” Nope. Gravity intact. “There's not,” I continue. “Moebius syndrome is this really rare neurological disorder that causes facial paralysis. It's different for different people, but in Vic's case he can't blink and he can't smile. Since he doesn't appear to respond during conversations, everyone just assumes he's not picking up their social cues or
whatever. But he's really smart, maybe the smartest kid I know.”

Detective Bundle nods, his bloated face twisting in thought, his red lips puckering in the frigid air. I stare at the many factions of Bundle, and I wonder at the injustice of the world: Vic's outsides can't reflect his insides, as much as I want them to. Bundle's outsides can't help but reflect his insides, as much as I
don't
want them to. But that's not even the worst of it. I have to turn away, because what I hate most about Bundle right now has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

It's a sad thing, recognizing yourself in a sad thing.

Drag.

Blow.

Calm.

“What did that have to do with
The Outsiders
?” asks Bundle.

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

“Okay then. Well, the bountiful bourgeoisie is freezing his bountiful nuts off. You about done?”

I drop the butt, stomp it, and follow Bundle inside. Down the hallway, I see Vic's blurry image again and think about that line from
The Outsiders.

Dally was so real he scared me.

I wonder if anyone will ever scare me as much as Vic.

(SIX days ago)

“You need a haircut.” Mad said it in a yawn the way a person says
I need coffee
when they first wake up.

“Uh, what?”

Coco snapped her fingers. “Vic! Spoils. Dude. A new cut for the new you.”

“I like the old me,” I said.

False.

However, there was one thing I liked about the old me: his hair. And Old Me's hair was suddenly facing great peril.

“We have time,” said Baz. “If we hurry. The bus leaves at ten forty, and we still need to stop at Cinema Five for my check, and Rainbow Café for coffee.”

“And a muffin!” said Coco.

The morning sun had just begun to peek in through the plastic ceiling of the greenhouse. Baz didn't have to work until later that evening, so our plan was to spend the morning and early afternoon on Dad's list. We would catch a bus from downtown Hackensack to Englewood, then walk up the Palisades Parkway (where buses were not allowed), and stop at the first scenic overlook we came to. There, I would toss Dad off the cliffs of the Palisades and into the Hudson below. Even though it would mean we'd checked off two locations in two days, I felt an impending sense of dread. Of the five clues, the last three were by far the more obscure.

Mad pulled on her yellow knit cap. “Can't Rachel just pick up your check when she gets hers?”

“Rachel quit,” said Baz. “It was only part-time while she
finished nursing school. Now that she has, she got a job at Bergen Regional Medical Center.”

“Rachel is your girlfriend?” I asked.

“Quit trying to change the subject, Spoils,” said Coco. “Mad. Get your tools. Let's do this.”

Mad grabbed some clippers and a pair of scissors off the Shelf of Improbable Things. “Think of it as a symbol, Vic. Your induction as a Chapter. An outward sign of, you know, something greater within.”

“Like baptism,” said Baz. “An outward sign of inward transformation.”

“Inward transformation,” said Mad, nodding. “Exactly. So what do you say?”

Honestly, after last night's run-in with Gunther, I was just happy they were still talking to me. The Visine debacle almost cost them their home, which would've made me the sideways hug of the century.

So: I agreed to the haircut.

We put on our coats, exited Greenhouse Eleven, and started toward the woodshed. Mad handed me a hat, identical to hers only blue.

“You know, Mad, between this and the haircut, you're pretty preoccupied with how I style my cranium.”

“That's kind of a weird thing to say,” said Mad.

“It's kind of a weird thing to be.”

Still. I put on the hat. It was incredibly comfy.

Baz explained that the idea to live in a greenhouse had come to him when he was considering new settings for his book. It had to be someplace cheap, of course, but he wanted it to be unique, too, bordering on “something out of a fantasy novel.”

I told him he'd pretty much hit the nail on the head.

We arrived at the woodshed, which, according to the kids, was the spot least frequented by Gunther Maywood. And since we couldn't very well have dead hair all over our living quarters, it was to be the site of my haircut. Basically, the woodshed was this: a dilapidated half barn, total Americana chic, like one of my mom's Restoration Hardware catalogs had grown hair on its chest. Inside, there was lots of wood, and lots of things made of wood.

The woodshed was a very literal place.

Mad pulled out a stool, dusted it off, and motioned for me to sit.

“Is this necessary?” I asked, looking for a way out (as sideways hugs are wont to do).

“A good shear is therapeutic,” said Mad, running her hand against the shaved side of her head.

Baz and Nzuzi sat in unfinished rocking chairs, while Coco hopped up on a table covered in sawdust, her tiny legs swinging in anticipation. Outmatched, I made my way to the stool and sat. Within seconds my ass was frozen.

“So, what are we doing here?” Mad studied my hair like a block of marble.

Coco clapped her mittens together. “Rattail!”

“What's the funny one called?” asked Baz. “Business in the front, party in the back?”

“Ooooh, a mullet!” said Coco. “Even better.”

I tugged my new hat (which in a very brief time had become my fortress of wool, a material not known for its wartime prowess, but hey) down low over my ears. For a moment the only noise was the sound of chairs squeaking as they rocked. And then . . .

“The Cinematic Sodapop,” whispered Mad.

“Oh, hell yes,” said Coco.

Nzuzi snapped once.

“Wait, the what?” I asked.

Mad unplugged some sort of ancient-looking electric saw, and plugged in the clippers. “It's very cool. Well, not, like, cool in the traditional sense.”

“Oh, good,” I said, sticking my hands into the pockets of my Metpants. “We wouldn't want anyone thinking I was cool in the traditional sense.”

Coco giggled from her belly. “Sodapop is a character in
The Outsiders
. Mad says Rob Lowe is dreamy.”

. . .

They had totally lost me.

Mad flipped the clippers on then off then on again, revving them up like the engine of a muscle car. “Sodapop—portrayed in the film by the very fine, very young Rob Lowe—had slightly different hair in the movie than he did the book. So, like, the Literary Sodapop would basically be what you have now, only with a little more shape, and combed straight back. The Cinematic Sodapop is badass in a fifties-slash-eighties sort of way. You basically leave some length on top, and on the sides, then it sort of, you know, tufts out in the back.”

“Tufts out?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I'll rein it in a bit from how it is in the movie.” She set down the clippers, picked up the scissors, and snipped at the air. “We'll start with these.”

As if I cared how she went about tearing down my wall.

“You ready?” she asked.

Before I could say,
No, in fact, I am not
, she pulled off my hat and got to work.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

And the sinking feeling in my gut went away.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

It had been a while since my last haircut.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

I forgot how much leaning and tilting there was.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

I forgot how much touching there was.