Number 8 (31 page)

I watch him pour the whiskey and put the glass back down on the table. He takes a cigar from a pack marked Cuban Best and picks up a gold lighter. He holds the flame to the cigar, puffing rhythmically until the cigar is burning, then throws the lighter down on the table. It makes a loud metallic thud, scattering ash in a small pile, like snow.

Every detail seems important somehow, like a puzzle. I feel I have to watch carefully because if there's any little space between one event and another, it might be enough to wriggle through and escape.

“We were going on a journey but we can't fit you all in the backseat I'm afraid,” Tony is saying. “So we may have to reduce our numbers.”

Badman catches my eye with a small movement of his hand. I glance his way without moving my head and see that his hand is sliding into his pocket. His eyes are focused
on the gold lighter Tony threw down on the table. I can feel Badman building up to something; there's an unusual stillness to him, a ferocious kind of concentration.

“The cops will be here any minute,” I say to Tony. “You'll get fifty years for kidnapping and grievous bodily harm to a minor, let alone stealing years off the lives of all our mothers.” I say the first things that come into my mind, just to make them focus on me instead of Badman. It works, too well.

“You little cretin,” hisses Tony. He turns to Rocky. “Do something about this garbage.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?”

Badman is taking something out of his pocket. His other hand darts toward the gold lighter, so quick it blurs. Suddenly I know exactly what he's going to do.

I pick up the first thing I see and hurl it into Tony's face. The glass smashes against his nose, whiskey dripping off his chin.

Rocky cocks his gun, pointing it straight at me when suddenly there is the most deafening explosion.
Ba- ba- ba- babang
—it goes on and on in staccato bursts, a chain of sound that lights up the room and at first I think I've been shot.

Then I see Tony is holding his face and Rocky has dropped his gun and there are a string of burned firecrackers lying scattered at Tony's feet.

“
Run!
” screams Badman and we grab each other and make for the door. We blast into the hallway, and a shot whistles past my ear. Feet are thudding down the red carpet behind us. Another shot makes a hole the size of a tennis ball in the wall beside me.

“We're not gonna make it!” Someone is crying and I look around for Esmerelda's hand.

That's why I'm not looking when I run straight into a man coming the other way.

He stops me like a brick wall. My teeth graze against brass buttons. Finished.

But I'm staring up into a dark blue uniform.

“Oh, thank God almighty,” I hear Esmerelda say and she sinks quietly into the thick soft carpet. In her white bathrobe she looks like a neat curl of cream lying on the red.

I bend down to stroke her face and the policeman rushes past me, into the office. I hear crashing sounds and swearing but I'm trying to listen for Ez's pulse. It's there under that milky skin, strong and steady. I feel Asim's hand on my shoulder. And Badman. More police are running up the hall and with them is someone I recognize. Her blue eyes are wide and shining.

“Bev!”

She picks me up and wraps me in her arms and I can smell the sweet sickly flavor of coconut on her apron.

“Jackson, who do you think you are, Superman?”

“
You
called the police!”

“Of course. I knew neither you nor I could tackle those gangsters alone.”

“We nearly did. Nearly.” I could sink into the soft safety of her and fall asleep, just melt away forever. But I can hear Badman talking, right next to my ear, and he's taking one of Bev's hands and pumping it up and down.

Badman and I look at each other.

“Thanks, buddy,” says Badman. “That was one brave act.”

“I couldn't have done it without Asim.”

Badman puts out his hand. “Thanks, Asim. I owe you,” and he shakes his hand.

“You did the quick thinking,” Asim replies.

We're quiet, watching the police prod Tony, then Rocky, down the hall. Their wrists are cuffed, their faces dark as storms. The left side of Tony's face is black with gunpowder, and he's lost one of his eyebrows. We all shrink against the wall as they pass, not wanting any part of us to be close to them.

“We make a good team,” Badman says hesitantly. “The three of us.”

I'm just about to correct him when Esmerelda does that. “Four,” she pipes up weakly from the floor.

“Are you nervous?” asks Lilly.

“Not really,” I tell her.

“I guess after what you've been through, this puny concert is nothing.”

“No, Lilly, it's everything.”

We smile at each other. Although we've known each other since we were little kids, it feels like the first time we've really seen each other. A lot of that has been my fault. Not saying what I felt. Not telling the truth. Often it's just easier to go along with what someone else wants—but you never get close that way, never be yourself. It was Badman who made me see it. That night in the cellar, when he asked me why I didn't sing rock if I liked it so much, I sounded so pathetic in my own ears. “But you're stronger than that!” he said, and I thought for the first time, maybe I am.

“You know, I really like ‘A Different Door,'” says Lilly, smoothing out her pink dress. “I think it's very—well, in
tense
. I hope Mrs. Reilly doesn't notice the swearing. But you know what I like best? Being a backup singer and getting to dance on stage. And wearing this pink dress.”

Catrina comes up, and puts her hand on Lilly's shoulder. “Me, too. If you hadn't decided to change everything, Ez, and sing with the Badman, I wouldn't be about to go up on
stage with Lils. What do you think of the dress on me? Is it too tight?”

“No—shows off your curves. Are you wearing a pushup bra?”

“Yeah, it's pink, too.”

Lilly sits down beside me. She looks at the writing on my cast. “
Walk on the wild side
,” she reads aloud.

“That's Badman,” I laugh.

She nods. “You know, this is all kind of a relief, to tell you the truth. I always got too nervous trying to carry the tune. And, well, I hated depending on you, but having to pretend that I didn't.” She looks down at her pink lap, the sequins practically shouting in the footlights. “But I love all the other stuff about performing, you know, the glamour and the dancing and the
clapping
! I didn't want to give that up.” She pauses a moment. “Me and Catrina, we won't be standing
too
far back though, will we? I mean, we're backup singers and all but we'll be right next to you in the front, right?”

“Yeah. I don't mind where you stand as long as we're singing that song.”

“Oh, Ez, none of it matters anyway—I'm just so glad my oldest friend is okay!”

She gives me a hug. There've been so many hugs in the last three weeks I'd have sore arms even if one wasn't broken. But like ice cream, each hug has a different flavor.

Under the cast, my skin itches like a million mosquito bites. Especially down near the elbow where I can't scratch. I've got three pins in there holding my bones together. But I can put up with that. I can put up with anything. Right now, I feel invincible—that's a line from a famous song, Valerie told me last night: “I Am Woman.” Valerie loves it.

She looks so happy out there in the audience. Jackson said she cried for two days nonstop when Bev brought him home. And when he told her she had to stop crying because if she went on for another day that would make three and it would be bad luck, she started all over again. But since she's dried up, I've never seen her look sunnier. It's as if she's put down a heavy package and now she can stand up with her back straight.

Next to her is my family. Wow, look at Mom in her black dress. She went out and bought it especially for the concert. And tonight of all nights there was her annual Bank Banquet. There would have been speeches and awards like at the Oscars, and Mom was marked for a special mention as Achiever of the Year. I saw the invitation. But she didn't even mention it. She probably bought the dress for the Banquet but wore it tonight, instead.

I remember the argument she and I had before all of this happened. Our words still run through my mind, clear as a tape on rewind. I remember how I fantasized about her saying, “If only I could have this day over again!” It's weird because when she came to the hospital, she practically said that same thing. She said sometimes one day is like a whole life and when the day is ending, it's like dying. You lie there and think about how you've spent your life and what you might have done differently. Even though it was such a terrible day, she said she was lucky to have had it because it gave her a second chance. She could start again. And there were going to be changes! Dad looked nervous when she said that, but he gave me
another
hug and said, “Mother knows best.”

One change I have noticed is that neither of them even ask anymore if I've done my math homework. Funny thing
is, I don't mind doing it now. None of it seems like such a big deal (even those percentages) because I'm doing what I love, as well.

I'm taking singing lessons with Valerie. We go together to see Ms. Juanita Perez—she's wild, with those Roman soldier kind of sandals that lace up the leg and a vocal range that is mind-boggling. She says Valerie and I will catch up with her; she can extend anyone's range and power with her exercises. You have to breathe in a special way and make weird noises in your throat like a wounded animal. It tickles, and at first it seems impossible but she says the throat is like any other muscle, it needs to be exercised and toned to be at its “olympic” best. I believe her, because I've reached at least a couple more notes on the scale and Valerie has almost half of another octave.

Mom suggested the lessons. I couldn't believe it. We had a long talk and she told me stuff about her childhood and how poor her family had been. It ruined her father's life, she said. Even though her mother kept telling him that they had all the important things—each other, and food on the table and healthy kids, his heart was broken. So when Mom grew up she decided she would take control of her family's finances. But she was so busy being in control, she forgot anyone else might be different. She said she was kind of jealous of Valerie—having the guts to risk everything for her passion in life. Jealous, too, of how much time I spent with her. “But you're my
mother
!” I told her. “No one could replace you.” We had this big hug and I felt like I'd suddenly grown four inches. Daniel came in then and wriggled his head up between us like a puppy. You could practically see his tail wagging.

“Esmerelda, come now and put on your costume,” Mrs. Reilly is breathing over me, “and your … er … make-up.
Why do I always have to tell you people twenty times? The concert is starting in ten minutes.”

I look down at my jeans ripped at the knee, my black T-shirt, the cast on my arm scribbled all over in different pens. “But I'm already dressed,” I tell her.

Two bright red spots flare on her cheeks. She flicks her eyes over me and shakes her head. “Why do you always insist on starting a sentence with ‘But'?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “Have you made up your mind to sing this ‘Different Door' song?” Her nose wrinkles on “door” as if she's just smelled something bad.

“Yes.” I stare back at her. I try not to blink, keeping my eyes level. It's like staring down a witch.

“Well, I'll tell you one thing, Esmerelda
Marx
.” She says my name as if the smell has returned. “If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

I just keep staring at her. She says the stupidest things. Once, in front of the whole school assembly she shouted, “Every time I open my mouth, some fool speaks!”

She takes one step nearer, and jabs me in the chest. “Have you ever heard of Plato, girl?” She doesn't wait for me to answer. “No, of course not, he was only the most famous philosopher of ancient Greece. Well he had a sign above
his
door:
Let no one ignorant of mathematics enter here
. That's the kind of door you should be concentrating on, Miss Marx.”

In one way Lilly was right—after what I've been through, Mrs. Reilly's sneers are as easy to flick away as sand from my feet. Anyway, I know a bit about old Plato. Valerie told me. Plato hated any new music coming out of Greece. He said change would break down the rules of their society. He sounded just like Frank Sinatra. Well, I'm sure Plato knew tons about math and philosophy, but there
are a few things I'd like to discuss with him about music and the human soul.

Muttering to herself, Mrs. Reilly hurries off to meddle with the kindergarten. She's taken to muttering a lot lately, ever since the principal, Mr. Phillips, talked to her. He called her into his office on the day after we returned to school. We saw her coming down the steps with her back all stooped and her mouth turned down.

You see, after the kidnapping, Badman and I decided to make an appointment with Mr. Phillips. Badman gave this wonderful speech—about how he'd woken up to himself, lifted his game, pulled up his socks, and straightened his tie. He used every expression he'd ever heard Mr. Phillips shout at him over the last year. His manners were so polished with politeness and respect you could have slid him like a piece of soap across the floor. He pleaded with Phillips to let him participate in the concert—his first real live audience! He wanted a chance to make a new start, he said, his eyes moist, to make a contribution to the school. Phillips was pretty moved, you could tell.

We walked out of there floating on air. “Maybe we can stop calling you Badman now,” I said as we came out of the principal's office.