My Book of Life By Angel (2 page)

A
fter Mom died, Dad hated our ­house.

He kept hearing Mom on the stairs

and in the kitchen

and turning over in bed—

he knew her ghost was playing hide and seek with him

and never letting him win.

Dad said, ­we're moving,

and Jeremy said, where?

And Dad said, anywhere,

but he never did

because sometimes in the closet

he could smell her.

A
fter Mom died

I started to run away from home,

but just to the mall.

I liked the shoe stores best at the mall.

High-­heeled shoes meant walking pretty,

meant looking good in a getaway way,

meant strutting your stuff, being tough.

At the mall

I made myself up as I went.

I pretended in lipstick.

Then I got caught

and Dad had to come pick me up

at the police station.

I tried not to anymore,

but then there was that periwinkle pump

with the yellow strap

and he had to come pick me up again.

And again.

Dad didn't know what to do with me,

stealing shoe and getting caught.

He kept saying, I don't know what to do with you—

but Call did.

E
very day after school

I pretended to run away to the mall.

I pretended the bookstore was my home

and the leather reading chairs ­were my chairs

and the bookstore clerk was my aunt who loved to see me read.

I pretended the cinnamon bun smell

was Mom making them for me

and the clothing stores ­were my walk-­in closets

and the ice cream place was my freezer

and the bathroom was my bathroom

and I lived at the mall.

Once in a while I would go to my pretend closet

and take just one shoe,

just pick it like a fruit off a tree.

One day I picked up a pink peekaboo

and slipped it in my backpack, and just then—

Call.

H
e said, hey, I saw you.

I saw what you did,

don't be scared, your secret's safe with me.

You hungry? he asked.

Buy you something.

C'mon, don't be scared, I'm just Call, I'm okay.

I said no

and he said, then I'll have to turn you in.

He smiled when he said it

but I let him buy me Chinese

and he laughed when I told him about my collection.

You think anyone really cares about one shoe? he said,

and suddenly nothing seemed so bad.

I said, thanks for the food, I've got to go.

He said, see you later diddle diddle dumpling.

I said, what?

And he said, later.

E
very day I came

and every day he was there.

I said, don't you have to go to college?

to work?

how old are you?

He said, I'm a businessman.

What kind of business?

Renewable resources, he said.

What's that?

You ask a lot of questions, he said.

C
all bought me fried chicken and cinnamon buns

and told me I was pretty,

said I had a sweet tooth in my sweet face,

listened to me about Mom,

kept saying, I know how it is,

come with me, be my girl,

we'll travel the world.

But I didn't go that day

or the next

or the next

because I crazy ­loved my little brother Jeremy.

And then Call said,

you wanna fly, Angel?

He said, you want candy for that sweet tooth of yours?

At first it was so fun, Call's candy,

and all the missing of Mom went away

and I was all

I'm so baby uptown

I'm so baby bless my soul

I'm so baby high heels

I'm so baby rock and roll.

I'm so spinning pretty pretty pat pat

Little bit of this and a little bit of that that.

I'm so baby sheek sheek

I'm so baby got control

I'm so baby hot walk

I'm so baby on a roll.

I'm so honey dance with me

Little bit o' la-­la, little bit o' tee-­hee
.
.
.

O
ne day when I was on a sugar high

I brought it home and Dad ­wasn't there

and Jeremy was and he thought I was so funny.

We danced and I gave him lots of school advice

like keep your pencils pointy

and ask your teacher how her weekend was.

Then Dad.

Dad was there

and he saw how it was

with all my sugar right there on the table

and he said, what are you doing?

what are you doing?

and I said, I don't know I don't know

I'm sorry I'm sorry.

But sorry ­wasn't enough for how mad he was

and he yelled until I was too mad to be sorry

and I could see Dad was too sad about Mom

to be sad about me

and I watched his eyes give up as we shouted

until Jeremy cried and I stopped.

Dad watched me pack with given-­up eyes

and watched me walk away.

He said, don't come home till you clean up your act.

C
all took me to his apartment.

He said, you can stay as long as you like,

said, you don't need school.

So I stayed

and I didn't even know I'd run away.

That was in September.

Now it is May.

I did not know how long it had been

since I came to Call's place.

He does not have calendars.

I found out when I called to report Serena missing

and the police lady said,

when did you see her last?

I said, last church Wednesday

and she said, May 17 then,

and I said, May?

I said, I would like to report nine months missing

ha ha.

She didn't laugh,

and I hung up.

I
n Call's place the couch's bones ­were broken,

its skin covered in scars and sores.

I should have known right away, looking at that couch.

I felt like I'd gone into free fall

and fell all the way down to the bottom

and found a ­whole place down there.

Call became my pretend first boyfriend

and gave me my first kiss.

I didn't feel anything, but I let him,

kept thinking, hey, I'm kissing! I'm kissing!

I told him about my Jeremy and that I crazy loved him.

He said, you have a little brother? and he smiled.

I thought, wow, he likes kids.

A
fter a while

Call said, Angel do you love me?

I said yes.

But do you really love me?

And I said yes.

Would you do anything for me?

And I said

yes

yes.

Now I know

in a single breath of yes, yes,

you can hear your soul

leaking out of your mouth.

A yes can change you inside,

make all the rules go sky-­why-­not
.
.
.

All those clothes and dinners

and all that candy—

Call said, I'm out of cash,

can you help me out?

do you really love me?

At first it was just to be nice to a friend
.
.
.

and then a friend of a friend
.
.
.

As soon as I knew what Call had made me,

the first time a man said in a word what I was

and I ­couldn't even say that's not true—

as soon as that happened

I knew I could not bring that word home

even if I wanted to—

Jeremy and I ­weren't even allowed to say stupid

or hate—

my dad would never allow a word like me.

I
found out Call's candy flies you down

tips you inside out

dumps you upside down

flies you through empty space

to the black hole in the middle of you

and you ­can't stop

­can't stop

unless you want to vomit up ­whole planets
.
.
.

I
thought I hated my dad—

I thought he was mean,

treating me like a baby,

and I never told him where I was,

never called him

so he would worry.

But I didn't know what mean was

until I found out the real Call.

That one word yes

gave Call all my words—

he knew when I said yes

that he would have my voice in a bottle,

that no one would hear me

again.

Innocence, that as a veil had shadowed them
from knowing ill, was gone
.
.
.

I
woke up in the night

and it was dark and the beginning of my day.

Call said, wake up Angel,

all the other girls are out there earning for their men,

man I wish I had a girl like that,

if only you loved me like that.

I was awake so fast,

looking for my shoes

only ones, no pairs.

My clothes ­were squashed to one side of the closet—

Call's clothes took up all the space—

but my shoes covered the closet floor

and hid under the bed

and ­were piled at the door.

My face was hot

and the rest of me cold

my hips out of joint

my eyeballs filled with acid

and I thought, ­here I go,

and when Call said, I've got candy, good stuff for my girl,

I thought yes

and then I thought about my letter and my vow,

and I said ever so polite, no thank you.

He said, why, because of Serena?

He said, you won't last long,

you don't know how bad it can get.

He said, don't make me wake you up again.

I
picked out a pink ballet shoe

and an apple green sandal

and Call said,

I called some of the gentry for a meeting

at All-­Night Kayos—­they've got pork ribs on special

and I've got an announcement.

Meet me there after.

I wanted to say

okay okay give me candy,

so I can be floatable while I work,

but I didn't.

I didn't.

I
went downstairs and through the store,

Slingin' Ink Tattoo Parlour, to go out.

Tattoo—he's the own­er—

stared after me

wanting to needlework me,

wishing I could be his canvas.

He grabbed my arm, said,

don't you wanna be my art?

won't you let me choose?

not just copy some picture off the wall

but something out of my own head?

But Call says I'm supposed to be innocent,

clean baby-­girl skin

no makeup

so dates can paste on any face they want

and I can tell new dates it's my first time

and I am thirteen even though I am sixteen.

Sixteen ­doesn't make as much money

as thirteen.

Serena was nineteen,

told dates she was sixteen,

told me she was a hundred down there.

Tattoo whispered to me,

I know what you are,

said, your skin could be the way

they know I'm alive.

I
said, I am scared of needles, let go,

but Tattoo squeezed my arm hard, harder—

I remembered Serena's tip

about staring and saying, angel, angel—

so I did.

I looked past Tattoo

and said, angel, angel,

and he let go

and spun around

thinking it was Call.

It ­wasn't Call

and it ­wasn't an angel either

but I got away.

Serena would have said, see?

That's what saying angel does.

I
passed the Carnegie library

at the corner of Hastings and Main,

which has a message board

and stained-­glass windows,

one of John Milton.

I had never heard of John Milton

until John the john found me

and became one of my regulars.

He gets me to read him paradise lost

by John Milton, book nine, only book nine,

while he does his thing.

Call said, poetry, that is twisted,

but okay because he pays so good.

T
he pay phone is the border

between Eastside and Chinatown—

I walked past

and just like that

I was in China.

I passed the Jimi Hendrix shrine

fenced in an alley,

fake grass and plastic flowers

and posters of Jimi

and his music playing

and Jimi singing about angels coming down from heaven

and staying for tea and stories—

I thought, that's what happens

when you start looking for an angel.

I
walked to my corner

at the gate of ten thousand happinesses

and I stared at my shoes while I walked,

stared at them walking me there again.

That's how I get to my corner

at the gate of ten thousand happinesses

every time.

I
stood on the kiddie corner

where I always do,

just a line in the sidewalk

between me and the midtrack.

Widow works the midtrack

on the other side of the line.

Widow waits for men

who are not into little girls like me.

She says, at least I'm not a lowtrack girl.

Widow says to me all the time,

I don't feel anything

care anything

it's just a big what­ever—

I've got the menu memorized

makes no nevermind to me

who cares?

But she cares if I cross the line in the sidewalk.