Authors: Rebecca Stead
When You Reach Me (11 page)
Julia’s mother had a whole shelf full of books about cooking:
No-Fat Cooking, Cooking Extra-Extra-Light, Skinny Cooking
.
“My mom is
always
on a diet,” Julia said, pulling a book from the shelf. “I think she bought this one by mistake. It actually has the word ‘butter’ in it.” She laughed and held out the giant bag of Fritos she had bought on the way home.
I shook my head. I’d eaten too many already. “Should we start making the cake?”
I had to call Mom at work three times to ask her questions like how many tablespoons are there in a stick of butter, and is it okay to use a potato peeler to skin an apple. The third time I called, she said, “Hold on, Mira. Are you planning to use the oven? Is there an adult in the house?”
When I said I thought Julia’s mother was home, though technically I had not actually seen her, Mom said, “But is she watching you? Where is she?”
“Where’s your mother?” I whispered to Julia.
“She’s meditating,” Julia said.
“Here?”
“Yes—in the … closet. And she absolutely cannot be disturbed.”
“Um—did you just say your mom’s in the closet?”
Julia looked down at the French pot holder in her hand. “It’s a walk-in closet,” she said quietly.
Mom said we couldn’t light the oven until Julia’s mother came out to supervise us, so we put our clumped-together cake batter in the fridge and went to Julia’s room to watch television.
Julia’s room was like a ruffled version of Annemarie’s—ruffled curtains, ruffled bedspread, lots of ruffled pillows. And books all over the floor, some stacked in piles, some worn-looking, some brand-new, some splayed upside down, some sliding off the pink bedside table next to the lamp with the orange fabric shade.
I tried to think of something to say about all the ruffles. “Nice lamp,” I said.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at the lamp. “Really? Because I think it’s kind of ugly. My mom picked it.” She waved one arm across the room. “She picked out all this stuff. And she won’t let me put up my outer-space posters. I had to hang them in my bathroom!” She jerked a thumb toward a door. Her own
bathroom
.
Something very familiar caught my eye. It was on the bedside table, under the ugly lamp. It was
my book
—or maybe it was my book’s twin sister, just as old and beat-up-looking as mine, but with different creases and one corner ripped off the cover. I went over and picked it up.
“Yeah,” she said. “I notice you carry yours around. I leave mine at home.”
“I got a first edition for Christmas. That means it’s one of the original—”
“You
did?
You are
so
lucky,” she said. “All I ever get is clothes. And jewelry.”
I stared at her. “I thought you liked all that stuff,” I said.
“Yeah, actually, I do.” She smiled. “But I like other stuff too.” That was when I noticed her
Mysteries of Science
poster leaning up against a wall. Hers was called “Is There Intelligent Life in Outer Space?” Her bubble letters were a lot better than mine.
She flopped down on her shaggy pink wall-to-wall carpeting, glanced at her digital clock, and reached out automatically to turn on the TV. And I realized that we probably spent our afternoons the same exact way. Except I can at least get my mother on the phone. Julia’s apartment is a lot nicer than ours, but I’m pretty sure there’s no phone in the closet.
I stretched out on the rug and rested my head on my arm. Julia looked me up and down. “Hey, you know what color your hair is?” she asked.
“My hair?” I touched it and made a face. “It’s brown.”
She looked at it thoughtfully. “No. When you see it in the light, it’s really more of a caramel.”
Caramel.
I’m up to the part about what happened on the corner. If I ever do write your letter, I’ll tell this part very carefully.
I was walking home alone after school, thinking about what to get Annemarie for her birthday
It was cold but not too cold—the boys were standing outside the garage making noise, as usual. They were also throwing potato chips at each other.
Sal’s class must have been dismissed a few minutes before mine—he was walking a little ahead of me. I did not run to catch up.
I watched him pass the boys outside the garage; they said some stuff to him like they sometimes do. I saw a couple of potato chips hit him on the back.
Sal seemed to lose it. He turned and screamed “Shut up!” He was wearing his dark blue knit cap pulled down over his forehead again.
The boys just laughed. My heart started going very fast, but I wasn’t really worried they would hit Sal because it is officially beneath them to hit smaller kids. Torment, yes. Hit, no.
One of them reached out and pushed Sal in the chest—not too hard, but Sal stumbled back a few steps. He yelled, “Jerks!” and the boys all cracked up, but no one else touched him.
Sal pointed himself toward home and started walking again.
Marcus came walking out through the dented metal door next to the garage.
Sal saw Marcus and broke into a run.
Marcus yelled, “Hold up!” and started running after Sal.
I saw the laughing man, across the street on the corner. He was in his nutcracker position, facing us.
Marcus was catching up to Sal, yelling, “Hold up! Wait!”
This is where things got weird: I saw something next to the laughing man, like an old movie that flickered for just a few seconds and then went out. It was between two parked cars, and it looked like a man holding his head in his hands. He was naked. And then he was gone.
Sal kept running. Marcus kept running. I started running.
“Hey! Hey—kid!” Marcus yelled. Naturally he had forgotten Sal’s name.
Sal took one look over his shoulder and started moving faster. He was almost to the corner. Traffic was flying by on Amsterdam Avenue.
“Sal!” I screamed. “Stop!” But he didn’t stop.
“Wait!” Marcus yelled. “I want to—” Then he finally seemed to figure out that Sal was running away from
him
. He slowed down. “Hey, look out!”Sal was in the street, still running and looking back over his shoulder.
I caught up to Marcus. I think we both saw the truck at the same time. It was a big truck, moving fast.
“Stop!” Marcus shrieked at Sal. He was pointing at the truck with both hands. “Watch out! Watch out!”
I have no idea what the truck driver was doing—checking his delivery list, maybe, or changing the radio station—but he didn’t see Sal in the middle of the street, and he didn’t slow down.
I started screaming and covered my ears. I always cover my ears when I don’t want something to happen, like if I drop a glass and don’t want it to break. I wonder why I don’t cover my eyes or my mouth. Or try to catch the glass.
I saw Sal’s head start to turn, and I knew the exact moment he registered the truck. It was practically on top of him. Going forward meant getting hit. He was moving too fast to turn back. Stopping on a dime might have saved him, but there was no way he could do it.
My brain boomed inside my head: “Sal is going to die.”
“SAL IS GOING TO DIE.”
SAL
IS
GOING
TO
DIE.
Suddenly, the laughing man was in the street, his right leg flying out in a mighty kick.
The laughing man’s foot hit Sal’s body.
Sal flew backward and hit the ground, hard.
The truck hit the laughing man.
Marcus sat down on the ground and started crying like there was no tomorrow. Really sobbing his head off.
I ran over to where Sal was lying very still with his arm tucked underneath him in a way that was not right. “Sal!” I screamed. “Sal!” He looked dead.
The truck made a long screeching noise, and then the driver came running out and shoved me away from Sal.
Someone (I found out later it was Belle) led me past a heap of something awful in the street, saying, “Don’t look don’t look don’t look.” She walked me over to the curb and sort of propped me up next to the mailbox on our corner, and then she ran back to where the truck driver was hunched over Sal, doing something to his body. There was a shoe lying upside down at my feet.
I found myself staring and staring at the shoe. It was a black shoe with a two-inch platform nailed to the bottom. It was Richard’s shoe.
Everything started to spin. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the cold metal of the mailbox. When I opened my eyes, I was staring at four words scratched into the blue mailbox paint. They were stacked one on top of another:
Book
Bag
Pocket
Shoe
“Book,” “Bag,” “Pocket,” “Shoe.” I read the words over and over. And then my brain showed me some pictures. I saw the school-library book with your first note sticking out of it. I saw the tall paper bag full of bread that hid your second note. I saw your third note, pulled out of my coat pocket with last winter’s dirty tissues. And then my brain pointed my eyes at the shoe lying upside down at my feet. The shoe that had been stolen from our apartment.
I reached down, picked it up, and slowly turned it over. Inside was a small square of stiff paper just like the first three:
This is the story I need you to tell. This and everything that has led up to it.
Please deliver your letter by hand. You know where to find me.
My apologies for the terse instructions. The trip is a difficult one; I can carry nothing, and a man can only hold so much paper in his mouth.
I heard Sal cry out, and looked up. The truck driver was on his knees next to Sal, saying, “Thank God, thank God, thank God, it’s a miracle.”
On the other side of the street I saw Marcus, still hunched over on the curb and crying hard. I could see him shaking. Behind him stood the boys from the garage, so still and silent that they looked like a picture of themselves.
Sal was not dead. The laughing man saved his life.
You
saved Sal’s life.You were the laughing man.
You were the heap of something awful.
You are dead.
That night, Richard stayed with me while Mom kept Louisa company at the hospital. Sal had a broken arm and three broken ribs, and he had to spend the night for observation.
Richard ordered a pizza. “Do you feel like talking?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Maybe later.”
He nodded. “Just let me know.”
After dinner, I closed my door and sat on my bed with your notes spread out in front of me. “Think,” my brain said. “Think, think,
think.”
I got out my ropes, tied some knots, and tried to start at the beginning.
The trip is a difficult one. I will not be myself when I reach you
.
The trip is a difficult one, and I must ask my favors while my mind is sound
.
And then there was the strangest line of all:
The trip is a difficult one; I can carry nothing, and a man can only hold so much paper in his mouth
.
I fingered the notes, so small and brittle. Had you carried them in your
mouth?
The trip is a difficult one
.
Difficult enough to scramble a persons mind and leave him raving on a street corner? What kind of a trip did that to someone? Who would deliberately
take
a trip like that?
My mind began a little chant: “And why? Why, why,
why?”
To save Sal. That’s why you stood on our corner day after day. That’s why you were always doing those kicks into the street—you were
practicing
. It was all to save Sal. Because, somehow, you knew.
Time travel is possible, Marcus said. In theory.
I am coming to save your friend’s life, and my own
.
“Well,” I said out loud to no one, “you saved Sal’s life, but you failed miserably with goal number two.”
Richard knocked on the door, and I jumped.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you might want to come out and have some grapes.”
Richard had brought me grapes. We watched some TV and ate a giant bowl of the most perfect tart green grapes in the world. They were definitely not from Belle’s.
It was nice, just sitting there watching TV together. My brain stopped asking me questions. I saw Richard glance over at me a couple of times, but he didn’t ask me any questions either. And that was nice, too.
When I fell asleep on the couch, Richard turned the TV off and said I should go to bed. But once everything was quiet, I couldn’t sleep. Your words were swimming in my head.
Please deliver your letter by hand. You know where to find me
.
Louisa had told me that some of her old people died with nothing and no one. She said they were buried on an island somewhere north of Manhattan. I figured that was where you would be soon.
I was still worrying and feeling a little frozen when my bedroom door opened and Mom came over and sat on the edge of my bed.
“Sal is going to be fine,” she whispered, putting one arm around me. “The tests are done. He’ll probably be home in the morning.”
I didn’t say anything. I was afraid that if I spoke, I would tell her too much—I would tell her about the notes, Richard’s shoes, the two-dollar bills, everything. And I thought that if I did tell her, somehow Sal might not be okay anymore. So instead I just held on to Mom’s arm, and she stayed right there until I fell asleep.