The Leavers(31)

“Seventh grade?”

“Going into seventh in the fall,” Kay said. “Ridgeborough Junior High.”

Elaine released the hug and studied him at arm’s length. “Junior high already?”

Deming’s mouth was dry. He and Roland were supposed to be in the same class in September, but he wasn’t sure where he’d be going to school now.

The elevator dinged. Deming heard Jim say, “His English appears more than adequate.”

“Like a regular little Noo Yawker,” Peter said.

“Peter!” Angel flung her arms around him.

“Coffee, anyone? I’m blasted from last night. Mommy needs her caffeine fix now.” Elaine walked into the kitchen, still talking. “Angel was so excited about her Gotcha Day party. So were we, of course, with all that wine. It’s too bad you couldn’t make it.”

“I know, I know, we really wanted to,” Kay said. “It would’ve been a rough drive last night, with all the weekend traffic. But we can have a Gotcha Day party for Daniel, and you guys can come.”

“Oh, you must,” Elaine said, “you absolutely must.”

“Oh, we will,” Kay said, talking like Elaine.

Deming glanced at Angel, but she was bouncing from foot to foot and looking at the Gotcha Day sign. “Where am I sleeping tonight?” he asked. There was a couch that would make it easy to get to the elevator.

“Oh, we’ll figure that out later,” Elaine said. “Are you tired? Do you need a nap?” He shook his head.

“Elaine.” Angel tugged at her mother’s T-shirt. “Can I show Daniel my room?”

HER ROOM WAS MUCH smaller than his, with light pink walls, a bed with a pink bedspread and a heart-shaped headboard, clothes thrown across the unmade sheets and toys littering the floor, stuffed animals stacked four deep. Deming cleared a path through the center, pushing aside T-shirts and socks.

Angel held up a small pink iPod and white headphones. “Want to listen?”

They each took an earbud and sat on the floor. Music swelled into Deming’s right ear, a tinny electronic drumbeat and a woman singing crunchy, processed vocals.

Angel bobbed her chin. “When’s your birthday?”

“November 8.”

“I don’t have a real birthday because I’m adopted, but we decided that my birthday could be March 15. When’s your Gotcha Day?”

“What’s Gotcha Day?”

“You don’t know? All adopted kids have one. It’s like a birthday but not a birthday. It’s the day that you went home to your forever family.”

Gotcha sounded less fun than a birthday, more like he was being hunted. “I’m not adopted yet. I’m a foster kid.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like being adopted but it’s more temporary.” Deming looked at Angel. Her skin was light brown, her nose wide and squashy. She had a missing tooth, one of the pointy ones. He took his Discman out from his backpack. “You like Hendrix?”

“Who?”

“Jimi Hendrix. He has a song with the same name as yours.” Deming unplugged the earbuds and replaced her iPod with his Discman. He forwarded to “Angel” and pressed play. The guitar and cymbals shimmered in their ears, and he sang along. Tomorrow I’m going to be by your side. Then he got afraid that Angel might think he was singing to her, that he liked her. He hit stop. “You like it?”

“It’s all right.”

“He’s only, like, the greatest guitar player ever in the history of the universe.”

She flipped open a container, exposing a yellowing plastic U. “Do you want to see my retainer? I have to wear it when I sleep. It’s supposed to keep my teeth in place. It kind of hurts. I have too many teeth, I had to get one removed.” He was afraid she’d put the plastic U in her mouth, or even more terrifying, make him try it on, but she shut the container and tossed it onto the floor, where it landed on a stuffed parrot.

Deming wanted to tell Roland he had hung out with a girl, make it sound cooler than it was. He had Roland’s phone number on a piece of paper; he would call later and explain. He would have to do the same for Peter and Kay.

“You should ask your parents about your Gotcha Day when you’re adopted,” Angel said. “That way you’ll get gifts. I got a CD from my friend Lily and a T-shirt from my other friend Lily. I have three friends named Lily and a friend named Jade. We’re all adopted from China.”

Deming got up. From the window he could see the rooftops of smaller buildings, a woman watering plants, a couple sunbathing.

“That’s north,” Angel said. “Where the Empire State Building is. See that tall one over there?”

“I know what the Empire State Building is. And the Bronx, that’s north, too.” He couldn’t see the Bronx from where they were, but Angel’s confirmation of what direction they were facing helped orient him. He had a plan.

“The Bronx is far.”

“I used to live there.”

“With Peter and Kay?”

“Before I met them.”

“I thought you were born in China, like me.”

“I was born in Manhattan. I’m from here.”

Angel’s eyebrows were too close together, sparse and dark and wiggly. Deming grasped for the lost Mandarin words and lunged. “Did you think it was forever when you came here?”