In Sight of Stars(16)

Which only made it all more unbearable.

What I remember most in those first days was passing the endless ragged Christmas trees, dragged half dead from their cozy brownstones, and left curbside for pickup like so many abandoned bodies. Their dried, brittle pine needles peppering the sidewalks, bare branches still boasting stubborn strands of glittering tinsel, or a felt snowman, or a forgotten red silk ball. As if refusing to believe the holiday season was over. One still bore all its fancy antique ornaments, plus a broken angel on top, as if its owners had said, “Fuck it,” and dumped it along with everything that ever mattered to them.

Kindred spirits, then.

“Mr. Alden, are you ready? Shall we go down now?” The shift nurse stands eyeing me from the doorway.

Right. I said I’d go down to the dining hall.

Of course, now I’ve lost my will to go down. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone. I’d rather curl up, pull the blankets over my head again.

“Shall we?”

I stare at my feet in my gray and orange Vans, my frayed Levi’s, my gray-striped T-shirt, none of which feel like they actually belong to me.

“Okay, yeah, sure,” I say, following her out and down the hall.

*

The dining hall is a glorified cafeteria with honey-colored wood tables and chairs with mauve cushions. White plastic salt and pepper shakers and a small plastic bud vase with fake red and white carnations grace each table. Only two of the tables are occupied, one by staff at the far side of the room, and the other, the one nearer to me, by the girl with the long black hair (not Sarah … not Sarah…) and another kid, scrawny and younger, with a flop of brownish-orange hair sweeping across his forehead and eyes.

The girl faces the entrance. Her eyes shift to mine, then quickly away. But I see the corner of her mouth turn up in a smile, as if she’s somehow relieved to see me. Someone closer to her age, maybe. She looks younger than I am, but not by much, while the boy looks nine, maybe ten, tops.

“Oh, good! Martin and Sabrina are here. I’ll leave you with them.” The nurse pulls out a chair like a hostess.

“It’s okay, you can sit,” the scrawny kid says.

“Hey, I’m Klee,” I say, obeying.

“You rhyme,” the girl answers softly. She’s normal looking from what I can tell, nothing discernibly wrong with her. My hand self-consciously goes to the bandage on the side of my head. Not that it matters, I guess. Visible or not, we all must have a reason to be here. “I’ve seen you around,” she says, and my brain calculates: the dumb fish mural, the fountain; me, passing out like a loser. A great first impression. “Down in the South wing,” is all she adds.

“Yeah, same.”

“The burgers are decent if you want to get some food,” the boy says.

I don’t really, but do anyway, returning with a thin-looking gray slab between two buns, a large leaf of wilted lettuce, and a mealy tomato poking out the side. I sit again.

The boy scarfs down his burger with gusto. His eye closer to me has a twitch or a tic. I try not to stare when he turns.

“So, she’s Sabrina,” he says, mouth full. “And I’m Martin.”

“Geez,” Sabrina says, “Wait till you’re done before you talk.”

“Where you guys from?” It’s a dumb question, I know, but, “What are you in for?” seems like a weird question. And, anyway, I don’t want to share my own reasons yet, either. Especially not with some kid who probably hasn’t even sprouted pubic hair.

I stare down at my plate feeling queasy and unhungry, but since I don’t want to be in charge of talking anymore, I lean in and take a big bite, waiting for someone else to carry the conversation.

“I’m from here,” Martin says, obliging. “And Sabrina is from Westchester.” Sabrina nods, picks up a carrot, takes a nibble and puts it back down. Her nails are chewed down to the quick, the skin raw and bloody on the edges. “And the other guy that shows up sometimes, the one with the tattoos, that kid Euclid? I think he’s from Manhattan.”

“Brooklyn. And, that’s not his name,” Sabrina whispers.

“Yes, it is,” Martin says.

“No, it isn’t.” She drops her carrot, pulls her sleeves down over her hands, and buries them in her lap, under the table.

“Whatever,” Martin says. “And there’s some other kid, a girl, but you don’t need to bother with her, I hear she’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Martin knows everything,” Sabrina says.

“I see that. How old are you two?” I ask, forcing another bite of burger in.

“She’s fifteen,” Martin says, “And I’m twelve. Almost thirteen, though. Thirteen in two weeks, so technically thirteen. And, anyway, my intellectual age is way older than most kids’ my age.”

“Really?” I say, not meaning it to come out as sarcastic as it does. I’m not questioning his intellect. The kid barely looks a day over ten.

“I get that a lot. I’m told I’m very youthful looking.” He bats his eyelashes, takes another bite of burger, and continues to talk with his mouth full. “I go to Northhollow Middle. Eighth grade. I skipped a year after first grade. IQ-wise, it should have been two. Keeping me back was probably a mistake. I’m on the debate team, which is technically only for eighth graders, but I hold my own. I act with an improv group, too, but that’s extracurricular. We’re called the On-the-Spotters. Get it? It’s very clever.”