A Trick of the Light (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

BY THE TIME MIKE GETS HOME, HE’S PRETTY NEARLY
convinced himself he didn’t hear me at all. This doesn’t surprise or discourage me—two steps forward, one step back.

He finds his mom in a panic.

Mom (shouting): “I can’t find my book!”

She keeps all her work in a big binder, which she calls her book. It’s got clients’ names, appointments, billing information.

Mike: “Where’d you see it last?”

Mom: “If I could remember that, do you think I’d be in this situation?”

Mike: “Just asking. That thing’s as big as a phone book.”

Mom: “Well, it’s still missing! I’ve been scouring the place for an hour. Where is it?”

Mike leans down to pet Mighty Joe Young, who runs away. He’s black with a little dribble of white on his chin. It makes him look like he never washes his face, even though that’s practically all he does.

Mom: “I can’t believe this. If I don’t find that book . . . I’ve got a client in an hour . . . at least I think I do.”

Mike knows this isn’t like her. She always has her day’s schedule memorized and is never late.

Mike: “I’ll help you find it, okay?”

She doesn’t even say thanks.

Mike’s house has two bedrooms upstairs, plus a small room his dad uses as a home office. It’s the first place Mike decides to look. The door is closed and he knocks.

Dad (from inside): “Yeah?”

Mike: “Can I come in?”

Dad (pause): “Sure.”

Mike opens the door and almost doesn’t recognize his own father. What’s different? Mike is reminded of those trick photographs that appear in magazines side by side—at first they seem identical, but if you look closely you can spot ten differences.

It’s the glasses, Mike realizes. His dad used to wear plain wire rims; these are thick, black plastic, with an anti-reflective coating so you can see his brown eyes.

Mike: “You got new glasses.”

Dad: “Yes.” He leans his hands on his desk. There are piles of papers everywhere: on the shelves, on top of the printer. Mike’s mom calls this “vertical mess.” Mike’s dad has a collection of heavy brass paperweights. A hunting dog in the pointer position is balanced on top of a particularly huge pile.

Mike doesn’t like his dad’s new glasses. He’s not sure why.

Mike: “Why’d you change your glasses?”

Dad (hesitates): “I needed a new prescription.”

Mike: “You didn’t have to change the frames.”

Dad (tightens his lips): “What do you want, Mike?”

Mike: “I’m looking for Mom’s book.”

Dad: “Why?”

Mike can’t believe it. His mom’s been searching for an hour and his dad has no idea.

Mike: “Because it’s missing.”

Dad: “Why would her book be in here?”

Mike: “Because it isn’t anywhere else.”

Dad: “Well, it’s not here.”

Mike: “Are you sure?”

Dad: “Yes. Look, let me finish up. I’ve got to get to the gym before six.”

There’s an ache inside Mike. He doesn’t know why.

Go with him.

Though Mike on principle doesn’t like the idea of listening to a voice in his head, he thinks it might be on to something here.

Mike: “Can I go with you?”

Dad: “What?”

Mike’s not sure if his dad didn’t understand him or if he’s just questioning why Mike wants to go. To be safe, Mike remembers his lazy-lip exercises and speaks slowly and carefully: “Can I go to the gym with you?”

Dad: “Why? You never wanted to before.”

Mike doesn’t know what to say. He says, “I have to work out.”

Dad: “Why, do you think you’re fat?”

Mike grabs his belly, surprised there’s so much to grab. At least Mike is realizing how far he’s been letting himself go.

Mike: “Yeah.”

Dad: “You’re not fat.”

Mike: “Please take me with you.”

Dad: “You’re not a member.”

Mike: “Can’t I go as a guest or something?”

Dad: “I don’t know if the gym allows guests.”

Mike: “Can’t you at least call and ask?”

Dad: “I don’t know if the gym allows children.”

Mike: “Children! I’m fifteen!”

Dad: “Forget it, Mike.”

What’s with him? Mike wonders. It’s like there’s a wall around him and you can barely see over the top. Mike can’t shake the feeling that a few months ago his dad would’ve said, “Sure, c’mon, let’s go.”

When Mike gets back to the living room, his mom is holding the book to her chest.

Mike: “Where was it?”

Mom: “Hidden in plain sight! Actually, you gave me the idea. You said it was as big as a phone book, and there it was, in the pile of phone books. I guess I had to look up a number and stuck it in there without thinking.” She sighs. “Thanks for trying to find it.”

Mike: “I only looked in Dad’s room. He got new glasses.”

Mom: “I know.”

She doesn’t sound too fond of them, either.

CHAPTER 4

MIKE IS STANDING JUST OUTSIDE A FLEA MARKET.
There’s one every week in a fenced-off vacant lot on Belle Drive. His mom says that flea markets are like crack for people with a clutter problem. They feel compelled to go in and buy something they don’t need and have no room for that will only make their lives worse.

It’s late August. Camp is over and Tamio’s in Japan, where he goes at the end of every summer. Mike finally received his schedule for tenth grade. He’s got three classes with Ralph Gaffney and none with Tamio, not even lunch. He and Tamio play on the high school baseball team (Tamio, third base; Mike, right field) but workouts don’t start until December. Mike feels adrift with nothing holding him steady.

Girl’s voice: “Are you staring at me?”

Mike blinks a couple of times. He didn’t see her before, but there’s a girl in front of him.

Girl: “Why are you staring at me, Mike?”

He knows her. It’s Amber Alley. He and Amber have gone to the same schools since kindergarten.

Mike: “I’m not staring at you.”

Amber: “I can always tell when someone’s staring at me. I can feel it.”

Mike finds Amber strange. He sees her stringy black hair that hangs down in her eyes, and notices she’s wearing a big long-sleeved shirt and baggy pants even now, when it’s a hundred degrees. She looks lost in her own clothes, he thinks.

But she’s not. She’s beautiful.

Amber: “What are you doing here, then?”

Mike: “I’m buying cat food.”

Amber: “At a flea market?”

Mike: “I just stopped for a second. Because it’s so hot.”

Amber breathes out and the air in front of Mike smells like cinnamon. “Do you have a cat?”

Mike: “Yeah, I have a cat.”

Amber (pointing to a thick brown thing around her neck): “Look, I just got this cool necklace. From that lady over there, the one who looks like a Gypsy, see?”

But Mike isn’t looking for the Gypsy; he’s looking at Amber’s eyes, at how flat and shiny they are, like glass. At first he wonders if she’s wearing contacts, but Tamio wears contacts and his eyes don’t look like that. Mike doesn’t see it, but actually her eyes look exotic, otherworldly.

Amber: “This is pure copper. Do you know what a healing object is?”

Mike (bored): “Something to heal you when you’re sick?”

Amber: “That’s medicine. A healing object is something that helps you become the person you are meant to be.” Mike doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Do you remember the butterflies?”

Mike: “What?”

Amber: “The butterflies! From third grade, Ms. Taylor’s class? You were my butterfly partner.”

Mike (dimly): “Right.”

They were butterfly partners! That’s perfect.

Amber: “Everybody in the class got paired off and was given a caterpillar. We had to take notes on it, what it ate and everything. We named ours Rainbow Sue.”

Mike remembers that he wanted to name it Mothra, but Amber insisted.

Amber: “She was in a cocoon for three weeks. She was the last one in our class to pop out, and when she did, she was so beautiful, orange and black. Then Ms. Taylor took us all outside and we released the butterflies—then pigeons swooped down and ate them! It was horrible!”

Mike remembers. Amber cried so much, her mom had to come pick her up.

Amber: “Rainbow Sue was born and died on the same day. She was supposed to fly to Mexico. Why’d we go to all that trouble? We raised her up just to get eaten by pigeons. Do you think our lives are like Rainbow Sue’s?”

Mike: “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. I can’t discuss the meaning of existence in hundred-degree heat.”

Amber’s always by herself at school, and Mike thinks he’s beginning to understand why. But her solitude doesn’t surprise me. It’s always the most interesting people who have a hard time fitting in, but they go on to lead the most extraordinary lives.

Amber: “So, how’s your summer been?”

Mike thinks about how his crappy summer has only gotten worse. His mom cancels nearly all her appointments now, and is either asleep or in the tub, so Mike has to do the laundry and grocery shopping or they’d have nothing clean to wear and nothing to eat. And his dad’s never home, and Tamio’s halfway around the world, and when school starts he’ll never get to see Tamio—

Talk to her.

Mike tenses up.

You can trust her.

I’m louder and clearer right now than I’ve ever been. It’s so satisfying! But there’s a catch of panic in Mike’s throat. He is hoping desperately that the voice he hears is just a bizarre product of the heat. And he wonders why it would tell him not to talk to Tamio, and now it’s telling him to confide in the weirdest girl he knows.

Amber: “Mike?”

Mike: “My summer’s been good. You?”

Amber: “Oh, fantastic!”

Mike should be curious about her fantastic summer, but he’s not.

Mike: “Maybe I’ll go in and look around.”

Amber: “You want a healing object?”

Mike: “Maybe.”

Amber: “Okay. See you at school. You taking physics this year?”

Mike: “Yeah, in the afternoon.”

Amber: “Me, too.”

Mike’s thinking, Oh, no, classes with Ralph and Amber. He doesn’t yet see why she’s so special. She’s not typical Belle Heights. She doesn’t seem to belong to any specific time or place. He should feel such a connection to her—if you believed in past lives, you’d think she and Mike were once related.

But Mike has already forgotten her now that he’s in the flea market. There’s a whole table of tube socks, six for a dollar. A big chair with stuffing bursting out. Stacks of old rock albums. The Mamas & the Papas are looking up at Mike. Mike wonders why there’s a fat kid standing right next to him, looking at The Mamas & the Papas, too. . . .

He can’t believe it.

He’s looking in a mirror.

The fat kid is himself.

The mirror is leaning against a table. It’s tall and narrow, about three feet by one foot. The wooden border looks rotted and splintery, but that’s not important. Mike looks at himself again. How did this happen? He was weighed last spring at the doctor’s office and was average then; how did he go from average to fat so quickly? He thinks about what he had for lunch: two burgers and double fries.

You need to buy this mirror. So you can keep an eye on yourself.

He’s a little less frightened by me. He’s beginning to wonder if I’m right, if maybe I have his best interests at heart. He’s not sure. But he is sure that he wants the mirror.

Mike (to a woman in a lawn chair, next to the mirror): “How much?”

Woman (frowning): “You want to buy the mirror?”

Mike notices a table full of sunglasses. So the mirror’s just there for people to see how they look in sunglasses. It doesn’t matter.

Mike: “Yeah, I want to buy the mirror.”

Woman: “Isn’t there a price tag on it?”

She’s stalling. She knows there isn’t a price tag and she can see how much Mike wants it. Mike looks for a price tag and finds only a rusty wire in the back.

Mike: “There’s no tag.”

Woman: “It must’ve fallen off. Well, it’s eleven dollars.”

That’s a lot, he thinks; he can buy sixty-six tube socks for that much. He looks in his wallet. There’s two fives and a single—it’s a sign! There are also some singles shoved in his pocket. Still. He has the exact amount in his wallet, where money is supposed to be.

Mike: “I’ll take it.”

She wraps up the mirror in some old newspaper. Mike notices the date—sometime in May, before his mom started hibernating and soaking, and his dad started going to the gym. Mike tucks the mirror under his arm and heads out. On the way home, he passes a woman with a pigeon on her shoulder. At least he thinks it’s a pigeon, until it talks and he realizes it’s a parrot.

Bird: “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”

Mike thinks about the fact that this woman has a voice on her shoulder, but she can go home and put it in a cage. He wonders if there’s a cage that can hold the voice in his head.

He doesn’t understand. Not yet.

CHAPTER 5

MIKE POUNDS A NAIL INTO HIS BEDROOM WALL,
and the sound drives Mighty Joe Young under the bed. Most of Mike’s walls are covered by Mets posters, but there’s a tall, empty rectangular space just opposite his bed. The mirror fits the space perfectly, as if it was waiting for it.

Mom (standing in doorway): “You woke me.”

Mike: “Maybe you shouldn’t be sleeping in the middle of the day.”

Mom (either not hearing or ignoring Mike’s comment): “What are you doing?”

Mike: “I got a mirror.”

Mom: “I can see that. But why? Oh, you’re bleeding.”

Mike looks down and is surprised to see blood all over his finger.

Mom: “Don’t wipe it on your pants! No wonder you cut yourself—the wood’s coming off in splinters.” She pokes around the mirror. “The wire’s all rusty. When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Mike (remembering): “In the spring.”

Mom: “Why did you get this, if it’s warped?”

Mike: “Warped?”

Mom: “Definitely. The glass is wavy. Look how wide you look.”

Mike (sadly): “That’s what I look like.”

Mom: “No, it isn’t. Where’d you get it?”

Mike knows she wouldn’t like the truth. He could lie. It would be so easy. But Mike hasn’t ever been a good liar.

Mike: “A flea market.”

Mom (as if pierced to the heart): “No! How much did you pay?”

Mike: “Eleven dollars.”

Mom: “You got robbed.” She sighs. “Could you call my four o’clock for me? I’m not going to make it.”

Mike sighs too.

Mom: “Did you pick up the Feline Fine?”

Mike remembers the cat food he was supposed to buy.

Mike: “Ahh, no. I totally forgot.”

Mom: “You’ll have to go out again.”

Mike: “I know.”

Mom: “Where’d you put the laundry? I looked on the shelf—”

Mike: “It’s on top of the machine, already folded. I didn’t put it away yet.”

Mom: “Oh, and Mighty Joe Young threw up near the couch.”

The cat throws up a lot. It’s disgusting, the way Mighty Joe Young walks backward while he’s doing it. Tamio once said, “He looks like a movie of a cat eating, on rewind.” Mike laughed, but there’s nothing amusing about the fact that he has to clean up cat vomit all the time.

Mike: “Mom, I already cleaned up after him twice today.”

Mom: “But . . . could you, again? I can’t.”

Mike: “Fine.”

Look at yourself—running errands, doing laundry, cleaning up cat vomit. Is this the person you are meant to be?

Mike thinks the voice in his head must hate him. But I don’t. I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.