Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (26 page)

Nicky returned to the Only House With Trees the next day to solve the puzzling Periodic Table of Elements. And to listen to music. On some of the songs, Nicky could actually understand the words.

The next day was literature. Nicky was stumped by a long poem that was said to be written in Old English, but did not resemble any English he had heard or read in his lifetime.

Nicky visited the Only House With Trees steadily for two weeks.

“Your grades are really great,” Mom said, perusing Nicky's
first-semester report card. “All these afternoons at the library are paying off.”

“I am applying myself,” Nicky said.

On a day when Nicky was not scheduled to visit the Only House With Trees, he just happened to stroll down Mayflower Avenue at the exact moment Margalo climbed the hill from Broadway. A chance meeting.

Margalo was happy to see him. “Hey-lo,” she said. She ran her blue eyes across his face. She smiled. She invited him in.

Nicky was not in the mood to study and Margalo was not in the mood to tutor. So they ate potato chips from a tin—they were actually delivered to the house like milk from the milkman—in her room and drank cola, as much as they could hold. Nicky knocked off his third can of soda and went for a fourth. He could not get used to this house, a place with no adult supervision. Dr. Gildersleeves was always working. The divorced Mrs. Gilder-sleeves lived in Washington, DC.

“A little touch of heaven,” Nicky thought, climbing the stairs with his drink.

Margalo played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” on the stereo. She played it loudly and the windows shuddered in their casements. Nicky had never listened to the great song at earsplitting decibels, and he was moved. And no one hollered at them to turn it down.

After four cans of cola, Nicky needed a toilet. He was embarrassed to ask Margalo for directions to the bathroom. She was too fine and too precious, not the kind of girl you ask about toilets. So
he merely rolled from the blue beanbag chair and casually moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?' she said.

“Um, I'll be right back.”

“Oh. My bathroom is the third door down on the right.”

Nicky hurried along the carpeted hallway, wondering if every female on the planet had radar.

Lost in this deep thought, Nicky miscounted the doorways. He found himself at the end of the corridor, wandering through an open door, into a darkened room. The room smelled of sweaty clothes, sweet perfume, and something like mothballs. A bare mattress was flopped on the floor. A gleaming red electric guitar was leaned against a massive amplifier. On the wall was a flag—a yellow star on a red and blue background.

“Canada, maybe?” Nicky thought.

His eyes fell on a partially opened door to his right, and through the opening he saw a tile floor and at last, a toilet bowl. By now he could not be picky about which bathroom he used.

Nicky pushed open the bathroom door and entered. The room was hot and humid and glowed with a purplish fluorescent light. All around him—in the bathtub, along the floor, along the sink-top, in the sink—were plastic pots of black soil, out of which grew tall, leggy green plants with clusters of pointy leaves.

“Mint?” Nicky wondered, having seen mint plants portrayed on a package of mint candy.

Nicky flushed and found the sink, choked in a thick growth of this strange foliage. He turned out the light and walked out of the humid bathroom. He nearly bumped into a tall beefy boy with
shoulder-length hair. Nicky noticed the hair was exactly the same chestnut brown as Margalo's.

The long-haired boy towered over Nicky. He said, “Who in the name of Janis Joplin are you?”

“Nick.”

The long-haired boy wore tattered flared blue jeans, a loose-fitting, rough linen shirt, and sandals. A triangular patch of frizzy brown hair pointed from his chin. The long-haired boy stomped past Nicky and reached into the bathroom and turned on the lights.

“You turd! Turn off the lights, man, and you kill the GOODS,” he said, not in a friendly tone.

“Sorry,” Nicky said, startled to hear anger from a total stranger.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Nick Martini. I'm a friend of Margalo.”

The boy smirked.

Nicky said, “I guess I better go. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, do me a favor. Don't come down this end of the house anymore.”

Nicky returned to Margalo's room. She was stretched out on her bed, reading a magazine. Banging, whining electric guitar sounds pumped out of the speakers at a deafening volume. Nicky felt the bass in his belly.

“I guess I kind of got lost,” Nicky said over the music.

“WHAT?”

“I SAID I GOT LOST.”

“HOW COULD YOU GET LOST?” Margalo said. She sat up on the edge of the bed, stretched her arms over her head. She plucked an elastic from her wrist, and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

The door thumped open and the big long-haired boy stood in the doorway. He planted his hands on his hips. He shouted over the music, “HEY, MARGIE, IF YOU WANT TO HAVE BOY SCOUT MEETINGS HERE FINE, BUT KEEP YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS OUT OF MY END OF THE HOUSE.”

Margalo continued to wrap the elastic into her hair. She rolled her eyes and said, “ALL RIGHT, Eugene.” She shook her head at Nicky and said, exasperated, “THIS IS MY CHARMING BIG BROTHER. EUGENE.”

“HELLO,” Nicky said. He wished Margalo would turn down the music.

Eugene didn't say anything. He stared.

The record ended, and the room fell into a startling silence. Nicky's ears kept throbbing.

“This is Roy's little brother,” Margalo said, leaning on her hands.

“Whose little brother?”

“You heard me—Roy's.”

“Oh, yeah. Him. The guy who thought
Easy Rider
had a happy ending,” Eugene said. “Whatever happened to him?”

Margalo rolled her eyes. “You know where Roy is, Eugene.”

“Yeah,” Eugene said. “Yeah. Now I remember. He's busy. Baby killing.”

“Eu-gene,” Margalo said.

“Just being real.”

“Good-bye, Eugene,” Margalo said. “Don't pay any attention to him, Nicky.”

Nicky stared blankly at Eugene.

“Just being real,” Eugene said evenly.

“Good-BYE, Eugene.”

“I can take a hint.”

“I wish. Good-bye, Eugene. Stop hassling us, Eugene,” Margalo said in a singsong voice.

Eugene said, “Screw you,” and rocked out of the room.

“Jerk,” Margalo said. “Sorry.”

“It's all right,” Nicky said. His hands shook and his stomach cramped. “I guess I shouldn't of used his bathroom. I got lost.”

“You went into his BATHROOM? No wonder he's freaking out on you,” Margalo said.

She swung out her legs and rolled off the bed. She replaced the phonograph arm on the album, cranked up the volume, and the guitar music pounded out, bruising Nicky's ears again.

Margalo assumed a ballet position. “HE GETS JUMPY IF ANYBODY POKES AROUND HIS PRECIOUS MARIJUANA.”

“WHAZZAT?”

“MARIJUANA. WEED. GRASS. MARY JANE.”

“HE GROWS MARIJUANA?”

“WELL, DUH. YES,” Margalo said. She twittered on tippytoes across the rug. “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS? A ROCK 'N' ROLL BALLET.”

“GREAT,” Nicky said.

“YOU DIG HENDRIX?”

“SURE,” Nicky lied.

Margalo pirouetted. “WHAT DID YOU THINK THOSE PLANTS WERE? BOSTON FERNS?”

“OH, I THOUGHT THEY MIGHT BE MARIJUANA,” Nicky lied. He thought for a moment. “ISN'T THAT AGAINST, YOU KNOW, THE LAW?”

“NO, REALLY?” Margalo said, dancing. She glanced at Nicky. She smiled. “AND YOUR POINT IS? YOU'RE JUST LIKE ROY. SO UPTIGHT.”

Margalo tugged Nicky's arm, yanking his hand from his sweaty palm. Her free arm swept up behind her. Her long delicate fingers fluttered gracefully. All this while the electric guitar howled and twanged. Nicky felt her fingertips slip from his palm, tickling him, and he didn't care to talk any longer about the bathroom plants.

“I NEVER SHOULD HAVE QUIT BALLET,” Margalo said, puffing. She swept up her hair and piled it on top of her head. “IT ONLY SEEMED FOOLISH TO DANCE WHEN CHILDREN WERE GOING TO BED HUNGRY IN THE WORLD.”

Nicky nodded. He watched as she let her hair slip from her fingers and fall mussily across her face and onto her shoulders.

Margalo shouted over the music, “I DON'T MEAN TO BLOW YOUR MIND.”

Nicky walked up Mayflower Avenue, the bright foliage of the Only House With Trees receding behind him. His mind was blown. He tromped up the hill in the rapidly chilling November air. He came within sight of Eggplant Alley, shivering as he walked out of one world and into another.

It was almost five thirty, and dads were returning from work,
tired and stinky and bored and utterly thankful to have jobs. Nicky reached the unshaded sidewalk of Summit Avenue, and the echo of the piercing electric guitar music faded in his head. Now he heard Mr. Storch's xylophone. He no longer smelled the heavenly scent of green apples. Now he smelled fish frying. He pushed aside thoughts of the evil Eugene when he saw Mr. Willis, machine-gunned in the leg fighting Japanese in World War II, limping home from the sugar factory. Officer O'Dell trotted down the steps onto Summit, heading to his night shift at the 11th Precinct. And on the front steps of Eggplant Alley, picking at the tangled string of a yo-yo, sat Lester.

“There you are!” Lester said brightly. “Hiya, stranger. It's been forever. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“At the library, studying,” Nicky said.

“Your mother told me,” Lester said. “Very interesting. I should join you there next time.” Lester held up the tangled yo-yo. “Say, do you know anything about these?”

Roy had tutored Nicky extensively on yo-yos. Nicky was an expert handler of yo-yos. Nicky said, “No. I don't know nothing about yo-yos.”

“Oh,” Lester said. With great force, he spat out a massive blue wad of gum. The gum landed on the sidewalk and glistened in the setting sun.

“Have you ever noticed how closely a chewed-up piece of gum resembles a brain?” Lester said.

“Not really.”

A man wearing a plaid jacket hurried past. The man's footstep pressed directly onto the gum. He looked down, shook his foot,
swore. The man left a lacy trail of gooey footprints on the sidewalk as he walked away, swearing.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?” Lester whispered, suppressing a cackle.

“No, I didn't,” Nicky said, and Lester gave up. Anyone who looked at Lester's face could have seen a cloud gather on the boy's heart, because he was sure Nicky didn't like him anymore, for some reason, and Lester was terrified what the reason might be. Lester's scared, bug eyes revealed an imagination unleashed.

What did Nicky know? How did he know?

Anyone who looked at Lester's face would have seen the cold fear. But no one was looking at Lester's face, certainly not Nicky, a boy with a scrambled, jumbled, blown mind.

“Well, I'm going upstairs,” Nicky said without enthusiasm.

“You have a lot of homework?”

“Plenty.”

Lester followed Nicky up the steps and across the courtyard and into Building B. Neither said a word. Lester was thinking about Nicky. Nicky was thinking about Margalo. He was frightened and excited. He felt on the edge of something. His mind was sprinkled with a million glittery images and ideas. He thought of green apples and blue eyes and the beauty of the female form. He could not believe that his mind and heart were doing this. He loved these thoughts and he hated them, because they filled him with longing and hopelessness.

They climbed the staircase, and on the second floor Nicky said, “Lester, I have something to talk to you about.”

“Very interesting,” Lester said. He continued nervously, “Like what?”

“For one thing, do you think my hair is too short?”

Lester blinked, bewildered. He said, “No fooling?” He surveyed Nicky's head and said, “No. It's not too short.” He joshed, “Are you planning to grow your hair long like one of those hippies?”

“Why would you say a stupid thing like that?” Nicky snapped as an image of Eugene Gildersleeves flashed in his skull.

Lester mumbled sadly, “Very interesting.”

Nicky cleaned his ear with his pinkie. He pictured the evening, his mind a jumble, his skin jittery, at home with Mom and Dad. The idea did not appeal to him. Nicky looked at the door to 2-C. He blurted, “Let's go inside for a minute. I've got a story to tell you. I've got to tell someone, and you're the only one I can tell.”

Lester licked his lips and took a step away from the door.

Lester said, “Even better, why don't we go on the roof?”

“What? I don't wanna go all the way up there. I can't sit on the roof in my school clothes. Mom will kill me.”

“Let's go to your apartment then.”

Nicky stared hard at Lester.

“You're not going to let me into your apartment, ever. Are you.”

“It's not that.”

“Guess what?” Nicky snapped. “I've had it with you.”

Lester burbled, “No really. My mama just washed the floors.”

“Forget it,” Nicky said with disgust. He huffed toward the staircase. “There are places around here where I'm welcome. To come in and have sodas and potato chips. And listen to music.”

Lester said, “Don't go.”

“I'm going. Call me when you think I'm good enough to come into your precious apartment.”

Nicky should have let it go at that, but he was not his old self. He stopped with one foot on the bottom stair and added, “And you can forget about playing stickball in the spring. Guess what? I don't wanna anymore. I ain't good enough for your apartment, you ain't good enough for stickball.”

“Wait,” Lester said weakly.

Nicky stomped up the staircase. He was acting like a two-year-old, and it felt delicious. Lester called up to him. Nicky kept walking, climbing, stomping, and with each harsh footstep, Lester's voice sounded smaller and sadder.