dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or…”
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?”
“My dad,” I said, surprising myself.
“Can I ask how he died?”
“A car crash.”
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
Enough, I thought. But then I said, “I was there.”
“At the car crash?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the car?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt?”
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. “A little,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil-and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rachel said with the most gentle voice. “We’re history partners-it doesn’t mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?”
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady’s house. He looked hurt.
“You didn’t invite me?”
“It was like two in the morning,” I said. “We figured you’d be asleep.”
“Me? I’m an up-all-night party animal.”
“Right,” Ema said. “By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?”
Spoon frowned. “Tell me that epitaph again.”
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, “It’s a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels.”
We looked at him.
“What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don’t know what that’s about, but I can do more research later.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Why don’t we all meet after school and go to the library?” Ema suggested. “We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too.”
“I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I have a basketball game,” I said.
I didn’t want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the ready.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn’t there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I’d gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire’s address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn’t mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman-the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world-gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to “dance naked in the rain.” I don’t know why I’ve always liked that one, but I do. I’ve done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge- it
Funny.
The huge man-a bouncer-frowned at me and pointed to another weathered sign:
I was going to ask the bouncer whether he knew Antoine LeMaire, but that seemed like the wrong move. I took out my wallet and produced the fake Robert Johnson ID saying I was twenty-one. He looked at it, looked at me, knew it was probably a fake, didn’t much care. It was five P.M., but business was brisk. Men entered and left in drifts and waves. There were all kinds-jeans and flannel shirts, sneakers and work boots, suits and ties and shined shoes. Some fist-bumped the bouncer as they came and went.
“Thirty-dollar cover charge,” the bouncer said to me.
Wow. “Thirty dollars just to enter?”
The big man nodded. “Includes buffet dinner. Tonight is Tex-Mex.”
I made a face at the thought. He let me through. I pushed open the door and was greeted by darkness. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. A bikini-clad woman/girl who looked about my age stood by a cash register. I gave her thirty dollars. She handed me a plate, barely looking up at me. “For the buffet,” she said by way of explanation. “That way.” She pointed to the curtain on the right.
I looked at the plate. It was white with the same voluptuous silhouette as on the awning, plus the rather obvious slogan:
My mouth felt dry. My step slowed. I will make a confession to you now. I was nervous, but I was also, well, I was curious. I had never been in a place like this. I realize I should be above that and be mature about it and all that, but a part of me felt pretty naughty and a part of me kind of liked that.
The music was loud with a driving beat. The first thing I passed was an ATM that let you get your cash in fives, tens, or twenties. This, I could see, was to tip the dancers. Men hung at a stage-bar, mostly drinking beer, while the women danced in stiletto heels so high they doubled as stilts. I tried not to stare. Some of the dancers were indeed beautiful. Some were not. I watched them work the men for tips. A sign read:
