Chapter Five
Chapter
Five
Danny jiggled the key to the mailbox on Port Richmond Avenue. He closed his eyes and muttered the Prayer of St. Francis.
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”
Inside the mailbox were two hospital bills, a Super Savers Club catalog, a CD-ROM for Netscape Navigator, and no letter from LaGuardia High School.
“You’re gettin’ a job, Danny,” his mother announced, thumbing through the Post, a ferocious-looking photo of the now infamous lion in black and white.
“LION IN WAIT: Escaped Bronx Zoo Cat Still on the Prowl!”
“A kid as bright as you shouldn’t be sittin’ around all day, rewinding those tapes like some kinda bum,” she said.
Danny wanted to respond that he already had a job—he was halfway through memorizing the Witch’s rap from Into the Woods, which was a lot harder than being a camp counselor or dog-walker.
“Oooh, what about a lifeguard?” she cooed, uncapping a pen with her mouth and circling an article about a shark sighting at Jones Beach.
Danny twisted the key to the mailbox, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer to St. Thomas Aquinas.
“And I pray that You will lead me, a sinner, to the banquet.”
Inside was a charity solicitation from St. Jude’s, coupon pages to ShopRite, and no letter from LaGuardia High School.
“You know what the most dangerous thing at the beach is?” the man with the black nose hairs asked, leaning in conspiratorially.
Danny remembered the article. “Uh…sharks?”
“WRONG! It’s dehydration,” Nosehairs said, stabbing the air with his finger. “Every year, some ding-dong thinks they can beat the sun. And let me tell ya—no one beats the sun.”
Danny offered a weak smile, looking around the lifeguard office: a lawn chair tucked under a folding table and a water-damaged poster of a dopey-looking cartoon dolphin wearing sunglasses to beat the sun, Danny guessed.
“Besides lifeguard duty, you’re responsible for taking out the trash in the men’s locker room,” Nosehairs said, tossing Danny two pairs of faded red trunks from a locker.
“Not the ladies’ though! As much as we’d like to, am I right?
” he gurgled, poking Danny in the shoulder. “Oh, and you do know CPR, right?”
Danny popped open the mailbox, mumbling a prayer to St. Dominic.
“May God the Father who made us, bless us.”
Inside was a Diners Club offer, a Mervyn’s catalog, and no letter from LaGuardia High School.
Being a lifeguard wasn’t half as bad as Danny expected. He got to sit high above the world, breathe in air that didn’t taste like cigarettes, and listen to the waves crash hypnotically on the shore. It gave him a chance to dream, to craft a specific dream, over and over in his head.
The dream was always the same. It began with him finding the letter from LaGuardia stuffed in the mailbox, like a golden ticket.
He’d hide it under his pillow, then make breakfast for his Ma the next morning—runny eggs and white toast and coffee with three Sweet’N Lows.
Then he’d thank his Ma for all her hard work and for saving up for his St. Pete’s tuition.
But surprise! He wouldn’t be needing it after all!
Now she could finally fix the kitchen sink or buy herself a fur at Lord & Taylor!
The scene always ended with rapturous applause as she threw her arms around him—but not too tight—telling him that she understood perfectly and was the proudest damn mother on the North Shore.
Danny opened the mailbox and said a quick Our Father.
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
Inside was a flyer for a summer sale at Linens ’n Things, a Valpak, and no letter from LaGuardia High School.
Ma had promised that a new summer job would attract some new friends.
That hope was scrapped about three days in.
Joey Bagaducci, one of his classmates at St. Pete’s, did his part by breaking the news to the rest of the lifeguards that Danny was, in fact, an absolute frickin’ loser.
High fives and “Hey Dannys!” turned into waves, then smirks, then open avoidance, then forgetting Danny worked there at all.
Joey and the other guards spent more time flirting with sunbathers than they did looking out for drowning kids.
Danny picked up the slack, scanning the shoreline and making sure to take sips from his Gatorade squeeze bottle.
Joey and the other guards passed the day opening heavy umbrellas and doing one-handed push-ups in the sand and helping themselves to tan backs and tan legs and tan shoulders, all thirsting for baby oil.
Joey and the other guards finished the day with peeling noses and phone numbers tucked into waistbands and wine cooler buzzes.
Danny ended the day riding the S57 bus back home, listening to some cast recording and leaving a tiny pile of sand on his seat.
Danny opened the mailbox and said a prayer to St. Michael the Archangel.
“O prince of the heavenly hosts, blahblahblah.”
Inside was a sweepstakes letting him know he’d already won $10,000, a hospital bill, and no letter from LaGuardia High School.
It was late on a Friday afternoon, just as Danny’s shift was ending, when he entered the men’s locker room.
He heard a shower running, which wasn’t so strange, even though they were always freezing cold and smelled like the reptile house at the zoo.
Danny emptied the garbage, tied the bag, and replaced it, but then noticed the shower was still going, which was kind of strange.
Sometimes the button got jammed, and he’d have to fix it with a screwdriver.
But this time, when the water stopped, a thumb or wet palm immediately pressed it back on—something Danny had to admit was strange.
The shower room was set in yellow tile with twelve showerheads all out in the open.
When Danny peered around the corner, his eyes landed on the figure of a man facing the wall, his dripping swimsuit hanging limp on a towel hook.
The man was about his father’s age with short dark hair and a slight bald spot at the crown.
Danny watched, frozen, as the man pumped pink soap from the dispenser, lathering it over his tan legs and white butt.
The guy shook out his arms, then turned slowly, soapsuds running down his stomach to the divide of white skin and the triangle of black hair below his waist. The man looked up, wiping water from his face, startled to find a boy looking at him, staring at him, seemingly gripping the wall for balance.
“S-sorry,” Danny mumbled, bolting from the locker room, slip-n-sliding in his flip-flops and leaving the bag of garbage behind like a rotting fish.
Danny put his key in the mailbox and said a prayer to no one.
He twisted it open and inside there was nothing.
Danny bolted up the stairs two at a time. His mother was already home, sitting at the kitchen table. The mail was spread out in front of her like a game of solitaire, an open letter clenched tightly in her fists.
Shit.
“Hey,” Danny said, eyes locked on the piece of paper.
“ ‘Dear parent-slash-guardian of Daniel Victorio,’ ” his mother read, her left eyebrow raised like a switchblade. “ ‘The admissions committee has reviewed student transcripts, test scores, and auditions,’ ” she said, emphasizing the final word.
“Ma—”
This was not how the dream was supposed to start.
“ ‘Based on this criteria,’ ” she steamrolled, “ ‘we are pleased to offer Daniel Victorio admission to the Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts for the 1996–1997 academic year.’ ”
The jar of lightning bugs that lived in Danny’s chest twisted open, the glowing insects spilling out and filling him with a rush of electricity.
“It’s funny,” Danny’s mother said, nothing funny in her voice. “I wonder how the admissions committee got our new address. Seeing as we haven’t even told your grandparents where we are.”
“Ma, I can explain—”
“Funny they’d admit a Daniel Victorio, when he’s already enrolled at St. Peter’s.”
“Mom, just let me—”
“Because there’s no way my son would go behind his own mother’s back and go, God knows how, into Manhattan”—the vein in her forehead ready to burst—“to audition for some, I don’t know, circus school? Especially when I’ve paid good money for a real education right here in Staten Island.”
Danny tried to listen, but the words charged through his head like racetrack ponies. Offer Daniel Victorio admission…Offer Daniel Victorio admission…
“Is this what you do in your room all day?” she howled, throwing her arms up in the air. “Think up ways to kill your mother?!”
“No!” he pleaded. “I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t wanna make a big deal if…Wait…” He couldn’t help himself. “It really says that? I got in?”
“Daniel Anthony Francis Victorio!” His mother slammed her fists on the table, full confirmation name loosed from its chamber like a cannonball. “What in God’s name have you done?!”
“I…I…!” Danny dug his fingers into the back of his scalp, grasping at words, a reason, an explanation, anything.
“I did it to help you!” he burst finally, fast-forwarding to the part of the dream where the heroic son swoops in and saves the day. Sure, there were no runny eggs or sweet coffee, but there was still that tuition bill.
“I know you can’t afford St. Pete’s,” Danny launched into his monologue. “I know things have been hard without Dad. That he was the one who paid for everything.”
Danny shrugged like, Whaddya gonna do? Dad sucks, amiright?
“So I’m just sayin’, this might be a way out for both of us,” Danny said. “That money you were gonna pay to St. Pete’s? Now you can use it to buy yourself a fur coat or something.”
His mother fixed him a death glare.
“Yeah, or, uh, fix the sink,” he said, shrugging again. “Whatever you want.”
Danny’s mother looked like she’d taken a bite of gristly meat, like she was deciding whether to keep chewing or spit it out into her napkin.
“You think I want…a fur coat?” she said.