11
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 11
Brandi’s move leaves me without a daytime babysitter. That familiar worry line in the middle of my mom’s forehead makes a nasty reappearance. She sits at the kitchen table late into the night, trusty calculator in hand. Her fingers tap over the keys like it’s a genie’s lamp and if she rubs it long enough, it will magically produce the money to pay for someone to watch me while she works.
One day, a couple of weeks after Shelly moved, we unload groceries from our rusted hatchback car as we discuss the problem. Mom’s been missing work to stay home with me, but she can’t keep it up. We need a solution, so I argue that I can stay by myself. I’m 11 now and feel very grown-up. Most of the kids in my apartment building are “latch-key” kids. Shiny silver keys hang on long strings around their necks like badges of honor. They let themselves into their empty apartments after school. All alone, they get their own snacks and do their homework.
Shifting a heavy bag of groceries in her arms, Mom’s brows crease with worry. Her eyes dart around, like she’s looking for a threat. “Maybe if we lived in a nicer neighborhood and I knew it was safe, you could be by yourself. Did you know that last week Mrs. Rodriguez in the next building over had her apartment broken into? It was at 3:30, just when you would get home from school. Thank goodness she was out when it happened, but can you imagine? What if that was you, Kitten? What would you do? No, I’m sorry, but I can’t bear it. Not until you’re older.”
“Is it because you don’t trust me? You think I’ll do something stupid?” There’s hurt in my voice. I tell my mom everything. I get all As at school and don’t get into trouble, except for that one fight with Dominic. Looping my fingers through the handle of the bag I’m holding, I let it swing, hanging down by my thigh.
Mom’s tone softens. “No. That isn’t it at all. Of course, I trust you. It’s everyoneelse I worry about. You don’t know what it’s like.” Her eyes grow distant. “You haven’t learned how awful some people are. How they can look at someone so pure and young as you and want to spoil it. How some people can’t stand beauty. They want to make everything as ugly as they feel inside.” She’s set a bag of groceries down on the hot pavement at our feet so she can use her expressive hands to explain. She’s just finished talking when a voice speaks behind us.
“She can stay with me.”
We whip around to see our new downstairs neighbor, Mr. Chen, the elderly Chinese gentleman who moved into Brandi’s apartment. He has a newspaper in his hands, having retrieved it from his front doorstep. “I can take care of her after school,” he repeats calmly, ignoring the identical looks of shock on our faces.
Mr. Chen is slim, shorter than my mom, with gray hair cut close to his scalp. He walks slowly with a cane. Friendly since he moved in beneath us, he’s always waving hello and making small talk when we pass him on the way to our car.
But we don’t know him.
“Oh no, Mr. Chen. That’s kind of you to offer, but I can’t take you up on it.” Mom’s flustered, trying to be polite and hide her surprise that he would suggest such a preposterous idea.
“Really, I don’t mind. I’m an old, retired man with a lot of time on my hands. It’s understandable, you being cautious, but I promise she’ll be safe with me.” As evidence, Mr. Chen holds up one bony, wrinkled hand. It’s twisted and contracted, trembling with the effort to hold it high.
Point made. There’s no way he could overpower me.
Still, other kinds of threats remain. Ones that aren’t physical.
My mother resists. “It’s too much to ask. I wouldn’t be able to pay you. Sometimes I don’t come home until late or I work weekends.”
“I don’t need money,” Mr. Chen says. “It would be beneficial for me, too. There are certain things I can’t do anymore. Like high-up places I can’t dust, for example, or jars I can’t open. Tiffany could help me with those things after she finishes her homework. That would be her payment.”
Silently, I follow their exchange. I’ve always had a good feeling about Mr. Chen. A good “vibe,” as the kids at school might say. There’s something about his eyes, a gentle kindness. Since he moved in, I’ve heard piano music drifting out his open window and up the stairwell. He plays beautifully, the notes dancing and twining around each other. It might not make perfect sense, but I think someone who makes music that lovely can’t possibly be bad.
“It’s a good idea.” I use my best wheedling voice. “Please, Mom? Can I go to Mr. Chen’s when you work?”
Mom looks helplessly between us, Mr. Chen and me. It’s a sign of her desperation that her resolve crumbles. “Okay. You can stay with him.” She shoots a stern look at me. “You better be on your best behavior, young lady.”
“I will, Mama. I will.” We hug, ignoring the ice cream melting in the grocery bag at our feet.