“Does this mean you’ll go back to school and not throw our future down the toilet?”
“Not going back to school until summer,” I say.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
I stop walking. I sit on the sidewalk with my back to the side of a building and she sits down next to me and I tell her the whole stupid story.
“Sounds like some asshole was jealous.”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like that whole art club is full of bitches.”
“Carmen is nice,” I say.
“Carmen didn’t have your back, though. Did she?”
I look at her and try to figure out how she’s so honest and how she’s me but not me. I remember being honest. I can’t remember when I stopped.
“Do you remember Bruce getting hit?” I ask.
“How could I not remember that? It was a month ago. Dad knocked his tooth out.”
“I mean before then.”
“No. I do remember Dad being nasty, though. To Bruce, I mean.”
“And Mom.”
“And Mom,” she says.
“I have to get home,” I say. “See you later?”
“I can’t wait to see Bruce.”
I say, “He can’t wait to see you, either.”
? ? ?
When I get home, Dad is locked in his room and Mom is up and doing things. She says, “There you are!” She looks so happy to see me. Looking her in the face isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.
I say, “Want to go for a walk?”
She says, “Fun! Yes!”
When we get outside, she says, “I want to see—um—the other Sarah. You know what I mean.”
“Later,” I say. “She’s busy.”
Mom looks concerned. “How do you know?”
“She’s me.”
“This is very hard to take in, you know.”
“It’s easier than some stuff I can think of,” I say. “It’s easier than a lot of stuff, really.” I’m cranky. I want to call her a liar. I want to ask what Tiffany the palm reader said to her yesterday. I want to forgive her.
She doesn’t say anything. We just walk. I wonder can she see I’ve been through the meat grinder. I wonder can she feel Bruce four blocks away. I wonder if she knows that ten-year-old Sarah is about to save our lives.
Somehow, I know this.
That’s Earl
Mom and I take a left up 15th Street. When we round the corner onto Spruce, I see Alleged Earl drawing on one of the plywood rectangles covering the window above where he sleeps. He’s using oil crayons. Mom sees him, too. I stop and watch. He’s in some sort of trance and I remember that trance. I remember weaving the headpiece that way. It was tedious work. Tiny, thin strands of wire in and out and in and out of the spokes.
“That’s Earl!” Mom says.
I look at her. “You know him?”
“Yeah. He comes into the ER some nights. I haven’t seen him in years, though.”
“His name is really Earl?”
“Did you think it was something else?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I bet he’s hungry,” she says, and crosses Spruce to talk to him.
I follow her a few seconds later because I have no idea why.
Mom has a quick conversation with Earl. He looks over at me. I wave in my circular me-wave. He puts his oil pastel in his coat pocket.
Mom says, “Earl, this is my daughter, Sarah. Sarah, this is my friend, Earl.”
“We finally meet,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You stopped hanging around,” he says. “I kinda missed you.”
“I kinda missed you, too.”
Mom says she’s going to the pizza place for a few slices for us. She crosses the street and leaves me standing here with Earl. No longer alleged. No longer painting on the plywood. No longer jumping up and down or throwing imaginary fruit.
“Your brother is in town, eh?” he asks.
I say, “Mom doesn’t know.”
He looks at me sideways.
“My parents don’t talk to Bruce anymore,” I say. “So his visit is a secret.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s uncomfortable, I bet.”
“Not as uncomfortable as sleeping in that hard doorway every night,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything.
“There has to be a better place to go,” I say.
“I like to be where the action is.”
“But in winter, you could die.”
“I haven’t yet.”
“But there’s no action here. It’s all just the same old thing. Nothing ever really happens.”
Mom arrives back with three slices on paper plates. The grease is seeping through them already.
“Nothing ever really happens?” Earl says. He laughs a little.
“Not around here, no,” I say.
“You know Sarah is an artist,” Mom says. “Just like you.”
I say, “See? That’s the problem. I’m not an artist. And I’m not like him.”
“I got three sodas. What kind do you want?” Mom says, holding up three cans.
“I’ll take the cola,” he says. “Thank you.” He turns to me. I finally get to see his eyes. They’re brown.
“You know the truth will set you free, right?” Earl says.
“That’s why I was following you,” I say.
“I don’t have your truth!” he says and laughs again.
“You’re a real artist,” I say. “I want to be like you.” I don’t tell Earl he is Spain. I don’t tell Earl he is Macedonia.
“You see me in the art museum?”
I shake my head while taking a bite out of my slice.