Flight

Twenty-one

AFTER MONTHS OF COUNSELING, social work, mental therapy, and absolute boredom, the medical professionals and social workers and cops decide that I am not going to kill anybody. I am not dangerous.

Really, that’s what they say to me: “Zits, we don’t think you’re dangerous.”

How am I supposed to respond to something like that?

“Oh, uh, thank you, ma’am.”

I mean, jeez, I’m a fifteen-year-old foster kid with a history of fire setting, time traveling, body shifting, and mass-murder contemplation. I think I’m a lot more than just dangerous.

I think I might be unlovable.

But as dangerous and unlovable as I am, the state places me in a temporary foster home.

With Officer Dave’s brother and sister-in-law.

“They don’t have any kids,” Officer Dave says. “But they always wanted a baby.”

I don’t think I exactly qualify as a bouncing baby boy, but who am I to complain?

“Is your brother a cop?” I ask.

“He’s a fireman,” Dave says. “My other brother works for the post office.”

“Jesus,” I say. “You guys are like the civil servant hall of fame or something.”

Dave laughs. I always could make him laugh. I hope I can make his brother laugh.

Man, I can’t believe that a firefighter is going to be my new foster father, but it does make some kind of metaphorical sense, doesn’t it?

I guess they really want me to be under close supervision. Well, I’m happy it’s only going to be temporary. I’ll go crazy living with a firefighter. They always walk around looking for smoke.

I want to ask Dave why he’s sending me to his brother. Why doesn’t Dave just take care of me by himself? I think I know the answer. I think he’s scared of disappointing me.

The social workers deliver me to the firefighter’s house in the middle of the night, like some sort of major-league prisoner or something. They don’t have me in handcuffs, but I feel handcuffed, if you know what I mean.

They put me in this little bedroom. And I lie there in the dark and wonder if I can fall asleep in a strange bed. But I fall asleep while worrying that I might not fall asleep.

The alarm clock wakes me up at 7 A.M. It plays Blood, Sweat & Tears. Really.

That song called “I Love You More Than You Will Ever Know.” The one my mother used to sing to me.

It makes me want to gag. How cruel is this? I’m living in a firefighter’s house and the alarm plays my mother’s favorite song.

I turn off the music, go into the bathroom, and pee for two minutes.

Then I walk out into the kitchen.

Officer Dave is eating breakfast with his brother and sister-in-law: oatmeal and fruit and sausage. It smells great. Dave and the firefighter are wearing their uniforms. The wife is wearing a nurse’s uniform. And she’s kind of hot, you know. She’s really tall and has long brown hair and brown eyes. Her cheekbones are big, too, like Indian cheekbones. I wonder if she’s a little bit Indian. She smells pretty great, too. She smells even better than the oatmeal, fruit, and sausage.

“Good morning,” she says to me. “Do you want some oatmeal?”

“Whatever,” I say, and sit down.

The firefighter looks at me. He’s not reading a newspaper. He’s not ignoring me. He looks right at me.

“My name is Robert,” he says and offers his hand. I take it. We shake like gentlemen.

Officer Dave stares at me, too. I think he’s thinking about those two babies in the bathroom. I wonder if he’ll always look at me and see those two babies in the bathroom. I hope not. I hope someday he looks at me and just sees me.

“Hey, Zits,” he says. “After work today, I’m thinking all of us men should go to the Mariners game. What do you think?”

I want to say Whatever, but it doesn’t come out that way. I realize that Dave isn’t leaving me to his brother. Dave is going to take care of me, too. That makes sense, I suppose. I need as many fathers as possible.

“You ever been to a baseball game?” Robert asks me.

“I’ve never seen one in person,” I say.

A baseball game! Jesus, how American. Next thing you know, Dave and the firefighter and I will be playing catch in the backyard.

“Well, I got some tickets,” Dave says.

“They’re shitty seats,” Robert says. “My brother is a cheap-ass bastard. We’re going to be way up in the sky. Behind home plate. But they’re fun anyway. We’ll watch the game and eat hot dogs and drink lemonade. How does that sound?”

Before I can answer, his wife speaks up.

“You will not eat junk,” she says. “I’ll pack you some fruits and vegetables. And you’ll drink water. Lots of water.”

She smiles at me. Her teeth are the brightest teeth in the world. Every one of those teeth is a statue of somebody beautiful.

“My name is Mary,” she says. “I’m happy you’re here with us.”

“It’s only temporary,” I say.

“Well, Robert and I are hoping to make it permanent,” she says. “How does that sound to you?”

For a second, I can’t even remember what that word means. For a moment, I forget that the word permanent ever existed.

“Wow,” I say. “Permanent might be pretty cool.”

I look at Dave. He’s smiling. How often do cops smile? Not very much, I guess, because Dave’s smile is goofy and big. If he knew how goofy and big it was, he’d practice more.

He’s trying to save me. And he’s smiling about it. I guess that’s okay. Maybe I can save him, too.

“Okay, kid,” he says. “We got to go. I’ll see you back here after work.”

Robert kisses Mary and leaves. Dave tousles my hair and leaves. Yes, he tousles my hair. No father has tousled a kid’s hair since 1955. I wonder if I have dropped into some weird time-travel thing again. But no, Dave is just a decent guy. Wow.

So I’m here alone with Mary. I’m in love.

Is it okay to be in love with your foster mother? Well, to be honest, I don’t care if it’s okay or not.

“All right,” she says. “After breakfast, I’m going to take you down to the new school and get you enrolled. And then I’m going to work for a few hours. And then I’ll come back and pick you up after, okay?”

She’s giving me a schedule.

“What time will you pick me up?” I ask.

“Well,” she says. “School gets out at two-thirty. So I’ll meet you in front about two-forty-five. How does that sound?”

“Are you really going to be there?” I ask.

She smiles, but there’s a little sadness in her eyes, too. She knows I’ve been lied to a million times.

“I’ll be there,” she says. “I promise.”

Promise. What a good word. What a hopeful word.

“Whatever,” I say, because it hurts to have hope.

“Hey, listen,” she says, and leans down close to me. Her face is three inches from mine. She looks right into my eyes. “When I make promises, I keep them. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” I say. And you know what’s weird? I do believe her.

“All right, then,” she says. “Finish your breakfast.”

So I eat until my belly is stuffed and then I go into my bathroom to get ready.

I have my own bathroom!

Pretty soon there’s a knock on the door.

“Yes,” I say.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m decent,” I say, and laugh. I’ve never been decent, not once. And I’ve never used that word before. I’m getting soft.

Mary comes in. She looks a little nervous. She’s carrying a bag of stuff.

“Is there something wrong?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “It’s just — well, this is difficult. But can I say something really personal to you?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Well, it’s about your face.”

“I know. I’m ugly.”

“No, you’re not ugly. You’re handsome, actually. But your skin — we need to start working on your skin. You’ll be a lot happier if we do.”

She reaches into the bag and pulls out three jars and sets them on the sink.

“Okay,” she says. “This is some skin-care treatment stuff, okay? I’m going to teach you how to use it, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Well, first of all, you need to wash your face with this stuff. It’s an acne scrub. It will clean your pores and get rid of the old dead skin, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and wash my face.

“Good, good,” she says. “Then we use this stuff to put right on your pimples. This goes after the bacteria in there. So just put a little on your fingertip and dab it on the big zits, okay?”

That takes me awhile. I have a lot of zits.

“Okay, good,” she says. “Now this last stuff, it’s an all-over moisturizer and oil-reducing cream. It’s funny, but it will keep your skin moist but dry at the same time.”

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“I don’t either,” she says, “but it works, okay? Trust me.”

I rub that stuff all over my face.

“There, that’s good,” she says. “We do this twice a day, and your face should start clearing up in a week or two. A few months from now, you’ll be brand-new.”

That just gets me in the soul. Right there, I start to cry. Really. I just weep and wail.

Mary hugs me. She hugs me tightly. It feels great. I haven’t been hugged like that since my mother died.

I’m happy.

I’m scared, too. I mean, I know the world is still a cold and cruel place.

I know that people will always go to war against each other.

I know that children will always be targets.

I know that people will always betray each other.

I know that I am a betrayer.

But I’m beginning to think I’ve been given a chance. I’m beginning to think I might get unlonely. I’m beginning to think I might have an almost real family.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I keep saying.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll be okay.”

“Michael,” I say. “My real name is Michael. Please, call me Michael.”