“So,” she said, settling back in her chair. “How was the trip?”
“Good.”
“And your mother?”
“Good.”
She nodded, flashing her dimples. “Did that hurt?”
“What?”
“That thing in your lip,” she said. “Ouch.”
“No,” I told her. “It didn’t.”
She nodded again. We were running out of topics. I glanced around the room. Everything was old, with a kind of tacky charm, and in need of some sort of repair: a rocking chair missing a few back slats, a small chest of drawers with faded pink paint and no knobs, a cracked fishtank full of seashells and marbles.
And then, as I looked more closely, I saw the notes. Just like the one out front, they were on index cards, written in nice block printing. WINDOW STICKS ON LEFT SIDE, it said next to the back door. CENTER LIGHT SWITCH DOES NOT WORK was posted by a switchplate on the other side of the room. And, taped to the TV set, right by the channel knob, my personal favorite: JIGGLE TO GET 11.
It was going to be a long summer.
“Oh, my!” Mira said suddenly, startling me. She lurched forward in her chair toward the television; like the cat, it took a second for everything to catch up. “Just look at that horrible El Gigantico. This isn’t even his match and he’s going in to attack that poor little Rex Runyon.”
“What?” I said, confused.
“Look!” She pointed toward the screen. “El Gigantico’s girl-friend, Lola Baby, left him for Rex Runyon last week. And now he’s going to beat poor Rex to a pulp. Oh, no. Why don’t the referees stop him? It’s just ludicrous.”
I just looked at her; she was leaning forward, eyes fixed on the screen. “Well,” I said, “it is all—”
“Oh!” One hand flew to her mouth, her pink toes wiggling as she reacted to something on the screen. “He’s pulling that figure-four move. Poor Rex. Oh, he’s going to feel that tomorrow. I don’t even know why El Gigantico cares about that Lola anyway, she’s just as trashy as she can be. . . .”
“Mira,” I said, “you know it’s . . .” She tore her eyes away from poor Rex Runyon, who was having his head slammed into the corner of the ring, repeatedly, while the crowd counted along.
“Know it’s what?” she said brightly. And I wished for a moment that she had a sign too, some index card with instructions to let me know how to proceed.
“Nothing. I . . . I forgot what I was going to say,” I said, and she settled back into the action. I was new here. I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her that it was all fake.
So I watched with her as Rex Runyon got a second wind and came back at El Gigantico, jumping on his back and bringing him to the mat like David slaying Goliath. The sun slowly set over the water while, downstairs, Norman dragged in the rest of his mannequins neck-first. Mira clapped her hands and cheered, with absolute faith, while Cat Norman sat in the windowsill, licking his paws one by one, as my summer began.
Chapter two
We watched wrestling for about an hour. There were four matches, several arguments, and two referees chucked into the action and beaten severely.
“So,” Mira said finally, clicking off the TV as the local news came on, “I am dying for a grilled chicken salad. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” I said, realizing I was.
“Well, there’s a place just up on the corner,” she told me. “The food is great.”
“Okay,” I said, getting up and digging into my pocket for the money my mother had slipped me as I’d gotten on the train.
“Wait, wait. It’s your first night. Let me treat.” She picked up her purse—a big pink vinyl thing, which had to be a thrift shop find—drew out her wallet, and selected a twenty, which she held out to me.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
“Oh, no, I’ll stay here. I’ve already been to town once today. And this way you can get a feel for the place, find your bearings, right?” she said easily, pulling the pen out of her hair and repositioning it with a jab. “Besides, there’s only room on the bike for one, unless you want to ride on the handlebars. But the last time we tried that, I hit a rock and Norman got pitched off and crash-landed into this fence and a bunch of poison ivy. It was just awful.”
“Wait,” I said, struggling to catch up. “The bike?”
“Yep. She’s out front.” She stood up, tightening the belt on her kimono. “Don’t worry, there’s a light and everything. And it’s a straight shot up to the Last Chance. Just watch out for the huge pothole and the Masons’ rottweiler and you’re home free.”
“What?”
“Their chicken Caesar salad is so good! ” she said. She was already heading toward the kitchen, the door creaking as she pushed it open. “And you just get whatever you want, okay?”
I turned to say something, but she was already gone, humming under her breath, as if she’d forgotten me already. I looked at the note on the door—BELL—and felt like I’d been caught up in some wild cyclone, like Dorothy thrown into Oz, with not a good witch in sight to save me.
But my stomach was growling, so I looked at the bike, thought better of it, and set off on foot down the steps, past the brightness of the porch light, into the dark.
The Last Chance Bar and Grill was a small building on the corner, right before the exit to the bridge that crossed over to the mainland. It had one lone streetlight, a few parking places, and a neon sign that said, Mira style, FOOD.