When (v5): Rebecca Stead

Because even if you were still here, even if I did decide to write the letter, I wouldn’t know where to start. The day the laughing man showed up on our corner? The day Mom and Louisa met in the lobby? The day I found your first note?

There is no answer. But if someone sat on my legs and forced me to name the day the whole true story began, I’d say it was the day Sal got punched.

Things That Stain

It happened in the fall, when Sal and I still walked home from school together every single day: one block from West End Avenue to Broadway, one block from Broadway to Amsterdam, past the laughing man on our corner, and then half a block to our lobby door.

That middle block between Broadway and Amsterdam is mostly a huge garage, where the sidewalk is all slanted, and we had to be careful when it was icy or else we’d slip right in front of the pack of boys always hanging out there. If we did fall, they’d make a really big deal out of it, staggering around laughing, and sometimes calling us names that made our hearts beat fast the rest of the way home.

The day Sal got punched, there was no ice on the ground because it was only October. I was carrying the big oak-tag Mysteries of Science poster I’d made at school. I had drawn big bubble letters for the title, which was Why Do We Yawn?

There are a lot of interesting theories about yawning. Some people think it started as a way of showing off the teeth to scare predators away, or as a way to stretch facial muscles, or to signal to the rest of the tribe that it’s time to sleep. My own theory, which I included on my poster, is that yawning is a semipolite way of telling someone that they’re boring everyone to death. Either that or it’s a slow-motion sneeze. But no one knows for sure, which is why it’s a mystery of science.

The day Sal got punched, the boys by the garage were hanging out, as usual. The day before, there had been a fight, with one of them slamming another one up against a parked car and hitting him. The kid getting hit had both his hands up like he was saying “Enough!,” but every time he tried to get off the hood of that car, the other kid pushed him down and hit him again. The other boys were all jumping around and yelling and Sal and I had crossed to the other side of the street so that we wouldn’t get accidentally slammed by somebody.

On the day Sal got punched, the boys were being regular, so we stayed on our usual side. But just as we started past the garage, someone moved away from the group. He took a big step toward me and Sal and blocked our way so that we had to stop. I looked up and saw a not-too-biggish kid in a green army coat. He made a fist that came up like a wave and hit Sal right in the stomach. Hard. Sal doubled over and gurgled like he was going to throw up. And then the kid whacked him across the face.

“Sal!” I yelled. I glanced over at Belle’s Market on Amsterdam, but no one was out front. Sal was bent over and frozen. The kid just stood there for a few seconds with his head tilted to one side. It seemed crazy, but it actually looked like he was reading my Mysteries of Science poster. Then he turned away and started strolling toward Broadway like nothing had happened.

“Sal!” I leaned over to see his face, which looked okay but had one cheek all red. “Walk,” I said. “We’re almost home.”

Sal’s feet started to move. It took me a few steps to realize that the boys weren’t laughing or whistling or calling us names. They hadn’t made a sound. I looked back and saw them standing there, staring after the kid in the green army coat, who was still walking in the other direction.

“Hey!” one of them yelled down the block after him. “What the hell was that?” But the kid didn’t look back.

Sal was moving slowly. He squeezed the arms of the blue satin Yankees jacket Louisa got him for his birthday, and tears were dropping down his face, and I almost cried but didn’t. It was my job to get him home, and we still had to get by the laughing man.

He was on our corner, marching around in a circle and doing some salutes. Sal was crying harder and walking in a hunch. Some blood had started dripping out of his nose, and he wiped it with the blue and white striped cuff of his jacket. He gagged a lot. It sounded like he really might throw up.

When he saw us, the laughing man dropped his arms to his sides and stood up straight. He reminded me of the big wooden nutcracker Louisa puts out on her kitchen table at Christmastime.

“Smart kid!” he said. He took a step toward us, and it was enough to make Sal take off running for home. I ran after him, trying to hold on to my poster and get my keys out of my jeans.

When I had gotten us into the lobby, Sal went straight to his apartment and closed the door on me. I knocked for a while, but Louisa wasn’t home from work yet and he wouldn’t let me in.

If I’m not wrong, this is the beginning of the story you wanted me to tell. And I didn’t know it yet, but it was also the end of my friendship with Sal.

Mom’s Rules for Life in

New York City

Always have your key out before you reach the front door.

If a stranger is hanging out in front of the building, don’t ever go in—just keep walking around the block until he’s gone.

Look ahead. If there’s someone acting strange down the block, looking drunk or dangerous, cross to the other side of the street, but don’t be obvious about it. Make it look like you were planning to cross the street all along.

Never show your money on the street.

I have my own trick. If I’m afraid of someone on the street, I’ll turn to him (it’s always a boy) and say, “Excuse me, do you happen to know what time it is?” This is my way of saying to the person, “I see you as a friend, and there is no need to hurt me or take my stuff. Also, I don’t even have a watch and I am probably not worth mugging.”

So far, it’s worked like gangbusters, as Richard would say. And I’ve discovered that most people I’m afraid of are actually very friendly.

Things You Wish For

“Miranda?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “We need you to keep time. This egg-timer ticking is driving me crazy.”

So I watch the second hand of the kitchen clock while Richard feeds Mom clues. Then Mom gives the clues while Richard guesses.

“Can I play?” I ask after about five rounds.

“Sure. Richard, you keep time for a while.” Mom stretches and peels off her purple sweatshirt. As it goes over her head, her hair falls free of the collar and bounces down around her shoulders. As usual, this makes me curse my nonexistent dad, who must be to blame for my hair, which is straight, brown, and just kind of there . I blame this stupid flat brown hair on my father, but otherwise I don’t hold any grudges against him.

In my book, Meg is looking for her father. When she finally gets to Camazotz, which is a planet somewhere near the Big Dipper where he’s being held prisoner, this evil man with red eyes asks her why she wants him, and she says, “Didn’t you ever have a father yourself? You don’t want him for a reason . You want him because he’s your father.”

So I figure it’s because I never had a father that I don’t want one now A person can’t miss something she never had.

Richard is looking at the kitchen clock, waiting for the second hand to get to the twelve. “Okay, get ready—go!”

I look down at the first card. “Um, this is something you spread on toast,” I say.

“Butter!” Mom yells.

Next card. “You drink a milk shake with this, you suck through it.”