Homeless? Maybe. I was going to punch her if she tried to steal from me.
“The hell you looking at?” I crowed, sticking my hand in my front pocket, pulling out a cigarette butt, and placing it in the corner of my mouth. My jeans were about three inches too short, exposing my twiglike shins, but loose around the waist. I knew I didn’t look twelve. Ten, on a good day.
“I’m looking at a kid sleeping in a cemetery.”
“Funny, Sherlock. Where’s Mr. Watson?”
“I don’t know who Mr. Watson is.” She was still staring. “What are you doing sleeping here?”
I shrugged. “Tired. Why else?”
“You’re creepy.”
“And you’re not minding your own business.” I started talking in italics to scare her off. Mom always said the best defense was an attack. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I sneak out here to see if my mom figures out I’m not home.”
“Does she?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Never.”
“Why here?” I scowled. “Why not anywhere else?”
“I’m also visiting my twin brother.” She gestured to the grave she was standing above.
Her twin brother was dead. Even at twelve I had a firm concept of what death was. Mom’s parents were dead, and so was Keith Olsen, and Sergey from the deli down the block, and Tammy, the sex worker who had lived in a tent in Riverside Park. Been to a funeral before too. But this girl losing her brother . . . it weirded me out. Kids our age didn’t just die. Even Keith Olsen’s story had made waves in Hunts Point, and we were a pretty tough crowd.
“How’d it happen?” I rearranged my limbs on Harry Frasier’s tombstone, narrowing my eyes at her so she would know she was not off the hook just because she was sad or whatever. She drummed her bare knee, which had a nasty gash. She must’ve flung herself over the gate to get inside like I had. This was a private cemetery, and you couldn’t pick the front lock; you had to call the office to get in. My bad impression of her shifted to reluctant respect. Even the girls in my neighborhood, who weren’t very girly at all, wouldn’t jump that gate. It had wrought iron spikes and was at least eight feet high.
“He died in his sleep when we were babies.”
“That really sucks.”
“Yeah.” She toed the ground with her Chuck, frowning. “Ever wondered why we do that?”
“Die? Not sure it’s intentional.”
“No. Bury the dead?”
“I don’t really think about stuff like that.” My voice hardened.
“At first I thought it’s like planting seeds, so that maybe hope could bloom.”
“And now?” I wiped sweat from my brow. She sounded smart. Most kids my age had the intelligence of a houseplant.
“Now I think we bury them because we don’t want to share the world with them. It hurts too much.”
I continued frowning, contemplating what to say.
I was getting pretty thirsty, but I didn’t want to move. It felt like a test. Or a competition, maybe. This was my territory. My cemetery for the summer. I didn’t want her to think she could walk in here and steal my spot, dead brother or not. But there was also something else. I didn’t know what. Maybe it didn’t feel so bad after all, not to be alone.
“Well? Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me? Do what you came here to do.” I sucked on the cigarette butt, trying to relight it unsuccessfully with a lighter Mr. Van had dropped in the communal hallway the other day.
“Yeah. Fine. Just don’t interrupt, you . . . you freak.” She flung her arm impatiently toward me.
I rolled my eyes. She was weird. Her brother was a baby when she’d lost him, right? It’s not like they were close or whatever. Still. What did I know about siblings? One thing, really: that I wasn’t going to have any. Because, as my mother pointed out every time a toddler threw a tantrum at the Dollar Tree or Kmart, Children are ungrateful and costly. An expensive liability.
Gee. Thanks, Mom.
The girl turned her back to me, toward the grave. She caressed the tombstone, which I now noticed was smaller than the rest. Actually, all the graves on that row were small. A chill rolled down my back.
“Hey, Ar. It’s me, the other Ar. I just wanted to check in on you. We miss you every day. Mom has been having some pretty bad days again. She’s ignoring Dad and me hard core. The other day I spoke to her, and she looked right through me, like I was a ghost. She’s doing that on purpose. Punishing me. I thought maybe you could visit her a little less in the next few weeks? I know she sees you all the time. In your room, the couch where we used to nap, the window . . .”