A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

“You be quiet!”

       Zumi busts up laughing and I join her.

       Team Fernandez walks by, carrying trays back to the kitchen. We instantly stop laughing. Annie coolly eats a bite of lasagna while Connor wrestles with the lid of his juice. Zumi scowls, her head pivoting to keep them in her glare as they walk by, like she’s a tracking cannon. The instant they’re gone, Zumi giggles, throws her arm around my shoulders, and leans into me hard.

       I’m in.

      

      HAMSTER IS ACTIVE

      HUMMINGBIRD IS FLYING

      HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING

      HANNIGANIMAL IS UP!

      I’m still in a good mood despite that weird conversation with Connor yesterday. Two days in a row is some kind of record, at least recently. Maybe because it’s Friday, and I have almost no homework, and the sun finally came out … but no, I know better. My ups and downs have minds of their own.

      I ride after school along the beach trail, pumping the pedals, outpacing the lumbering zombies I imagine chasing me on my way to work. They’ll never catch me. Not as long as I have Nolan’s bike.

      Parked in front of the Silver Sands Suites is a small rental van. Maybe someone’s moving in. I head inside. Five minutes later I’ve locked my stuff in a cabinet by the sink, put on clean scrubs, pinned on my name tag, and washed my face and hands thoroughly.

      I check the mirror. Despite vigorous scrubbing, I’m still dotted with freckles. My aunt Joan and I have a long-standing bet that I’ll outgrow them. She thinks they’re temporary because I have slightly lower density plus brown hair and blue eyes, but I’m less than a month from my seventeenth birthday. As much as I wish she were right, I think I’m going to win this bet … damn it.

      In the kitchen I fill a glass of orange juice halfway. I hold it behind my back as I enter the Sun Room. Ms. Arguello is alone here and calls to me, “Excuse me, miss?”

      She’s in the paisley wingback chair by the south window, knitting a heavy scarf, like every day of the two years I’ve worked here.

      “How’s your first day going?” she asks.

      “Very well, Ms. Arguello, thank you.”

      “Oh! You know my name already. How nice, Miss …”

      I stoop to bring my name tag closer to her.

      “Mel Hannigan?” She laughs. “Was that on your shirt when they gave it to you? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get your own soon!”

      I smile. “No, that’s my name.”

      She looks at me askance, playfully suspicious. “Is it short for Melissa?” I shake my head. “Melinda?”

      “Nope, just Mel. What can I do for you?”

      I know what she wants—it’s the same every day—but she’s much happier when I play out this scene naturally.

      “Let me know when the mail comes? I’m expecting a letter from my grandson. I’m knitting this muffler for him.”

      “I’ll keep an eye out. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

      “No, thank you. Or, maybe a small glass of orange juice?”

      She smiles when I hand it to her. She doesn’t ask why I had it ready. The fact that her letter will never come pops into my head. I push it right back out and leave her to her knitting.

      Some days I avoid the Beachfront Lounge for as long as I can, but not today. The Hanniganimal is Up! As soon as I walk in, Mr. Terrance Knight sees me and grins. He sets down his book—today it’s his Bible—and struggles out of his usual chair by the heater vent. It’s a battle he wants to win without help, and it usually takes a full thirty seconds.

      I don’t remember how old Mr. Terrance Knight is exactly, but he’s at least eighty and still a few inches taller than me, maybe a full six feet. I wait till he’s standing and balanced, and then I look up into his eyes, his curly hair shockingly white next to his rich black skin.

      “You just get here, Mel? You need to settle first?”

      His voice is like thick melted butter; I want to swim in that voice. I squint at him and smile with the right side of my mouth. “Mr. Terrance Knight, I’m never gonna settle!”

      “That’s what I want to hear!” he says.

      We head for the piano.

      My boss’s door opens. A wispy ball of white hair like a dandelion pops out—it’s Judith.

      “Sorry,” she says to Mr. Terrance Knight. “I need her.”

      When I get close, Judith whispers, “Ms. Li. First day. I think she needs some of your magic.”

      Ms. Li is tiny, sitting in a chair, wearing a simple red silk blouse, black skirt and hose, and pumps that aren’t nearly comfortable enough for a woman her age, or any age if you ask me. Her hands are folded in her lap. Tears stream down her wrinkled face.

      Standing beside her is a tired middle-aged man, probably a relative, wearing a brown suit that’s rumpled and looks slept in.

      “This is Mel,” Judith says to Ms. Li in a loud voice. “She’ll stay with you while we finish up some details. We’ll be right outside.”

      Ms. Li doesn’t seem to hear. Judith leads the man out and closes the door.

      I sit in the chair next to her. It’s good to let them lead.

      After another minute of tears and trembling, she looks at me.

      I smile. Not my bright smile—I can’t imagine she’d want to see that now. I smile in a way that says, I understand how much the world sucks sometimes … but it doesn’t always.

      Her eyes crinkle at the corners. I think she heard me.

      “Do you want something to drink?” I ask as loud as Judith.

      “I’m not deaf,” she says. “I just didn’t want to answer her endless questions.”

      “Oh, sorry!” I laugh. “She only wants you to be happy here.”

      I open the apartment fridge by Judith’s desk, retrieve a water bottle, and show it to Ms. Li. She nods. There are plastic cups on the desk; I fill one halfway.

      While she sips, I say, “You maybe don’t want to hear about how nice this place is, but it’s really great. I know it’s probably not as good as being at home—”

      “Ha! The witch’s castle? That’s the only good to come of this!”

      “What?”

      “My daughter-in-law. Wretched woman. I only stayed in her castle because of Miles.”

      “Who’s Miles?”

      “My other son.”

      “Is he—”

      Her eyes shut and force two more tears down her cheeks.

      I take her hand. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.”

      She squeezes my fingers and holds on.

      “Dad!” a muffled voice says in the hall. “Where is she?”

      The door swings open—our hands let go—and someone rushes in and kneels before Ms. Li.

      He looks about my age, my height, but nothing else