Three weeks earlier
During certain times of day, my apartment smells like rancid Gouda. Apparently no one else in the building has noticed. I’ve written four letters to Mrs. Schultz, my landlady, but I stopped when I learned she was putting them all in a file folder marked CRAZY, which I happened to glimpse when I went down to her office to pay my rent.
So now, when the smell gets too intense, I just go to the park and play online Go on my laptop.
It’s October 5, 5:59 p.m. The temperature in the park is roughly fifty-six degrees. Silence fills my ears. When I listen more deeply, I can hear the sounds woven into it—the dull roar of distant traffic, the shh-shh of leaves in the wind, the whoosh of my own blood through my veins—but no human voices.
I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, which offers the dual advantage of keeping my ears warm while hiding my face, giving me a sense of privacy. All around me, the park is quiet and still, an expanse of sleepy green grass. A few maples have already started to drop their bloodred leaves. Nearby, a small pond glimmers. Anas platyrhynchos glide across the water, and the heads of the males gleam like carved emerald studded with bright onyx eyes. When they rear up, wings spread, the iridescent blue-black of their speculum feathers catches the light.
I glance at the empty bench by the pond and check the time on my cell phone. I am waiting for the boy with the cane.
Every day, at precisely six o’clock, a boy about my age—perhaps a few years older—emerges from a salmon-colored building across the street, limps to the park, and sits on the bench. Sometimes he reads. Sometimes he just watches the ducks. For the past three weeks, this has been his routine.
When he first started coming here, I resented his encroachment on my territory. I didn’t want to talk to him—I dislike talking to people—but I didn’t want to abandon my park, either. So I hid. After a while, something shifted. He became a part of the scenery, like the ducks, and his presence ceased to annoy me. The clockwork regularity of his visits became—almost comforting.
Sure enough, at six o’clock, the door opens, and he emerges, looking the same as ever: slender, pale, and not too tall, with light brown hair that looks like it hasn’t been trimmed for some time. His open blue windbreaker flaps in the breeze. I watch him make his way to the bench, leaning on his cane. He sits. I turn away, satisfied. Leaning back against a tree, I open my laptop, prop it against my knees, and start a game of Go with a random opponent.
The boy is unaware of my presence. I’m careful to keep it that way.
By the time I leave the park, it’s almost night. On the way home I stop at the Quik-Mart, grab two packages of ramen, a loaf of white bread, a jug of orange soda, and a cellophane-wrapped vanilla cupcake.
I buy the same thing every time, so I know exactly how much it costs: six dollars and ninety-seven cents. I count out exact change before approaching the counter and quickly slide the money, along with my purchases, toward the clerk.
“Anything else?” he asks. I shake my head.
My apartment is just down the street. It stands on the corner, a squat brick building with a single scrawny tree out front. A blue condom hangs from one of the topmost branches like a tiny flag; it’s been there as long as I can remember. Amber shards of broken glass glitter on the pavement.
As I approach the door to the lobby, I freeze. A thin, balding, fortyish man in round glasses and a sweater vest is waiting for me outside, briefcase at his feet, arms crossed over his chest.
“Dr. Bernhardt,” I blurt out.
“Glad I caught you. I’ve been buzzing your apartment. I was about to give up.”
I clutch my groceries to my chest. “Our meeting is on Wednesday. It’s Monday. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I needed to reschedule. I called you several times, but you never answer your phone. I realize you hate surprises, but that being the case, maybe you should try checking your voice mails now and again.” His tone holds a slant that I’ve come to identify as wry.
Dr. Bernhardt is a social worker. He’s also the reason I’m able to live on my own, despite being a minor.
“So,” he says, “are you going to let me in?”
I breathe a tense sigh and unlock the door. “Fine.”
We enter the building and climb the threadbare steps to the second floor. The hallway carpet is a faded shade between beige and blue, with a dark, sprawling stain that could be a spilled drink or dried blood. Like the tree condom, it’s been there ever since I moved in. Dr. Bernhardt wrinkles his nose as he steps over it, into my apartment.
He surveys the inside. A pair of unwashed jeans lies on the floor next to a pile of sudoku books. A half-empty glass of orange soda stands on the coffee table with crumbs strewn around it. A sports bra lies draped over the top of the TV.
“You know,” he says, “for someone who loves order and routine, I’d think you would be a little more concerned about hygiene.”
“I was planning to clean before you came over,” I mutter. Messes don’t bother me, as long as they’re my messes. The chaos of my apartment is familiar and easy to navigate.
As I enter the kitchen, an earwig scuttles into the sink and vanishes down the drain. I drop my purchases onto the kitchen counter, open the refrigerator, and slide the orange soda inside.
Dr. Bernhardt peers over my shoulders, surveying the contents of the fridge—a paper carton of leftover Chinese food, the moldy remains of a ham sandwich, a tub of Cool Whip, and some mustard. He raises his eyebrows. “Is there anything in here with nutrients?”
I shut the door. “I’m going grocery shopping tomorrow.”
“You really ought to buy a fruit or vegetable once in a while.”
“Are you obligated to report on my eating habits.”
“Remember, rising inflection for questions. Otherwise people can’t tell when you’re asking them something.”
I think the sentence structure makes it obvious, but I repeat myself, placing emphasis on the last two words: “Are you obligated to report on my eating habits?”
“No. I’m just giving you a piece of advice. You do realize that’s part of my job?”
“Are you asking me a question.”
“It’s rhetorical.” He walks into the living room. “May I sit?”
I nod.
He lowers himself to the couch and laces his fingers together, studying me over the rims of his small, round glasses. “Still working at the zoo?”
“Yes.”
“Have you given any thought to the possibility of college?”
He’s asked me this a few times, and I always give him the same answer: “I can’t afford it.” And I’m unlikely to get a scholarship, since I dropped out of high school—not because I was failing any classes, but simply because I hated being there. I have a GED, but most colleges view an actual diploma as superior. “Anyway, I like my job at the zoo.”
“You’re satisfied with your current situation, then?”
“Yes.” At least, it’s preferable to the alternative.
Before I got this apartment, I stayed in a group home for troubled teenagers. There, I shared a room with a girl who chewed her fingers bloody and woke me up at odd hours by screaming in my ear. The food was terrible, the smells worse.
I ran away on three separate occasions. On the third, I was caught sleeping on a park bench and was dragged to court for vagrancy. When asked why I kept running, I told the judge that homelessness was preferable to living in a place like that. I asked her to grant me legal emancipation—which I had been researching—so that I could live on my own.
She agreed, but only under the condition that someone check up on me regularly. Hence, Dr. Bernhardt became my guardian, at least on paper. He’s obligated to meet with me at least twice a month, but outside of that we have very little to do with each other, which suits me fine.
Still, there’s always an awareness in the back of my mind that he has the power to send me back to the group home. Or worse.
“May I ask you a personal question, Alvie?”
“If I say no, will that make a difference.”
He frowns at me, brows knitting together. He’s frustrated. Or maybe hurt; I can’t tell. I avert my gaze. “Fine. Ask.”
“Do you have any friends?”
“I have the animals at work.”
“Any friends who can talk? And parrots don’t count.”
I hesitate. “I don’t need any.”
“Are you happy?”
It’s another rhetorical question; obviously I’m not what most people would describe as happy. But that has nothing to do with anything. Happiness is not a priority. Survival is. Staying sane is. Pointing out that I’m not happy is like pointing out to a starving homeless man that he doesn’t have a sensible retirement plan. It might be true, but it’s entirely beside the point. “I’m stable. I haven’t had a meltdown for several months.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t understand the point of this question, Dr. Bernhardt.”
He sighs. “I’m not a therapist, I know, but I have been charged with looking after your well-being. I realize you like your independence, but I’d feel a lot better about your situation if you had at least one friend to rely on. When was the last time you actually started a conversation with someone outside of work?”
Until now, he’s been content to ignore my social life, or lack thereof. Why is it suddenly an issue? I rock back and forth on my heels. “I’m not like other people. You know that.”
“I think you overestimate how different you really are. Maybe to start with you could, I don’t know, try a chat room? Online communication is often easier for people with social difficulties. And it might be a good way to meet people with similar interests.”
I don’t respond.
“Look. Alvie. I’m on your side, whether you realize it or not—”
That’s a line I’ve heard before, from many adults. I’ve long since stopped believing it.
“—but the way you’re living now . . . it’s not healthy. If things don’t change, I’ll have to recommend to the judge that, as a condition of your continued independence, you start seeing a counselor.”
Panic leaps in my chest, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. “Are we done.”
He sighs. “I suppose we are.” He picks up his briefcase and walks toward the door. “See you in two weeks.” As he steps out into the hall, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
The door closes.
After he’s gone, I stand in the center of the room for a few minutes, waiting for the tightness in my chest to subside.
I unwrap the cupcake I bought from the convenience store, set it on the coffee table, and stick a candle on top. At exactly 7:45 p.m., I light the candle and then blow it out.
One more year to go, and I won’t have to deal with Dr. Bernhardt or any interfering adult from the state. All I have to do is make it to eighteen without losing my job or missing rent. Then I’ll be fully emancipated. I’ll be free.