Bat Summer Read online

  I go to get her a glass of water.

  The kitchen is even messier than the living room. The dishes are all over the place and the garbage is overflowing. On the counter is an old cheese wrapper with some fuzzy vegetable on it. I think it is a zucchini, but it could just as easily be a cucumber, or even a carrot. Only the cupboards are clean — empty of all the dishes. I look on the kitchen table for a glass to wash and see a stack of notes, all written on toilet paper.

  “Michael: do dishes,” one says. At the bottom in different handwriting is, “Lorraine: buy bread.” Michael and Lorraine must be Lucy’s parents. Another one says, “Michael: pay phone bill,” and at the bottom, again, in different handwriting, is, “Lorraine: clean bathtub.”

  There are, like, twenty of these pieces of toilet paper stacked on the table. Someone has blown his or her nose in a couple of them — you can still see the magic marker writing on the sides.

  On the corner of the kitchen table is a glass full of colored magic markers. They all have their caps on. Lucy must take care of the markers to keep them fresh for making her tattoos — or maybe to keep them fresh so that her parents can write these notes to one another. I guess with her father working nights and her mom I-don’t-know-where during the days, they don’t have much time for housework — only enough time for writing notes on toilet paper. Or maybe this is how they have a fight.

  I wash out a glass, fill it with water and take it to Lucy. She takes a sip. She blows her nose into her bat cape. Gross. She gulps down half of the water. She puts the glass on the floor and sighs.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she says to the air. I can almost see the words float out of her mouth.

  “Maybe you should wash your hair,” I say. She slices me with her laser eyes. I ignore her and pick up the shampoo.

  “I stole it,” she says. I can’t believe it. “My sister Daphne has shampoo, but she’s got a lock on her door so I can’t get in. My mom showers at the gym at the university and there’s a shower where my dad works, because it’s so hot with the ovens and everything. Anyway, there’s no shampoo in the bathroom. I was using dish soap and then just soap. Daphne’s mad at Mom so she hasn’t bought any groceries in two weeks. She’s supposed to look out for me, but she’s been getting extra hours at work. I think she spent the money on new shoes. She gave me $10 last week, but I spent it already.” She chokes it out. “I bought too many egg rolls. I didn’t know shampoo was so expensive.”

  “I get $10 for allowance every week,” I say. “It’s hardly enough for ice creams and Slurpies.”

  “You must be rich,” Lucy says.

  “I don’t think we are,” I say. But I’m not so sure. “We have a pretty big TV set and I get new clothes twice a year.”

  “That’s rich,” she says. “We used to be rich before we moved here. Dad says it’s because Toronto is really pricy. I think we have enough money. It’s just that nobody has time to buy anything. He’s working. Mom’s cramming all these courses in so she can get a better job. And they are mad at each other all the time now because they hate it here. They don’t even want to live here. They won’t even talk to one another. It’s all my fault.” How can it be her fault? “It was going okay until Daphne got the job a couple of months ago. Now she doesn’t have any time to shop or do laundry or anything and my parents are so stubborn. Mom thinks Dad has more time and Dad thinks Mom has more time and they have both been in a crappy mood for a month. I mean, I would buy the stuff if they gave the money to me. I’m old enough to take care of myself. I don’t see why Daphne should have to do everything.” I look around at the living-room mess.

  “I don’t think there’s any law against you cleaning up,” I say.

  “But I’m only twelve,” she says and smiles at me, bat-style — with her mouth open and all her teeth showing.

  That starts me laughing, and then she starts laughing and then she puts a sweater or something over my face to shut me up because her dad is sleeping, and we’re both laughing and biting down on clothing. Lucy falls back into the couch, she’s laughing so hard, and we both hear her bat cape rip. We both stop laughing for a second and look at each other while we listen for sounds of her dad. She puts her head against the wall, then so do I. We can both hear him snoring and that starts us laughing all over again. Lucy falls on the floor holding her stomach. The newspapers rustle under her and make it sound like it’s raining inside.

  I get on the floor and start to roll Lucy up in the newspapers. It’s like she is a big fish and I’m packing her up for dinner. She squirms, but I get one end folded over her feet. I go to do the same to the head end, to pack her up real good. She sits straight up, her arms still wrapped in newspaper. Her face has a fierce look of warning on it.

  The lice — she doesn’t want me to touch her head.

  That’s the end of the fun. She stands up and the papers fall around her feet.

  I pick up the newspapers and put them in a pile. I keep picking up papers until all the papers are in one big pile. Then I start taking all the dishes into the kitchen. On my third trip back to pick up more dishes, I run into Lucy in the doorway. She cracks me a shy smile, but we don’t say anything.

  Once all the dishes are in the kitchen, Lucy starts filling up the sink with water. I fold the clothes on the couch and put them in a pile underneath the coffee table. By the time I get back to the kitchen, Lucy is up to her elbows in bubbles.

  “I thought you didn’t have any dish detergent?” I whisper. Lucy points to the bottle of shampoo by the sink and we both break out in giggles again. Lucy puts the dishes into the water carefully, so they don’t make too much noise. I use Lucy’s bat cape to dry the glasses. By the time they are done, the whole thing is soaked. We still have the dishes and pots to do. Lucy takes the cape off for the first time ever and hands it to me.

  I don’t feel right using it anymore, now that it’s not on her. It’s like she handed me her leg or something. Lucy looks naked without her cape on. She looks a lot smaller.

  I half wish we hadn’t started with the dishes. Tom would have a fit if he ever found out I helped a girl do dishes and even had fun doing it. If Tom found out, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Lucy won’t tell. Bats don’t tell on other bats. I don’t know if there’s an actual bat rule book, but that sounds right to me.

  Lucy has to refill the sink three times before we are even near finished. We decide to let a few of the pots soak. I watch Lucy wipe the counters. She lifts the toilet-paper notes up and puts them back down again. They are the only thing left on the kitchen table — well, them and the glass full of markers. We do a really good job.

  The place looks seven thousand percent better. We could vacuum the living room, but Lucy’s dad is still asleep. I swear, I forgot he was there for a while.

  “Terence,” Lucy says as we are admiring our cleaning job, “will you help me with my hair?” She asks me in a whisper.

  I don’t know if I want to put my hands in lice hair. Then again, it can’t be any worse than the rest of the mess we just cleared out. Bats help bats.

  I nod and Lucy holds up her finger and leaves the room.

  She comes back wearing a brown bathing suit. It’s the bathing suit that reminds me that she’s a girl. It’s easier to remember Lucy is a bat than it is to remember she’s a girl. The bathing suit’s a little small for her, so the neck is pulled down lower than it should go. I can see she’s growing boobs. I look up at her face real quick. I can’t be treating a bat like she’s ketchup.

  We go into the bathroom. Lucy locks the door. She kneels on the bathmat and turns the water on. Only one of the bulbs in the light is working.

  “Help me make sure I get it all out,” she says. She leans over the tub and wets her hair under the faucet. I sit on the toilet to watch. She lathers up. Her eyes are shut tight to stop soap from getting in them.

  I can’t help stealing a longer look at her skinny body. She has fuzzy blonde hairs growing on her upper back. You can har
dly tell they’re there at all.

  She sticks her hair back under the faucet and washes the soap out. I can see some lice in the soap. They look like tiny crabs. Their little bodies circle around the drain like pieces of wet rice.

  “Can you check my head?” Lucy asks. She keeps her head over the bathtub. I go over and kneel beside her on the bathmat. I’m not sure exactly what to do. I lean over her and take pieces of her hair and look at them. I don’t see anything. I put my hand on the back of her neck. It is soft. I part her hair at the top and look at the scalp. I see a little wriggling piece of something. I take a quick breath and slowly take my hands off her.

  “I saw one,” I say. “You better try again.” She hits the side of the tub really hard and kicks her foot against the floor. “I’m sure one more time will do it, Lucy.”

  “It better do it. I don’t know. Maybe you need special shampoo. Get out, you little fuckers,” she says as she lathers up again. I look at the back of her neck. I’ll get to put my hand there again.

  There’s a knock on the door. Lucy’s head is under the faucet, so she doesn’t hear. I kick her foot. She turns.

  “What?” She hears the next knock.

  “Lucy?” It’s her dad.

  “Yeah?”

  “I told you, no friends allowed during the day.” He sounds tired and pissed off. Just like Elys before her morning coffee. “Who’s in there with you?”

  Lucy and I look at each other. It’s like we both suddenly realize that we aren’t the same sex. Adults wouldn’t understand about us both being bats.

  “It’s only Terry, Dad,” Lucy says.

  I don’t let people call me Terry because it sounds like a girl’s name. I am always Terence. Only I don’t mind so much if it saves my butt.

  We both listen and wait for her dad to leave the door.

  “Hurry up, okay?” he says finally, and we hear the floor squeak. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. But Lucy still looks pretty nervous.

  “You’ve got to get out of here fast when I open the door. Go straight into the closet across the hall, okay?” I nod. She wraps her head in a towel and listens at the door. After a few seconds she looks at me and then opens it. I fly across the hall and open the closet door. It has a bunch of shelves in it, but I can fit under the bottom one.

  A roll of toilet paper falls on me. I hold it next to my chest to keep it quiet. Sure enough I hear Lucy’s dad coming down the hall.

  “What were you doing in there?” he asks.

  “Washing my hair.”

  “In your bathing suit?” Lucy must be nodding. He doesn’t sound angry anymore, just curious. “Where’d your friend go?”

  “Gone,” Lucy says. I hear the washroom door close and knock my head against a shelf. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from yelping. I bite down on the roll of toilet paper in case I forget to keep my mouth shut. There’s a boxing match going on in my chest. I wonder if Lucy can hear it through the door.

  I press my ear against it and fall over into the hall.

  Lucy’s father is staring down at me, and I’ve got that roll of toilet paper stuck in my mouth. Lucy is right behind him looking petrified. Her arms are shaking. She needs to eat more.

  “What the hell is going on?” Lucy’s dad booms. He’s wearing a bathrobe. People always look meaner when they are angry in their bathrobes. He’s got spiky red hair just like. Lucy It’s sticking up all over the place like a crazy man’s.

  I close my eyes, hoping it will all go away.

  “Get up,” he says. So I do. I take the toilet paper out of my mouth and put it on the shelf in the closet. All the time I can feel him watching my every move.

  “Are you Terry?”

  I nod. He has his hands on my shoulders so I can’t run away. I want to say, “I’m just a kid, I’m just a kid,” but I can’t help thinking about those ketchup magazines I’ve got hidden under my mattress.

  Lucy’s dad is looking me straight in the eye, and I’m having a hard time looking innocent.

  “Terence was just helping me clean up,” Lucy says. Her dad looks her over, too, takes in her wet hair and her bathing suit, and my dry hair and dry clothes. Lucy backs into the living room. “See, Dad?” He grabs the back of my collar and pulls me with him into the living room. Right away he softens up. He moves his hand to my head.

  “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t look particularly happy. He looks like he just ran five miles in his bathrobe. “But I told you no friends, Lucy. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Terry.” I wince a little at him saying my name like that. I feel my heart pounding harder in my chest. I don’t want to leave Lucy alone to get in trouble. Not like Rico left me.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Terence,” Lucy says. “I have an idea I want to talk to you about.”

  “Like what?” her dad says.

  “Daaaad,” Lucy says. She’s trying to smooth it over and it’s working a bit. “It’s kid’s stuff, Dad.” She puts her hand on his arm. “You wouldn’t understand.” Her dad takes another look at the living room. He nods and rubs his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in twenty years. He walks back toward the washroom.

  Lucy walks me to the door.

  “Thanks, Terence,” she says. “Meet me at the picnic table tomorrow.” She closes the door. Instead of taking the elevator, I run down all the stairs. I run ten floors in two minutes.

  When I get home, this weenie guy in an orange tie is reading the comics on the couch. He has his shoes off. He’s wearing gym socks with a suit. Elys would have something to say about that. She may not have a job, but she knows a thing or two about what’s wrong in work attire, and gym socks top the list.

  I’m thinking, “Make yourself at home, buddy.” I’m thinking it, but what I say is, “Uh, hi.”

  The guy pops right up, like I’m his captain. He has one of those moustaches where the ends grow down around the mouth like two daggers. It makes his head look bigger, somehow. It’s the wrong kind of moustache for someone in a suit. My mom likes guys who look like they should be wearing motorcycle outfits but are wearing suits instead.

  “You must be Terence,” he says, sticking out his hand. I have to take it. “I’m Farley. Your mom’s upstairs.” As if I didn’t know. “You’re off school now, right?”

  “Right,” I say. I sit down on the rocking chair. Farley’s in my usual spot. I don’t know what I thought he would look like, but he’s shorter than that.

  The guy looks me over. He seems to be looking for something to ask me about. I would ask him something, but I don’t feel like it right now.

  “You’ve got your mother’s eyes,” he says.

  I think, “Better than having her boobs,” but what I say is, “Yeah, I guess. We both have 20/20 vision.”

  Farley laughs.

  I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he has it bad for my mom. I can just tell. He looks happy about me, which is the wrong way for a boyfriend to act about his girlfriend’s kid. He’s supposed to look more scared.

  I close my eyes because Farley is looking at them all goofy.

  “You been out bothering the girls, Ter?” he says. He shouldn’t call me Ter right off. That’s a mistake. “You look plum tuckered.” Now I have to open my eyes again.

  “Yeah, I was washing my girlfriend’s hair and boy, are my hands tired,” I say. What do I care what he thinks. I usually don’t talk back to adults.

  I think Farley appreciates my honesty, though, because he’s nodding.

  “I never wash hair before the third date,” he says. “What’s she like, your girlfriend?”

  “She’s a bat,” I say. He is definitely going to be telling Mom about our little conversation here. It will give her something to chew on while Farley’s trying to impress her with his bad French in Montreal. He raises his furry eyebrows. “She hangs upside-down from a noose in the attic.” Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you say.

  “Oh,” he says. Lucky for him, Mom comes downstairs. She’s got on her weekend cl
othes — black shorts and T-shirt.

  “Terence, Good. I’m glad you’re home, hon.”

  “You said to be here for when you left.”

  “Yes. And here you are.” Now she’s the one acting all goofy. She sounds like somebody’s mom, but not mine. She’s talking to me but looking at Farley. She doesn’t ever call me hon. She calls me “Ter, you whacko, be a sweet thing and get your mom a sandwich.” Sometimes she calls me Ter Bear, usually after a particularly bad day at work, or once when I got a big sliver and she had to pick it out with a sterilized needle. “So, you met Farley?”

  “Yeah. I did.” Now I totally regret saying anything to the guy about anything. He winks at me. Yeesh.

  “Terence was telling me about this bat he knows.”

  “A bat?” Mom smiles, like my whole life is a joke. “Yeah. He says she likes to hang upside-down in attics.”

  “I hope you aren’t going into strange houses, hon,” Mom says. She’s not getting it at all. Neither is he. Anyway, I can tell by the way they’re looking at each other that I could say that the CN Tower toppled over and they would say, “That’s nice,” and go to Montreal.

  What I end up saying is, “No. I just know this bat. That’s all.” I start rocking the chair and close my eyes again.

  “You got everything?” Farley asks.

  I wonder if my father had a moustache like Farley’s. Maybe Elys knows. Mom tells her a lot of stuff. Mom says she didn’t know my father very well. She says she loves him for giving her the best gift ever: me.

  It felt strange being in a house with a father today. I always feel like I have to be really careful when a father is around. They seem more naturally mean than mothers. Mom lets me do anything I want — as long as it doesn’t mean any work for her.

  “Can I go to the Science Centre this weekend, Mom?” It’s the perfect time to ask. Farley’s got her bag slung over his shoulder and is making for the door. I can tell he doesn’t know whether to stop or not.

  “I’ll be there in a sec, hon,” Mom says to him. What’s with this hon thing? She fiddles in her purse, pulls out some cash and puts it on the coffee table.