1 • Stuck Like Glue
E ven though I am almost eleven years old, my mother is stuck to me like glue.
It seems like kids everywhere else in the world are walking to school alone, scooting down to the corner store for a pack of gum, or going over to a friend’s house after supper for a game of basketball. But I live in New York! Home of muggers, dive-bombing pigeons, the subway, and people who talk to hydrants. I’ve noticed that grown-ups are delighted to list the countless dangers. And one of these days, I’m going to have to look after myself outthere in the wilds.
When I read books about kids my age, I am amazed at how little their mothers have to do with their lives. They are either dead, or busy doctors, or famous actresses who have convenient world tours whenever the kid has an adventure. The fathers are either dead, or distracted professors, or away at sea for months at a time.
My father doesn’t live with us anymore, but my mother is with me every single minute of every single day of my life. We live in a loft, which is like an apartment except it’s all open. My mom has a real room with a door, but the rest is just a big, huge space divided by half walls and screens.
My sister, Jane, and I have to share the area next to the windows that look out on Broadway. This is not the Broadway with theaters and sparkly lights and people in tuxedos smoking cigars. This is the Broadway where trucks roar past all night long. So if Jane doesn’tkeep me awake by grinding her teeth, there are horns honking and brakes screeching.
My only personal territory is the top bunk. I don’t bother to keep a diary because I have no private life to record.
My mother has the one job guaranteed to keep us in her sight: She is the librarian at our school and has not missed a day of work since she started the job four years ago. You would think that by the weekend, she’d be ready for a rest. But, even though we do get to sleep in, plus watch cartoons, we also have to have a weekly Family Excursion, and that means Together.
So, on the second Sunday in April, my mother decided to take us to Central Park for the first picnic of the spring. Central Park is the biggest collection of grass and trees in New York City and, since we don’t have a backyard, we like to go there. We usually start at the bottom of the park, at Fifty-ninth Street.We walk past the artists who draw dopey chalk portraits of tourists and then go along the path that leads to the zoo.
We only go
into
the zoo about twice a year, usually on an icy Sunday in February when going to the tropical house is like a vacation in Brazil. It’s like being inside a kettle just after the tea is made. Most often, we don’t pay to go in; we just hang over the fence and watch the seals being fed.
“Why do they like fish so much?” asked Jane.
“Because they live in the ocean, and that’s the only thing they can get their hands on,” I told her.
“You mean their flippers on,” she said.
We watched the trainer tossing slippery silver bodies into the air and the seals craning their necks just slightly to make the catch.
“Do you think they like French fries?” asked Jane.
“They would probably throw up if they hadFrench fries,” said my mother.
“Oh, let’s try it next time,” said Jane to me. “I want to see what seal throw-up looks like.”
“That’s gross, Jane,” I said, giving her the tiniest push. She shoved me back, hard. I stepped on her toe, just on the edge, and she screamed as though I had cut off her foot with an axe and fed it to the seals.
My mother got mad and, of course, took Jane’s side and said I had to wait at the bottom of the first rock until Jane climbed ahead. She knew that would really bug me.
The best part of Central Park is the way huge rocks burst out of the ground like kid-size mountains. Some of them are covered in lichen or have trees growing out of the cracks. Some of them are just solid gray lumps, waiting to be scaled by
E ven though I am almost eleven years old, my mother is stuck to me like glue.
It seems like kids everywhere else in the world are walking to school alone, scooting down to the corner store for a pack of gum, or going over to a friend’s house after supper for a game of basketball. But I live in New York! Home of muggers, dive-bombing pigeons, the subway, and people who talk to hydrants. I’ve noticed that grown-ups are delighted to list the countless dangers. And one of these days, I’m going to have to look after myself outthere in the wilds.
When I read books about kids my age, I am amazed at how little their mothers have to do with their lives. They are either dead, or busy doctors, or famous actresses who have convenient world tours whenever the kid has an adventure. The fathers are either dead, or distracted professors, or away at sea for months at a time.
My father doesn’t live with us anymore, but my mother is with me every single minute of every single day of my life. We live in a loft, which is like an apartment except it’s all open. My mom has a real room with a door, but the rest is just a big, huge space divided by half walls and screens.
My sister, Jane, and I have to share the area next to the windows that look out on Broadway. This is not the Broadway with theaters and sparkly lights and people in tuxedos smoking cigars. This is the Broadway where trucks roar past all night long. So if Jane doesn’tkeep me awake by grinding her teeth, there are horns honking and brakes screeching.
My only personal territory is the top bunk. I don’t bother to keep a diary because I have no private life to record.
My mother has the one job guaranteed to keep us in her sight: She is the librarian at our school and has not missed a day of work since she started the job four years ago. You would think that by the weekend, she’d be ready for a rest. But, even though we do get to sleep in, plus watch cartoons, we also have to have a weekly Family Excursion, and that means Together.
So, on the second Sunday in April, my mother decided to take us to Central Park for the first picnic of the spring. Central Park is the biggest collection of grass and trees in New York City and, since we don’t have a backyard, we like to go there. We usually start at the bottom of the park, at Fifty-ninth Street.We walk past the artists who draw dopey chalk portraits of tourists and then go along the path that leads to the zoo.
We only go
into
the zoo about twice a year, usually on an icy Sunday in February when going to the tropical house is like a vacation in Brazil. It’s like being inside a kettle just after the tea is made. Most often, we don’t pay to go in; we just hang over the fence and watch the seals being fed.
“Why do they like fish so much?” asked Jane.
“Because they live in the ocean, and that’s the only thing they can get their hands on,” I told her.
“You mean their flippers on,” she said.
We watched the trainer tossing slippery silver bodies into the air and the seals craning their necks just slightly to make the catch.
“Do you think they like French fries?” asked Jane.
“They would probably throw up if they hadFrench fries,” said my mother.
“Oh, let’s try it next time,” said Jane to me. “I want to see what seal throw-up looks like.”
“That’s gross, Jane,” I said, giving her the tiniest push. She shoved me back, hard. I stepped on her toe, just on the edge, and she screamed as though I had cut off her foot with an axe and fed it to the seals.
My mother got mad and, of course, took Jane’s side and said I had to wait at the bottom of the first rock until Jane climbed ahead. She knew that would really bug me.
The best part of Central Park is the way huge rocks burst out of the ground like kid-size mountains. Some of them are covered in lichen or have trees growing out of the cracks. Some of them are just solid gray lumps, waiting to be scaled by
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