The first few days were soul crushing. I counted down the seconds until Mom got off work, ogling my cheap wristwatch like it was purposefully slow, just to see me sweat. Even the gummy hot dog Mom bought me from a street food vendor once we got back to our neighborhood, out of guilt and exhaustion from a day of fawning over another family, didn’t soften the blow.
On the third day of summer break, I found a small private cemetery, nestled between the edge of Central Park and a bus-tour booth. It was hidden from view, was empty most hours of the day, and offered a vantage point of the Roths’ building entrance. It was, ironically, heaven on earth. I barely ventured out of the cemetery in the days that followed. Only briefly, when I needed to find a tree to pee behind, looked for cigarette butts to smoke, or raided the expired stash at the bodega, padding my pockets with more than I could eat so I could sell the remaining food for half price in Hunts Point. I would take the food and hurry back to the cemetery, where I would lean against the gravestone of a man named Harry Frasier and stuff my face.
It wasn’t a morbid place, Mount Hebron Memorial. To me, it looked like everything else in the neighborhood. Neat and impeccable, with roses that always bloomed, carefully trimmed bushes, and paved pathways. Even the gravestones shone like the leather on a brand-new pair of Jordans. The few cars that were parked by the office cabin were Lexuses and Porsches.
The cemetery was like an invisibility cloak. Sometimes I’d pretend I was dead and no one could see me. No one did see me. That knowledge comforted me. Only stupid people wanted to be seen and heard. To survive in my world, you had to slip off the grid.
It was all going smoothly until the fourth day. Let the record show I was minding my own business, taking a nap using Harry Frasier’s tombstone as my pillow. It was hot and humid, the temperature engulfing me from all directions. The heat rose from the ground, and the sun sliced through the trees. I woke up with a jerk, a thick layer of sweat coating my brow, light headed with thirst. I needed to find a garden hose. When my eyes popped open, I saw a girl my age maybe six graves down, under a giant weeping willow. She wore short jeans and a strappy shirt. She was sitting on one of the graves, staring at me with eyes the color of a grimy swamp. Her brown hair was out of control. Curling everywhere, like Medusa’s snakes.
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.