It’s obviously pretty strange to have your first day of school on a Thursday in June when there are only three weeks left in the whole year, but it seems like there’s never been anything extremely normal about Safer’s family. Candy has decided to join the fourth grade, and she does not plan to wait until September.
“Everyone makes such a big deal about the last day of school,” she tells me, stuffing her lunch into her new backpack. “I don’t want to miss it.”
Which makes Safer nod like he totally gets it. He holds his flask out to me. “Coffee?”
“Safer, what’s really in there?”
“Coffee!” he says, looking insulted. He takes a swig from the flask.
“Safer,” his mom says, “I wish you’d get bored with that thing already. It’s heck to wash.”
She’s taking pictures of Candy in her first-day-of-school outfit, which is jeans and a T-shirt. Candy was going to wear her overalls, but when she asked me if other kids wear overalls to school, I had to tell her not so much. She said she didn’t mind being different, but maybe not on her very first day. She’s going to wear them tomorrow.
Safer’s mom clicks away with her camera while Candy zips up her bag and says she’s ready. Safer says he’s ready too. Because it’s his job to walk her.
We’ve been working on Safer’s list for the past couple of weeks, adding things one by one.
First, we walked to the corner and back with Ty and Lucky, Safer gripping a leash in each hand.
Then we walked to Bennie’s with Candy, who was running low on Starbursts. She bought three packs and opened them all in the store, picking out the orange ones and splitting them between me and Safer while talking to Bennie about when the Mallomars will be delivered in the fall. It turns out that the Mallomar is a seasonal cookie.
Last weekend, Safer and I made it all the way to DeMarco’s with Pigeon. “You know, the pizza really is better straight out of the oven,” Safer said after finishing his second slice. And Pigeon hugged him.
The day before yesterday, Safer and I took our longest walk yet, just the two of us, to my old house. I showed him the porch and the big crack in the sidewalk where I chipped my tooth, and I pointed to my old bedroom window and told him about my fire escape. I wanted him to see it, because that house was like a friend to me. But Safer is a better one.
When Safer’s mom goes into her office to put her camera away, Candy quickly pops a giant SweeTart into her mouth. Dad took me and Safer on the D train yesterday to buy them for her at the newsstand on the Fifty-Ninth Street platform. It was her first-day-of-school present, from us.
“It’s about time,” Safer said on the subway. “I’m pretty sure Candy’s wanted to go to school forever. She used to stand at the window and count the yellow buses.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, that maybe she had stayed at home for his sake, but now she doesn’t need to anymore.
I tell Candy and Safer I’ll meet them in the lobby, and then I run down to our apartment for my backpack and almost slam into Mom, who’s getting her sneakers on by the door.
“Oops,” she says. “Are you leaving? It’s later than I thought. I’m supposed to meet Dad at some kind of vintage-appliance warehouse.”
I’m guessing that pretty soon we’ll have a weird old stove, like Safer’s.
“Drive safely,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’m walking,” she says, pointing at her sneakers. “Gotta stay in shape—tomorrow I’ll be on my feet all day.”
Mom’s been busy too, getting back to normal. She goes back to work tomorrow. No doubles for a while, though. She promised.
When I get downstairs, Safer and Candy are waiting in the lobby chairs, and the three of us head out. I’ve told Bob to wait for us by the front doors at school, and he’s right there when we turn the corner, flipping his blue Sharpie into the air and catching it.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Hold out your hand,” I tell Candy.
Bob draws Candy’s blue dot, making a perfect circle and then coloring it in.
When he’s done, she looks at it up close. “So what does this mean again?”
Bob tells her. “It means you’re not alone. No matter what.”
She nods. She looks smaller out here in front of the school than she does at home. Kids are starting to swarm all around us, heading into the building. Candy tightens her ponytail.
“I’ll walk you to your class,” I say. “She has Ms. Diamatis,” I tell Bob.
“That’s who I had,” he says to Candy. “I hope you know your times tables. Ms. Diamatis is really into multiplication.”
“Of course she knows her times tables!” Safer says. “I bet she knows them better than anyone in the whole school.” Candy gives Safer a big grateful smile, and I notice that her teeth are a little purple around the edges.
Safer turns to me, mock-offended. “Does he think I would send my scout in unprepared?”
“Don’t start,” I tell him.
Safer is considering school himself. He says that Candy is his scout, that if she reports that school is okay and confirms where all the exits are, he might start eighth grade with me and Bob in September.
Or maybe ninth grade, he says, next September.
He’s kidding about the exits. I think.
Last period. Gym. The whiteboard is blank. Ms. Warner says we can pick what game to play. The Blue Team carries the vote with capture the flag. Our jailbreaks are getting better and better.
After the bell, Ms. Warner waves me over.
“I met your friend today,” she says, because I’ve already told Ms. Warner to look out for Candy. “Great kid.”
“Don’t try to give her any nicknames,” I say.
She grins. “You got it, G. No nicknames.”
I take a deep breath. “Tell me the truth. Do you really hate your job?”
She looks at me. “This is pretty much my dream job, G.”
I knew it.
She holds up one hand. “High five?”
It isn’t Friday. But rules are made to be broken.