Brownstone houses are built up, not out. Oh, sure, they start off regular enough. When you walk through the front door, you walk into the living room. But the dining room and kitchen are on the second floor. And the master bedroom is on the third floor. And the rest of the bedrooms are on the fourth floor. In other words, if you turned a brownstone on its side, you’d pretty much get a picture of what a regular, one-story house would look like. Except, of course, it would be turned on its side.
Kyle’s house, though, was weird even for a brownstone. Because the first floor wasn’t just a living room. There was also an office in the back. But you already know about that. What you don’t know about is the living room. Which, let me tell you, is worth knowing about. Not because the couch had so much wood and hardly any fabric that it would have been more at home on the Ohio prairie than the middle of Manhattan. Or because the cracked leather armchair and wicker rocker were so mismatched they looked like they might start a fistfight. Or even because the glass-topped coffee table, from a certain angle, reminded you of a spaceship. Nope. That stuff is only interesting if you’re interested in furniture. What is worth knowing about Kyle’s living room is that it was a mess.
As in totally.
Like a cyclone had hit it.
Two cyclones.
I mean, sure. Right after Kyle was born, Kyle’s mom or dad may have given the place a quick once-over, so none of their stacks and stacks of magazines would topple over and crush their infant son. But no one had touched anything since. Because Mr. and Mrs. Parker may have been a lot of things, but they certainly weren’t neatniks. Or claustrophobics. Because they couldn’t have been either and spent more than three seconds in that living room. Or, at least, used to. You know, in the past. Before Kyle returned home from school that afternoon. And turned his key in the latch. And pushed open the front door.
Because the place was spotless.
That’s right.
No dust. No dirt. No magazines piled so high you figured they had to be in the Guinness Book of World Records. Oh, sure, there were still magazines. But only the most recent issues arranged alphabetically on either side of the coffee table. The ash and soot in and around the fireplace were gone. The logs were actually stacked inside the log holder and not dumped in the corner like some gigantic game of pick-up sticks. The windows were washed. The screens were washed. The ledges were washed. The hardwood floor was waxed. The glass covering the painting of the bull next to the halogen floor lamp was so clean you could actually tell it was a painting of a bull.
Which, of course, was a shock to Kyle’s system. But it had nothing at all to do with Ruben Gomez. Except the woman standing to the side of the cracked leather chair wearing a starched black dress, white apron, white hat, and white shoes so highly polished they made Kyle want to squint was Ruben Gomez’s grandmother.
Tall.
Thin.
A little slumped at the shoulders.
But head held high and skin still as smooth as butterscotch pudding.
Carmelita Gomez smiled, put down the crystal letter opener she was polishing, walked the six steps to the front door vestibule, and held out her hand in a combination of moves so graceful it looked like dolphins swimming or her grandson banking one off the glass.
“I’m Carmelita Gomez,” she said.
“I know,” Kyle said.
And he did. He’d seen her before. Plenty of times. But always way, way across the school gymnasium, sitting next to Ruben’s mother and father and sister cheering for her grandson. Never here. In Kyle’s house. Polishing the crystal letter opener. Smiling her grandmother’s smile. And staring at Kyle with a look so penetrating it left no doubt where Ruben got his intensity.
“I’m Kyle,” Kyle managed to say.
“I know,” Mrs. Gomez said.
And she smiled again.
And Kyle tried to smile back.
But he didn’t quite make it.
So, okay. So Kyle knew Mrs. Gomez was working for his mother. Which meant, in a way, Mrs. Gomez was working for him. So how come it felt the other way around? Not that he was working for her exactly. But that he wanted to please her. He wanted her to think that he was doing a good job. A good job at what, Kyle didn’t have a clue. But a good job at something. Even if it was shaking her hand and saying hello. And not just because she was Ruben Gomez’s grandmother. But because of how she made Kyle feel. With that smile of hers. And those eyes. Not that she was judging Kyle. She wasn’t putting him through any kind of a test. More like she got it. She knew what he was thinking before he was even thinking it, so there was no use trying to pretend. Which, of course, made Kyle want to pretend even more.
“Your mother hired me to clean your house a couple of times a month,” Mrs. Gomez said. “She told me she forgot to tell you. She told me you’d be surprised.”
“I guess you could say that,” Kyle said.
“I thought I just did,” Mrs. Gomez said.
“You’re teasing me,” Kyle said.
“Not very much,” Mrs. Gomez said.
And she smiled again. Her no-judgment smile. And Kyle was thinking she could go on teasing him the rest of his life as long as she never stopped smiling. Though she did. Nothing drastic. No dark curtain suddenly descended over the scene. She simply scrunched up her lips and creased her eyebrows as if she were about to say something serious.
“My grandson goes to your school,” she said.
“Ruben,” Kyle said.
“He doesn’t like it that I clean houses.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s embarrassed. He’s especially embarrassed I’m cleaning yours.”
Which, of course, was what Kyle figured the moment he saw her standing next to the cracked leather chair. Because he recognized her. And, of course, he realized what she was doing. Which made him realize why Ruben acted the way he’d acted. Which was funny. Or ironic. Because at that very moment Kyle was embarrassed too. Not for Ruben. Kyle was embarrassed for himself. Because Mrs. Gomez was cleaning his house. Which was embarrassing all by itself. But it was even more embarrassing that his house was such a mess.
The only one who wasn’t embarrassed was Mrs. Gomez. Which, when you thought about it, was the most ironic of all. I mean, if anyone should have been embarrassed, it was her. She was the one cleaning up after other people. If that’s the way you wanted to see it. Which was the way Ruben saw it. Though it wasn’t the way Mrs. Gomez saw it at all. She considered herself a businesswoman. Filling a need. A big need. Which was what businesspeople—smart businesspeople—filled. She also liked it. The cleaning part. She liked making messy things neat. Plus, she was good at it. I don’t mean okay. I don’t mean pretty good. I mean no one was faster, worked harder, had more knowledge about cleansers and surfaces and utensils, or took more pride in her work than Mrs. Gomez.
Buzzzzz!
The doorbell. Or the door buzzer. Whatever you want to call it, someone was at Kyle’s door.
“Guess who?” Mrs. Gomez said.
Kyle had no idea. Not even close. I mean, he knew it wasn’t his mother. She wouldn’t be home for another three hours. And it wasn’t Lucinda. She wrote Kyle an e-mail that morning telling him that after school she was going to spy on Mercedes Henderson. And it wasn’t Chad or Tyrone. They’d still be treating him like kryptonite because of Ruben. So Kyle didn’t know. So he just shrugged. Which made him feel dopey. Especially since he wanted to please Mrs. Gomez. Who didn’t smile this time. But winked. As she reached past him, took hold of the doorknob, and pulled it toward her. Which was when Kyle quit feeling dopey, at least. Though what he switched to didn’t make him feel all that proud either. Because the moment the door cracked six inches, Kyle saw the white-hot eyes of Ruben Gomez staring straight back.