15. The Worst Thing
THE WORST THING
"I had a glowing report from Shady Glen," the social worker told the boy when he arrived for his weekly meeting. "Etta said that Julio said you have made yourself very useful in trying times."
"I'm kind of like a social coordinator now," the boy replied, testing out the title. No one had said he was the social assistant, but no one had said he wasn't. And anyway, if Maya-Jade could call herself the activities coordinator, why couldn't he call himself the social coordinator?
He couldn't help feeling a little smug. He'd been at Shady Glen five days a week, all through the barf flu, even. He never begged off for an afternoon beauty date with his grandmother—the fact that he didn't have a grandmother was beside the point. If the social worker had told him to go on weekends, he would have only pretended to be put out, because weekends, which he spent playing video games and watching TV and eating his aunt's gross cooking, had become his least favorite part of the week. Maybe he'd get himself a clipboard too. He kind of needed one because residents always wanted something from him—stamps, or batteries for their remote controls, or shoe polish—and it was hard to keep track.
He'd even managed to win over Lois Stein. She'd been muttering about a tough crossword clue. "A common TikTok trend?" she'd asked aloud. "What in the heavens is a TikTok trend?" Overhearing her, the boy had said, "Maybe a dance." And when dance had worked, Lois was so pleased, she'd hugged him. It was an awkward, bony hug—neither Lois nor the boy was the hugging type—but after that she would ask him to help her with certain "young people clues," as she called them.
"And I heard that you're still meeting regularly with that one resident."
"Josey." Like you, he would never call me anything else. "You know he didn't talk to anyone in five years until me?" he bragged to the social worker.
"I did hear. That's quite an honor."
The boy puffed with pride. He thought so too.
"And what do you and Josey talk about?" the social worker asked.
"So far, it's a lot about his life when he was young. A lot to do with this girl. Who is about to become his wife. We're at the part of the story where he proposed."
He made a face to show just what he thought of such business. Interestingly, he'd made no such face when I told him the story.
"He has a painting of her, Olka, which is kinda like Polish for Alex, over his bed. It's like a million years old but she's pretty, I guess. And at least she was wearing clothes. His grandmother, who made the picture, painted Karl in a loincloth. Gross! Karl's like the caretaker, by the way."
"Sounds like a very interesting story."
"It is. It's funny because Olka and Josey couldn't stand each other at first."
"I see," the social worker said, his smile twitching up his beard. "It's interesting how sometimes you can't stand the people who go on to become so important in your life. It was like that with me and my best friend. When we met, oh goodness, about thirty-five years ago, she did not like me at all."
"Did she call you a name?"
"Not out loud," he replied. "Though certainly in her head."
"Olka called Josey a really bad name. I asked him what it was but he won't tell me. He says it doesn't translate to English and also no one should be remembered for the worst thing they've done when they've done so many best things."
"Hmm. And what do you think about that?"
"About what?"
"About being judged for the worst thing a person has done when they've done—how did you put it—best things?"
"It's wrong. Like if he'd done that with Olka, he never would've fallen in love with her." This time he forgot to make the face to show his distaste with this romance business. "And she wouldn't have had a chance to do all the best things."
"And what do you think the best thing you've ever done is?"
"I haven't done any good things, let alone best things."
"Oh, Alex." The social worker sighed. "I disagree."
"Yeah, it's your job to disagree." He thought of his aunt and uncle. Just that morning his uncle had complained to his aunt that he couldn't get an envelope he needed because it was in the den where the boy was sleeping. His aunt had clucked sympathetically. Like an envelope was more important than him.
"It is part of my job to see the best in people," the social worker replied. "But I'd already learned to do that. It's why I chose this job."
"Yeah, well, there's no best to see in me."
"Do you really believe that?" the social worker replied in a quieter voice. "That man, Josey, he picked you to talk to."
"That's because he doesn't know…"
"Know what?"
"You know…," the boy said. They were always trying to get him to say what he'd done, like saying it out loud would change anything.
"What about with your mother?"
An unpleasant feeling zinged from the boy's chest up to his head, which throbbed, and back down to his feet, which tingled.
"You took care of her a long time when she was too sick to take care of herself, let alone you," the social worker said.
He hadn't even known his mom was sick until that day at school when he was summoned to the principal's office over the loudspeaker, eliciting an "oooh" from the rest of his classmates, who figured he'd done something bad.
In the principal's office, he'd been greeted by a social worker. Not the one he had now but a different one, an older lady with frizzy hair named Mrs. Rendel, who'd offered him a Life Saver before she told him that his mother was in the hospital.
"Is she sick?" the boy had cried.
"Not in her body but in her mind," Mrs. Rendel said. "She needs help to get better so she can take care of you. In the meantime, you'll live with another nice family for a few weeks."
The family may have been nice, but they were still strangers and they weren't his mom. It was the scariest time of the boy's life, worse even than getting arrested, worse than having a judge yell at him. And then it got worse yet. One afternoon, the social worker visited to tell him that his mom had left the hospital before she was supposed to and now he'd have to stay with the family for more than a few weeks, maybe longer. Later that night he got into a fight with one of the family's real children. He didn't even remember it after, but apparently he'd thrown a heavy clock at the boy, who'd ducked. The clock broke and made a dent in the wall. The social worker came and got him the next day. She said he wasn't in trouble, but he was going to live in another home for a few days. He'd tried to be good, hoping he'd get his mother back, and when Mrs. Rendel reappeared all smiling, he'd thought he had. But no. She was all happy because his aunt had agreed to let him live with her and his uncle. Mrs. Rendel claimed this would provide a "reset" and give the boy a "stable environment." But it felt like punishment for what he'd done to his mom, one he knew deep down he deserved.
"I didn't help my mom," he told the social worker. Heat rose in his neck. "I didn't help her at all!"
He looked around the office, desperate to be anywhere else, talking about anything else. He stared at the stupid inspirational posters, the little stand with the social worker's kettle and dumb hot chocolate, the picture of the social worker and his wife and his daughters who got hamburgers and French fries for dinner on just a regular Monday night.
And then his gaze stopped on that one strange picture, the one with the social worker all dressed up in a tuxedo next to that familiar woman. He knew her. He just knew he did. But he couldn't figure out how. It was driving him crazy, like an itch in the part of your back you can't scratch by yourself.
"Tell me who's the lady in the picture!" he demanded, feeling entitled to the information because the social worker had made him think about such unpleasant things when the conversation had started out so good.
"Her name is Bug. She's the friend I was telling you about before. The one who I didn't like when we first met. She's been my best friend since I was about your age."
"Her name is Bug?" the boy asked.
"That's what I call her."
"But who is she really?"
"Who are any of us really?" the social worker asked. And then he smiled one of his maddening smiles and told the boy their time was up.