The Orange Houses Read Online Free Page A

papergirl. She was waving. No, she was signing, HELLO, GOOD-BYE, I LOVE YOU.
    I love you?
    Mik looked down at what the girl tucked into her hand: a paper angel with six wings.
    Mom jerked Mik forward. The angel fell from Mik’s palm into the rain stream washing toward the sewer.
    Â 
    â€œMika, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say?” Mom popped a Relpax.
    NaNa stroked Mom’s hand. “Sandrine, my hairdresser, she got the migraines too, she goes to the acupuncture, headache gone, girl.”
    â€œMy junk insurance doesn’t cover the acupuncture, sweetheart.” Then to Mik: “You hear what I’m telling you, right? I know it isn’t Jimmi’s fault, but he is what he has become, dig? Are your aids on? Turn, them, on . Now . Those boys see things over there . . . I don’t know. Crazy Jimmi Sixes means himself every flavor of harm. You don’t want to be there when he snaps.”
    Mik spooned chili onto three plates. “He’s nice to me.”
    â€œThe devil’s sugar will rot your soul,” Mom said.
    â€œNow-now, Drine Sykes, I wouldn’t pin the devil on Jimmi,” NaNa said. “Con fu sion yes, Satan no. I sat that child how many nights when he wasn’t in foster care, his poor mother scrambling all over God’s world. Jimmi is sweet and he is good.”
    Mom rolled her eyes.
    Mik signed, WE OWE THAT PAPER GAL AN APOLOGY.
    Mom massaged her left eye. “I don’t know what she said,” she said to NaNa.
    â€œSpeak, child,” NaNa said.
    Mik cleared her throat. “I think we should have that newspaper girl over for dinner.”
    Mom squinted, cocked her head.
    Mik avoided Mom’s look. Exactly why was she drawn to this paper girl? Must be something in her eyes. Something nobody else has. That newspaper angel was pretty hype too. More than that, the chick signed, but she wasn’t deaf. Her hands were slower and clumsier than Mom’s even. Mom was mediocre on a good day despite Mik’s constant teaching. Why would the girl know hand language?
    â€œImagine that.” NaNa picked her teeth with a postcard from the junk mail left out on the kitchen table. “I do believe at long last Mika’s getting lonesome.”
    â€œTt, chili’s getting cold,” Mik said.

chapter 7
    FATIMA
    A diner, Tuesday, twenty-two days before the hanging, 8:00 p.m. . . .
    The food was inexpensive and delicious. Fatima savored each french fry as she wrote her sister a letter that ended with Good-bye, I love you —
    â€”HELLO, GOOD-BYE, I LOVE YOU. This was all the sign she knew. What had passed between Jimmi’s friend and Fatima as they shook hands? Something intense and immediate. Something—
    â€œSomething else?” the waitress said.
    â€œPlease tell me how to get to the Statue of Liberty.”
    â€œSerious?” She called to the other waitress, “Carmen, how you get to the Statcha Lib’dy?”
    â€œNever been. I think you got to take a boat.”
    Shouting from behind the counter. Two men who had been sitting at the next table escorted a handcuffed dishwasher from the kitchen. They seemed tired, distressed, not as distressed and tired as the dishwasher begging, “Por favor, tengo dinero. Te pagaré. Te pagaré.”
    The waitress said, “No te preocupes, Guillermo. No llores.”
    The other waitress, Carmen, whispered, “They prob’ly shut us down now.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Fatima said.
    â€œImmigration police.”
    Fatima fought the urge to hide her face in her shawl. “May I have my bill?”

chapter 8
    JIMMI
    The train tracks, Wednesday, twenty-one days before the hanging, just past midnight . . .
    Jimmi weaved in and out of the trackside trash. He wanted to rip away his skin. Was this physical withdrawal or his spirit’s hunger? A knock of crack would help him get through to tomorrow—
    Don’t.
    He was low on money, but