board in the back of a classroom—is full of personal stuff, most of it Fitz-related: primitive animal drawings he made back in elementary school; a full set of his school photos, before and after braces, his hair changing gradually, growing out from a buzz cut to its current style, Sgt. Pepper–era Beatles; a flyer for a coffeehouse gig that Fitz and Caleb were going to play except the place closed down first. It’s almost embarrassing. Like a museum exhibit: Fitz Through the Ages. But really, if it all disappeared somehow, if he ever came in and discovered that she’d remodeled and upgraded, replaced his ragged art with some framed sailboats, it would be upsetting, more than upsetting, it would be wrong.
Fitz wonders if his father’s apartment looks like this on the inside. Generically neat and professional, like something from one of those magazines in the lobby. Not like the mess that’s always fermenting at his house. The dining room table full of Fitz’s schoolbooks—Homework Central, his mom calls it—alongside her latest school project—construction paper and stencils, glue and glitter. The kitchen counter piled high with secondhand books from the latest library sale. The fridge entirely covered with magneted stuff, a crazy paper tree in full bloom: report cards, school notices, a snapshot of Uncle Dunc with a monster muskie he landed years ago, pictures from newspapers and magazines Fitz and his mom have cut out and posted over the years for no apparent reason—B.B. King, Kaiser Wilhelm, Toni Morrison.
A woman comes into the room. “There you are,” she says. She’s aiming for his father but pauses when she notices Fitz, who is just sort of standing there, lurking.
“My name is Sheila,” she says. She says this toward Fitz, in his general direction. He recognizes her name. It’s the woman that Chip at the diner wanted his father to greet. She’s older than Fitz expects an assistant to be, not old-old but older than his father. She looks like a fifth-grade teacher, a nice one.
Fitz expects his father to come in at this point, but there’s an awkward pause. For a moment, Fitz thinks his father is going to deny any knowledge of him, act like Fitz just followed him into the office, a stray. But then he speaks up. “And this,” he says, pausing just a beat, “is Fitz.”
In his father’s mouth, his name sounds good. He hasn’t always loved his name—he downright hates being Fitzgerald on all the official class rosters—but even corrected, reduced to a single memorable syllable, it sometimes seems too odd. He is always the only one. But now, when his father says it, it has a certain dignity. Right now, it makes him glad, even proud, to be Fitz.
“Pleased to meet you,” she says. She smiles. She looks genuinely pleased. If she is repulsed or frightened by his grubby self, she doesn’t show it.
She turns to his father then. “This has all the changes,” she says, and hands a sheaf of papers to him.
His father stands there reading, turning the long legal sheets, making little sounds of approval, Sheila watching him read. There are little arrowed transparent thingies sticking out between the pages, marking the spots, Fitz supposes, where he’s supposed to sign.
Fitz walks over to the window. It’s an amazing view. He can see people on the sidewalks below. From this distance, they look like miniatures, like toys—cute little people going about their little lives. He remembers a story Caleb told him once about a friend of his who worked as a salad boy at a downtown hotel and used to go up on the roof late at night and throw vegetables at pedestrians—two, three blocks away, some guy would get nailed with a cherry tomato and have no idea where it came from. Now, standing here and looking down at the world, Fitz can maybe understand the urge. If he had an open window and some veggies at hand, no telling what he might do.
Two blocks away he can see the top of a metro bus making a wide turn. It’s one of the new green buses, just like the one he boarded this morning. It’s hard for Fitz to believe that it was only hours ago. It seems like that was another year, another lifetime. In a space between two other buildings, he can see the Mississippi again. It’s the third or fourth time he’s seen it today. Every time, it looks different. It changes color, like a mood ring. Now the