Turtle Boy Page 12

  And then I see what’s onstage and I forget the pain.

  The band moves like a single unit, all thrashing and playing their instruments with their whole bodies. The singer throttles the mic stand like he’s trying to choke it, and the guitar player is hammering on the strings. There’s a guy playing another instrument that looks like an electric guitar, but it’s got a really long neck. He’s kind of boring—he doesn’t move much. But the drummer—I’ve never watched a real drummer at a drum set—looks like he’s dancing while sitting down, and then a rage seems to overcome him and he goes berserk, smashing the drums, sticks flying, head pounding.

  Hundreds of heads bob rhythmically, and then, when the sound and lights erupt, the crowd bursts into constant motion. Bodies jump and bump and collide, and sometimes a kid climbs onstage and dives into the audience.

  Shirah yanks me along, closer to the crowd, closer to the band. The drummer’s limbs look like they each have a mind of their own. His feet bounce up and down on pedals—one for the big drum and one that raises a cymbal up and down—and with my eyes locked on him, I’m entranced; time melts away, until I turn and discover that Shirah isn’t next to me anymore.

  I’m alone, and the crowd is getting wilder, pushing and shoving, and I get knocked hard from the side. I see Shirah; she’s deep in the thick of the crowd—thrashing and wild and part of it. I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, but I lower my head and charge into the wall of bodies, a scream escaping my lips, a scream no one can hear. I’m buffeted from side to side, and it feels like I’m falling down the side of a mountain—I hit the floor hard and close my eyes and cover the back of my head with my hands. The thought flashes through my mind: This is how I die. I’m going to be trampled to death. Then: Hands under my arms. Someone lifts me to my feet. Not Shirah—she’s in front of me. I look around at the dancing bodies. It could’ve been anyone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Abruptly, the final song ends, and the room is flooded with darkness. The band leaves the stage and the overhead lights come on. I gotta get the drumsticks and get out of here. I look at my watch. We’re running out of time. We have to catch the last bus to Horricon in less than half an hour, and the station is five blocks away. The audience screams and whoops, and suddenly, the band returns to the stage.

  Now frantic, I nudge Shirah and shove my watch in her face. She pushes it away and shrugs.

  “It’s an encore!” she yells. “One or two more songs!”

  I know there’s nothing she can do about it, but if the band plays much longer, or if they don’t come out for autographs, then the whole trip to Madison was for nothing. I’ll have to go back and tell RJ that I blew the mission.

  The shame of such a failure fills me with dread, but what happens next takes me by surprise.

  Ner! Ner-ner! Ner! Ner-ner! The chords blast, over and over, until the singer grabs the mic:

  “You see the rate they come down the escalator!

  Now listen to the tube train accelerator!

  Then you realize that you got to have a purpose

  Or this place is gonna knock you out sooner or later!”

  I know this song! It’s the song that RJ was singing while Denise took his blood on my first visit! It sounds much better with real electric guitars and drums, and soon, I find myself banging my head, harder and harder, until I’m bouncing along with the crowd, with Shirah, with the band, with the drums. Everything is pulsing like a single slamming heart.

  The song ends with a supernova of sound: electric guitar squealing, cymbals and the thump-bump of drums. The crowd claps and hollers, and the band waves, drops their instruments, and leaves the stage.

  It’s over.

  Shirah’s phone suddenly lights up. It’s her alarm.

  “We have to leave right now,” she says.

  “But…the drumsticks,” I say.

  The band is nowhere to be seen. I turn in circles, trying to spot the musicians. They’ve turned up by some tables where there are T-shirts for sale. A long line of teenagers has already formed and we’re at the other end.

  Shirah grabs me and plows me through the crowd. I feel shoulders and elbows. The next thing I know, I’m standing in front of the drummer, who’s sitting at a table with some Dog Complex patches and bandannas.

  “Hey, what’s up!” he yells. It’s still incredibly loud in here.

  This is no time to choke on my words, but the harder I try to speak, the more my mind blanks. Why am I here? What am I asking for?

  I’m standing here at the front of this line. I feel the presence of a hundred teenagers waiting to talk to these people.

  “Drumsticks,” I say. I’m sure he can’t hear. I take a deep breath, and with every ounce of strength I yell, “I need your drumsticks!”

  The drummer gives me an odd look, does a little shrug, gets up, and walks away from the table. Where’d he go? I hear someone say, as if I scared him off, but he returns with a pair of sticks. They are gnarled and pitted like my pencils when I chew on them, and one of the sticks is shorter because the tip split off.

  “What’s your name?” he yells.

  “Will!” I scream, and before I can stop him, he’s grabbed a black marker and he’s writing something. He hands the sticks to me, and the next person in line shoves me aside. I float to the door, gripping these sticks, and once Shirah and I are out into the cool evening air, it hits me: I have achieved the impossible. I’m floating on a cloud of my own victory.

  Until I realize that I have ruined everything. On the sticks is written ROCK ON, WILL!

  At school on Monday, there are signs and banners everywhere: ALL LACROSSE THE DANCE FLOOR.

  I don’t know if they were there before or if I’m just paying more attention. It’s like when you first notice a mosquito bite, and then it starts itching like crazy. Did it itch before you noticed it?

  All day long, I can hear kids talking about the dance. I hear people talking about who is “going” with who. Is “going” like…carpooling together? I’m really not in the mood for any of this—I’ve ruined RJ’s drumsticks, and I’m panicking about how he’ll react. I skipped my visit with him yesterday—like a total coward, I left a message with Roxanne saying that I wouldn’t be visiting him.

  I’m sitting at my desk before second period, trying to come up with a solution for the sticks, when Spencer turns around from the far corner of the class. “Hey,” he says. “Turtle Boy, I hear you were on a hot date this weekend.”

  I ignore him and return my attention to my conundrum. Maybe I could try to shave off the marker with a knife and write RJ’s name instead?

  “Yup,” says Spencer. “A concert! My brother is friends with someone who’s into that kind of music, and he says he was there! With a girl. He recognized you from your Jewish church.”

  “Yeah, Turtle Boy!” says Jake. “So who’s the lucky lady?”

  “It was not a date,” I say, my face flushing with heat. “Shirah and I are just friends.”

  “You were on a date with Shirah?” says Jake. I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me, which is bad enough, or of Shirah, which is even worse. “Wow! Go, Turtle Boy!”

  He and Spencer start the Tur-tle Boy! Tur-tle Boy! chant. I keep my head down and wait for it to pass.

  Between classes, a few other kids also comment on my “hot date.” Word must have spread; I hear them talking to one another. “I bet they kissed,” I hear one kid say. It’s humiliating and makes the blood pound in my ears. I hear a couple of other kids laughing hysterically, and I can’t help it—I look, and one of them is imitating me, imitating the way my lip hangs down, and he’s kissing the side of his fist.

  “Oh, Shiwah!” he yells into his fist, “My bwaces! My bwaces are shtuck to yo bwaces!”

  The first kid laughs so hard he falls out of his chair. The teacher sco
wls. “Mr. Andersen! Get back into your seat!”

  He and his friend continue to laugh. I stick my face so close to my workbook, I can’t read the print.

  * * *

  • • •

  Since Jake and Spencer figured out that I was eating in the restroom, I stopped going there for lunch. Even though Max and I aren’t talking, I’ll be safer at his table in the cafeteria. He’s sitting with a weird mix of sixth graders and an eighth grader named Kyle, who should be over at Horicon High but flunked sixth grade.

  I sit down, but the moment I do, Kyle says, “Your girlfriend’s sitting over there. Why don’t you go sit with her?”

  “Knock it off,” I say. Sitting here was obviously a terrible idea, and at this point, I’m starting to regret going to the concert. If I had known it was going to draw so much attention, I wouldn’t have gone.

  “Look, he’s turning red,” says Max. As usual, he says whatever he’s thinking, pointing out the obvious, uncomfortable thing.

  “Max,” I say, “maybe you could learn to keep your big mouth shut.”

  “At least I can shut my mouth,” he says, and there’s a pause. At first, I don’t know what he means, and then I do: he just made a joke about my face. Everyone goes: “Whoooaaa! SHOTS FIRED!”

  I can’t believe it. In front of all these people? He just made fun of me? He doesn’t exactly look pleased for having said it, but he doesn’t apologize, either. He’s waiting for me to make the next move.

  “At least I don’t see a shrink,” I say, expecting another “Whoooaaaa!”

  Instead, total silence. Everyone turns and looks at me, eyes wide.

  “Hey,” says Kyle, the eighth grader. “That’s none of your business if he sees a therapist.”

  “I do not see a shrink,” Max says, suddenly serious. I catch a glimpse of his eyes. I’ve never seen Max look truly hurt before, but I recognize the flash of betrayal. I wish I could turn back time and erase it, but it’s been said. Max doesn’t get a chance to respond because Shirah walks up to the table, her backpack over her shoulder.

  “Hey, guys,” she says, swerving a little closer to Max and me. “My mom has a presentation tomorrow and can’t bring us to Hebrew school.”

  The mood at the table is so tense, no one turns or looks at Shirah. No one says anything.

  Then Kyle speaks. “Hey, Will, if you wanna go to the dance with Shirah, you should ask her now.”

  “I don’t think turtles are allowed,” Max interjects.

  “But if you’re with a girl,” says Kyle, “maybe they’ll let you in. What a pair! Turtle Boy and Big Butt!”

  The minute he finishes the sentence, two things happen: Shirah storms away from the table, and a flood of words pours out of my mouth.

  “Kyle, you’re a moron!” I shout. “You flunked sixth grade, and you probably can’t even read! And you”—I point at Max—“you can’t control your mouth! You should try your stupid dive roll again, and this time, you can break your arm and your face!”

  The whole table bursts into laughter, everyone except Kyle and Max. I get up and stomp away—away from Max, away from the table, away from the laughter. I’ve grabbed the remnants of my lunch in both hands, and I pick up speed as I push through the cafeteria double doors, finally peeling down the hallway.

  I can’t go to the library. I can’t stay in the hall. I need to be alone. I run down to the bottom floor, which is mainly empty during lunch. Down here, there’s a closed, empty art room and the band-orchestra room where a few kids are tooting on their instruments. I feel horrible. Ashamed and guilty. But then I see the big marching drums stacked against the back wall, and that gives me a great idea.

  In the hall outside RJ’s room, I knock.

  No answer.

  I feel weird about barging in, especially on a day he isn’t expecting me to visit, so I knock again, louder. Finally, I crack open the door. RJ’s head is back on the pillow, eyes shut, and I’m startled by how fragile he looks, sicker than I remember—maybe because he’s not awake to fight his illness.

  I lay the sticks I stole from the band-orchestra room on his table tray and carefully arrange them side by side. This is perfect—he’ll find them when he wakes up. That’s better than giving him counterfeit Dog Complex drumsticks in person.

  I decide to have a look at the Blanding’s turtle before I go. I pull the blanket on the shelf back. The filter is humming and the light is on, and the turtle is basking, but something is wrong. There’s a bad smell, like old food. I reach in and pick up the turtle. It has a couple of softish spots on its shell. I hope it isn’t shell rot. Shell rot can be deadly. Despite the light and the filter, the water probably needs to be changed more often. RJ must not be getting out of bed much.

  “How’s Grampy?” RJ asks. It startles me.

  “He looks great,” I say. “Happy turtle.”

  He smiles. He hasn’t noticed the sticks yet.

  “How’ve you been?” he asks. “It’s been a while. I missed you last week.”

  “I got your drumsticks,” I say.

  “Drumsticks?” he says. Then a surge of energy washes over his face, and his eyes brighten. “From Dog Complex? You went to the show?”

  I point to the bedside table. He squints but doesn’t see the sticks. I grab them and hold them under his eyes.

  “No way!” he says, taking them in his hands. ‘Rock on, RJ…,’ ” he reads, peering down at the black letters. “ ‘Get well soon.’ ”

  He lays the sticks down on the stand and crosses his hands on his stomach. The sudden motion tugs on his IV, which runs from the stand next to his bed into his arm.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. He does not look happy.

  “So Brett Canto, drummer for Dog Complex, left the concert hall, went all the way to Prairie Marsh Middle School, and got himself a fresh pair of Prairie Marsh drum corps sticks, just for you?”

  I freeze.

  “Dude,” he says, “I thought we were done with telling stupid lies in here.”

  I grab the sticks. They’re marked with the name of my school. How did I not see that?

  “What the heck, Will,” he says. “Did you even go to the concert? Are you going to do any of the things on my list, or are you going to lie your way through the rest of ’em?”

  “No!” I shout. “I went all the way to Madison, and I spent all my allowance on a ticket, and I got bashed around a mosh pit, and I waited in a long line and fought my way to the front and got your stupid sticks!”

  I grab my backpack and pull out the real sticks—the pitted, dented sticks—one splintered, one with the wrong name. I toss them on the bed.

  “Here,” I say.

  “What’s this?” he says, lifting one. Then he reads: “Rock on, Will!”

  I’m prepared to grab my backpack and leave the hospital in shame and defeat, but RJ doesn’t yell at me. He gets quiet. He looks at them more closely, inspecting each one. “Who wrote this?” he asks. “Who wrote ‘Rock on, Will!’?”

  “The drummer,” I say. “Brett whatever-his-name-is. He asked for my name, and I told him and—I tried to stop him, but the next person pushed in front of me, and it was too late to get him to do it right.”

  “So you wrote on the other ones,” he says. “To replace the ones you thought you ruined.”

  I nod.

  “But Brett wrote this,” he says quietly, almost like he can’t believe it. “You waited in line and got to the front, and Brett was like, ‘What’s your name, kid?’ and you were like ‘Will.’ ”

  I nod. That’s pretty much how it happened.

  He laughs and looks at the sticks even closer, and I realize he hasn’t been inspecting the sticks or the writing: he’s admiring the sticks. He looks kind of ecstatic.

  “This is the best. Thing. Ever.”

 
I cannot believe I am hearing this. He looks at me and shakes his head. “Dude, in the future, please, please, please don’t lie to me! You can tell me if you freaked out and messed up, but anyhow, it’s not the autograph I wanted! Who cares what he wrote! It’s not even really about the sticks.”

  “It’s not?” I ask.

  “No! I couldn’t go to the show, but the sticks have the show in them. These are the sticks that made that concert happen! His hands were right here! And there’s probably like, sweat from his hands all soaked in. This is a pair of sticks that will never exist again! They’re mine!”

  “So,” I say. “You like them?”

  “Dude, you did me such a solid,” he says. “Now let’s do some drums.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We set up the bed drum set, and he explains that a rhythm is made up of two parts: the “ride,” which is the repeated noise, keeping the tempo and holding it together, and the accents, which add flavor and depth. He shows me a couple of rock rhythms. I pick them up fairly easily.

  “What I recommend,” he says, “is putting on headphones and, whatever music you listen to, just play along.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “What do you listen to?” he asks. “Besides, obviously, Dog Complex.”

  I shrug.

  “Nothing?” he says. “Will, you need to listen to music. You can’t not listen to music. I’m giving you homework. Ten groups to listen to. You may like them; you may hate them. Find one you like and play your rhythms along with the music.”

  He starts rummaging for a piece of paper and a pen.

  “I haven’t been doing much schoolwork,” he explains. “You got something to write on? Gimme that stupid chart you always get signed when you come here.”

  I pull my forty-hours form out of my pocket and unfold it.