Turtle Boy Page 13

“Oh, look,” he says, peering at it. “You’ve done seven hours. Thirty-three more and you’re done with me.”

  I look at him in shock. Is that what he thinks? That I’m just doing this for the hours? He studies my expression for a long moment.

  “I’m just messing with you,” he says, breaking the tension. “You got a pen?”

  He scribbles on the back, writing furiously, sometimes stopping and thinking. He hands it over and I glance at it. I’ve seen some of the bands’ names before, mostly on his T-shirts. I tuck the page into my backpack.

  “Okay,” I say. “Two things on the bucket list done. What’s next?”

  “Did you go swimming yet?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “I’m going to.”

  “Come on, dude!” he says. “It’s gonna be winter soon. When’s it going to happen?”

  “It will,” I say.

  He shakes his head, sighs, and reaches under the blanket that covers his junk-drums. Then he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper: the bucket list. He holds it up to his eyes.

  “I have a feeling you aren’t going to like this one,” he says, shaking his head a bit.

  I wait for him to go on, but instead, he says, “Hey, let’s take a walk.”

  He pushes the nurse call button, and a few moments later, Roxanne appears in the doorway. I step back to allow her to go over to the bed, and she fiddles with RJ’s IV, checking the drip bag on the tall, rolling stand.

  “Ready to go,” she says. “Not too long, okay?”

  RJ swings his feet off the bed, and Roxanne stands nearby, holding his IV stand in place as he grips the chrome with one hand and rises to his feet. He takes a few tentative steps, then nods to her, and we all head out into the hallway. Seeing how difficult it is for RJ to walk makes me understand how challenging it is for him to do anything: go to the bathroom on his own, see the turtle. Cleaning the tank must be out of the question.

  He’s sicker than I realized. His disease isn’t in any one place. It’s in his arms, his legs, his organs.

  “I can’t see for crap,” he says, “especially in the hallways, so you’ll lead, okay?”

  He holds my arm in one hand and the IV stand in the other. Walking down the hall, we pass open doors, and anyone who sees us calls out, “Hey, RJ!”

  He waves or says, “Hey, Mrs. Barnes,” or “Evening, Mr. Peterson!” I’m happy so many people know him, but it’s also a sign of how long he’s been in the hospital. And that makes me sad.

  * * *

  • • •

  RJ and I fill paper cups with hot water from a big machine, and RJ grabs two packets of Swiss Miss: regular for me, sugar-free for him. We sit down, and for the first time, he and I are face to face. Usually, I’m standing near him or sitting near the side of his bed, but it’s different this way. I can see how thin his cheeks are, how gray his skin, the dark rings around his eyes. And yet those eyes are full of that deep ocean blue.

  We sip our hot chocolate, and he says, “So, the next task on my bucket list.” He runs his hand through his hair and takes a sip of hot chocolate. He’s staring down at the table. He’s embarrassed. This is a new RJ—I’ve never seen him like this.

  “Prairie Marsh is having a dance this weekend,” he says. “All Lacrosse the Dance Floor. I want you to go.”

  He was right. I don’t like that task at all.

  “All right, what’s the problem?” he says impatiently, seeing my reaction. “You should be a pro. Haven’t you already been to a bunch of Bar Mitzvah parties?”

  “Hardly any,” I say. I don’t tell him that a dance is a totally hostile environment to begin with. Add to that the fact that I basically torpedoed my friendship with Shirah by leaving her Bat Mitzvah party halfway through. Then there was that thing that happened in the cafeteria today: Turtle Boy and Big Butt.

  “How do you know even know about the dance?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Because,” he says slowly, and with a touch of annoyance in his voice, “when my dad and I left Horicon in sixth grade, it was exactly this time of year, and everyone was amped up about All Lacrosse the Dance Floor, and I didn’t get to go. We moved to Baraboo, but their dances sucked—nobody went, myself included, and then in high school, I got sick and ended up back here. So you can go and tell me everything about it. Like, every little detail. That way, I can know what I’ve been missing.”

  “Isn’t there something I could just get for you?” I ask. “I’m going to have a bunch of Bar Mitzvah money coming. I could get you anything you want.”

  Then it hits me that RJ might not live until June.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”

  “Yes!” says RJ. He looks truly happy, and that makes me happy. At the same time, I realize that I’m not just agreeing to the dance. I’m agreeing to the whole thing. There is no halfway in this.

  RJ’s bucket list is now my bucket list.

  The dance floor is located in one section of the gym. Purple and black streamers are taped to the walls, and in every corner, there lurks a giant cluster of balloons. At the center of the room is our giant papier-mâché mascot, Martin the Prairie Marten. A marten is woodlands predator, like a weasel. This marten’s eyes are painted so poorly, it looks drunk. The lacrosse team poses for pictures in front of it, sticks in hands. They seem like the happiest people in the gym. I envy them. They’re unified around something—lacrosse—even if it’s something I think is totally stupid. They fight for one another. I wish I had that.

  Along the edges of the gym are bleachers and a couple of tables with punch and snacks. From where I stand in line, I can see Shirah in a clump of friends. I recognize her from behind, green and red lights playing off her wild tangle of curls. I scan the bleachers for Max, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I sip my punch and stand in line for snacks behind a few big eighth graders who are blocking the way. They grab handfuls of chips and head off in opposite directions, revealing the last two people I want to see: Jake and Spencer.

  “It’s Turtle Boy!” says Jake.

  “Gross, there’s something in his cup,” says Spencer.

  I peer down to see what they’re talking about. With a flick of his arm, Spencer gives my wrist a powerful pop, which splashes the contents of the cup all over my shirt, face, and glasses.

  My instinct is to take a big step back. Fast. Which I do, bumping into someone behind me: one of the big eighth graders.

  “Watch it, shrimp,” the guy yells, and shoves me toward Spencer. I collide straight into him, soaking him with his own punch.

  I turn and bolt through the crowd to the double doors into the hallway. A parent volunteer is ensuring that no one goes past her checkpoint.

  “What happened to you?” she chirps, pointing at my shirt. “Little accident?”

  “I need to wash this off,” I say.

  “How about you use the bathroom right here?” she says, pointing to the boys’ room.

  Before she can say another word, I’m halfway down the hall, nearly running. I need to get away. I need to make a plan—possibly to hide in the sixth-grade wing until the end of the dance. Then I can meet Mom and escape without Spencer stuffing me into a garbage can.

  I round the corner and head down the hall, where I use a water fountain to wash my glasses. I dry the lenses on a punch-free section of my shirt and spend another twenty minutes haunting the semidark, deserted hallways. An adult I don’t know approaches from the opposite direction: a hall monitor, maybe sent to find me. This forces me back around the corner, closer to the dance.

  Up ahead, I see my science teacher, Mr. Firenze, talking with Ms. Kuper. They’re just past the boundary that the parent volunteers have set for kids, so they must have come here for a private conversation.

  I can hear Mr. Firenze’s voice. “This is the absolute worst-case scenario,” he says. “Whe
n did you find out?”

  “Yesterday, end of the day,” says Ms. Kuper. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I wanted to do it in person.”

  “Well,” he says, “it breaks my heart. The school won’t be the same without it.”

  “Without it?” says Ms. Kuper. “This isn’t the end! We have to fight.”

  “It’s pointless to fight,” says Mr. Firenze. “Maybe we could negotiate. In exchange for the Back 40, a sum of money for the school. We’d be able to afford all sorts of special programs.”

  “You’re being naive, Mike,” Ms. Kuper says. “The school wouldn’t see one cent from that. The county would use the money to buy new parking meters.”

  They stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

  It’s obvious that something bad has been happening in the Back 40, but from Ms. Kuper’s words and tone, it sounds much worse than the temporary inconvenience of a fence.

  “Well, you can quit if you want,” says Ms. Kuper. “I’m not done fighting.”

  Suddenly, Jake comes barreling down the hallway, holding a lacrosse stick aloft like an Olympic javelin. Spencer streaks after him.

  “Gimme my stick, Jake!” he yells. “Jake! Give it!”

  “Or what?” says Jake.

  “Or I’ll…” Spencer suddenly notices Ms. Kuper and Mr. Firenze. “Or I’ll walk quickly and apologetically back into the gym.”

  They turn and start to walk back, but Ms. Kuper calls after them. “Gentlemen, may I speak with you!” She follows them down the hall. Mr. Firenze goes too. I give them a few minutes, to make sure they’re not returning, then come out of hiding and return to the dance.

  I need to talk to Ms. Kuper.

  * * *

  • • •

  More kids have arrived, and the dancing crowd has swelled into a giant, moving herd. It’s impossible to see who’s here and who isn’t. I stand against the wall, feeling alone and upset. And yet, I can’t leave, not without knowing more about what Ms. Kuper and Mr. Firenze were talking about.

  I finally find Ms. Kuper serving Italian sodas at one of the refreshment tables, along with Mr. Firenze. I won’t be able to ask her about the Back 40, not with a long line of kids waiting for their drinks. The person in front of me turns around, cup in hand.

  It’s Shirah.

  “Well, look who’s here,” she says. I can’t tell whether she’s happy to see me.

  What should I say? Should I apologize for what happened in the cafeteria earlier in the week? Should I ask her if she’s having a good time? Should I ask her what’s she’s drinking?

  Idiot, idiot, idiot. I stare down at my shoes.

  “Well, I’m not going to stand here while you ignore me,” she says, and turns to walk away.

  “Wait,” I say. “Shirah!”

  She turns and glares at me.

  “About what happened in the cafeteria…,” I say. Instantly, my hands and feet go numb, and my heart begins to pound so hard, it feels like my head is going to explode off my neck.

  At that moment, the music changes—from something peppy to a slow song. All around us, the dance floor starts to clear, and couples are forming.

  I see this happening. And Shirah sees this happening. I can tell because her eyes widen and she looks from left to right, as if she were crossing a busy street.

  I need to get off the dance floor before someone sees me. I start to back away, and Shirah’s face flashes with fierce anger.

  “Where are you going!” she says, stepping toward me. “It’s a slow dance.”

  “I don’t know how,” I say.

  She puts her cup on the nearest table, steps closer to me, and says, “You are not leaving me alone on a slow dance.”

  She takes my hands and places them on her sides. She puts her hands on my shoulders.

  We’re dancing.

  This is weird.

  This is so weird.

  She’s about six inches taller than I am, and my feet feel like they’re cement blocks. My face is burning so hot, it could illuminate the whole gym. What was I so upset about before? I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can’t think about anything as we sway side to side.

  The minute the song ends, there’s an awkward moment when Shirah and I are standing much closer than we would normally stand. Kids who were hovering around the edge of the dance floor are returning, filling the space around us. Shirah’s volleyball friends and some of the lacrosse players are closing in. I need to get out of here, now, before Jake and Spencer spot me.

  Shirah grabs my arm as I walk off. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m done dancing,” I say. I pull away from her and hurry to the side of the gym. My hands are shaking. I need to sit down. There’s an open section of bleachers, and I climb up to the top row. From here, maybe I can keep an eye on Ms. Kuper; catch her when she takes a break.

  I notice that the bleachers are vibrating, and the vibrations turn into pounding. Lower down, a few kids look around frantically, get up, and scramble to the floor.

  I’m about to follow them when I catch a glimpse of something moving in the shadows underneath the bleachers. Between the steps, I can see it: a face.

  “Max?” I say, crouching down. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Go away.”

  The back of his shirt is snagged on a section of the bleacher frame. There’s a long drop below him.

  “I’m going to get help,” I say.

  “No!” he says. “I’ll be suspended.” He wiggles a little and adds, “No pun intended.” He snickers to himself in the darkness.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I say. “Why would you be suspended?”

  “I got in trouble last week for climbing the flagpole. I got my arm brace off, and I was so excited I couldn’t help it. Dr. Monk made me sign a ‘personal contract’ not to climb more stuff.”

  “Well, let me at least help get your shirt uncaught. It’s stuck on that metal thing.”

  “Get away from me!” he barks.

  “Max,” I say, “this isn’t the time for your parkour-pride crap. Let me help you.”

  “I don’t want your help,” he says. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  I leave him where he is, cross the gym, and head to the checkpoint with the parent chaperones.

  “There’s an idiot kid caught underneath the bleachers,” I inform them, pointing. “But don’t tell him I told you.”

  Rabbi Harris and I are on the way to the hospital from the synagogue. My mood is truly mixed. On the one hand, I’ve been tormented by what I overheard at the dance—Ms. Kuper made it sound like the Back 40 is in terrible danger. Plus, by the time I found someone to help Max, Ms. Kuper was gone. First thing tomorrow, I need to ask her about it. On the other hand, Rabbi Harris just gave me my first compliment on my Torah chanting. It probably helped that I actually practiced before our lesson. Not because I wanted to, but because I can’t stand the face Rabbi Harris makes when he’s disappointed.

  On top of that, I’m excited to tell RJ about the dance—especially about finding Max caught under the bleachers after the slow dance. He’ll think that’s hilarious.

  “I need to tell you something,” Rabbi Harris says abruptly, his tone darkening. “About RJ.”

  We pull out of the synagogue parking lot and merge with traffic. I swallow hard.

  “Shmarya, I always want you to be informed,” he says, “about RJ and what’s happening with him. Your mom and I have spoken about this several times, and she agrees.”

  I don’t say anything. I nod.

  “RJ has an infection in his renal system,” Rabbi Harris goes on. “His kidneys. It’s something that can happen when people have a suppressed immune system. You’re not in any danger, visiting him. But the nurses will give you
a gown, mask, gloves, and special booties to keep you from bringing germs into the room.”

  I nod.

  “Also, he’s on lots of medications for pain and he might be a little out of sorts.”

  I nod.

  “We should be hopeful that this will clear up, but there is no guarantee.”

  I nod.

  “The infection could spread. It could get much worse. And if it gets worse, the doctors will have to do surgery, and that can lead to complications. We have to be prepared for anything.”

  I nod.

  “Would you like me to go with you?” Rabbi Harris says. “Up to his room?”

  I shake my head.

  “Okay,” he says. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind. Hand me an apple pie, would you?”

  I open the glove box and pull out the pie. The red and white wrapper crackles loudly as Rabbi Harris splits it open and takes a bite. Not knowing what else to do, I grab a pie and do the same.

  * * *

  • • •

  Roxanne smiles when she sees me and comes around the desk with a paper gown, gloves, and booties. She slips the elastic over my shoes and helps me tie the back of my gown. Lastly, I slide a hair cover, like a shower cap, over my head.

  “You can go in,” says Roxanne. “He might be sleeping, but I know he’s expecting you.”

  I walk in and RJ is lying back on his pillow. His glasses are off and his eyes are closed. The TV is on. RJ never watches TV.

  I sit down on the cake-chair. For the first time in weeks, my phobia about hospitals is returning. For a while, I stopped thinking of this as a hospital. It’s just where RJ lives. But with all this sterile equipment and with RJ asleep in front of me, I know exactly where I am. And I remember all the bad things that happen in hospitals.

  A few minutes later, RJ stirs. I’m quiet, and he sleeps a while longer. Then he jerks his head up with a start, as if he’s heard a loud noise.

  “Who’s there?” he asks. He sounds scared.

  “It’s me,” I say.