Turtle Boy Page 3

  Max often seems to live in a world of his own, where everything is super awesome and nothing bad happens and people aren’t cruel. Sometimes I wish I could live in that world.

  Rabbi Harris follows the last kid into the classroom, closes the door, and plops down on the edge of the desk. As usual, he’s wearing a huge T-shirt that drapes down over his substantial belly. This one has a bunch of pine trees on either side of the word YOSEMITE, which is a national park in California. Except there’s a space between the O and the S, so it really says “YO SEMITE.” I have no idea what the T-shirt is supposed to mean, but it suits Rabbi Harris perfectly: his giant frame, his bushy beard, and the thick, chunky-knit kippah on top of his mostly bald head make him look more like a lumberjack than a rabbi. I’ve known him since I was six, when Mom and I moved to Horicon and joined the synagogue, but rarely have I talked to him one on one.

  The class is a dozen kids. Half are from nearby towns that are too small for synagogues, and the other half go to Prairie Marsh. Shirah is friends with almost everyone, but I keep to myself.

  “This is it, chavreim,” Rabbi Harris says with a big smile on his face, calling us by the Hebrew word for “friends.” “Bar and Bat Mitzvah year,” he continues. “We’ve been working toward this goal for a long, long time. Soon it won’t be me up at the bimah, leading prayers and chanting from the Torah—it’ll be you! Dena, your date is already this weekend! And Shirah is next week. I get farklemt just thinking about it.”

  I look over at Shirah, and she looks back at me with a little eye roll. Even though she’s pretending to be all casual about it, I can tell she’s excited. She’s bouncing her knee. That’s what she does when she’s nervous or excited.

  “The rest of you have dates a bit later in the year,” Rabbi Harris goes on. “That gives you longer to practice leading the prayers, to polish up your speeches, and to memorize your Torah portions.”

  Memorizing a Torah portion isn’t like memorizing lines of poetry for English class or learning song lyrics for school musicals. The actual scroll is only in Hebrew, and there’s no punctuation, no way to tell where each verse stops and starts. You sing the Hebrew to a melody—again, with no marks to remind you. It’s both repetitive and unpredictable.

  “The thing is,” Rabbi Harris continues, “I’ve been doing this long enough to know that you’ll be tempted to say bye-bye to Hebrew school once your Bar or Bat Mitzvah is done.”

  He hops off the edge of the desk and folds his arms. “But this isn’t a thing you’re doing alone. On your big day, the whole congregation, your friends and family, are all gonna be there. As you take your steps into adulthood.” It’s a community celebration.

  He draws a bit closer to us and pauses, scanning the room and looking us in the eyes.

  “And that’s why I expect to see every last one of you at Dena’s Bat Mitzvah this weekend. The party and the service.”

  I know other kids would think it’s weird that I want to miss a party, but for me, a party is not a good time. I can’t dance, I never know what to say to anyone, and I don’t like to eat in front of other people because of the way I chew. To me, parties are hours of feeling gross and different and weird, and there’s nowhere to hide. I stand around with my hands in my pockets, hoping no one is looking at me.

  I don’t care what Rabbi Harris says. I’m skipping it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rabbi Harris ends class almost ten minutes early, and we all grab our bags and stampede the door before he changes his mind.

  “Shmarya ben Baruch v’Gittel,” he says as I pass by, calling me by my Hebrew name. He calls all of us by our Hebrew names except Shirah, whose name is already in Hebrew.

  “Can we chill a few minutes? Let’s go to my office.”

  We head down the hall to his office. It’s cluttered with tons of books. Some of them look like what you’d find in a typical library: paperback books, hardcovers, periodicals in plastic organizers. But also, he has shelves and shelves of gigantic tomes that look like they belong in a wizard’s laboratory.

  Posters cover most of the wall space: oldies rock bands and a huge laminated sign of a rainbow, with the words LGBTQ SAFE ZONE. That same sign hangs on the door of the guidance counselor’s office at school. There’s also a shelf full of Star Wars action figures, which strikes me as unrabbi-like and very weird but very Rabbi Harris.

  “I hear you had a little trouble over the summer with your community service,” he says. “Care to share what happened?”

  “I guess I’m not a soup guy,” I say.

  “I wonder if you gave it a fair try,” he says. “Sometimes we experience something called ‘productive discomfort’ when we try something new. You need to give these experiences a fair shot.”

  “I gave it a fair shot,” I say.

  “Have you looked at other stuff on the list?” he asks. “Anything there float your boat? Or something not on the list? The list is just to get you started. If you’re going to spend forty hours doing something, might as well be something you’re passionate about.”

  He continues to watch me for a minute, but not with judging eyes. I’ve seen that look. It’s the way Mom trains her gaze on the road when she drives on a rainy day—all quiet concentration.

  “Is there something holding you back?” he asks.

  Seeing I’m not going to respond, he nods with some finality. “Well, you don’t have to worry,” he says. “This Sunday afternoon, you’re going to visit someone really special. His name is Ralph and he’s sixteen, but he’s been in the hospital for a long time and could use the company of a great guy like yourself.”

  Did he say “hospital”?

  “No, no. I can’t,” I say definitively. “I don’t do hospitals.”

  “Hospitals can be scary places,” he says. “But you’ll love Ralph. And I’ll be right there to support you.”

  I’m filled with cold terror. He can’t support me. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know that I need to stay as far away from hospitals as possible.

  I glance and see that Rabbi Harris is still looking at me. Gone is his usual scraggly, dopey look, and instead, he has only the shadow of a soft smile in his eyes, something I never would have seen if I weren’t sitting right in front of him. He looks at me—without staring, without judging—and it makes me want to tell him everything, to share the burden I carry around all day on my back, in my face. I remind myself, I don’t really know him. I don’t trust him.

  I decide to deploy one of my most trusted tactics.

  “I’ll have to talk to my mom first,” I say.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve already mentioned this to your mom,” says Rabbi Harris, surprising me. “She’s cool with the plan.”

  “Can I go now?” I ask, my throat tight and aching.

  “Absolutely,” he says, standing up and opening the door for me. “And I’ll be seeing you at Dena’s Bat Mitzvah. Right?”

  I head into the hallway without answering, without looking back.

  Other families have Taco Tuesday. Mom and I have this vegetarian dish she discovered online. It’s called “nut loaf.” I don’t mind the taste, but it’s the worst name imaginable. Whenever she makes it, I make a point of asking unnecessary questions about it: “Ooh. Is the nut loaf ready?” “How many servings of nut loaf do I get?” She’s usually good-natured about it, but tonight, she’s ignoring me. Clearly, something’s on her mind.

  “So,” she finally says, pulling the nut loaf out of the oven. “Did you end up having a conversation with Rabbi Harris today?”

  Mom and Rabbi Harris talk pretty often. She says he helps her keep a positive outlook on life, but I can tell when they trade notes about me.

  “We talked about how I’m going to write a paper on world hunger,” I say.

  “Really? That’s the opposite of what he told m
e.” She puts the nut loaf on the counter and bends down to peer under a pot on the stove. “He told me there’s a young man in the hospital he wants you to visit.”

  “Rabbi Harris won’t listen to me,” I say. “Can you please talk to him? You know how I am with hospitals.”

  Mom takes a deep, unhappy breath.

  “I do know how you are with hospitals,” she says, scooping two steaming slices of nut loaf onto each of our plates. “And you’re going to need to get over it by December, anyhow. That’s when your surgery is scheduled. Might as well start now.”

  We sit down, and she starts eating. I pick up, then immediately put down my fork and draw my elbows toward the swirl of nausea forming in my stomach.

  “I don’t see why you can’t just write a note to get me out of it,” I say. Mom keeps a pad of paper and a mason jar full of red pens near the phone for memos. “You got me out of running four hundred meters in gym class. You got me out of playing violin recitals. Last year you got me out of giving that speech in English class. And that stupid—”

  “I know,” she interrupts. “And maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do.”

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “Why should I have to do those things? They’re pointless.”

  “They’re not pointless,” says Mom. “You should be out doing things. Trying stuff. You can’t sit in your room with your turtles all day. You can’t hide from life.”

  “And you’re really living life,” I say. “How many times has Aunt Mo tried to get you to go to La Crosse and meet her friends? And she’s always trying to set you up on dates. How many have you gone on?”

  “That is none of your business, Will,” she says, all patience and humor gone out of her voice. She goes back to eating her nut loaf. “And by the way,” she adds flatly, “you’re going to Dena’s Bat Mitzvah. Rabbi Harris said you might try to ditch it, but you’re going.”

  “What?” I yell, outraged.

  Without eating another bite, I get up, dump my plate and silverware into the sink with a loud clatter, and go up to my room. Mom and I don’t exchange another word for the rest of the night. I stay in my room with the door closed.

  The next day, I’m waiting on the front steps of school when an old white Volkswagen Beetle comes down the long driveway and pulls up to the curb. It has stickers all over the back window: skulls and rainbows and dancing bears. The same designs appear on Rabbi Harris’s T-shirt.

  “Ready to do a mitzvah?” he asks brightly.

  I know a mitzvah is a commandment or a good deed. But I’m not doing this because I’m commanded by the Torah. I’m doing it because I’m being coerced by Rabbi Harris.

  “I didn’t realize this guy is Jewish,” I say as we pull into traffic.

  “Okay, let’s review something,” says Rabbi Harris. “The Mishnah, one of our sacred texts, tells us about the importance of every mitzvah of loving kindness. To make peace when there is strife. To make people happy. To welcome the stranger. To visit the sick. All of those are mitzvot.”

  He glances at me. “It’s not just helping your own tribe. It’s reaching out to anyone in need. When I’m not at temple, I’m the chaplain for the whole hospital. I spend time with people who are scared, people who need hope, people searching for the strength to forgive someone…people who just need company. Long as they don’t mind hanging out with an old hippie, whatever their religion, I’m their rabbi.”

  We drive for a while, and then, just as we pass a sign with an arrow pointing the way to the hospital, Rabbi Harris says, “Now, before your visit, Shmarya, there are a few things I want to speak with you about.” His voice startles me—maybe because it’s serious, almost cautious. “I want to talk to you about Ralph.” He pauses.

  Hearing this, I start to tense up. I get very still.

  “Ralph has something called a mitochondrial disease. It affects the organs in the cells that produce nutrients.”

  “Mitochondria are organelles,” I say. “Not organs.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “And if these organelles don’t work right, the body can start to lose function. Some people can live with it for a very long time, and other people…Their organs—liver or kidneys or heart—can get damaged, and that can be fatal.”

  My heart is starting to pound. Maybe because of this information, maybe because we’re pulling into the hospital parking garage.

  “There are medicines that can keep the organs working as long as possible,” says Rabbi Harris. “But I want you to know up-front that what Ralph has won’t ever go away.”

  “Is he going to die?” I ask. The words leave my mouth, and the moment they do, I wish I could call them back.

  “Well, Will,” says Rabbi Harris, “we’re all going to die, right? But yes, Ralph is going to die sooner than we will.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I manage to walk into the hospital and a nurse looks up at me from behind a desk.

  “Are you Will?” she asks. “Rabbi Harris said you were coming. I’m Roxanne.”

  Standing here, with the weird hospital smells, the sound of buzzers and beeping, I’m already feeling queasy and dizzy, like when I visited Dr. Haffetz with Mom over the summer. I wish I could leave.

  The nurse comes around the desk and leads me a ways down the hall to a closed door. She knocks. There’s no answer. She knocks again, louder. No answer.

  “Maybe he’s sleeping?” I ask. “How about I come back another time?”

  “He can’t hear us,” she says, “but trust me, it’s not because he’s sleeping.” She bangs on the door with her fist. “RJ!” she yells.

  She sighs and turns to me. “He doesn’t like it when I barge in,” she says, “but he’s not giving us a choice.” She turns the door handle, and a strange sound—quick clacking, like hundreds of fingers on keyboard keys—pours out from the crack in the door.

  The door swings open. Rabbi Harris’s description of Ralph’s illness made me picture lots of machines, sad bouquets of flowers, blankets pulled up to a pale patient’s chin. I didn’t expect a teenage kid wearing a tropical-colored shirt with a string of little shells around his neck. He’s thrashing his shaggy hair around and banging with drumsticks on a disk of rubber and plastic, about a foot in diameter, sitting on the bed in front of him. He has no idea we’re standing there.

  He clacks and hammers with his drumsticks, and his expression is all fury and intensity, as if he’s trying to beat down a door with his sticks alone. He has thick eyebrows that bunch over his squinted-shut eyes. But he isn’t smashing savagely; each drumstick’s tip strikes its own precise spot, blurring in a perfect pattern, like the buzz of a bee’s wings.

  His head bobs to whatever’s in his headphones, and finally, he increases the tempo and explodes into a finale. Both sticks smash the rubber disk at once with a final shka-back!

  Then silence. He pushes his headphones back onto his neck and looks up, noticing us for the first time.

  “You’re supposed to knock first,” he says.

  “I did,” Roxanne says.

  “You’re Will,” he says to me.

  “Yeah, you’re Ralph?”

  “No one calls me Ralph,” he says. “Except my dad and Rabbi Harris. It’s RJ.”

  He reaches for my hand and shakes it, which feels weirdly grown-up. That’s when I notice he’s wearing a mass of bracelets—brown woven string and colored threads; five or six of them. The bracelets don’t hide the fact that his wrist is so thin I can see long bones through his skin. He may be three years older than I am, but he’s barely any bigger.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” says Roxanne.

  She shuts the door behind her. I shift back and forth on my feet and wait for RJ to say something. He catches me peering down at the rubber disc on his bed.

  “It’s not polite to stare
,” he says.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, taking a step back.

  “Just kidding,” he says. “It’s called a ‘practice pad.’ ”

  “What’s it for?” I ask.

  “I’m banging on it with drumsticks,” he says. “It’s shaped like a drum. What do you think it’s for?”

  At first I think it’s a rhetorical question—one of those questions you’re not supposed to answer—but he’s glaring at me.

  Say something, idiot, I tell myself.

  “Practicing drums?” I ask.

  “Very good,” he says. “Here.” He holds the sticks out to me. “Try it. Let’s see what you got.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say.

  “Try it,” he says more insistently.

  I shake my head and step back again.

  He pushes his headphones over his ears again and bangs on his practice pad, this time more fiercely. His eyes are fixed on an invisible spot on the bed in front of him.

  He doesn’t show any sign of stopping. At first, I feel like it’s my fault. Maybe I said something wrong. But as the minutes pass and he continues drumming on his pad, ignoring me, I begin to feel angry. I don’t want to be here. And if this guy doesn’t want me here, then I should just walk out the door and go wait for Rabbi Harris in the lobby. The only problem is Roxanne might see me leave, and I won’t get a signature for my forty-hours form.

  Maybe I can find a place to sit and read. Behind me, pushed into a corner, is a large cushion: it’s gray and has three layers, almost like a cake. I sit down on it, get my book out, and start reading. On my right side is a chest-high case, turned to face the three-layer cake–chair. I can see a set of shelves peeking out from behind a sheet that’s attached to the top of the case like a curtain. The corner is pulled aside at the bottom, revealing shirts and underwear, a phalanx of 5-hour energy drinks in tiny red bottles, a pair of slippers, deodorant, shaving cream, and some white underwear. I assume this stuff belongs to RJ’s dad. Maybe he sleeps here sometimes.