Turtle Boy Page 6

  * * *

  • • •

  That afternoon, I lift the Blanding’s turtle out of its tiny, temporary tank. It doesn’t struggle much. The injured toe looks puffy and raw, and I dab it with the iodine Ms. Kuper gave me. When I lower the turtle down onto the driftwood platform, it scuttles under it, laying still for a long time.

  A while later, I hear Mom come home, and then there’s a knock on my door.

  “Will, I’d like to talk to you a sec,” she says through the door.

  I put down my book, and she comes in and sits on my desk chair, near the Blanding’s turtle’s terrarium.

  “I want to talk to you about what happened with the boy you visited in the hospital,” she says.

  I turn and bury my face in my pillow. I thought I was done with RJ, the obnoxious junk-drummer.

  “Will,” she says, “Rabbi Harris and I talked this morning. We think you ought to be ready for another visit.”

  “He didn’t like me and I didn’t like him,” I say.

  “You need to do your forty hours of community service.”

  “Thirty-six,” I correct.

  “Whatever,” she says. “This needs to be dealt with, and it can’t wait until next Sunday. You’re going back there Wednesday after school. I’ll help you figure out the bus route. You’re going to give this kid another try.”

  For Mom, “try” means “yes.” For me, “try” means “do once and quit.”

  Wednesday after school I take the bus to the hospital and ride the elevator to RJ’s floor. I skip the nurses’ station and head straight to his door. I knock. No answer. I knock louder. Still no response. I turn the door handle and step inside. He has headphones on, and he’s hammering on his practice pad. He’s acting oblivious to my presence, but he definitely sees me. I don’t care.

  I sit on the gray cake-chair and pull out my paperback on herps and terrariums. I don’t want RJ to know that I love turtles. He’d probably think my stupid nickname, Turtle Boy, is hilariously appropriate. Fortunately, I have my math workbook with me. I tuck the book on terrariums inside it and read about advanced filtration systems. I read for a while, feeling like this visit is going way better than the first one. I could do this seventeen more times and be done with my hours, and done with this kid forever.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m getting bored, and the sound of the drumming is driving me crazy. Maybe I’ll wander around the halls and eat up some time. I stand and head to the door.

  The second my hand touches the door handle, the drumming stops and RJ speaks, startling me.

  “Wait,” he says. “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom,” I say.

  He points to the only other door in the room: his bathroom.

  “Actually, I’m taking a walk,” I say. “Stretch my legs.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “I have a task for you. Get me three bags of Funyuns from the vending machines.”

  I remember the Funyuns I saw on the shelf last time. From where I’m standing, I can see that they’re gone. I’m surprised that RJ can have junk food.

  “Are you allowed to eat that stuff?” I ask. I don’t want to get in trouble for making him sick.

  “No, I’m not allowed,” he says. “But (A) that’s none of your business, and (B) they aren’t for me; they’re for Mrs. Barnes. She’s down the hall a bit on the left side. I bet you have a couple bucks on you.”

  It’s true, I do have a few dollars. Mom gives me five dollars a week as allowance for easy chores: refilling the beans, rice, and pasta in the bulk food bins. But I don’t want to spend my money on Funyuns for some random lady down the hall. I can feel myself getting angry. I don’t move and I don’t say anything.

  “Look,” says RJ. “You need your hours so you can get Rabbi Harris off your back. And I need three bags of Funyuns. So do the math.”

  I’m doing the math. What do I hate more: being in the room with RJ…or the fact that he’s manipulating me? The calculation doesn’t take very long.

  “Where’s the vending machine?” I ask.

  * * *

  • • •

  Out in the hall, I walk slowly. Extra, extra slowly. The trip to the elevator takes at least ten minutes, and once I’m in front of the vending machines, I lose myself, admiring all the snacks. I take my time inserting the bills, pushing the buttons, collecting change. On the walk back to RJ’s room, I take twice as long. In total, I’m gone at least twenty minutes.

  Back at RJ’s door, I knock quietly. Much softer than Roxanne did when she first accompanied me. I knock a little louder, and then just a little louder, until the mean nurse, the one with the needle—Denise—looks up from her computer.

  “He can’t hear you,” she says impatiently. “Just go in.”

  RJ has fallen asleep. His headphones are on, and the sticks have fallen out of his hands. The music continues to blare out of his headphones.

  Now that he’s lying still, I can see how thin he is, how pale his skin is. I tuck the three bags of Funyuns on the shelf, out of sight. As I’m packing my books into my backpack, I glance at the wall behind the bed. Up near RJ’s head is a lone picture. A woman with straight black hair and a little boy squint into the camera, both dressed in swimsuits. They’re on some sort of tropical beach. The endless blue ocean stretches out behind them.

  Next to the photo hangs a piece of notebook paper. At the top, in big letters, it says BUCKET LIST. Under that, in smaller writing, there are a couple of words per line. Next to each line is an empty box, like a checklist. I lean in closer to read the list, but RJ’s hand flies up, startling me, snatching the paper away.

  “That’s not for you,” he says quietly. He folds it in half and holds it close to his chest.

  “I didn’t know it was private,” I say.

  “I didn’t know you were so nosey,” he says.

  Then he notices that I’m standing with my backpack.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he says. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Why? It’s only—” He looks at the clock. “We have ten minutes left!”

  “I got here at one-fifty-seven,” I say. “It’s two-forty-seven now, and it takes ten minutes to get downstairs. That’s an hour.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, I step into the hall and I’m free.

  “Will!”

  I hear my Mom’s voice, but I don’t move.

  “I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes! You have to get up. Now! We cannot be late for Shirah’s Bat Mitzvah!”

  I roll over and curl up, facing the wall.

  “Will!” My mom’s voice is loud and intense.

  “I don’t feel good,” I say.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says. “Get up and get dressed; we’re going to be late.”

  She stomps out of the room. I get dressed in slow, clunky movements: my dumb black pants and black sneakers and white shirt.

  “Your hair’s a mess,” Mom says as I come into the kitchen.

  I turn on my heel and head to the bathroom. I don’t look at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. I never like what I see. I run water on my hands, smooth down my hair, and return to the kitchen.

  Mom hands me my kippah. “Now, that’s a handsome boy,” she says.

  We drive together, mostly silent. The synagogue is packed, so we sit way in the back. Shirah has a lot of family. And friends. She’s up on the bimah, running the service, even the sections that kids don’t need to lead. Rabbi Harris is off to the side with his own prayer book, as if he’s just one of the congregation.

  When Shirah leads songs, everyone sings and claps and sways to the music. She doesn’t have the fake voice of someone who’s practiced too many times. She sounds like herself: strong and conf
ident.

  Her mom and dad sit on the bimah in the large chairs against the back wall of the sanctuary. I watch them as they watch Shirah, looks of joy on their faces. Shirah’s mom looks just like her: big, curly hair and freckles. Her dad looks like her, too: heavy eyebrows and big shoulders. She probably got her strong volleyball arms from him.

  I think about what I got from Mom. To start with, my love of reading. She always has three or four books open on her bedside table at any given time. And she prefers real books to ebooks, just like me. Now I’ve learned what I got from Dad: my chin. Looking at the photos of him with his beard, I couldn’t really tell. It’s hard to get my head around the idea that he passed me the genes that have made me into what I am. I really don’t like that idea. It feels just as weird to think that if I have the surgery, I’ll be erasing something that I inherited from him.

  He gave me so little else.

  And even if my chin is my dad’s fault, I still wish he could be here so I could blame him without feeling guilty. I’m also starting to wish I could go home. Obviously, I’m happy for Shirah. But being here in this synagogue is reminding me of everything I don’t have: Family. Lots of friends. A dad.

  It’s time for the Torah reading. The congregation sings while Rabbi Harris opens the Ark, leans in, grabs the Torah scroll, and carefully hands it to Shirah. As she walks down the aisles, people gather to kiss the scroll or touch it with their prayer books, an old tradition to show respect. Max stands up and she pauses in front of him. He kisses the Torah, looking thrilled.

  Eventually, Shirah makes it to the back of the room where Mom and I are sitting. When she sees me, her eyebrows pop and she waves. I can feel my face grow hot: she actually broke her concentration to wave at me.

  Once Shirah is back up on the bimah, she unrolls the Torah scroll, and after chanting the opening blessing, she begins to read. Her expression strikes me. Surrounded by all these people and all this Jewish stuff, she’s calm. At peace. She’s at home.

  The only time I feel at home is when I’m alone, whether in my room or in the Back 40.

  I wish I could always feel the way she looks right now.

  It’s dark in the synagogue rec hall. There’s a disco ball and some laser lights. Shirah is wearing a really nice dress—black with white polka dots—and her hair is in a fancy do. She looks different from this morning. More grown up, surrounded by a bunch of other girls: everyone from Hebrew school and also her volleyball team. They’re all wearing fancy dresses. I stand near a clump of kids until Shirah sees me. She waves again, and I wave back, but with all those kids around her, I don’t want to get any closer. I don’t want to dance or have a good time or do what other kids do at parties. I just want to be invisible.

  Suddenly I feel fingers drilling into my sides. I whip around. It’s Max.

  “Max!” I say. “What the heck?”

  “This party is awesome,” he says. “Did you see the Belgian waffle bar?”

  “Yes,” I say, annoyed.

  “Let’s go get one!” He pulls me with him, and we load up plates with waffles and ice cream. We stand and eat until the music gets louder and a bunch of girls and guys move toward the dance floor.

  “I’m gonna go dance!” says Max.

  Now I’m standing by myself. I look at my watch. It’s nine o’clock. I watch the kids shaking around under the flashing lights. If I can stomach this for another hour, I can leave.

  The song ends and Shirah heads toward the DJ. I try to catch up to her, but I’m intercepted by two boys.

  Jake and Spencer.

  “Hey! What’s going on, Turtle Boy?” Jake asks brightly.

  I freeze. Maybe I should run…disappear into the crowd. I hear Shirah’s voice: “Haven’t I told you to stop calling him that?!” Then she says: “Hey, Will! Having a good time?”

  I nod.

  “I’m so glad I’m done!” Shirah says, making her way toward me, smiling, eyes wide. “Bat Mitzvah…OVER! Big relief!”

  I know she’s trying to make conversation, but my brain is soaking in the fact that Jake and Spencer are at Shirah’s party. I can’t believe she would do this to me.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” Jake says. He and Spencer walk off, leaving me with Shirah.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asks. “Why are you being so weird?”

  “What are those guys doing at your party?” I demand.

  “I’m friends with them!” she says. “What’s it to you, anyhow?”

  “They call me Turtle Boy!” I say, forcing myself to say the name. It sounds so ugly. “But apparently, that’s just fine by you.”

  “Obviously not,” she says. “Didn’t you hear me tell them to knock it off?”

  I watch the crowd for a while, and then I find myself turning and moving away from Shirah.

  “Where are you going?” she asks. “Will! WILL!”

  Everything feels like it’s in slow motion, as if I were swimming—swimming through the crowd and swimming past Max, who’s devouring another Belgian waffle, holding it up to his face and trying not to let a mountain of whipped cream slide off.

  I sit on a bench outside. I can hear the music. No one cares that I’ve left the party. No one even notices.

  It’s amazing how in the synagogue service this morning, one hour felt like a million years.

  But sitting alone, waiting for Mom to pick me up, an hour flies by in a snap.

  As I get on the bus, I have a bad feeling. Shirah’s backpack is on the seat next to her. Her face is turned to the window. I stand there for a minute, wondering if I’m supposed to move the backpack. We have math and science first and second periods, so we should be sharing our homework right away.

  I put my hand out, but she grabs the bag, her fingers tight, like a claw. I stand there awkwardly for a moment before retreating halfway down the aisle, trying to escape the cloud of anger that seems to hover around her. A minute later, Max gets on and he looks at the bag next to Shirah. He seems to register that I’m not sitting with her. He lifts his gaze and spots me. He thinks I’m saving him a seat.

  I pull my backpack from my feet and plop it on the seat next to me, just like Shirah did. I look out the window. I can feel Max standing there, looking at the backpack. Then he continues slowly toward the back of the bus.

  If I’m not going to sit with Shirah, I don’t want to sit with anyone.

  * * *

  • • •

  In Hebrew school, Rabbi Harris compliments Shirah on her excellent Bat Mitzvah.

  “And how was your party?” he asks in front of the class.

  “It was great,” she says. “Really fun.”

  The other students add their congratulations on the ceremony and the party, but I lower my eyes—just in case she’s looking at me.

  Then we move on to learning the Hebrew vocabulary for a hypothetical trip to a grocery market: “Eat.” “Shop.” “Food.”

  “And how do you say ‘eat’ if you’re a girl?” asks Rabbi Harris. “O-chel…”

  “O-chelet,” says Shirah. I can never remember the right masculine and feminine suffixes, but for Shirah, it’s no problem. She can actually speak a lot of Hebrew. I only know about twenty words.

  “Yofi, Shirah,” Rabbi Harris says. “Now let’s get into teams to improvise skits.”

  “Shirah and Will and me!” shouts Max. Normally, the three of us make a decent team, but Shirah isn’t talking to me, so I’m not sure how this is going to work.

  “Shmarya, Mordechai, and Shirah.” Rabbi Harris writes on the board, using Max’s and my Hebrew names. “Your skit,” he says, pausing to think, “is…to go into the market and buy ingredients to make a Shabbat dinner.”

  He separates the rest of the class into teams and gives us all a minute to prepare. As usual, Shirah takes charge. Max is going to be the s
hopkeeper, and Shirah and I are customers. Shirah is loud and sort of curt. It’s not clear if she’s mad at me, exactly, but she doesn’t seem happy, either.

  Standing in front of the class, I start to get nervous. I wipe my palms on my pants.

  “And…action!” shouts Rabbi Harris, trying to move us along.

  I walk into the store.

  “Ding-a-ling,” I say. I have no idea what noise a door makes in Hebrew.

  “Shalom,” says Max. “Mah atah rotzeh?”

  I become aware of the eyes in the room. Everyone is staring at us with amused expressions.

  “Ani rotzeh,” I say, meaning, “I want.” It’s by far the most common phrase in our Hebrew class. “What’s the word for ‘fruit’?”

  “Perot,” says Shirah.

  “That’s right,” says Rabbi Harris. “Perot! You know, like borei pri hagafen?” He’s referring to the prayer we say before drinking wine—or actually, the sweet grape juice they hand out at the end of synagogue services. “Pri” is “fruit,” and “hagafen” is “of the vine.” We’ve all said it a million times.

  “Ani rotzeh perot?” I ask.

  “Mordechai, you’re the grocer, right? What do you say back?”

  “Ayn perot,” he says. There is no fruit.

  “Ani rozeh,” I say, preparing my counterattack. “How do you say ‘bread’?”

  “Lechem,” mumbles Shirah. She’s avoiding my eyes.

  “Like hamotzei lechem min ha artetz,” Rabbi Harris says encouragingly. He’s referring to the only other prayer I know: the prayer over challah.

  “Ayn lechem,” says Max. There is no bread.

  “This is seriously the last one,” I say, growing tired of this exercise. “Ani rozeh dahg.”

  We’d all learned that in Hebrew; dahg is “fish.”

  “Ayn dahg,” says Max.

  Rabbi Harris must be getting sick of Max’s routine as well, because he jumps in: “Mordechai,” he interrupts, “Lamah…Everyone remembers lamah? Lamah means ‘why.’ Mordechai, Lamah ayn perot, ayn lechem, v’ ayn dahg?”