Turtle Boy Read online

  I had a chance to defend Shirah. I did nothing. And since then, Shirah won’t talk to Max. Max seems clueless about how to deal with the fallout. And I’ve been standing by, silent. Stuck.

  I decide to go to the Back 40, the one place I can go and be free of my thoughts, free of myself.

  * * *

  • • •

  I lie on my back and shove myself under the fence. On the other side, I pick myself up and jump to dislodge the clumps of dirt from my back. I noticed that it was easier to squeeze under the fence this time. Every time I use the tunnel, it wears away at the dirt and the opening gets wider. Soon I’ll be able to shove underneath without any trouble at all.

  I begin to walk down the path through the patches of milkweed and goldenrod. I can hear the chirring of katydids and crickets, and my mood begins to improve.

  The path winds around a hill before it descends to the pond. A sudden movement from the corner of my eye jolts me, and I jump about a foot off the ground.

  Ms. Kuper?

  “Will!” she says, putting a hand over her heart. “You scared me! You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Do I have to leave?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she says. “How did you get in?”

  “I found a spot where I can scoot under the fence,” I say.

  “Oh, right,” she says. She seems to know what I’m talking about. Maybe she dug the tunnel herself?

  “How about I walk you out?” she asks. As we walk, she asks me how life is. I wish I could tell her about what’s really going on. Instead, I tell her I wish she were my science teacher again.

  “Mr. Firenze and I are very different teachers,” she says. “But give him a chance. He has a lot to offer.”

  We move on to talking about the flowers in bloom in the Back 40, pointing out purple swamp asters, the sunny goldenrod. I love talking with Ms. Kuper. I didn’t come out here hoping to find her, but now that we’re together, I don’t want to leave.

  “Before you go,” she says as we arrive at the tunnel, “I want to remind you—you were supposed to bring the turtles to me at least a week ago.”

  “I was going to,” I say quickly, not making eye contact. I add brightly, “The injured one is much better!”

  This is the one topic I’ve been hoping she wouldn’t bring up. She looks a little angry, and I’m hit by a wave of shame. I said I would do something, and then I didn’t.

  “You weren’t really planning on letting the turtles go, were you,” Ms. Kuper says, more a statement than a question.

  I shrug, my throat closing up.

  “Well, then let’s do it today,” she says. “Right now. Go get them. I’ll be waiting.”

  I’m in my room with the door closed, gazing at the box turtle, the snapper, the musk turtle, the other box turtle, and the Blanding’s turtle.

  They know me. When they see me coming, they wag their heads for treats. I couldn’t possibly let them go. But if I refuse, Ms. Kuper might call Mom. If I cooperate, I can always catch new turtles later on—once this all blows over.

  I grab my musk turtle and box turtle and place them into the first carrier, one on either side. I do the same with my snapping turtle and painted turtle. I lower both carriers into my backpack and cushion them so they won’t jostle around.

  Lastly, I look down at the Blanding’s turtle, with the gold speckles on its shell, and its yellow chin.

  “You too,” I say. I don’t have another cricket carrier to put it in, so I go to the kitchen and get a small cereal box. I empty the contents into a ziplock bag, and turning the box sideways, I put the Blanding’s turtle in it. I place the box in my backpack, up toward the top.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’ve returned to the Back 40, where I’m crouched at the edge of the pond. Ms. Kuper is standing about ten paces back.

  “Can you give me a minute with them?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says, walking farther away from the pond. “I know this is hard for you, but it’s the right thing to do. Go on, four turtles in the water.”

  I begin with the musk and the snapping turtles.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, too quiet for Ms. Kuper to hear. “Remember when I saved you from the parking lot? I hope you have good lives.”

  I put them down at the edge of the water, and they both take a few steps until they’re partially submerged. They wriggle their limbs, and soon they’re invisible—just a ripple beneath the surface.

  “Two turtles gone!” I shout.

  “Good job, Will,” Ms. Kuper yells. “Keep going. Two more.”

  Then it’s the box turtle.

  “Three turtles gone!”

  I follow it with the painted turtle. They both swim off, their snouts above the water for a moment, then disappear.

  “Four turtles gone,” I call.

  Now I’m sitting here with the Blanding’s turtle in my hands.

  It begins to move its limbs. It sees the water. It knows its freedom is nearby, and I’m about to release it when suddenly, I remember Max, leaping into the water to catch it in the pond, murky and deep. If I let it go, I’ll never have the courage to swim out and find another.

  I peek over my shoulder, and Ms. Kuper is pacing around, scanning the ground for something. She doesn’t even know I have a fifth turtle. She doesn’t know it’s in my hands.

  My hands trembling, I return the Blanding’s turtle to the cereal box.

  “Okay?” says Ms. Kuper. “Finished? I think we learned our lesson.”

  “We sure did,” I say, zipping my backpack shut.

  I’m sitting on the floor, practicing Boom-boom pack! I can only play it for fifteen minutes before I get so bored, I want to throw the sticks across the room. I’m going to need to learn some more beats. The Blanding’s turtle is crawling on the floor somewhere. I used to let all my turtles roam around. I’d leave a few crickets in the corners and let them hunt. I already miss my other turtles, but as long as I have my Blanding’s turtle, I’m happy.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “I’m busy,” I yell.

  The door opens, and my mom is standing there. She looks angry. Beyond angry. Pissed. She never looks this mad.

  “Wild animals?” she says. “You had wild animals in the house, Will? I thought you got those at that pet store!”

  “No, I never said that,” I say, forcing a calm tone. I peek out of the corner of my eye to see that the Blanding’s turtle has crawled under the bed. I can see its beady eyes in the shadows. I shift to face my mom, blocking the bed with my butt.

  “I just got off the phone with Ms. Kuper,” she says flatly.

  Ms. Kuper called? Why did Ms. Kuper call Mom? On a Saturday?

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me that she made you let your turtles go,” says Mom. I can see her glancing in the now-empty terrariums. “And that you knew you weren’t supposed to have them.”

  Busted.

  “I promise I won’t catch any more wild turtles,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

  This is when she drops the bomb. “You already had more animals in the house than I was comfortable with, but I trusted you. How am I supposed to let you have turtles now?”

  “Let me”? Suddenly I need permission to have turtles?

  “Besides,” Mom continues, “I think it’s time for you to take a break from turtles. At least until your Bar Mitzvah.”

  At that moment, I feel motion against my hand, near the edge of the bed. Something brushing past it.

  “Yah!” I shout in surprise.

  “What’s the matter?” asks Mom.

  “Yah,” I repeat, recovering from my outburst. “Yes—there will be no more turtles.”

  Now it’s scratching at my hand. I can’t let it past,
though. If Mom sees it, she’ll make me let it go.

  “No!” I shout as the turtle bites my thumb. Not hard, but a turtle can take out a chunk of flesh if it’s provoked. “No problem,” I add.

  “You are acting so odd, Will,” says Mom. She stares at me a moment and says, “Get dressed. We’re leaving for Aunt Mo’s in thirty minutes. And put on something nice—you can’t wear that awful sweatshirt to Rosh Hashanah dinner.” She closes the door behind her. I pull my hand away and look down in time to see the Blanding’s turtle crawl out from under the bed.

  “We’re going to need a better place for you to hide,” I say.

  RJ’s head is on the pillow. He looks groggy.

  “Turtle Boy,” he says, looking at me. “How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” I say, choosing to ignore the nickname. “Sorry I couldn’t come on Sunday. Rosh Hashanah. Jewish holiday.”

  “I know,” he says. “Rabbi Harris said you’d be here today. Jewish kids are so lucky. Eight days of presents for Hanukkah and extra holidays with no school.”

  I’m a little surprised he’s referring to school since he hasn’t been there in two years.

  “How’s the boom-boom pack! going?” he asks.

  I get out the practice pad and sticks, lay the pad on the stand next to his bed, and play boom-boom pack! eight times—four measures.

  I stop and look at him.

  “Cool,” he says. “You’ve been practicing. You ready for the next step? Boom-boom pack! is just the beginning. Now it’s Boom-boom pack, chacka-lacka.”

  I compute this for a minute.

  “You have a problem?” he asks.

  “That rhythm,” I say. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You think way too much,” he says, annoyed. “Just play the rhythm already. Do the chacka-lackas on this clipboard.”

  He pulls a clipboard from under the blanket that covers his junk drum set.

  I grab the sticks. I’m going to prove my point. I play it: Boom-boom pack, chacka-lacka.

  “See,” I say. “It’s weird.”

  Impatiently, RJ grabs the sticks out of my hand and begins playing, the sticks rapping on the clipboard and bouncing on the practice pad. The rhythm isn’t the sound of marching feet. It’s the rhythm of a kid on a swing, flying to and fro, the chains squeaking and groaning. It doesn’t end—there’s no start and no finish; the rhythm just flows together, on and on.

  Then he stops and looks at me.

  “Oh,” he says, mocking me. “But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t make sense. You quit before you even tried it,” he adds. “You think music needs to go one, two, three, four. Well, this rhythm goes ONE-two-three, FOUR-five. ONE-two-three, FOUR-five.” He emphasizes the “one” and the “four” with a nod of his head.

  That explains it. I was using the wrong formula. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a time signature that counts to five.

  “Can you teach me how to play it the way you do?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Because you’re a stubborn little seventh grader who doesn’t want to learn.”

  He goes back to playing the sweeping, rocking, flowing rhythm, but this time, he’s showing off with fancy twists and turns, and sometimes he extends the rolling up over the wave a beat too long, only to rush back the other way, making up the time. It reminds me of chasing waves on the shores of Lake Michigan and charging toward the water line as a wave recedes, then running twice as fast to escape.

  On and on he plays, a cycle of running and returning, and in the midst of this perfection, the door opens and a nurse comes in. It’s Denise, the mean one. RJ continues to play, oblivious, while I back away and sit down in the cake-chair.

  “Hey!” Denise calls down at RJ, standing with her white sneaker tapping on the ground. “Ralph!”

  He plays for another moment, then stops, the music vanishing into the air. He opens his eyes, and I notice how quickly his expression changes from concentrated intensity to resigned annoyance.

  He sticks his arm out.

  The nurse unwraps something and hunches over RJ. Here comes my nausea. I swallow hard and try to clear my mind, but my vision begins to go blotchy. The whole universe is squeezed into my stomach, my bile, the sweat beading on my forehead—it’s all throbbing together. I put my head down between my knees.

  “Hey, kid,” RJ says loudly. “What are you into? Do you have any hobbies?”

  I look up at RJ. What’s he talking about? Why is he asking about my hobbies now—he’s getting stuck with a needle!

  “Will!” he says, almost urgently. “What are you into?”

  “Turtles,” I say, or sort of moan. My cheeks feel cold and weird against the corduroy of my pants.

  “Turtles?” he says, and laughs. I’m too dizzy to care that he’s laughed at me. “Your nickname is Turtle Boy and your hobby is also turtles?”

  “Turtles are my favorite,” I say. “But I like herps in general,”

  “Herpes?” he asks with a snicker. “Like the disease?”

  “What? No!” I say, and give a big, annoyed sigh. “Herps. Like ‘herpetology.’ It’s Greek. Reptiles and amphibians. You know, turtles and frogs and lizards and stuff.”

  “Well, it sounds like ‘herpes,’ ” says RJ. “So I wouldn’t go around telling people how much you love herps.”

  The nurse holds a hypodermic up to the light and flicks its tip, then leans over a tube in RJ’s wrist. This is the moment of truth. The needle is about to go in.

  “Do you, like, own any turtles?” he asks.

  “I had four specimens at home—all different species,” I say. “But I had to let them go.”

  “That’s quite a herpes collection,” he says.

  A moment later, the nurse gathers the supplies and swishes out of the room without saying a thing. The second the door closes, RJ bursts into laughter.

  “We’re sitting here talking about herpes and turtles, and she did not bat one eyelash. I think she’s a robot,” he says.

  I’m less impressed by the nurse’s lack of reaction to our conversation than by the fact that I didn’t pass out or puke. Most of all, I can’t believe I told someone about my love of turtles and nothing bad happened. He didn’t make fun of me.

  “But you’re serious about the turtle thing? You love turtles?”

  I look down at my bag, take a deep breath, and pull out the largest book. On the cover is a close-up of a box turtle floating in a terrarium. For a moment, I’m afraid RJ will say that the turtle looks like me.

  “No kidding,” he says. “So you have actual turtles at home. As pets?”

  “They’re not pets,” I say. “They’re cold-blooded—they live in a different world than we do.”

  “What did you keep them in?” he asks. “Fish tanks?”

  “Terrariums,” I say. “They need water areas to swim and hunt, and places to bask under a heat lamp, and they like something to hide under too. I’ve built a whole bunch of designer terrariums.”

  “What do they eat?” he asks.

  “Crickets,” I say. “They’ll eat frozen crickets, but they love fresh crickets. They stalk them and snap them up. Turtles aren’t actually slow at all. They’re quick when they need to be. You can coat live crickets with vitamin dust, which keeps turtles from getting nutrient deficiencies.”

  I talk for a few more minutes about turtles: where each type is from in North America, how they breed and hatch, how they survive in the wild, and that myth about their rings—that you can tell how old a turtle is by how many rings are on the scutes of the shells. Not true. The rings can tell you if a turtle is old, sure, but not how old.

  RJ seemed really interested, so I’m disappointed to look back at him and discover that he’s tipped his head back. He’s staring at the ceiling. Great, I’ve bored him. I didn’t mean
to. I need to learn to shut up.

  Then he speaks. “I really want a pet,” he says. “I don’t even care what it is. I’ve never had a pet, not even once.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Never?”

  “My dad is allergic to dogs and cats and anything with fur. And there’s some dumb policy here about not having pets. Trust me, I’ve asked you know who.”

  RJ points his thumb toward the door. The nurse. Probably the one with the needles, Denise.

  “But here’s the thing: if I had a small, quiet pet—something that didn’t make noise or run on a wheel or smell like pee or need me to change its wood shavings—no one would notice.”

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask. “A goldfish?

  “Duh, no!” he says impatiently. “A turtle!”

  I stare at him. I just explained that turtles aren’t pets.

  “Yeah!” he goes on. “It’d be so cool to watch it swim and feed it crickets.”

  I don’t say anything, mainly because I can’t believe I’m hearing this. A minute ago, when he was staring at the ceiling, he was actually daydreaming about having a turtle?

  “You’d have to smuggle it in here,” he says, eyes wide, “but it would be so cool! We could make some space down on my dad’s shelf.”

  The shelf is just large enough for the cracked terrarium I got for free. RJ’s face has brightened in a way I’ve never ever seen it. He looks less like a sixteen-year-old and more like a little boy, thrilled about a birthday present.

  And I happen to have a secret turtle who needs a home.

  “We have to do it right away,” I say. “Saturday. But how are we supposed to get all the gear into your room? The nurses are going to see me carrying a big pail and a terrarium. We’ll get caught.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I start to get anxious.

  “Be at the hospital at one-thirty,” he says. “Call me from the atrium. I’ll make sure the nurses are occupied in someone else’s room.”