by Scott Brown
“Yep.” I nodded at the screen. “That’s me.”
I waited for it.
“Tell me how.”
Yay. My favorite conversation.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I did.”
She gave me the hard look I knew too well, the look of the Overdiagnosed and Undercured. Then she said the same thing I would’ve said (or at least thought) six months ago:
“Liar.”
And for some reason, I really felt like one.
“Will Daughtry,” the nurse called, too late.
“Thank God,” whispered Monica, closing the Entertainment Weekly she’d been pretending to read, and in we went to find out what I wasn’t dying of that week.
* * *
—
Lotta check-ins at ol’ HUGE for young Will Daughtry. Weekly monitoring: it comes with every medical mystery. It’s the part they leave out of those X-Men movies. Probably because it’s deadly dull. And not fully covered, insurance-wise. And a giant buzzkill.
The upside was that Monica drove me there. Technically, it should’ve been a guardian, Brian or Laura, and they were all too eager to oblige, believe me. That’s why I begged them not to.
“You two,” I told them, “no offense, but you freak me out.”
“I’m not trying to freak anybody out!” Brian came back. “I just want some answers.”
“They don’t have those there,” I said. “They have tests. And questions. And then more tests. When they have answers, you’ll know. We’ll all know.”
“We don’t mean to hover, Will,” Laura said, in her smoothest and most soothing yogurt-commercial voice. “We really don’t.”
“I know,” I said. “Believe me, I appreciate it. Everything you’re both doing. But…there are going to be a lot of these tests, a lot of these appointments. And…every time I look at you two in that waiting room, the looks on your faces, I see the crash cart and defib paddles right around the corner.”
“That’s not what we—”
“I know! I know! It’s not you, it’s me. But…can it be Monica? For a while? Just for a while?”
So it was Monica for a while, driving me to my weekly bleedings. And after, we’d go to the Lowlands, or surfing, where the water would take it all, make it all go away.
Dr. Helman closed the door to the exam room. “Roll up a sleeve and stay awhile.”
The nurse—always the same nurse, always the same vampiric complexion—laid out his medieval phlebotomy tackle and swabbed my good bleeding arm (I’m a lefty for bleeding, a righty for everything else) while Dr. Helman went down her checklist: Any joint pain? Shortness of breath, chest pain? Migraines, bad headaches? Visual “shimmers”? Strange sensations that may or may not be mild seizures? Loss of appetite?
Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. And to that last one: quite the opposite. Given the chance, any time of day or night, I could and would eat my weight in Ranch Corn Nuts. At the end of that day’s session, we had what we always had: another few pages of data for Dr. Helman, another five vials of blood for Vampire Nurse.
“You’re fine,” said Dr. Helman. “That’s the headline. Again.”
“I feel fine,” I said. “Unless I’m here. Here, I feel like a time bomb.”
“Well, there’s no evidence you are. We’re just keeping an eye on you. For, y’know, ‘science’!”
There are very few doctors who can get away with putting science in ironic air quotes, and Dr. Helman wasn’t one of them. But I didn’t blame her for trying to lighten things up before saying what she really wanted to say:
“In all seriousness: would you like to talk to a therapist?”
I always gave that question four seconds of serious thought and concluded: Less than anything.
“I mean…I already have a therapist?”
“Oh!” said Dr. Helman. “Well, that’s great.”
* * *
—
Dr. Monica Bailarín, B.o.B. (also my driver, as luck would have it), was skilled at what she called the Talking Cure: a treatment that involved no drugs stronger than Pibb Xtra and Tabasco, but did require a great deal of surfing.
After a long Saturday at the bleedorium or phlebodome or whatever, we’d drive to the zoo, I’d put in an hour at the Lowlands, then we’d head north to spend the last light at BoB, waxing our boards and just waxing. Drew was there sometimes. But mostly not. Practice, practice. The Plan demanded Wins. And thus: practice.
One day, on the way to postbleeding therapy, I left Monica in Keeper Access and opened the air lock (what we called the security door leading into the habitat) to take the chow to the Family. The usual routine, same time, same everything.
Except right away, I knew something was different.
Jollof was nowhere to be seen. Not on his throne. Not in the yard. Not on the concourse ledges. None of his usual haunts.
I sat the food down where I always did. Blue watched me from over by the observation window. Gave a shy wave. I waved back.
Maybe that’s what did it.
As I turned back toward the air lock, the bushes twenty yards to my right exploded, and Jollof, propelled by forces of nature we upright bipeds can only guess at, came galloping at me fast, only one of his four sets of knuckles touching the ground at a time. I had zero chance of making it to the air lock, so I just froze.
He’d gotten between me and the door again. But this time, he seemed less unsure about what he planned to do. This time, his canines were bared, fangs as long as switchblades.
A trickle of perspiration made its way all the way to my tailbone—where my tail, if I’d had one, would’ve been firmly between my legs.
This wasn’t a dominance display. This was just dominance. The Full Jollof.
Lucky for me, that’s when Mike started pilfering the mangoes.
Lucky for me, that was the sort of thing Jollof couldn’t let slide. Even if he was in the middle of a homicide.
While Jollof wrote a scathing review on Magic Mike’s skull with fists and fangs, I slipped back to safety, or at least civilization.
In Keeper Access, Brian was there with Monica—she’d called the cavalry—and two other keepers, along with two armed security guards, hands on their pistol pommels.
Brian grabbed me, hugged me. Monica did, too.
Then Brian said, “Okay, intern. You’re never going in there again.”
I was fine with that.
I watched Jollof lose interest in beating Mike to death, the way he always did. Mike was good at boring Jollof into submission, just taking the blows, rolling with them. Finally Jollof dealt him one parting cuff to the ear, took a big armful of mangoes, and went back to his throne room.
Mike stumped unevenly back to his studio apartment, bloodied and bowed, his goofy gait subdued, bent into a broke-dick trapezoid. I swear he looked back at me, over his shoulder. Tiniest little nod, so tiny I might’ve imagined it. If I’d been inclined to anthropomorphize apes, I might’ve interpreted that nod as:
You and me, bro.
Or You owe me, bro.
Or maybe both.
* * *
—
It was a gorgeous day at BoB, a great day to be not-dead.
“I don’t know what got into him,” I was saying to Monica as we picked our way down the red rocks to the beach. “He was a little weird with me that one time, but I thought we were past that.”
“Couples counseling,” said Monica, throwing her salt-rotten sneakers down to the sand and dropping after them. “It’s a cliché, but it works.”
“Yeah, I think Jollof and I are over for good.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Monica. She’d disappeared into the cave for her board. “Jollof doesn’t like deviations from the norm, right?”
“Right.”
�
�Well, Jollof is a male gorilla of a certain age. So I’ll bet he watches local news. And you are, after all, What’s Weird in the 858….”
“Okay, okay, wiseass. Enough.”
See, the local news had come a-calling when Guinness started tracking my growth spurt for a potential record. Rafty tipped them off. Twice a day. For several weeks. And that’s how I became “What’s Weird in the 858!” (which is the real, actual, not-shitting-you name of the segment) for our local news station. They shot a short interview in the Daughtry driveway, me next to the Yacht, intercut with Rafty’s time-lapse GIF.
Not too many days after my spot aired, [jack] showed up.
“Do you think Jollof is [jack]?” We were waxing our boards.
Monica shook her head. “Jollof’s too evolved to be a troll. And too sexually active.”
[jack]—as [jack] explained to me—was a giant killer. He was a very industrious troll. That much was verifiable. He systematically attacked my various platforms, registering under dozens of names—usually versions of [jack]—and spouting off various mumbly, ambiguous lowercase threats, which everyone encouraged me not to take seriously while simultaneously insisting I alert the police.
The theme was always the same:
u r not 2 big 2 fail
juice-box-size juicer = still a juicer
will daughtry—now with 30% more derp
Super lame shit. None of it bothered me, honestly. Internet gonna internet.
Then [jack] got less entertaining.
bigger they r…hardr they die
6-letter word for rapid growth? C-A-N-C-E-R—ask ur mom
That last one rattled me. It meant there’d been some deep, deep googling.
It meant commitment.
It also made me suddenly, explosively furious. I mean, anyone would be upset, reading that. But this kind of anger—it was a temperature I’d never felt before. I felt it in my hands. I’d never felt anger in my hands before.
Was it because they were bigger now?
And then I’d come down. Come back to myself. Mood swings. One of the things Dr. Helman had said to watch out for. But was it really so strange, was it really so pathological to get angry when a stranger talks shit about your dead mom?
Drew didn’t think it was strange. Drew got angry enough for both of us the first time he saw one of [jack]’s fan letters.
“Tell him to meet us behind the gym, and I’ll pound his little lowercase letters into the dirt.”
Drew was brave. Drew was protective. And Drew was, of course, joking.
He didn’t really believe in violence. He believed in the Plan. But he wanted me to know how angry he was, and I appreciated that. I was grateful. As always. And a little irrationally annoyed, at the same time.
Because I was Drew’s size now. I actually edged him by a few pounds that September. I could do my own troll rolling, thanks, if things broke that way. Part of me wondered if they would. Part of me was curious. Not a super admirable part: the part that wouldn’t mind settling scores.
I didn’t want that part of me diagnosed, maybe. I was already the subject of too many attempted diagnoses. Half the time, I felt terrified of dying, even after my clean bill of health, maybe ’cause You’re fine! But we’ll be monitoring you forever! doesn’t really feel like the cleanest bill of health.
Half the time, I felt like a god. A minor god. Demi, for sure. But a god.
And all the time, I worried about bursting into flame.
I worried the anger I felt in my hands came from someplace so deep and metabolic, I wouldn’t be able to beat it, or outrun it, or outgrow it.
Sometimes I just wanted to be weightless.
Dr. Monica had a prescription for that.
* * *
—
We floated in the BoB cove, on our backs, on the beat-to-shit Goodwill boards she kept in the cave.
“All this talk about cancer, about stalkers—we’re leaving it at the cliff top,” Monica was saying. “It doesn’t belong down here. I won’t have it, William. I will not have it.” And then, in her best grizzled-cop voice, she rasped: “Not on my BoB!”
I laughed, because it was the dumbest nonjoke in the world, delivered perfectly, and I felt the board jiggle and pitch, felt the cold tickle of Pacific seawater. There was more of me on the board than there had been before. Every time, there was always more. I felt unwieldy.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m cured. I’m not afraid anymore. Of anything. Except hypothermia. Can we please paddle in?”
“ ’Nother ten minutes,” said Monica. “Trust me, this is therapeutic.” She stretched on her board, actually managed this kinda yoga-ish backbend, then went flat again. “I have…utter faith in you, Will Daughtry,” she said. “I always have. So you’re changing, so what? We all are, right? Trust the water. There’s a good plan. One of my faves. Oh, and also: bend your knees. Very good plan. Always bring a book. Decent plan. Hey. Were you telling Dr. Helman the truth?”
“About what?”
“That you feel good?”
“I feel…really good. I feel…”
“Strong?” The green eyes were scanning me hard now. Couldn’t quite tell what for. It made me warmer, though. Hearing her say that word, strong. While looking at me.
“Yeah. I feel…strong.”
“Then: be strong.”
“Also…hungry.”
Monica laughed. “Now that’s a plan. That the hormones talking? Is it Grow-liath’s time of the month?”
(Grow-liath, I’m sorry to say, was Rafty’s “brand name” for me. Monica couldn’t get enough of repeating it, because it was heart-stoppingly abominable.)
“It’s apparently always Grow-liath’s time of the month.”
“Y’know,” said Monica, zagging. “I was looking at my freshman yearbook the other day.”
“Okay. Non sequitur. So, apropos of nothing—”
“Of something. Wait for it.”
“Apropos of something, you were gazing at an actual, physical print yearbook. Very romantic, very steampunk.”
“Indeed,” said Monica, to the sky. “Anyway…I flipped to the back page, and somebody’d written, Don’t ever change! Which should’ve been funny to me. But…wasn’t. Because…why do people say that? And write it in yearbooks? Why is that on birthday cards? And not Eat shit and die? Don’t ever change is, like, the king of all curses! That’s like saying, Don’t breathe, please. For me? I mean, it’s the procrustean bed of yearbook clichés!”
I wasn’t about to slow her down to ask about the crusty bed thing.
“Shit, Daughtry,” she rolled on, “everyone changes. Everyone who can.” Monica made a surf angel with her arms, finning the water, and then floated off vaguely in the direction of the Sawtooth. “Except me. I am eternal. Me and BoB. We are magic. We are legend.”
I didn’t argue with her there.
We floated. Then I said, “What do you worry about?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“College?”
“Don’t.” She splashed me. “Drew’s bad enough. Don’t you start.”
“What? I mean…you’re a senior—”
“That I am.”
“So you’re down with the Plan.”
“I’m down,” Monica said, looking out at the Sawtooth, at the froth and churn, “with my plan.”
* * *
—
Monica was already halfway up the cliff. I was about to follow when the sun hit the inside of the cave just right and I saw it:
Her sleeping bag. Her kerosene camp stove.
What do you worry about?
Lots of stuff.
She was sleeping here. Again. She’d done it before. When her dad had one of his “off” weekends.
I usually made a point of asking a
bout it, even though Monica hated that, even though she got annoyed. And I almost asked about it that day, but then I saw, next to the sleeping bag, a duffel. A simple, unassuming, just-minding-its-own-business duffel.
Drew’s duffel.
Maybe she was just borrowing it? Doubtful. It was Drew’s favorite duffel, his lucky duffel, the one he took to playoff games.
This particular camping trip wasn’t dad-driven. It was Drew-driven.
Sex at BoB. I felt a fresh wave of betrayal.
Then I got over it.
But I still wanted to know: dad or Drew?
Also, I wanted not to know.
Also, it was moot, I realized, because I couldn’t ask either of them. It would Get Weird. Fast.
Drew would be embarrassed because he didn’t know Monica was bunking at BoB, or because I did, and Monica’d be furious at me for checking up on her, either behind her back or to her face. Well-intentioned paternalism was her least favorite kind of paternalism.
But there were worse paternalisms.
Here was Monica’s official line on her dad, as long as I’d known her: “He’s just a goddamned mess, but he’s my mess, and I don’t want him in the system, comprende?”
In other words: Back off. I’ve got this.
In innocent ancient times—before the Heightening, before MoniDrew—Drew and I had made it clear to Monica: Our door’s always open. Crash away, if shit gets bad. Surf our couch, for a change. Monica listened, nodded, appreciated the gesture, I think—but was also mildly appalled. She’d blown it off. “You guys don’t have enough bookshelves,” she’d said finally, “to handle me and mine.”
Me and mine, meaning Monica and all her books.
What she really meant was: her dad was all the family she had left. Sometimes, though, she had to get away from him. Thus, her BoB overnights. “It’s an oversad kind of thing,” she’d reassure us. “Not an undersafe kind of thing.”
I looked up at her, hanging off the cliff, halfway back to civilization, that wobbly empire of fear, and—SMASH! went the Sawtooth—away from nature, that boiling cauldron of fear.