“I don’t know they did it. I don’t know who did it,” I say.
“Yeah, well, you for sure know you pissed them off,” Cameron says.
“What else did Monica say? Who all was in there?” Brent asks.
“She didn’t know their names, just that they were the guys who were wearing ‘Make America Great’ hats back when school started,” Cameron says.
Meghan comes over and sits down next to Cameron. “Can I talk to you?” she says.
“Sure,” Cameron says.
“I mean, like private?”
“Oh. Okay,” He takes the last bite of his white bread sandwich, empties the remaining Cheeto crumbs into his mouth, slides his tray to the end of the table and follows Meghan to a spot over by the tree, away from everyone else.
“More drama for Cameron,” Brent says. “I don’t know why he gets so much girl-drama.”
“Maybe it’s the tie,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll start wearing a tie,” Brent says.
I unzip my lunch carrier and look inside again. Just like before, nothing looks good. Brent watches me for what seems like too long. “Really, you look worse than shit.”
“I’m hella tired. I wish I was home.”
“Well...go home then.”
“I’m riding with Rosie, and she’s not out ’til after 6th period.”
“Well, at least you can sleep through dumbbell math.”
But instead of going to math, I go down to the yoga room and meet Joe coming out.
“You don’t look so good,” Joe says.
“That makes it unanimous.”
He gives me his raised eyebrow look.
“Phong. Cameron. Brent. That’s been their greeting today. Before hi, or how’s it goin’, it’s ‘you look like shit.’”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class this period? What brings you here?”
“I just...I’m tired...”
“Well...” He holds the door open for me. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I sit at his desk, lean back in his chair, and try to get comfortable. I shove a huge stack of stuff to the back of the desk, make a space where I can lay my head. For a Buddhist, Joe’s got a lot of shit piled around. God, I’m tired. When am I ever not going to be so tired?
The buzz of the bell cuts through my sleep. I don’t open my eyes.
“Eddie. Eddie. Wake up,” Joe says, nudging my shoulder.
I open my eyes.
“Come on. Sit up. If Mr. Hockney sees I’m letting kids sleep in my office, that’ll be the end of me.”
I lift my head, push myself back into the chair.
“What’re you doing here, anyway? You shouldn’t be back at school yet.”
“I was bored at home.”
“So? Is this better?”
I shake my head. Just a little, not past the hurt line.
“You should go home.”
“Have to wait for Rosie,” I tell him.
“Call your mom?”
“She’s at work.”
Joe glances at the clock, then back at me, then at the clock again. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the nurse’s office. You can stretch out in there until Rosie can take you home.”
“It’s not her day.”
Joe gives me the question look again.
“Tuesday/Thursday. She’s not here on Mondays.”
Joe sighs, “Okay. You may as well hang out in here as go sit on one of those hard chairs in the office.” He stacks three mats against the wall, rolls another one up for a pillow. I hear him on the phone to the office, telling someone that I’m with him. I drift off.
At dinner that night, Max—who’s not usually an “I told you so” mom—says, “I told you it was too soon for you to go back to school.”
“Yeah, well, I’d finished all 10,123 episodes of “Parks and Recreation.”
“What’d you hear about the guys who beat you up?” William asks.
I shake my head, take a bite of salad and concentrate on chewing. At least I can chew again, sort of.
“C’mon, Eddie. There’s got to be plenty of rumors flying around. It’s high school. Right?”
I take another bite of salad.
“Eddie...” Max starts.
I turn to Imani. “Hey! I wrote a poem about you today. Wanna hear it?”
“About me? Tell me it!”
“It’s in my notebook.”
“I wanna see it!”
“I’ll get it, but I’ll have to read it to you ‘cause it’s all messed up, stuff crossed out, writing in the...”
Imani runs to the living room, grabs my backpack from beside William’s recliner, rushes back and shoves it at me. “Tell me it!” she says. Then, as an afterthought, “Please??”
“Imani. Sit down and finish your dinner,” William says.
“But I want to hear my poem!”
“After dinner, Sugar,” William tells her.
I finish my dinner in peace, now that the subject of who beat me up got shifted to the poem. I hadn’t meant to read it to the pest, but it was a great distraction.
“I’m done!” Imani says. “Tell me the poem!”
I get my notebook out. Uh-oh. This needs some quick editing. I can’t call Imani “the pest” in front of William. I turn the paper around, then back, like I can’t read my writing. All the time I’m stalling, thinking pest, best, jest, rest... I scratch out the first line and make a quick substitute.
Imani, who won’t say dis or dat,
Has a scar left by Simba the cat.
A scratch thin as his whisker,
No blood, and no blister,
But she cried bloody murder.
All of the neighbors heard her.
Neosporin and band-aids
Lessened her tirades,
Consoled with ice cream and kisses...
“It still needs a last line,” I tell her. “What rhymes with kisses?”
“Umm, Disses? Hisses? Misses? Pisses...”
“Imaaani,” William says. It’s his warning voice.
“I’m just going through the alphabet, Daddy! Now you made me lose my place!”
“You were at P,” Max says.
“Sisses,” Imani continues. “Wishes. Is that a rhyme? Wishes?”
“Close enough,” I say.
“Then dishes, fishes...” and it’s through the alphabet all over again.
Max has scraped garbage onto one plate and stacked the others, so dinner’s officially over. “May I be excused?” I ask, pushing my chair back.
“Sure,” Max says.
I put my notebook back in my backpack, get The Grapes of Wrath out, and take the ten steps to the living room where I flop down into William’s recliner. Really, this is where I’ve wanted to be all day. I’ve barely read the first sentence of Chapter 23 when William comes in, gives me a thumb over the shoulder gesture and says, “Out!”
I look up at him, thinking he’s kidding.
“Out! If you’re well enough to go back to school you’re well enough to sit somewhere else”
“I don’t think I’ll go to school tomorrow,” I tell him.
“Out! Your lease is up!”
I drag myself into my room and stretch out on my bed. I don’t know why my head still hurts so much. Maybe they left a piece of gravel in there or something. I rub my stub-hand along the fuzz strip in the middle of my head. Dr. Googoooian says I’ll be more comfortable when all of the stitches are dissolved but I don’t know when that will be.
I go back to the living room, sit on the couch next to Max. “I’ll take my pill now,” I tell her.
She glances at the clock. “It’s not even eight o’clock. You get the pill at nine.”
“C’mon, Max. I’m ready to go to bed.”
“I’ll bring it in to you at nine,” she tells me. “If you’re still awake, you can have it then.”
“But...”
“No buts, Eddie.”
“I’m not Gordon, or whatever his name was. Yo
u know?” I say, angry. “I’m not turning into some addict because I want a pill an hour early.”
The pest looks up from her tablet. “Who’s Gordon?” she asks.
“I’ll see you at nine,” Max says, all mad.
William watches as I walk across the room to my bedroom.
“Who’s Gordon??” the pest asks again.
I close the door behind me and sit on my bed. I probably shouldn’t have said what I did about Gordon. He was a guy they both met at some veteran’s thing. He’d been in Iraq when they were, and they got to be friends. Gordon and William used to play basketball sometimes. And then they heard he’d OD’ed. I guess it was cold of me to say what I did, but it pisses me off how Max is all dedicated to being the pill cop.
I find my phone to call Rosie. Battery’s dead. That kind of day.
It’s as if the fluorescents inside my skull flicker on and off. On and off. I wonder if that’s how it’s going to be from here on out. I wonder if something moved around when I was unconscious, and it’s never going to find its place back to the right spot. All I know is, something doesn’t seem right in my head.
I plump the pillows behind me and start on Chapter 23 again. It’s one of the chapters that’s about migrants in general, comparisons to where they’ve come from, their awful conditions. Sometimes I skip those chapters because I want to keep reading about the Joad family. Tonight, I do a quick skim of Chapter 23, then get back to the Joads in 24. I remember where I left off. They’d found a place in a camp that was clean and where people treated each other right. The kids saw flush toilets for the first time. I can remember what I read, but I’m worried about math. I hold my place in the book with my stump thumb, gaze at the ceiling, and, starting with the sixes, go through the multiplication tables. That works, all the way through the twelves. Those were always the hardest for me, but 12 x 6 is 72, and 12 x 12 is 144, and 12 x 9 is 108, and all the rest are still the same. But why do I feel so fuzzy? Floaty?
My phone rings. I get it from the charger. Finally, after one phone call and three texts, it’s Rosie. “Hey, Rosie.”
“Hey, Eddie.”
“What’re you doing?”’
“The times tables.”
“What????”
“You know, 12 x 12 is...”
“I know what the times tables are. Since the 4th grade I’ve known that. Didn’t you?”
“I was testing myself. That’s all.”
“God. I wish that was the test I was studying for. Calculus is killing me, and I’ve got to keep my A or...”
“I thought colleges didn’t even look at your senior year, especially not second semester.”
“So, I should just blow it off?” She sounds irritated.
“That’s not what I said.”
“I’ve got to go, Eddie. I’ve got studying to do.”
“But...”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I lie back down. 8 x 9 is 72, 11 x 12 is 122. Shit. It seems like Rosie’s just waiting to get mad, like something’s changed, and I don’t even know what it is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Strength
When Max talked with Dr. G., he said I shouldn’t go back to school for another three weeks. And they set it up so I can’t get back in without a release from the doctor. So, okay. Three weeks. I’ll work on building my strength and stamina, a little bit at a time. Weights, and some yoga moves that are strengthening, and taking Buddy on walks, a little longer each day for stamina. Yeah, and practicing a few karate moves, too. It’s been a while since I practiced karate, but you never forget that stuff. Even if your brain doesn’t remember, your body does. Next week I’ll start working with William again. Just a few hours at a time to begin with. Rosie picked up homework for me from my teachers. It’s sitting in a big pile on top of my dresser.
Mainly, I work on all the body stuff, but what about...I don’t even know what to call it. My mind? My spirit? My heart? Whatever it is, I’ve got a lot of time to think, and I keep thinking what if? What if I’d been killed? Would my life have counted for anything? And what if William had been killed? And why did anyone want to hurt me so bad? Or, why can’t we all be like the good camp in The Grapes of Wrath, where everyone helps each other out and works together instead of being in one of the bad camps where groups of people are fighting against each other?
By the time Dr. G. releases me to go back to school, I’m strong again. Fit. My reverse mohawk has grown out some, but it’s all uneven. I’ve always done the basic barber thing, but then Max heard about this cool barber that one of the dental patients goes to. So, the Saturday before I go back to school, she takes me to the Cut Above barber shop, and now I’ve got a low fade on the sides and a low brush cut on top. It looks strange, like I’m trying to be all stylish or something. Rosie likes how it looks, though, so that’s good. Also, she says she likes how it feels when she rubs the buzzed top of my head. Calls it a “fringe benefit.” Get it? “Fringe benefit”?
I’m good. No more pain. No more pain pills. Buddy and I are back to walking our longer route. I still have to wear a belt to keep my pants up, but I don’t have to pull it as tight as I did a couple of weeks ago.
Besides taking me to Cut Above, the day before I go back to school, Max takes me to Nunamakers. January is a little cold for ice cream, but tradition is tradition. I get the big sundae because even though I’m strong and fit, I could still stand to gain some weight, and besides, I like it. Just remembering it has my mouth watering right now. So, me and Max talked about hard times, how my getting beat up scared the shit out of her. And how it made me want to hurt somebody back, the way I’d been hurt. We talk about how hard things are for Carla and Arsenio, and how sad it is that people like the Patriots are so scared of change that their fear turns to hate. We talk about families being separated at the border. Wars. Famine. Climate change.
After all of that, we go on to the sweetness of life and the goodness of people. All of the bracelet people, and the people in William’s A Letter to My Daughters book, but more than that, just everyday people. Whenever there’s an accident, people always rush to help. It’s natural. And help poured in for people who lost their homes in last summer’s fires.
“And, a little thing,” Max says, “but think about how all of the choir girls wore hijabs and stoles at the winter concert so the Muslim girls wouldn’t feel alone.”
I’m glad for the ice cream talks. They remind me that the bad stuff that’s come my way is only a tiny piece of my life. So, yeah, glad for the ice cream talks, and glad for the ice cream.
I’M OUT OF WRITELIGHT before the passing bell stops ringing, managing to catch Rosie as she leaves the choir room. She smiles, reaches up and passes her hand lightly over the top of my head.
“Fringe benefit,” she laughs.
Brianna comes rushing over to Rosie, jumping up and down and screaming.
“Why weren’t you in choir this morning?” Rosie asks.
Brianna keeps jumping up and down. “I got it! I got the letter Saturday! I’m in at UOF!”
Rosie hugs Brianna and smiles weakly. Brianna steps back. “Did you get a letter?”
Rosie shakes her head.
“It’ll probably come today!” Brianna says.
Rosie nods. “I hope,” she says.
“It will! Your grades are better than mine! SAT’s better than mine! Oh, I’m soooo excited!!” she says, then rushes away to spread the news.
The hall is crowded with kids rushing to first period in a maze of different directions, the sound level beyond what’s acceptable for hearing health. I lean in to give Rosie a quick kiss before I turn toward Earth Science. Her eyes are watery.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and walks toward her English class. I catch up to her.
“Rosie! What’s wrong?”
I put my arms around her, hold her in a tight hug, feel her strong short breaths against my chest, and I know she’s crying. We sta
nd clenched together in the middle of the hall, kids walking around us, paying no attention. There’s always drama in the halls of HH, and ours this morning is just one more drama. Pushing back a bit, I move us closer to the wall, out of the busy middle. “What is it?”
“What if I don’t get in?” she gasps. “It’s the best music therapy program in the country, and Brianna and I’ve planned this together since we were freshmen and...” Sobs. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted!”
“You’ll probably get your letter today, like Brianna said.”
Rosie wipes her face and walks off toward class.
At lunch Brent’s as happy about his college letters as Brianna was about hers. “M.I.T. No! Cal Tech. No! Georgia Tech. No!” he laughs.
“I bet your dad’s pissed,” Cameron says.
“My dad’s been pissed since the cornhole tournament,” Brent says, “or maybe since I got a C in Algebra when I was thirteen.”
“What’re you going to do, then? Hamilton Heights Community College?” Cameron asks.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll get into Chapman or Occidental, which are my first-tier choices. Maybe major in history. The ones that don’t want me were all my dad’s first choices, not mine. Trouble is, I’ve spent so much of my school life fighting against engineering, I’ve hardly ever even thought about what I do want to study.”
There’s more talk about colleges while my mind wanders around the quad, back to this morning’s classes. Except for that one day a few weeks ago, it’s been almost a month since I’ve been here. The quad, the halls, the classes, the people, it seems strange being here, like I’ve stepped back into some past life where I maybe don’t belong any more.
I go through the motions in afternoon classes. Before I help set up the yoga room 6th period, I step on the scale and am happy to see that I’m up to 147 pounds. Five more pounds and I’ll be back to my pre-attack weight.
After dinner, I go over to Joe’s studio. The lights are on. I peer in the side window to be sure he’s not teaching a class, then tap lightly on the door. He’s barely got the door open a crack when Peppy squeezes through, barking excitedly, jumping on me, running circles around me. I pick her up, laughing, and nuzzle my face in her soft fur. She wiggles around and licks my face. Joe’s laughing now, too.
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