by Will Walton
Now that I’m not dancing, my body’s acting all weird on its own.
“Mom, I don’t feel too well,” I say. “I think I’m getting sick.”
“Uh-oh,” she says. “What you think you got, Tretch-o?” She comes over and feels my head. “We’ll have to get your dad to check. He’s better at telling fevers than me. Richard—”
“Yep?”
Dad comes in, and I turn off Dirty Dancing. Mom drapes this quilt that Grandma made me from all these different pieces of fabric, all different colors, shapes, and designs, over my legs. Then she goes and slides the Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers Christmas CD into the stereo to cheer me up.
“Okay, Tretch-o.” Dad presses his hand against my forehead. Then, like he isn’t getting a good enough read on it, he turns his head and pushes his cheek up against my face.
“Yep,” he says. “It’s a fever.”
It could also be dancing, but I don’t tell him that.
Mom puts her hand on her hip. “Better take it easy, then, Tretch. Here, I’ll bring you some Tylenol.”
“All right,” I tell her. There’s always something about knowing you’re sick that makes you feel sicker. So I slump over onto the couch and bang my head against the solid armrest. “Ow,” I say, but I say it kind of sarcastically, because I know it was probably pretty funny to watch. I look up at Dad, but he isn’t laughing. He’s scratching absently at some stubble on his chin. “Dad, you’re getting some scruff,” I comment.
“Oh … yeah,” he says, sounding a little embarrassed that I noticed. “It’s time I switch out my razor blade I guess.”
“No, I like it! It reminds me of Matt’s dad, Mr. Landon. He’s got a big old scruffy beard.”
“Yeah, that man looks like a hippie.” Dad touches his chin another moment. “I couldn’t pull it off, I don’t think.” He smiles at me. “You want me to make you some soup, Tretch?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Starve a cold, feed a fever. That’s how it goes.”
“It’s the other way around, Richard!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Starve a fever, feed a cold.”
Dad looks at me and shrugs. “Whoops.”
Mom emerges with two Tylenols in hand. “Okay, I want you to swallow these, then I want you to go get some rest.” She hands me some cold water in a mug. I take the Tylenol and sip the water. Then I stand and walk up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. “I feel weeeeaaaak,” I complain. “I haaaate sickness.”
I put my hands on the step above me and drag my feet along, eventually ending in a heap on the carpet at the top of the stairs.
“Tretch, no drama,” Mom says from the bottom of the stairs. “Go get in the bed.”
“Ugggghhhh.” I crawl along the hall to my bed, crawl up into it, and lie there, blaming Joe and Matt for leaving me alone during the holidays. As if the loneliness is what got me sick.
It’s a drag. But eventually I do fall asleep.
When I wake up later, I’m shivering and wet with sweat.
“Freezing, f-freezing,” I stutter, rolling out from under my covers.
The Night of the Winter Fever.
I step, all sticky-feeling, down the hall to the bathroom, thinking a shower will be good. What time is it? I wonder. In the bathroom, I take off all my damp clothes. My T-shirt feels slimy coming up over my head. I slide off my pajama pants and underwear, turn the shower handle, and sit naked on the toilet, watching the steam fog up the mirror. I’m not exactly sure how much time has passed by the time I step past the curtain and stand under the hot water. I shiver at first, but it feels nice, standing there. Every time I feel like I’m getting used to the heat, I turn it up a little more. I keep it nice and hot. Eventually, I sit down, which I’ve never done in the shower before, but that makes my knees cold, so I decide to get out. I wobble up onto my feet again, reach for the handle, and make an effort to turn it. I notice I’m seeing everything like a TV screen, and the edges are fading, like a movie that’s about to end, King Kong, bullet-riddled, dropping from the sky, and I’m dropping, too, except for its more like kneeling but fast. “Dad—” I say. The shower drain rises toward my face.
I pass out.
But only for, like, a second, I’m pretty sure.
“Daaaad!” I call. “Dad, I’m pretty sure I just fainted!”
I stagger to my feet and turn off the water. Then I wrap a towel around me. In a second, Dad is at the door. “Tretch?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Did you just faint?”
“Yes, but it was very fast.” The whole bathroom feels like it’s on a tilt. My hip bangs the edge of the sink, and I’m scared my towel will fall.
“Here, Tretch.” Dad slings his arm around me. “Lean on me.”
“Richard?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything okay?”
“Tretch is fine,” Dad says. “A little dehydrated. Fix him some water, will you, Katy?”
Dad walks me to my room, where I sit down on the edge of the bed. Mom brings me a cup of cold water. I drink the whole thing.
“Phew,” I say after I’ve downed it.
“Feel better?” Mom asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Stay there. I want you to drink a bit more.” Dad takes the cup down to the kitchen and fills it up again.
They make me drink two more cups. Then make sure I’m okay in bed.
And what I feel through my feverish haze is gratitude. In moments like this, I can believe their care for me is unconditional. In moments like this, I almost forget to be afraid.
The next day I wake up and immediately breathe a sigh of relief. I feel bizarrely (but wonderfully) better. I can tell my fever has broken. I know that Christmas Eve is tomorrow. I know that Joe will be home in the morning.
The ride to Farm Farm is only a day away.
But, for the time being, I need to get out of my sickbed. I decide to go to Mabel’s and see if Amy is working. Maybe she’s gotten a report from Matt in New York. I wonder if he, Landon, and Ron have already gone to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch or not.
I pull on my corduroy pants, which are a little too big around my waist, and cinch them tight with the “vegan” belt Mom got me for my birthday. I think it looks nice, so I decide to also wear a good shirt, a light blue one, kind of icy-looking, and a dark blue jacket. Looking at all the blue, I remember Mr. Thumb’s scarf. I reach into the top drawer of my dresser, pull it out, and wrap it around my neck.
“Daaaaang, Tretch,” I say, looking it over in the mirror.
I hop down the steps at a pretty quick clip, and Mom sticks her head through the kitchen doorway.
“Feelin’ better, Tretch-o?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I was hoping it’d only be a twenty-four hour thing.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I look at the clock on the kitchen stove. It’s nearly noon. “I think I want to go downtown and grab some hot chocolate. Be nice to see Amy.”
“She’s a cutie pie.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
Mom disappears into the kitchen. I hear a whisk going, and I know she’s already preparing for the Farm Farm Christmas Feast Marathon. Whatever she’s working on, it smells awesome.
“Well, have fun!” she calls. “But don’t be gone long. You’re still on the mend, you know.”
“I won’t be long!” I call, already out the back door. I take my secret passage to Barrow Street through the Yarborough Antiques parking lot. The scarf flaps in the wind against my shoulder. I feel a little hop in my step that I haven’t felt during the past couple days. It feels good to be out.
Barrow Street is more crowded than ever, with people going into stores. I walk by Books and look in the window. There’s a line that wraps entirely around the young adult section, so I guess the sale must be doing them good. I don’t see Lana at the counter—instead, there’s just this tall, skinny dude with black hair. I assume it’s her cousin, the one who owns the place. Th
e door to Jim Cho’s swings open and a mom with two boys ambles out. Both boys look flushed with pleasure after their talks with Santa, and the mom looks pretty happy, too. Seeing them makes me think about when Joe and I would go see Santa when we were little. Good memories, except for one time when I smacked Santa in the chin on accident and popped his beard off, and another time when Joe threw up. He doesn’t let me tell that story to everyone, but when we talk about it, just the two of us, he says, “I was so excited, I threw up!” And it is really, extremely funny.
Things are calm at Mabel’s. I walk in and seat myself. Quiet piano music plays over the stereo system, and I don’t see Amy. I actually don’t see anyone working except for Mabel herself, standing by the baked goods display, talking to a middle-aged woman in a parka. Mabel is talking up a slice of berry-filled coffee cake. “It’s an all-natural organic cake,” she says, “made by one of our waitresses.” I wonder if she’s talking about Amy. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Amy is, in addition to being beautiful and a talented dancer, an excellent baker.
Because, you know, that’s fair.
Just then, the door to the kitchen opens, and out walks a waitress. Not Amy Sinks, though, walking with her proud, upbeat, hip-shaking strut.
No, instead it’s Lana Kramer, wearing the bright pink Mabel’s apron and holding another platter of coffee cake covered in Saran Wrap.
“There she is!” Mabel says. “There’s our baker girl!”
Lana walks the coffee cake over to a married couple sitting in a booth sipping coffee. “Here you go,” she says. “It’s twelve bucks. I’ll just put it on your ticket.” She looks up and catches sight of me. This flusters her.
I slide down into my booth. Should’ve brought a book, I think, and then, Wait, no, because then Lana would want to talk about it with me. I reach for a copy of The Mouth that’s sitting in a chair a table over from me. I hold it up, trying to hide myself. That’s when I see the cover story:
TEEN SUICIDE IN SAMSANUK:
BULLYING OVER SEXUAL ORIENTATION CAUSES DEATH
I feel an itch in my throat and cough. Yesterday morning, 15-year-old … the article begins. I move my hand to cover up the boy’s picture. Too late. I’ve seen it. The class-photo smile. I haven’t read his name, though. I don’t want to know. I’m scared to. I—
“Pretty sad, huh?” Lana stands over me. Her dark hair is tied up in a ponytail. She has on the same pink glasses as when I saw her working the register at Books the other day. She’s holding a notepad to take orders.
I gulp. “Yeah.”
“Hang on just a second. I’ve gotta run this check to them.” She skips over to a table, hands the people there a check.
When she returns, she sits down like I’ve invited her to join me. “Can I get you anything?” she asks.
I felt bad saying yes now that she’s sat down. Because isn’t that the same as asking her to get back up?
“Uhh …” I start.
“Hot chocolate?”
I shrug. “A hot chocolate would be great.”
Lana takes off her glasses. “Okay, now let me just get the attention of one of the waitresses around here.” She mock waves her hand in the air, then, looking down at her apron, jokes, “Oh, what do you know?”
I fudge a grin.
“Just kidding,” she says, putting her glasses back on. Then she stands up and walks across the restaurant, and in a quick span of time is back seated at the table with two cups of hot chocolate. “It’s time for my break, anyways,” she tells me. She holds her own steaming cup to her mouth and sips. “Mmm,” she says. I take a sip myself and don’t say anything. I also make a point to look down at my hands and avoid eye contact. If Lana thinks I’m being awkward, well, good. Maybe she’ll stop liking me.
“So how are those books treating you, Tretch?” she asks.
I look up. “What books?”
Lana leans back against her chair. “The ones you got at the store the other day, remember? On the Road, right? And A Separate Peace?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. Then I mumble guiltily, “Honestly, I haven’t even started them yet, Lana. I’ve been kind of sick lately.”
“Oof. That sucks.”
“When did you get a job at Mabel’s?”
“Well. Long story short, my cousin fired me from Books.”
“What? Why?” I’m shocked, and the force of my reaction makes Lana smile.
“I might have just borrowed a little too much merchandise without paying for it.” She turns her head to the side and uses her shoulder to rub her chin. “I always planned to give everything back, though. Or pay for it eventually. But it slipped my mind.”
I think about that. I want to say, But the book you gave me you paid for. I saw her pay for it. She’d even covered the penny for me.
“Hmm, how much merchandise?” I have to ask.
“My cousin said there were close to fifty books unaccounted for in our inventory.”
“Oh my gosh, Lana. Are you going to return them?”
“Like I said, I plan to eventually.” Lana grins. “So, Tretch, has Amy Sinks, uh—has Amy Sinks mentioned anything to you about her New Year’s dance?”
Oh no, I think. Here it comes. I cough in a panic, hot chocolate burning the inside of my throat. It doesn’t matter if she thinks I like her or not. She’s going to ask me anyway.
“Uhhh … what?” I stare stupidly.
Lana looks at me with wide eyes, both her eyebrows arched. “Uh, well,” she says, “Tretch, I wanted to ask you—”
We’re interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping as the couple sitting across from us stands. Lana’s eyes dart. “Oops,” she says. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
She gets up.
“Lana, wait,” I say.
She waits. And I can tell from her expression that she’s waiting for good news. Or at least hoping for it.
“I’m actually gonna have to take this to go,” I say. “I just remembered—I was supposed to meet my mom, like, five minutes ago.” I pull out my wallet and set down a five-dollar bill. “I’m really sorry to bail so fast.”
I scoot out of my seat.
“Oh,” she says. “But, Tretch, I was gonna—”
I freeze. Even though I’m dreading what’s coming next, I know I can’t just dash. Not while she’s midsentence.
“I was gonna—” She swallows. Pauses. Looks at me. “Oh, never mind. I’ll see ya around.”
“Yeah, see ya, Lana.”
I’m out the door before she can change her mind.
I figure I’m off the hook. But that night, Lana calls our house. Mom answers, and when she yells up, “Tretch! Phone’s for you!” I’m overjoyed.
I’m overjoyed because I’m convinced that, finally, it’s Matt. But when I look at her and mouth, Matt? as she hands over the phone, she shakes her head.
“Hello?” I ask into the receiver.
“Tretch?”
“Oh, uh—”
“Hi! It’s Lana Kramer.”
“Oh, uh, hey, Lana.”
“Hey. So I didn’t get to finish talking to you today, but”—I shut my eyes and grit my teeth—“you know how we were talking about Amy Sinks’s dance party?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, aiming away from the mouthpiece.
“Okay, well, do you want to go with me? I mean, I didn’t even realize it was going to be a date thing, you know, but apparently people are—”
“Okay,” I say. Because I can’t figure out a way not to.
“Apparently people are asking, which I thought was weird, and you know I don’t really do the whole—”
“Okay.”
“Huh? What’d you say, Tretch?”
I press the phone against my temple. “I said okay, Lana. I’ll be your date.”
“Blech! Isn’t date just the weirdest word?”
I want to beat my head against the wall. “Yes, it is kind of weird.”
“But, alas, what other word is there for it?�
�
“Beats me.”
“Ahhh! Tretch, I am so excited!”
“Me, too, Lana,” I say, and then something happens: a click.
Did she just hang up?
“Tretch? Are you there?”
“Yeah!” I say. Then I tone it down. “Yeah, I’m here. I thought you’d hung up, Lana.”
“Yeah. I thought you had, too—” Then she interrupts herself. “Oh, God.” I’m pretty sure I hear her facepalm. “I think that was my mom.”
I snort. “What?”
“Ugghh. My mom, Tretch. She’s been psycho about this whole thing—”
“What whole thing?”
“This whole date business. My God.”
“Why’s she being psycho?”
“She just, ugh. Never mind. I won’t go into it.” Now it’s Lana’s turn to sigh. “She just wants me to—”
I’m quiet. I don’t know if she wants me to ask, or what.
“—never mind.”
“Okay, Lana.” I let it drop.
“Well, I really am looking so forward to the dance! Thank you so much!”
There’s something sad about this. The fact that she feels like she has to thank me. “Oh, uh, thank you, Lana,” I say.
“Well, I’ll see you, Tretch.”
“Oh, okay. Bye.”
Her end clicks; then there’s the dial tone. I’m going to need time to process everything that just happened. I hook the phone back to the receiver and walk into the living room, where Mom and Dad are seated on the couch.
The TV isn’t on, nothing. It’s a setup, and I know it.
“Who was that, Tretch-o?” Mom asks. I can tell by her smile that she has an idea.
“Oh,” I say, stopping at the base of the stairs, “it was just Lana.”
Dad scratches his chin. “Is that the girl you can’t stand who works at the bookshop?”
With that, Mom smacks Dad on the thigh with her palm. “No, silly!” she says. “I mean, yes, that’s who you’re thinking of. But this is the girl Tretch went on a date with the other night.”