Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

“Will?” he says. “Grab my glasses, would you?”

  I stand up and hand him the glasses that sit on the side table. He squints at me in my white gown and puffy hair cover.

  “Cool outfit,” he says. “You look like a super-nerdy cloud.”

  I circle over to the shelves, pull the curtain aside, and peer down at the turtle. It seems fine. I reach in, pick it up with a thumb on its shell and my fingers underneath, and look at its eyes. They seem clear. The Medi-Eye is working. The soft spots on its shell, however, are still there.

  “His eyes look good,” I say.

  The turtle starts struggling, so I lay it back in the terrarium.

  “So listen, I went to the dance,” I say, pulling the curtain back over the shelf.

  RJ’s face brightens, and I tell him about the layout of the gym: the lights, the balloons, the papier-mâché mascot, the loud music. “Oh, and I slow danced with a girl,” I say. I’d considered omitting that part of the story because I wasn’t sure if dancing with Shirah even counted.

  “Whoa-ho!” says RJ. He sits up a little higher in bed. “Tell me! What was it like? How was it?”

  He’s gritting his teeth a little. He looks excited to hear more, but also nervous, as if this were his own moment of truth.

  I describe the way it felt to have my hands on Shirah’s sides, the unnerving closeness, the strange lack of talking. As I tell him, though, the memory itself feels weird. Like it didn’t happen, like it couldn’t happen. But it did. It’s also weird to have RJ asking so many questions. I can see that he doesn’t have a clue about slow dances. But now, somehow, I do. I’ll never be someone who’s never had a slow dance again. It makes RJ seem a little smaller, and it makes me feel like I don’t even know who I am.

  “Kind of scary,” I say. I need to change the subject. “But now it’s over. So what’s next on the list?”

  I’m hoping for an easy task: maybe a trip to a museum. I could bring him maps and pictures and something from the gift shop.

  “You ever been on a roller coaster?” he asks.

  I’m afraid of heights. I’m afraid of speed. I don’t even like to look at roller coasters, but at this point, I know I can’t say that to RJ. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “The scariest one you can find,” he commands with a wicked smile. “And I want you to bring me a video of the ride, okay? Make me a roller-coaster movie!”

  * * *

  • • •

  We hang out and listen to music for a while, and then RJ wants to see how I’m doing with my drumming. I set up the practice pad, laying it on the seat of the only other chair in the room. I’ve been excited to show him my progress: the ride, the backbeat, the accents. I’ve been working on little r-r-uffs to make it sound fuller: dip, dip, dap, b-r-r-uf dip-dap! B’dip, dip, dap, b-r-r-uf dip dap!

  I break into the rock rhythm I’ve been working on, something I copied from one of the bands he made me listen to. It comes out naturally, and I embellish with b’dips and b’daps here and there. I speed up and my head bobs, and I’m really flowing with it, and when I look at RJ, hoping to catch an approving eye, I stop.

  He’s asleep.

  His head is on the pillow, and his eyes are closed.

  I’m not sad he missed it. But I’m sad he’s tired. I’m sad he’s sick.

  The next morning, I get on the bus. I need to talk to Shirah. I’m dying to tell her the news I overheard at the dance about the Back 40, how it’s going to be sold. She’ll know what to do. Also, I’m terrified to ride a roller coaster alone at the Dane County Fair. Mom said she’ll take me this weekend, but she hates roller coasters. These two things together are so overwhelming, they make me want to lock myself in my room for a month, but I know that’s not an option. I need Shirah’s help again. Unfortunately, she’s staring down at her homework, headphones on. Her backpack takes up the rest of the seat. Clearly, she’s ignoring me.

  “Hey, kid,” says the bus driver. “People are trying to get on the bus. Move it!”

  Begrudgingly, Shirah pulls her bag closer, just enough that I can squeeze onto the end, but my butt is sort of half on, half off. Kids shove past me to get to their seats.

  “Can I ask you for a favor?” I’m about to tell her the news I learned from Ms. Kuper, but I’m clonked on the head with a passing backpack.

  “Ow!” I yell angrily.

  “You’ve got some nerve, coming and asking for favors!” she interjects. “You’ve been such a jerk lately, Will!”

  My hands clamp instinctively around the straps of my own backpack.

  “You want me to be your friend when you want something, and then you ditch me when it’s convenient. You acted like a child at my Bat Mitzvah, just because there were kids there you didn’t like. You haven’t stuck up for me, what—twice now? At Hebrew school and then with Max and his stupid friends in the cafeteria.”

  She doesn’t know that I did stick up for her. I stuck up for her too much! I told everyone about Max’s therapist, and I called Kyle a moron. I’m about to say this, to defend myself, when another backpack knocks me in the head.

  “Ow!” I yell again.

  “And then at the dance,” Shirah continues, “you were so rude!”

  This catches me by surprise.

  “Rude?” I say. “What did I do? How was I rude?”

  “Um, you don’t remember? After we danced, you just ran off! It was so embarrassing, Will. It looked like you couldn’t wait to get away from me!”

  “I didn’t run off! You ran off! You had to go be with your dumb volleyball friends and those lacrosse buttheads. Why do you even like those guys?”

  Shirah takes a deep breath and glares at me. “Do not tell me who I can be friends with.”

  Bang! I’m knocked in the head by another kid squeezing past.

  “Hey!” I yell after him. “Watch it!”

  Shirah goes back to her homework. I get up to move toward the rear of the bus. I don’t like sitting back there, but I’m not going to sit here and take this abuse. A few rows down, I see Max. His sweatshirt hood is pulled low over his eyes.

  I sit alone on the other side of the aisle.

  * * *

  • • •

  During my free period, I run to the sixth-grade wing, to Ms. Kuper’s bio lab, and find her putting a bunch of tools into a large cardboard box. I’m so glad she’s here. I’ve been aching to talk to her since Saturday night.

  “Is the Back 40 being destroyed?” I blurt out. “Is that why it’s been fenced off?”

  “What?” she says. “Where did you hear that?”

  “At the dance,” I say. “I heard you and Mr. Firenze talking in the hall.”

  Ms. Kuper is silent, and then she takes a big breath. She pulls a chair next to her trademark upholstered stool and offers me my choice of seats. I perch on the edge of the stool.

  “There is some concerning news,” says Ms. Kuper, looking me in the eye. “The county is in the process of selling the Back 40 to a developer.”

  She stops. I don’t know what she means.

  “What do they develop?” I ask.

  “Houses,” she says.

  “Someone wants to build a house in the Back 40?” I ask. I’m picturing the marsh, the pond, the woods, and the meadow interrupted by a house with a white picket fence.

  “No, Will,” she says. “If they sell the land, the developer would clear the entire Back 40. To put up a whole neighborhood.”

  “Clear it? Like destroy it!?” I nearly shout. “They can’t do that! The Back 40 is ours!”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t own the Back 40,” she says. “You know that.”

  “But we’re Prairie Marsh Middle School!” I protest. “Not Houses in the Backyard Middle School. The Back 40 is a major part of the school
. That’s why our science classes are so great.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m trying to get the board of supervisors to meet with me,” she says. “That’s the county government. My goal is to convince them that they shouldn’t sell the land because it’s essential for our science program.”

  “Of course it’s essential!” I shout.

  Ms. Kuper looks at me, arms crossed.

  “Will it work?” I ask, trying harder to control myself.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  On Saturday afternoon, Mom and I drive through a large, dusty field, where two teenagers in orange safety vests wave us into a parking space. As we approach the front gate of the fair, the smell of fried food wafts toward us. I wish I could skip the roller coaster and spend my fifteen dollars on a mountain of fried Twinkies and Oreos, pretzels, and my favorite, funnel cake. It might help me forget about the Back 40. Then I turn toward the monstrous white scaffolding just beyond the food stands, where I see roller-coaster cars inching up a track. As they reach the peak, time stops, hands are raised, and then it’s all screams as the cars flood down and up and fly into loop-de-loops that leave me dizzy just watching.

  “You want to meet back here at four?” Mom asks. “I’m going to get a cream puff.”

  “Okay,” I say, and start to walk away, in the opposite direction of the roller coaster.

  “Will!” she calls after me. “Beep?”

  I don’t answer.

  * * *

  • • •

  I put off going on the roller coaster by wandering around the food stands. Maybe I should tell RJ that I rode the roller coaster without actually going on it. Then I remember: the movie. He wants me to take a movie while I’m on the ride. And that reminds me I forgot to borrow Mom’s phone to take the video.

  Idiot, idiot, idiot.

  I could search and search and never find Mom in this crowd. I buy fifteen dollars’ worth of tickets, and I’m heading for the funnel cake when I hear someone shouting my name.

  I turn, and it’s Max’s mother, Lucy, and his little brother, Mikey, wearing a GoPro camera on his forehead.

  “Hi, Will!” Lucy says. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I was about to get a funnel cake.”

  “I hate funnel cake,” says Mikey. “You should go on the roller coaster with us.”

  At that moment, Max walks up to us. “I failed at the rope ladder!” he says to no one in particular. “What kind of track-ee-ur am I?”

  “Those games are rigged, honey,” says Lucy. “No one ever gets to the top.”

  That’s when he notices that I’m standing there with his family.

  “Will is going to ride the roller coaster with us,” says Mikey.

  “Oh, isn’t that fun?” says Lucy. “We’re all going to ride together! This is going to be Mikey’s first ride on a roller coaster, isn’t it, Mikey?”

  “I’m a member of ACE!” Mikey says. “You heard of them? American Coaster Enthusiasts. I even have a card!” He pulls out a Spider-Man wallet, rips open the Velcro, pulls out a laminated card, and shoves it in my face.

  “See! Novice rider! I’ve never been on a coaster, but I designed a track with a four-point-nine-star rating on the ACE website, and it’s been ridden about maybe five hundred times!”

  “No one cares, Mikey,” says Max.

  “Max,” scolds his mother.

  “This coaster here doesn’t even figure on ACE’s database,” Mikey goes on. “It’s way too puny.”

  Maybe, but when the cars crest the first big hill and zoom down, the passengers’ screams are very real, and the way the cars twist along the main track makes me queasy.

  There’s no point in going on the roller coaster if I don’t have a camera. Of course, it occurs to me—Max has a phone. He could make a video of the ride. The fact that he refuses to talk to me makes this a problem.

  We stand and wait for a long, long time. Finally, we’re close enough to the ride that we’re being corralled like cows through a series of ropes.

  “Oh no!” says Mikey. We all turn to see what he’s looking at.

  It’s a painted cutout of a pirate, and it’s holding a cutlass, on which is written in red letters: Ye must be this tall to ride, matey.

  Mikey runs and stands under the cutlass—there’s at least a handsbreadth gap between the top of his head and the sword. He arches his back and cranes his neck, but it’s hopeless. He’s way too short.

  “But the website said eight years old!” he wails.

  “Eight years and at least that tall!” says Max. “I told you!”

  “How am I going to level up on the ACE website if I don’t post a video?” He looks like he’s going to cry. “Evil county fair! I’m gonna sue you!”

  “I have an idea,” Lucy says in a voice so chipper it hurts my ears. “I’m going to take Mikey to get a cream puff. Mikey, give Max your GoPro. He’ll make your video. We’ll all meet up in half an hour.”

  Lucy pulls Mikey, who’s still whining, away, leaving Max and me standing in line in awkward silence, the camera perched on Max’s forehead. But if Max won’t talk to me, he certainly won’t share the video with me.

  “You ratted me out at the dance!” he finally mutters. “Do you know how much trouble I got in?”

  That makes me fume with anger. I only ratted him out so he wouldn’t hurt himself falling from the bleachers. I should have left him there. One day the janitor would’ve found nothing but his bones.

  It’s a long line, and Max is clearly agitated, shifting from side to side and flapping his arms, something he does when he’s upset. Meanwhile, I’m getting more and more nervous as we get closer and closer to the front of the line. Soon it’s our turn. I climb into the car, next to Max. We lower a safety bar onto our laps, and I’m thinking, I can’t do this. Maybe it’s not too late to escape.

  A guy with long hair runs down the train of cars and checks our safety bars, and then before I know it, Max starts screaming, “HEY, I HAVE TO GET OUT! LEMME OUT!”

  The guy with long hair turns around and comes back to the car.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “I’d like to get out,” Max says. “I need to get out.”

  There’s a click, and the safety bars rise. I put my arm in front of Max to block him.

  “Don’t go, Max,” I say, gripping the safety bar and pulling it back down. If Max leaves, he takes the GoPro with him. No camera, no video, no bucket list.

  “Let go,” Max says. “Will, let go!”

  “Come on, you two!” shouts the long-haired guy. “People are waiting!”

  Max’s eyes are rimmed with white. He looks terrified. I tug gently on his arm, and he sits down.

  The tracks under us clang a few times, and the cars move forward with a lurch. Max and I both jerk from the motion and from our hair-trigger nerves. We can hear everyone chattering excitedly.

  “I thought you did this all the time,” I say through clenched teeth as we climb higher and higher.

  “Mikey thinks I do,” he says. “I tried once with Mom, but I got scared, and we got off before the ride started.”

  Now my heart is pounding hard—really hard—and I’m feeling dizzy.

  “Don’t look down,” he says, and instantly I do. The ground is not only a million miles away, but also it’s bouncing around as if my eyeballs are yo-yos.

  “Oh God,” I say. “Oh God. Oh God.”

  Max is silent, frozen.

  “Will,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry; I’m really sorry about how I’ve been lately.”

  “What?” I say.

  “That joke I made in Hebrew school,” he says, almost in tears. “About Shirah, that joke I told. And making fun of you in the cafeteria. My therapist said I should tal
k to you about it.”

  “I don’t think he meant on a roller coaster,” I say. “Maybe we could talk about this later?”

  “If we make it through this, I want to be friends again,” he says. “You’re my best friend.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry too. Now can you leave me alone so I can panic in peace?”

  We’re near the top of the hill and I can see the track starting to level out.

  “It’s cool about you and Shirah,” Max says. “Going out or whatever.” Despite his own warning, he looks down, over the edge of the car. “Oh my God, we’re high up.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I ask. “Shirah and I aren’t going out.”

  “You’re not?” he asks. “You went to that concert together! And I saw you slow dance!”

  “It didn’t mean anything,” I say. “Why do you even care?”

  “Well,” says Max. “The thing is…”

  For a moment, everyone in the cars gets quiet. The wind is blowing, whistling through my ears. My heart pounds, and everything is huge and bright. Then the cars tip forward, we’re picking up speed, and as we’re hurtling through space, Max screams one last thing: “I like Shiraaaaaaaah!”

  We’re falling, we’re flying, we’re tumbling—all my organs plunge into my feet, and my lungs are being crushed, and the world is rocking and shaking, and I’m clenching my jaw and holding my breath. We zoom over a bump, which rocks us off our seat, and then we hit a twist so sharp, we’re thrown to the left and then the right. Max and I squish against each other, like wet clothes spinning in a dryer.

  There’s a series of curves, and I think maybe I’m getting the hang of this, maybe I’m not going to die, but then we rocket up, float, and plunge down a spiral, as if we’re going down a drain and falling through the center of the earth.

  Suddenly, we’re on a straightaway, slowing past a bunch of people and parked roller-coaster cars, and like that, it’s over. We crawl to a stop.

  It’s so weird how something so big and so scary and so overwhelming can just end. And how everything goes back to normal.