Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

  There’s a buzzer, and the safety bar flies up.

  I turn to Max. “We did it!” I yell. “We did it! We didn’t die.”

  That’s when I realize that Max isn’t okay; he’s holding really still, and there are tears and snot all over his face. I help him out of the car. He’s shaking and his color is weird, almost green, and as we walk past the line, we pass a trash can, and he turns away from me, leans over it, and pukes.

  While Max heaves, I review the events of the last minutes in my mind: the flying, the falling, the floating. I’m so relieved it’s over. It was horrible, and I never want to do it again, but it doesn’t matter because I did it. I can cross it off my list. Well, RJ’s list. Which is now my list.

  Once he’s done, Max stands up, still wobbling. He’s a mess. Totally gross.

  “Wait here,” I say. I run to a lemonade stand. A bunch of people are lined up, but I cut straight to the front, where a man with a trucker cap and a giant belly is about to order.

  “My friend just barfed,” I say urgently to the teenager behind the counter. “Can I please have a small lemonade and some napkins?”

  “On the house,” he says as I try to give him my tickets. He hands me a cup of lemonade and points to the napkin dispenser. I take five or six and run back to Max.

  “Sip this,” I say. “Rinse your mouth.”

  He takes a sip, spits into the trash can, repeats this a few times, and follows me obediently to a bench where we sit.

  “You still dizzy?” I ask. “Put your head between your knees.”

  He does so, and he’s saying something. I can’t hear him, though.

  I put my head between my own knees so I can hear him.

  “What?” I ask. “Max, what are you saying?”

  “That was awesome,” he whispers.

  “What?” I say again, certain I misheard.

  “That was AWESOME,” he repeats, louder. “AWESOME!”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. If I’d just puked in a trash can, I’d be feeling sorry for myself. Max has this ridiculous ability to bounce back from anything. He jumps to his feet and points back at the roller coaster.

  “Why’d I wait so long to try that?” he says. “I can’t wait to show Mikey the video!”

  Then I remember what Max called out at the top of the hill.

  “Max,” I say. “Up there, did you say…you like Shirah? As in like her like her?”

  “Oh my God,” he says. He grabs both of my wrists. “I said that out loud? Will, you can’t tell anyone!”

  “Okay, let go of me,” I say, prying one hand loose. “Let go.”

  “PLEASE,” he says, taking a step away, then covering his mouth with his palms. He’s hysterical.

  “Calm down. I’m not telling anyone,” I say.

  Suddenly, it’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t put it together.

  “How did you know about the slow dance, anyway?” I ask him. “Is that why you were hiding in the bleachers?”

  Max covers his face with his hands.

  “Max, that’s creepy,” I say.

  “For your information, I wasn’t spying,” he says. “I was going to ask her to dance, but then you did first, and I climbed into the bleachers to get away.”

  That same strange feeling I had after dancing with Shirah is back. I’ve known her for a long time, and Max for a year now, and yet I don’t know who either of them is. Or maybe I do know them…maybe I don’t know who I am.

  “Why don’t you tell her how you feel?” I ask.

  “Because she hates me,” he repeats.

  “You did humiliate her in front of the whole Hebrew class and wouldn’t apologize,” I say.

  “It was just a joke,” he says, looking down at his shoes. “Sometimes I say stuff without thinking. I can’t help it.”

  “Well, learn to help it,” I say. “Apologize to her and hope for the best. Now let’s hurry and get a funnel cake. I’ve been waiting all day for one.”

  I’m supposed to meet Mom in ten minutes. I’m hurrying and looking at my watch, and as I arrive at the delicious-smelling booth, I see that Max isn’t with me any longer. He’s in front of a game where people are climbing up wobbly spinning rope ladders. He’s pulling tickets out of his pocket and shoving them into the game operator’s hands.

  “He’s back!” says the operator into his microphone. “A crowd favorite has returned to test his skill!”

  “Look at how he climbs,” says one kid, watching Max creep up the ladder, his body low like a lizard. “What a goof.”

  I flush and tremble with rage. It feels like my body isn’t under control. My hands rise, ready to shove the kid, but then I freeze—I hear Max yelling, wailing. He’s spun on his ladder. He hangs for a moment before dropping down to the bouncy cushion.

  “I’m out of tickets,” he says, walking between me and the kid. “Let’s go.”

  I feel myself return to my senses. On the one hand, I don’t really think Shirah wants a giant panda from Max. On the other hand, I can see that Max is incredibly disappointed in himself, and I feel bad for him.

  “Here,” I say, pulling out my tickets.

  “But those are for your funnel cake,” he says.

  “Take them,” I say. “Go win the panda.”

  He goes back to the game operator, hands over my tickets, and begins the climb—inch by inch, left hand, right foot, slithering up the ladder. Unlike last time, he never stops the slow and steady motion upward.

  “Go, Max!” I yell.

  There’s a loud bell, and a voice booms over the loudspeaker: “We have a winner!”

  Max is standing on the platform, waving at me with both hands.

  “Go, Max!” I call, waving back. “Whoo-hoooooo!”

  It’s Sunday, and Rabbi Harris and I are on our way to the hospital. As we drive along, I chant my Torah portion.

  “Good,” he says, somewhat absently.

  To see if he’s listening, I purposely mess up a word, and his hand flies up, stopping me.

  “Re’ach ni-cho-ach,” he sings, correcting me. He gives me an odd little half smile.

  Between my feet, inside my backpack, is a digital projector. It was Max’s idea. I asked him to send me the video he made on the roller coaster, and once I told him who it was for and why, he was adamant: showing a movie of a roller coaster on a laptop won’t cut it. He begged his mom to lend me her projector, and he brought it over himself.

  I say goodbye to Rabbi Harris in the hospital atrium, and when I get to the nurses’ station on RJ’s floor, Roxanne greets me and helps me into my sterile gown, booties, and head cover.

  I enter RJ’s room. He’s lying on his back with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He lifts his head and looks in my direction, but I can see that his eyes aren’t focusing on me.

  “Who’s there?” he asks.

  “Hey, RJ,” I say. “It’s Will.”

  “Oh, hey,” he says. He shifts a little, trying to sit up. “Can you raise the bed?” He nods toward the remote.

  I grab it and press the rocker switch up. “How’s it going?” I ask.

  He shrugs. He doesn’t know that we’re about to cross something exciting off his bucket list.

  “I have a surprise for you,” I say. “You’re about to go on a roller coaster.”

  He watches as I stand on the cake-chair and hang a sheet from the ceiling with a few long pieces of duct tape, then drape it down by the foot of the bed, securing it with more tape. Then I set the projector on the shelf above RJ’s head, carefully moving the cord over the photos taped to the wall, and I close the blinds.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  I hit play, and there they are: the roller-coaster tracks. They’re big. The camera pans to the right, to the people standing in line, and then
to me.

  My huge head.

  My turtle face.

  “We’re going on a roller coaster!” says RJ. “We’re going on a roller coaster! Who’s holding the camera?”

  “My friend Max,” I say.

  There’s a loud buzzer, and the car starts moving.

  RJ leans toward the screen. His mouth is open, and he looks a little bit excited, a little bit afraid.

  I can hear tinny voices chattering through RJ’s headphones. The car is climbing the first big hill, and I can see RJ is gripping the blanket with his bony hands. His wrists are even thinner than I remember, and the IV tube bobs against his arm as he squeezes. I notice that the bracelets—his knotted string bracelets—on that wrist are gone; maybe to keep the IV from getting tangled. He’s still got some on his other wrist, though, and he’s still wearing his shell necklace.

  On the sheet, I can see the beautiful blue sky, and the clouds, and for a moment, the camera turns and picks up a view of the whole county fair: crowds of people, big buildings where the prize cows are, the carnival games—everything. And then it’s back to the tracks as the car inches forward, begins its descent, and starts to zoom.

  RJ lets out a little yelp as we plummet down the first hill, and then, as the car veers left, he leans left; when the car veers right, he leans right. He’s completely transfixed, in the car, riding the roller coaster. His teeth are clenched. As the car dives into a tight curve, he even squints against imaginary g-forces. He rumbles along the straightaway, his head bobbing. And when the car slows and comes to its end, he jerks forward, as if anticipating the sudden stop.

  The video ends, and we get a blank screen with a replay arrow.

  He flips off his headphones.

  “That was incredible,” he says. His voice is hoarse and quiet. “I rode a roller coaster!”

  “You liked it?” I ask.

  “I loved it!”

  “Did I do you a solid?”

  “Yes!” he says. He has a huge, beautiful grin. “You did me a solid.”

  “Oh, good,” I say. I’m playing it cool, but inside, I’m whirling; I’m dancing, I’m so happy.

  “Want to see it again?” I ask.

  We spend the rest of the hour watching it over and over and over, screaming and leaning into the turns. It’s insanely fun, but eventually, it’s time for me to go.

  “Will, I have something I want to give you,” he says, pointing across the room.

  On the shelf there’s a metal thing with a felt mallet sticking out of it. The metal is stamped with a big, bold logo: Slingerland.

  “My drum pedal,” says RJ. “From my vintage set. I want you to add it to your rhythm. When you play boom-boom, pack! you strike it on the boom-boom. You’re better than you think you are. You’ll figure it out.”

  I look at it closely. Scratched into the metal, near the logo, are the letters: RJ. Is he giving me his drum pedal?

  “No, no,” I say. “I can’t take this.”

  “Yes, you can,” he says. “You gave me a turtle; I’m giving you a bass drum pedal. Now we’re even. But you can’t let it gather dust under your bed. You need to play with it. Learn how to use it.”

  I put it in my backpack. I wish it were not coming home with me. I wish it was staying with RJ. I wish he could play his own drum set. I wish things weren’t the way they are.

  But if he needs to give it away, I’m glad I can give it a good home.

  “What’s next on the bucket list?” I ask.

  “Uh…what’s the date?” he asks. “I’m so out of it.”

  I look at my watch and tell him.

  “Okay, so it’s not quite time for the next task,” he says with a sly smile. “For now, use your practice pad. A lot.”

  After school, I’m heading for the bus when Max comes running after me, his arms gyrating like propellers.

  “Wait!” he says. “Stop! We have an emergency!”

  I can’t imagine what Max’s idea of an emergency consists of.

  “I’m in Spanish class with Dena and Shirah,” he explains, panting. “Last period. They were talking about tonight’s volleyball game. Shirah said she isn’t going to have anyone there to root her on because her little sister’s in the school play and the game’s in Waupun.”

  “So what’s the emergency?” I ask.

  “Duh,” says Max. “Shirah won’t have any fans there! What do we do?”

  “You want to go?” I ask. I’ve never been to a volleyball game, but I guess we could go. I wonder: Would Shirah even want us there?

  “How do we get to Waupun?” asks Max.

  “You take the Martens Express. I’ve gone through Waupun on the way to Madison.”

  “So, we could just…take the bus?” he asks.

  A month ago, that would have seemed like an impossible ordeal. Now, I know it’s just a bunch of steps from Horicon to Waupun. You only have to take them one at a time.

  * * *

  • • •

  The game is already in play. It’s crowded and noisy in the bleachers.

  “I thought there weren’t going to be any fans here,” I remark.

  “These are the other team’s fans,” Max says. “Our side is over there.”

  We go and sit among a handful of parents and a few siblings wearing purple and black: Prairie Marsh’s school colors.

  “How’s Shirah playing?” asks Max.

  “Sucky,” says a girl about nine years old. “She’s shanking all her serves.”

  “We’re only down by seven points,” I say, noticing that the scoreboard says it’s 9 to 16.

  “We’ve already lost a game,” explains the girl. “And it’s best out of five games, so we’re probably toast.”

  The gym is loud, but it’s mainly due to the cries of the other team’s fans: the Waupun Wildcats. Waupun Middle School is much bigger than Prairie Marsh. Even if you didn’t know that, you’d know from looking at their volleyball team. Every girl on the team is built like a giraffe. On top of that, they’re really good. The girl next to me explains what’s going on. I watch how the Wildcats play together as a unit. Each time the ball is on their side, the players bump and set it into place for someone in the front row to spike over the net.

  This goes on for a while, the other team racking up points. It looks like we don’t have the defense to keep the ball off the ground.

  Finally, it’s Shirah’s turn to serve. She dribbles the ball twice, lofts it, raises a fist, and slams it straight into the net. Shirah’s teammates give her a low five, and play continues as if nothing bad has happened. If that had been me, I would have walked off the court, humiliated.

  The other team returns to their fantastic teamwork, and soon the game is over. If the Martens don’t win the next match, they lose the whole set.

  Unfortunately, it begins like the last one ended: the Waupun Wildcats shoot way ahead. Their players seem to read one another’s minds, lofting the ball into the sweet spot to let the next player drive it back over the net.

  Now it’s 8 to 3, and the Martens are falling further and further behind.

  “Dude,” says Max, panicking. “If they’re going to get killed, maybe we shouldn’t be here. Maybe Shirah wouldn’t want us to see her team lose. Maybe we should go.”

  If I played badly in a game, I wouldn’t want anyone I know to see. Then again, I don’t want anyone to see me do anything. Maybe Shirah’s different. Something tells me leaving now is a bad idea. I have a bad history with leaving things early.

  “I think we need to stick it out,” I say to Max.

  The Wildcats climb nearly ten points before it’s the Martens’ turn to serve, and the other team blocks it with ease. Meanwhile, there’s a player on the other side, the tallest on the entire court, and when she spikes the ball, she smashes it with such force, no o
ne can stop it. They score again and again with this play.

  The whistle blows. The Wildcats huddle up on the other side of the net, and the Martens gather around their coach.

  I see Shirah nod, then nod again. She seems to be remembering something important. Then the team breaks with all hands in the center and a cry of “Go Purple Martens!”

  Shirah is in the front row now, and the Wildcats’ tallest player is facing her. They look each other in the eye, neither one looking away, a blank expression on their faces. It makes me wince to see it; I don’t like confrontations, but Shirah holds the other girl’s gaze until the loud pop of the serve moves all the players into action.

  The ball flies over the net, and the Wildcats bump it up, setting it in place. The tall girl opposite Shirah charges for the spike, and then I see something I never expected: Shirah jumps and pushes the ball, stuffing it straight into the other player’s face. The ball hits the ground on the Wildcats side, and the whistle blows.

  This goes on for a while, the Martens catching up point by point, though the next time the tall girl and Shirah face off, Shirah can’t stop the spike and we lose the rally.

  The other team earns another few points, and now it’s Shirah’s turn to serve.

  This time, instead of bouncing the ball and immediately serving, I see her close her eyes for a second. She quickly kisses her fist, lofts the ball, and slams it. It rockets to the other side, the Wildcats miss the return, and the Martens earn a point.

  The small Martens cheering section makes a lot of noise, but we get silent when Shirah serves again. This time she’s unstoppable. Serve after serve either hits the floor or, when a player digs for it, careens crazily out of bounds. Shirah racks up more than ten points this way, and though her rally doesn’t last forever, it turns the tide. The game ends with a win for the Martens.

  The fourth game starts, and it begins with the Martens out in front, but the Wildcats catch up. Then the same thing happens. Shirah is in the front row; she and the tall girl face off, but Shirah is an impenetrable wall.

  I feel something crushing my arm, and I look down to see it’s Max.