Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

  “Talent show?” she says. “Absolutely, Will! You should—you sound amazing! I’m so impressed! I think you should lose the mask, though. Put together a costume that won’t cover your face.”

  “No,” I say. “If I do this, I want the mask.”

  “Ooh, and I could help,” she says, excited. “Remember when we made that adorable news reporter and newspaper costume? You were such a cute little newspaper.”

  “Mom!” I say. “You’re not listening! The exact point is to cover my face.”

  She looks at me sadly. “Oh, Will…Why would you want to cover your face? You have a beautiful face.”

  “Yeah?” I demand. “Then why do I need surgery to fix it?”

  “You know why,” she says, as if it’s obvious, as if we’ve discussed it a million times. “So you won’t have problems breathing when you sleep.”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s why the doctors want me to do it,” I say. “But that’s not the real problem. The real problem is I look like a turtle.”

  “Don’t say that, Will,” she says. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “I know so,” she says. “When I look at you, you know what I see? I see that you’re turning into a very handsome young man. You’re far too handsome to wear a lizard mask.”

  “Maybe after my surgery, I’ll get up onstage in front of people and show my face,” I say. “Until then, I’m wearing a mask.”

  Mom takes a deep, resigned breath.

  “Look, Will, I need to tell you something,” she says. “The surgery’s going to do some very good things for you. It’ll be easier to eat, and it’ll correct some speech issues, and hopefully, you won’t need to wear that breathing machine while you sleep. But it’s not going to change who you are. Or how you feel about yourself.”

  “How do you know?” I say, annoyed. It’s bad enough that she’s making me go through with the surgery. Now she’s telling me it won’t fix my biggest problem?

  “Because feeling good about yourself doesn’t come from changing how you look,” she says. “It comes from changing how you see yourself. Learning to see yourself the way the people who love you see you.”

  “I need to worry more about how the people who don’t love me see me,” I say. It’s true. If Jake and his friends were to interrupt my act with the Turtle Boy chant, it would actually crush me.

  “Will, what other people think of you isn’t something you can control, so there’s no point in worrying about it.”

  “No point in worrying about it?” I repeat. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s deformed.”

  Mom winces. “You are not deformed,” she says. “Don’t use that word.”

  “What, ‘deformed’?” I say. “Deformed, deformed, deformed.”

  “Stop it!” says Mom.

  “It’s my face,” I say. “I can say what I want about it.”

  I grab my sticks and start singing, playing along on the drums: “Turtle Boy is who I am, more deformed than Elephant Man.”

  “You’re being ridiculous!” she shouts. “I’m going down for dinner.”

  She leaves, slamming the door behind her, and I’m laughing, loud and bitter, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve thrown a drumstick at the closed door. It hits the wood with a loud bang and clatters onto the floor. I cry for just a second, scared and choking on my anger, my loathing. I can never win. Either she tries to make me feel better about things that are broken and hopeless, or I block her out; I chase her away.

  I don’t know what I want from her. I don’t know if there’s anything she can do for me.

  Two days later, I sit next to Shirah on the bus. “I’m thinking about performing at the talent show.”

  “Seriously?” she says. “You? I’ve never seen you voluntarily stand up in front of anyone.”

  “Thanks for the support,” I say.

  Shirah looks at me for a moment, and her eyes widen. I can see the rim around each hazel iris. “Wait, is this another thing for your friend in the hospital? The one you got the drumsticks for?”

  I nod.

  “Will!” she says. “That is so sweet! You’re really going all-out for that kid!”

  “Yeah, well,” I say, suddenly shy.

  “So what’s your act?”

  “It’s a secret,” I say. “You’d come, though. Right? If I get onstage, you’d be there?”

  “Yes, dummy!” she says. She chucks me in the arm and a wave of warmth travels up to my shoulder. “You were there for me; I’ll be there for you! That’s how it works. And Max…he’ll come too. He actually apologized for what he said. I think he’s working on being a better friend.”

  I heave a quiet sigh of relief—a little for Max and a lot for myself—and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Shirah shaking her head.

  “You are such a ridiculous dork,” she says.

  Amazing, miraculously, right now, that is the most wonderful thing she could say.

  * * *

  • • •

  Saturday comes, and I load the trunk of Mom’s car with the suitcase full of pots and pans.

  “We’re going to pick up Shirah and Max,” I tell Mom.

  “Really?” she says. “Are you guys all friends again?”

  “We’ve always been friends,” I say. I decide to leave it at that.

  First, we pull into Max’s driveway. He’s waiting outside, clearly excited, dressed in his Halloween costume: a black tracksuit, white face paint, and black circles around his eyes.

  A minute later, we pick up Shirah. She’s wearing a lab coat, stethoscope, and vampire teeth. Her hair is spray-dyed black, with white tips.

  “Will, where’s your costume?” Shirah asks.

  “In here,” I say, patting my backpack. “It’s a secret.”

  “When will you tell us what you’re doing for the show?” Max asks.

  “That’s also a secret,” I say.

  “Will’s got a lot of secrets about his act tonight,” says Mom. “But we can be sure he’ll go out with a bang.”

  “Mom!” I yell.

  She smiles, pleased with her inside joke.

  When we arrive at school, I grow more and more nervous, and by the time I open the trunk to get out my equipment, my hands are slippery with sweat.

  “You sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asks.

  “I told you, no parents.” I don’t specify that this is my own rule. I can’t have her up there in the bleachers, watching me. It’s too much. Too much Mom. She takes a breath, like she’s deciding to play along with my little fabrication.

  “Well,” says Mom, slowly, as if I were climbing into a rocket ship and not heading into a talent show. “Good luck in there. See you in a few hours?”

  “Okay, bye,” I say.

  “Beep?” she says, almost asking as a question.

  I don’t return the beep. I wave, and the three of us head to the school. Before we go in, I remove my glasses, open my backpack, loosen the laces on the back of the mask, and pull it down over my face.

  In the school lobby, crepe-paper pumpkins and ghosts hang from the ceiling, and black and orange streamers twist every which way. The gym is noisy with excitement and nervous energy. Though plenty of kids look at me, no one sees me. I’m not scary or gory or elaborate. I’m just a kid in a mask.

  Max and Shirah guide me to the bleachers, one sitting on my left and the other on my right.

  “Shirah!”

  About six rows up, Shirah’s volleyball friends wave to her, coaxing her to join them. She doesn’t. She stays with me.

  That feels good, but it doesn’t last long. My stomach is starting to churn. Max and Shirah are talking about something. I hear Max say, “I’m really sorry,” and they
go back and forth for a while. It seems like a really serious conversation, but I’m not listening. I can’t. I’m too freaked out. Forgetting that there’s anyone else around me, I let out a long, low groan.

  “You okay?” Shirah says to me quietly.

  I nod and lean forward, dropping my head between my knees. A minute later, she joins me, her head between her own knees.

  “Anything I can do to help?” she asks.

  “I feel like I’m going to puke,” I say.

  I feel her hand lightly rub my back.

  “So, can I tell you something?” she asks. “Remember when you asked why I kiss my fist before I serve? Still want to know why?”

  I nod, which, in this position, is more like wiggling my head.

  “I do that when I’m about to do something I’m afraid of, something I really need to do.”

  I can’t believe that Shirah would ever be afraid of doing anything, let alone something on a volleyball court.

  “Okay, well, I’ve never told anyone this,” she continues. “I used to be really close to my grandma, my bubbie. She was really tough; born in a refugee camp in Poland after the Holocaust. I don’t know if you remember her—she lived with us for a while when we were in third grade. She used to have this thing she’d say to me when I was nervous—before a big game or a test. She’d say, ‘Shirah, is the heart willing?’ And I was supposed to repeat, ‘The heart is willing.’ And then she’d say, ‘Come what may?’ And I’d have to repeat, ‘Come what may.’ ”

  Shirah looks at me and laughs. “Elaborate, huh? It sounds a little silly to say it out loud. Maybe something was lost in translation.”

  It reminds me a little of the “beep” thing I do with Mom, but I think it’s much, much better, because it’s like a magic formula from long ago and far away, born in darkness and shadows. Crawling like a turtle through time.

  “After she died,” Shirah continues, “I started saying it alone, by myself. Now I save it for really big moments. Moments that really count. I was thinking you might want to try it.”

  “Does it work?” I ask.

  “It’s never let me down,” she says.

  The lights flicker, and everyone cheers and screams. A gorilla walks out in front of the audience, stands in front of the microphone, and pulls off his gorilla mask.

  “Prairie Marsh!” he says, popping his glasses into place. Even without my glasses, I can tell from his posture and his voice, it’s Dr. Monk, our principal. “Is everyone ready for our ‘spooktacular’ talent show?”

  Everyone yells and claps. I begin to feel the buzz of adrenaline as my fear escalates.

  “Our first act is Tracey Newman and Tina Piloski, singing ‘A Whole New World.’ ”

  Tracey and Tina go onstage, unroll a small carpet, and stand together in robes and turbans. They squeak through a song. Everyone applauds except me. “Looks like cultural appropriation to me,” says Shirah, but I can’t reply. The buzz in my veins has turned into a swarm of bees, jostling and crawling inside me.

  “OW!” says Max. “What gives!”

  I look down and realize I’m clenching his upper arm. I let go immediately.

  Three more people perform their acts. I begin to plan my escape. Maybe I’ll head to the bathroom and miss my turn. Then Dr. Monk says, “Next up, we have a mystery act. I now present to you…Manzilla!”

  My body switches to autopilot, and without willing it, I’m lifting my backpack, grabbing the suitcase, and climbing down from the bleachers. I can hear my own breathing under the mask.

  Here, in the center of the gym, I’m bathed in blue light.

  It’s blinding, actually. I squint, trying to see through the eyeholes of the mask. It’s useless. I construct my drum set by sense of touch, hands trembling. I tip the suitcase on its side, wedge the pedal in place with a book, and flip the Passover serving tray onto the edge of the suitcase, pots and pans all facing up. I hear people say, “Who is that?” and “What’s he doing?” but otherwise, it’s silent. I can almost hear two hundred kids breathing.

  I pick up the sticks. I can hear the hiss of the microphones.

  I’m starting to panic. People are staring at me.

  Then, from somewhere within me comes the question: Is the heart willing?

  * * *

  • • •

  One kick on the bass drum.

  BOOM!

  I can see the audience jolt.

  It’s super-loud. But it felt good. Powerful.

  Two thumps: Ba-boom!

  Now it’s time to add the metal pot.

  Ba-boom CRACK!

  The sound echoes across the room.

  Again: Ba-boom CRACK!

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and float down under the sea, allowing my arms to begin to work on their own. You can’t play it if you don’t say it. I say it in my head, and I play along: I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it

  Then I add the boom of the bass and the crack of the metal pot, and I keep it rolling, this marching rhythm.

  B’boom! Crack doom-doom crack!

  Doom-crack! Doom-crack!

  Tick tick tick…

  I play it two more times, and the last time.

  Boom! Crack doom-doom crack!

  Doom-crack! Doom-crack!

  Tick tick tick…

  I don’t finish it—I stop, motionless. I hold the room in silent suspense.

  I count to myself…One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—

  And on eight, POW! I throw my sticks into the double-time, hummingbird beat.

  Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em! Lemme at ’em Lemme at ’em!

  And onto that, I layer first the drum…DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM! DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM!

  And then I add the pan: Lemme at ’em! CRACK-EE-AT-’EM! Lemme at ’em! CRACK-EE-AT-’EM! Lemme at ’em! CRACK-EE-AT-’EM!

  I can see two hundred heads bobbing, mesmerized by the rhythm. Now and then, little squalls of applause erupt from the left or the right. My sticks speed up, and I start throwing in extra accents—jabs and punches and extra kicks on the suitcase–bass drum.

  My sticks are now in a frenzy of flight. I’m playing faster and louder than I ever have before—an explosion of sound and power—and it’s just at this moment that the mask starts to slide forward over my face. My repetitive head bobbing has been causing it to inch forward and down. It’s picking up its momentum, and soon it will fall straight off.

  I have to make a choice.

  I can stop my flow to fix the mask. It will drain all the energy I’ve been building.

  Or I can shrug the mask off and confront the audience with my naked face, my bare turtle face. I have to decide. Now.

  The heart is willing.

  Come what may.

  I speed up the tempo, whipping the rhythm into a hurricane of noise, and I start to count: five, four, three, two, one.

  On one, I fling one arm out and flip the mask clean off. I return to the rhythm I began with. It’s the same marching rhythm—but now, rather than building energy, preparing to storm the castle, it’s the proud march of victory. The whole audience is clapping along, and I can feel the hot stage light on my face. It glints off the sweat on my eyelashes.

  I roll this rhythm until it’s strong and proud, and then I end it.

  Ba-boom! Crack doom-doom crack!

  Doom-crack! Doom-crack! Doom-crack DOOM DOOM!

  I freeze. The lights turn dark, and the audience is silent for a moment and then erupts into applause.

  And it’s over.

  Dr. Monk comes over and says, “Let’s have another round of applause for Manzilla!”

  I dump the pedal and book and sticks into the su
itcase, my hands shaking so badly, I can barely hold anything. I grab my gear and wobble toward the bleachers.

  The next thing I know, I’m sitting on the edge of the bench, shaking, while two kids lip-sync a rap. Shirah grabs my arm and pats me on the back while Max leans over and tries to say something, but he’s so excited, he shouts it in my ear, “Dude! I didn’t know you could do that!”

  That’s when I realize that the hornets and bees in my veins aren’t terror after all.

  They’re pure, liquid thrill.

  I can’t wait until my next usual visit to tell RJ about the talent show, so Mom drops me off on Saturday morning.

  “Have fun,” she says. “Beep.”

  I ignore the “beep” and hurry through the atrium and up the elevator. I run down the hall, fast as I can, blazing with excitement. As I pass the nurses’ station and head toward RJ’s room, I’m seized by a terrible feeling. RJ’s door is wide open. Roxanne sees me and shouts, “Will, wait!”

  She’s rushing toward me, but it’s too late. The bed is empty, stripped clean. No blankets, no sheets. The shades are pulled wide, and cold light floods the room.

  RJ is gone.

  My legs turn to rubber; my head swims; my vision goes grainy.

  Hands grab my shoulders. It’s Roxanne.

  “RJ!” I say. “Is he…is he…?”

  In the moment before the answer, my heart stiffens, cracks.

  “Will, listen to me,” says Roxanne. “RJ is alive. He’s in intensive care. The infection has taken a turn for the worse, but he’s getting the best care possible.”

  First, I’m filled with relief. RJ is alive. But quickly, that relief darkens, shrivels, and in its place, I’m filled with terror. I’m gripping the knees of my pants.

  “I can’t breathe,” I gasp.

  “Breathe with me,” says Roxanne. Her voice is firm: a command. “In…two, three, four. Hold…two, three, four. Out…two, three, four.”

  We do this for a few rounds until my first-ever drumbeat settles into place, ordering my breath and my pulse to Boom, pack! Boom-boom pack! Boom, pack! Boom-boom pack!