by Rob Harrell
He stares, chomping away. He looks around and quickly pulls his spit jar out of his desk. Lets fly and then tucks it away.
“Yeah? Or, what?”
“If I go very long, it starts to sting really bad. Burns. So . . . drops. And it stings super bad when it’s open.”
Jimmy stares at me long enough I wonder if he’s stalled out. “That why you hold it closed?”
I nod.
He swallows. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “It kind of does.”
Then he turns away, and I hear him mutter something under his breath. Was it . . . Cowboy?
Great. I mean, I guess it’s a better nickname than Butt Crack. I guess.
I glance back over, but he just sits there staring forward with a big, stupid, mean look on his face.
During fourth period, I feel a sudden, pounding need to go to the bathroom. Mr. Beaulieu gives me a hall pass, and I make it with only minutes to spare.
On my way back to class, I’m about to turn down another empty hallway when Isaac comes around the corner, right in front of me. I think we’re both caught off guard, because we stop.
“Hey . . . Isaac.” Why am I suddenly nervous? He’s one of my two best friends in the world.
He looks a little trapped. There are no other students to dash off to or hide behind. “Heyyy, Ross.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I say, “Bathroom?”
He laughs, but it seems like an uncomfortable laugh. “Yep.”
“Me too.” I pat the hall pass against my palm. “Hey. How are you doing on Annihilation: Moon?”
Isaac puts one of his sticklike arms up and rubs the back of his neck. “Oh. Good. I’m . . . almost done. Have you done the whole crater challenge?”
This is literally our first conversation in forever, and I feel myself light up. “Yeah! I just finished the crater! We should get together and play sometime! Maybe—”
He cuts me off by holding clenched fists together in front of him and doing a little dance/shuffle. “Ross, buddy, I’m about to pee myself. But we’ll get together soon! I swear.”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” And he’s past me. I don’t think he meant that about getting together soon. I know what a brush-off feels like.
I turn around in time to see him duck into the boys’ room, and suddenly there’s a big pit in my stomach. Like somebody took a melon baller and scooped it out.
I’m slowly walking past the AV room when John Meeker sees me and leans out. He points at my head and sings in a snarly voice, “Hey, hey! Save a horse, ride a cowboy!”
I think it’s from a country song. I just give him a smile and a thumbs-up and get back to class.
By the end of the day, most everybody’s seen the hat and gotten their “Yeehaw!” “Saddle up!” and “Halloween’s tomorrow!” comments out.
Nobody knocks it off my head or laughs in my face the way I’d dreaded. In fact, most kids just kind of look for a moment and then . . . accept it. Cancer Kids get hats, and that’s that, I guess.
When my dad picks me up to take me to my treatment, my spirits are kind of up, unbelievably. For a brief moment, I feel like there’s hope in the world.
Frank stops in his tracks when he sees me in the waiting room, his face suddenly looks dead serious like something’s wrong.
“Ah’m afraid this town ain’t big enough fer the two of us, Sheriff.”
I groan. “Hilarious. Did you bring this amazing music you keep going on about?” I duck past him and hit the button for the automatic doors.
He catches up. “You joke, but your real education begins today, my young Padawan. Prepare to have your mind expanded and potentially blown.”
Once I’m on the table and the mask is in place, Frank holds a CD up in front of me. It has scrawly writing on it.
“Made it last night. Think you can handle it?”
Callie steps in with my mouthpiece. “Oh, no. This doesn’t have your band on it, does it?”
Frank’s eyelids go to half-mast. “Only the first couple of songs are Ripe Sponge. Then it’s just a hodgepodge. A mishmash, if you will.”
“Ripe Sponge?” I have time to ask, before the mouthpiece goes in. “What’s that?”
“Ripe Sponge! That’s my band!”
He goes over and rattles the CD into the tray, hits Play, and ducks around the corner.
Callie looks at me while she fits the mouthpiece onto the table. “If I’m being honest, his band isn’t terrible. But I’d never tell him that.” Then she reminds me not to look away from the X, pats my arm, and walks out of the room.
Frank doesn’t hold back on the volume today.
First there’s a heavy drum. A fast, low thumping that goes on longer than it seems like it should. But then come some other drums. Louder and a little messy.
Next is a bass line, lower than the drums. I feel the music in my chest, and it goes on like this for a bit. I can’t tap my feet—I have to stay as still as possible—but I’m tapping them in my head. It’s the kind of beat that makes you want to move around.
Finally, a guitar comes in, ripping a hole in the middle of the song. It’s cool and spooky and smoky and thrilling all at the same time.
I’m hooked.
The singer comes in—is it Frank? I can’t understand all the words, but who cares?—and it gets even better. I think the song is about a girl and maybe flying . . . and there’s something about evil nachos, unless I’m hearing it wrong.
But the lyrics don’t even matter that much.
I just love this song. Instantly. Completely.
I’m really not sure why the music is hitting me like this on this particular day—like it’s sinking into me rather than bouncing off—but it is.
I mean, I’ve heard music before. Good music. Why today?
Maybe my defenses are down because of “radiation nerves”? Maybe it’s just a new kind of music I’m not used to—like it’s my kind of music and it’s been waiting for me out there. Maybe the proton beam is accidentally zapping my brain, and I’m having some kind of seconds-to-death moment of clarity.
Or maybe I just need it now.
I’m not sure, but it’s lighting me up in a way I haven’t experienced before.
The next few songs are heavier than anything I’ve heard on KZAQ and three times harder than anything in my dad’s collection, but I love them, and I want more.
I can’t keep the smile off my face, mouthpiece and all. As I walk out afterward, I realize I haven’t thought about my stupid hat for at least fifteen minutes.
10
BAD HALLOWEEN
The second day with the hat—Halloween—goes less well.
This is what we call an understatement.
I meet Abby by the bike rack—she’s wearing her black jack-o’-lantern shirt and a headband with demon horns—and before we even reach our lockers, I can tell something is off in the halls. Nobody makes a hat comment, but several people turn around with uh-oh-here-he-comes faces. Ricky Stevenson, an eighth grader with crazy-tall hair, lets out a startled laugh when he sees me—then stifles it behind his hand and ducks into the art room like he committed a crime.
While I’m grabbing a folder from my locker, I catch one girl—Bethany something?—whispering in her friend’s ear. She has her hand covering her mouth, and they’re both looking at me, the international signal for We’re Talking About You.
I shut my locker and turn to Abby. She’s messing with the pull strings of her Vampire Weekend tour hoodie.
“What’s up?”
She looks back at me. “Chicken butt.”
“Hilarious. Why is everyone looking at me?”
She pushes off the wall and heads down the crowded hall. “I’m sure it’s the hat, ding-dong.”
I follow her, watching other students as we go. She squeezes between a couple of big football players to her locker. Starts working the combination. She swings the door open between us.
I’m not buying it. My Spidey sense
s are tingling. I see another person stepping sideways to get a look at me from behind someone’s backpack.
I lean in to look Abby in the eyes. “You swear you don’t know anything?”
“Ross. Stop it. You’re a minor celebrity now. Hat Kid. Try to enjoy it.” She gives me a goofy smile and pats my shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t go mental on me. ’Kay? I gotta go, or I’ll be late.” She gives me a punch on the arm. “Seriously. You’ll be fine.” Then she’s gone. Swallowed up in the morning chaos.
My palms are starting to sweat. This isn’t good.
By lunch I’m in a full panic. You’d think I’m walking around naked the way people are looking at me. I’ve had that nightmare, and this is worse.
I asked a couple of kids in my class about it, but they all played dumb—and not very convincingly. My brain is spinning like a top when I meet Abby at the loading dock. She’s unpacking her lunch and looks up.
“Hey, Wink!” Normally I don’t mind the eye-related jokes, but today I’m in no mood.
I throw my lunch down. “What is going on? People are looking at me like I have six heads.”
She sets her sandwich down.
“Ross! I swear I have no idea! I doubt it’s anything, but I’ll ask around if it’ll make you feel better.”
I sit down on the top step and tip my head back. Groan.
“Take some deep breaths. You’re spinning out, buddy.”
After a couple of minutes, I look back down and stare at my crumpled lunch bag.
“If it makes you feel better, I heard Sean Meekins barfed in gym class.”
“Seriously?”
She nods. “Yep. Halfway up the big rope. It splattered and got a bunch of people. Including Hannigan.”
I can’t help picturing Coach Hannigan scrambling not to get yarf on his precious sneakers. He loves those sneakers.
“Okay. That . . . is kind of awesome, I guess.”
She asks me about the new Language Arts assignment, and then we talk about some new Vampire Weekend shirt she found on eBay, and about whether we’re too old for trick-or-treating.
By the time lunch is over and we’re throwing out our trash—Abby has me smiling again.
11
NOT RIGHT
More weird stares follow me the rest of the day, which makes me bonkers. Why the acceptance one day and now all the staring? It doesn’t make any sense.
By the time my dad picks me up for my treatment, I’m actually looking forward to it. Anything is better than the stares.
Frank cues up the mix from where I left it the day before. He and Callie strap me down, and I’m off.
Despite the risk of zapping my eyeball—or the knowledge that I’m getting nuked like a microwave corn dog—I’m able to relax and get into the songs.
The second song—a fast one with some guy screaming about needing “the cure for what ails me”—fits my mood perfectly.
The next one is kind of slow and sappy, which surprises me coming from Frank, but even that one takes me on a ride. Gets me out of my funk and brain frenzy for a bit.
Before I leave, Frank hands me the mixtape. “For extracurricular listening. If you want.”
My dad brings my Deadpool costume in a plastic bag, and we head to Abby’s house.
It feels weird, walking up to Abby’s place. For the last few years, we’ve always started our night at Isaac’s and ended at Abby’s. Things change, I guess.
Abby meets me at the front door, and I can tell something isn’t right. She looks strung out. Even weirder, she isn’t in a costume.
As we pass the kitchen, her parents are huddled over the counter having what looks like a “serious conversation.” Her mom gives me a quick wave, then turns back to Mr. Peterson.
I feel butterflies coming to life in my stomach.
In Abby’s room, she tells me to sit down. She’s chewing her hair, which might not be a good sign. I drop my backpack and the bag with my costume and sit down carefully at her desk. I’m moving slowly.
Abby comes over and sits on the corner of her bed near my chair. Runs a hand through her hair.
“Okay. Ross.” She looks up at the ceiling. She grimaces. “I think I figured out why everyone was staring.”
I notice her phone in her hand. She’s holding it so tight her knuckles are white.
“So . . . Stacy Tyler just sent me these . . . things. They’re pictures that somebody made. I don’t know who made them, and neither does Stacy. She really doesn’t. I believe her.”
“Okayyyy.” My ears are ringing, but I try to remain calm.
She sighs. “I guess these were flying around all day. On Instagram. By text. Nobody sent them to me, ’cause, y’know . . . we’re friends and all.”
I can’t take this. “What are you talking about?”
She tips her head back.
“Apparently these went around to a bunch of people last night and today—to a lot of people. They’re, like . . . memes.”
I swallow. “I’ve been memed?”
She laughs, but not a ha-ha laugh. More of a one-puff, sad laugh. “Yeah. There were three of them. They’re . . .” She’s not sure what to say, and that isn’t a situation Abby finds herself in often. “They aren’t funny, Ross. They’re bad.”
I’m trying to brace for impact, like a new diagnosis is coming.
I hold out my hand, and she gives me her phone.
The first image in her text feed is my sixth-grade yearbook photo. Somebody has drawn a really rough version of a cowboy hat on my head.
Relief washes over me. It’s not that bad. Kind of mean-spirited, but I was expecting way worse.
I scroll to the next image.
Someone has spent some time on this one. Really put in the effort. It’s a drawing of my head on a super skinny old guy in a hospital gown—he looks awful—holding on to an IV stand.
But the third is the winner. The icing on the cake. The pièce de résistance, as they say.
It’s the simplest of the three. Somebody’s taken an existing cartoon and changed the words. Or really, just one word.
It’s a black-and-white panel cartoon of Death in an airport. It must have been taken from a magazine—The New Yorker maybe. My parents get that magazine, and it looks like that style. In it, Death—his face hidden in a hood and holding his big ax thing—is standing in front of a limo. He’s holding a sign, looking for his next customer.
I sit staring at it for a bit, and I can feel my throat and chest tightening. My face is getting hot.
So, Death is waiting for me? Is that what they’re implying? That I’m dying? Is that the joke?
“Ross, look, it’s—” Abby starts.
I interrupt. “Is this . . . How is this at all funny? Is it supposed to be funny?”
Abby takes the phone from me. “I don’t know. Stacy doesn’t even know who did them. They’re just . . . going around. I basically beat her over the head to get her to show ’em to me.”
I stand back up, ’cause I’m not sure what else to do. “Who would . . .” I feel heat rolling up through my body, starting from my toes. “Like an enemy, or . . .”
My hands are shaking.
“Ross,” Abby says, “we’ll figure out who did these. And my parents said we should go to the principal, first thing tomorrow. This is—”
I turn on her.
“NO!”
My cheeks are on fire. “We’re not doing ANYTHING, do you hear me? I don’t . . . I just want them to go away. Especially that last one. We’re . . . we’re not giving them any more attention than they’ve . . .” My voice dies out.
“Okay. Okay.” Abby’s trying to calm me down. “But—”
I shake my head. I stick out my hand, little finger out. “Not a word! Pinky swear!”
The pinky swear has been our most solemn vow since forever. We’ve never broken one yet.
Abby hooks her pinky around mine.
“Fine. Pinky swear.” She nods but doesn’t look happy about it. “Ross. It was
probably just a couple of people joking around, and it got out of control, y’know? One person trying to top the other, or . . . I don’t know. And it went too far.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I start spinning around looking for my stupid hat before I realize it’s on my stupid head. I grab my backpack by one strap. Tears are coming, and I don’t really want to be here when they arrive.
I pull open the bedroom door and hurry down the hallway.
“Ross!” Abby follows me. “Come on. Ross! Don’t leave. Just stop.”
I run down the stairs and pass Abby’s mom in a blur. Then I’m outside. Across the lawn. Across the street. At the corner.
I see a few kids in costumes with their parents and do my best to ignore them. I stand on the corner, sucking in big gulps of the cool evening air. My heart is pounding like it wants to burst out of my chest.
I mean, I knew other students had been looking. Staring.
I’d seen kids pointing.
But I always assumed they were pulling for me on some level. For me to get better. To beat this thing. I mean . . . Is this all just some big joke to everyone at school?
I hear Abby calling my name, coming up behind me. I spin on her.
“Don’t.” I hold my hands up like a traffic cop. “I’m not mad at you, obviously, but I’m . . .” I mimic explosions coming out of my ears.
She nods. Looks at the ground. “I know. I get it. I’m mad too. And sad.”
Two kids run by, laughing, with big pumpkin-shaped buckets.
I’m not sure whether to run, lie down, or spin around in circles. “I don’t know how to . . . Who would make those?”
Abby looks up at me and shakes her head. Her eyes are watery. About to spill over. “I don’t know, Ross. I really don’t.”
“Does . . . Someone would have to HATE me! Do people hate me?” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not DYING! Am I? Is there something I don’t . . . Is Death waiting for me?”
Obviously, I know dying from this is a possibility—cancer does that—but I’ve gotten myself fairly convinced that I’m beating this thing. I even overheard my dad and Linda discussing “scary survival rates” one time, but it seemed like they were . . . Was I in denial? Do people in denial know they’re in denial?