by Rob Harrell
I glare at her. “I wasn’t really asking, nerd.” Then I stand up. “You want a Coke? I could use a Coke.”
Abby slips her lip balm into a pocket of her jeans. “I’d take a Coke. But don’t think I’m leaving until you play me something.” She’s smiling, but she looks serious. “Then I’m gonna dig deep and psychoanalyze this whole New Ross thing. Gonna get all Dr. Phil on you.”
She puts her chin on both of her fists and gives me her exaggerated attention. “You fascinate me, Ross Maloy.”
“Okay,” I say, walking out. “When you figure me all out, can you fill me in as well?”
She only stays for an hour—I think she can tell I want to get back to practicing. We laugh and mess around on our phones for a while. Then, after she blasts me with over-the-top Abby encouragement to play at the talent show, I give in and play a couple of chords for her.
But only a couple.
17
THE PIT
So, there was another Bad Day.
It was about a month after my surgery. Beginning of September, a few weeks into the school year. A few weeks before I started radiation. My eye was pretty well healed, but they had to wait a while before they could put the little BBs in my head so the beam would zap the right spot. (What I now refer to as the Dime Slot procedure.) So I didn’t have my dime slot yet.
I was cleaning my room, and it was a true mess. Linda was cooking downstairs. My dad wasn’t home yet. It was dark out.
I was going through a pile of stuff on my side table when I came to an issue of the Walking Dead comic. No big deal, but for some reason that word, Dead, stuck in my head.
Then I remembered what Dr. Throckton had said when he looked at my post-surgery scans. That with any luck it wouldn’t come back. Like, in my lungs or somewhere. Because if it did, there was nothing they could do for this particular type of tumor. He didn’t think that was likely, but it was a possibility.
Back at that time, when he told me that, I did something really weird. I just brushed it off. Pushed it out of my thoughts. I blocked it out and decided not to dwell on it.
Until that night in my room—straightening up with the dark of the night creeping in—when that conversation jumped out of my brain like the boogeyman.
I could die.
That was obviously an option all along—and I knew it—but in that moment, in that gloomy room, for some unknown reason . . . it finally sunk in.
Like, really sunk in.
And it sunk in hard.
I felt the floor tip under me. I don’t mean that in a fancy-pants, writing way. I mean it felt like the floor actually tipped under my feet—severely—and then dropped away.
Like there was nothing beneath me to catch me.
It was the weirdest feeling. Like there was an endless black space under me, and I was dangling there like Wile E. Coyote in the worst, scariest cartoon ever.
I collapsed down to my knees next to the bed.
And then I was crying. Out of one eye, of course—’cause I don’t have a stupid lacrimal gland on the right side anymore—which just made me feel even worse.
One-eyed crying.
Not even crying. Bawling, maybe. Or, one time I heard the word keening means crying super hard, but when I looked it up, it means crying for a lost loved one. So I guess I keened? Maybe I was keening for myself, as weird as that sounds. Crying at the very real, scary knowledge that I might not live through this. What if the cancer came back and they couldn’t help me?
I could be gone, and life would just . . . go on. My friends would go to high school. And college. New Star Wars movies would come out. Just without me there to see them. Like I never even happened . . .
My dad would be wrecked. First his wife and now his kid?
Fortunately, Linda had KZAQ on in the kitchen, so she didn’t hear me. I curled up in a ball, and it came out of me like a faucet.
For maybe ten minutes.
Then I was left sniffling and catching my breath on the floor. Wiped out. Drained like a burst water balloon. Crying that hard is like running a marathon.
That’s when Linda walked by the room. She caught a glimpse of me crumpled there and Freaked Out.
“ROSS!” She came flying in fast and grabbed me before I could react. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I turned and sat up as fast as I could so she’d know I wasn’t dead, but she was already upset. There were tears in her eyes as she swept me into a tight hug.
“OH! Oh, Ross. Don’t do that to me! What happened?”
I used my sleeve to wipe my eyes and running nose. (Gross, but necessary.)
“I’m okay. I am. I just had a thing. A moment.”
She kissed the top of my head and rested her cheek there for a bit, and I had a flash memory of my mom doing that to me when I was sick, or just sad. Then she held me out a bit so she could see my swollen eyes. Wiped her cheeks, which were wet as well now.
“Just . . . bad thoughts?”
I nodded. “Really bad.”
She leaned back against the side of my bed but held on to my arm. Caught her breath. “You . . . Do you wanna talk about it?”
I sat for a minute staring at the stuff I’d knocked off the side table on my way down.
“I just started thinking about . . . the worst-case scenario.”
She nodded and chewed her lip. “Oh, boy. You’re fine, Ross. We got this. But I suppose that’ll creep into your head from time to time.”
I pulled in a huge sniff—my nose was still running—and she went on.
“Maybe when that happens, you try to actively think of something else instead. ’Cause thinking about it doesn’t do you any good. So you go draw or watch one of your monster movies or something.”
“So, live in denial?” It was a serious question.
She laughed. “No. Not denial. Just try not to dwell on it.”
“Well . . .” I slid over so I was sitting next to her. “I wasn’t really dwelling. This came on like a sneak attack. I was fine and then it kind of pounced out of my brain, like . . . Boom.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Thoughts’ll do that sometimes.”
We sat there for a while, listening to the radio drifting up from the kitchen. A Maroon 5 song and then something by Pink.
At some point I leaned against her, my face against her shoulder. And then we just kept sitting there, for a good while.
The storm had passed.
18
BACK TO SCHOOL (OR HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE)
On Monday, I’m on high alert. From the moment I step through the doors, every kid with a phone is now a meme suspect. Jimmy is still at the top of my list, but there’s no way to be 100 percent sure.
I’ve heard that animals, when backed into a corner, have this fight-or-flight response. Will they stand their ground and get all aggressive, or do they head for the hills? My fight/flight response is at war in my head as I pass the trophy cases by the front offices. Part of me wants to be literally anywhere but here, but another part wants to pin every single kid in the halls against a locker until they tell me the truth.
Danny Hill—a kid whose birthday parties I went to up until second grade—comes around the corner and sees me and my hat. He hooks his thumbs in his armpits like he has suspenders on.
“Git ’er done, cowpoke!”
I brush past him, giving him a look that melts his smile. I’m almost around the corner when I spin back around.
He’s looking back too. “Hey, sorry, Ross. I was just—”
“Did you see the memes, Danny?” I try not to sound too angry or upset, but my voice cracks to where I sound a little unhinged.
“What memes?”
I study his face. “Cancer Cowboy? Death? You didn’t see those?”
Danny puts his hands up. “I . . . Whoa . . . I was just joking around with the cowpoke thing.”
“Okay . . .” I let my shoulders fall. “Okay.” I’m still not sure I believe him, but there’s really nothing I
can do to prove it. “It’s . . . it’s just been . . . Sorry.” I move on.
In Ms. Bayer’s class, I’m hyperaware of everyone around me. How they look at me.
And I get looks. It’s hard not to start yelling questions at every person that glances my way.
I’m mulling it over and getting more and more irritated when Jimmy drops into his seat beside me.
“Well, well! If it ain’t Mr. Geee-tar Man.” Only he stretches guitar out, dripping with sarcasm. He’s chomping on his gum, his open spit jar in hand, and the area around his mouth is glistening in a way that makes me feel queasy. “You gonna favor us with a tune, Guitar Man? Gonna play us a little ditty?” He’s talking loud enough for the whole class to hear. Sarah turns her head just enough that I can tell she’s listening. And she’s not the only one. The room is all ears.
I feel steam boiling up in my head as I picture that stupid cartoon of Death with my name on it. Death, waiting for me.
Jimmy shakes his head as he chomps away like a cow. Looks around at the class. “Little Rossy thinks he’s some kinda fancy musician. Maybe if we’re really good, he’ll—”
Something snaps inside my head.
With one quick move, I whip my Language Arts book at Jimmy. It hits him hard in the neck. A ball of gum the size of a softball flies out of his mouth with an audible phoont. His eyes go wide, and he makes a loud noise like GACK! The bottle falls from his hands and clacks loudly on the ground, spilling spit everywhere.
“Shut up, Jimmy! Shut your face!” I’m leaning across the aisle, whisper-shouting at him. “Did you make those photos? I know it was you, you big stupid—”
“Guh! Puh!” Jimmy’s holding his neck and sputtering. He goes from shock to fury. “OH, YOU’RE DEAD! YOU JUST PUNCHED YOUR TICKET, DORK!”
He makes no effort to keep his voice down. He lunges across the aisle and—with a hand the size of an oven mitt—swats the back of my head, sending my hat flying. Then he smashes the side of my face and pulls me toward him. I’m seeing stars as I kick out and connect with the side of his desk.
I can’t stop. I keep kicking as I slide out of my chair, my sweatshirt hiking up under my arms. Jimmy lunges, grabs a handful of fabric. I kick again and catch him hard in the armpit.
“STOP IT! STOP IT, YOU TWO! JIMMY!”
It’s Ms. Bayer, suddenly there. She jumps between us and throws her weight into Jimmy, pushing him away from me. Then she slips in his spit and gum and goes down.
Hard.
Jimmy lunges around her and connects with a ham-sized fist on my upper lip and my nose.
Ms. Bayer is trying to get up, and I see that she’s landed on the gum. It’s stretching between the tiles and her backside as she struggles.
I can feel the emotions climbing my throat like a lump. Before I can swallow them, they burst out of my eyes, and I’m hunched over, covering my face and trying to stop a handful of really embarrassing sobs. The kids around us have jumped up and scattered. Their faces look like they’ve just witnessed a murder.
The smell of grape gum spit is in my nose as I realize some of it got on my jeans. My leg is wet.
Somehow, I still have enough vanity in me to be worrying about my hat head.
I’m curled up against something, and I look up. I’m pinned up against Sarah Kennedy’s leg. I sort of have her trapped there. Her eyes are big, and she looks freaked out and disgusted—and she’s desperately trying to get her leg out from beside me.
But I can’t stop the crying. Full-on snot-slinging crying, like it’s never going to stop. I look around and see a handful of my classmates looking at me like an alien.
“Stop it!” My voice cracks and bubbles. “Quit looking at me!” I cover my face and realize I’ve seen that look on people’s faces before. In fifth grade when Stan Hardin wet his pants because Ms. Falsey wouldn’t give him a bathroom pass.
I know what that look is.
It’s pity.
And that’s when I officially wish I could crawl under the floor tiles and die.
19
HAULED IN
Jimmy and I are sitting at opposite ends of the long wooden bench outside the principal’s office. We look like mismatched bookends. The school nurse has given us each an ice pack—mine for my lip and Jimmy’s for his throat—and we’re not looking at each other. We can hear Ms. Bayer’s excited rambling coming from the office.
“. . . Not on MY watch. No way, no sir. Never seen anything the likes of this in all of my sixteen years teaching these little . . .”
“I know you made those memes.” I mumble it through gritted teeth.
Jimmy turns slowly. “What the crap are you talking about?” Only he doesn’t censor himself.
This sets me off again.
“Cancer Cowboy? Me farting through a hospital gown? Does that ring a bell? You must be really proud, ’cause it seems like everybody’s seen ’em! They’re all the rage in the textiverse.”
Jimmy glares at me. It’s only been a few minutes since the Rumble in the Classroom, and now, feeling the heat of his stare, I wonder if we might start fighting again right here. “Do I look like I have a phone, moron? Do I? You think I’m on any ‘textiverse’?”
“YOU JUST CALLED ME CANCER COWBOY ON FRIDAY! What is that, a coincidence?”
Jimmy’s eyebrows furrow as he adjusts his ice pack. “I didn’t call you Cancer Cowboy! I just said Cowboy. And it wasn’t a big stretch—YOU WERE WEARING A FRIGGIN’ COWBOY HAT! YOU STILL ARE!”
“Whatever.” I turn back away. “I don’t believe you.” He has a point, but I’m still so mad I could scream.
“Whatever.”
“Whatever.”
The door opens, and Ms. Bayer sails by without even looking at us. Then Principal Kingsley is there. He’s a big, balding guy. He doesn’t look happy.
“Gentlemen.” Actually, he looks more tired than anything. “Step in here. Let’s talk.”
Principal Kingsley’s office is small and seems more so from all of the sports memorabilia on every available wall and surface. It’s also about five degrees warmer than it needs to be.
He sits back and lets us each tell our side of the story. Once I mention the memes, he’s more interested in those than the actual fight.
“So, Jimmy. You didn’t make any memes?”
Jimmy drops his head back, exasperated. “NO! I told you, I don’t even have a phone! I’ve never memed a freakin’ meme in my life!”
The principal looks back at me. “Can I see them?”
This catches me off guard. “The . . . Yeah. Sure.” I dig in my backpack for my phone and pull up the images. I’d asked Abby to send them to me, even though she didn’t want to.
As he looks through them, Principal Kingsley’s face falls. His cheeks start to turn red.
“Ah, wow. I’m so sorry, Ross. These are . . . these are awful. No wonder you came in loaded for bear. I’m just . . . Can you email these to me?” He holds my phone out.
Jimmy looks at me. “Can I see ’em? I mean, as long as I’m being blamed for ’em.”
I just shrug, and he takes the phone from Kingsley. I watch Jimmy’s face as he scrolls. He looks genuinely surprised.
“Jeez!” He hands the phone to me with something like shock on his face. “Those are brutal. You thought I’d do that?” He sounds like I accused him of kicking a puppy.
I shrug again and look away.
Kingsley crosses his big arms. “Okay. Look.” He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. Lets out a long breath. “This whole thing escalated quickly, and . . . Well, the person at fault is the one that made those things.”
Jimmy almost comes out of his chair. “MALOY THREW A BOOK AT MY FRIGGIN’ NECK!”
Kingsley puts out two calming hands. “I know, I know. Ross jumped to conclusions. But you didn’t exactly handle the situation in a mature manner either, did you?”
Jimmy flops back in his chair, flabbergasted.
“Plus, you were chewing gum on school gr
ounds. It pales in comparison to the fight, but it’s against the rules.” He sniffs. “I’m gonna have you mop Ms. Bayer’s room after school. And if she can’t get that gum out of her skirt, you’re doing chores around here to work off the cost of her dry cleaning. Or whatever she needs.”
Jimmy makes a psshhh sound and runs a hand through his hair.
Kingsley stands up behind his desk. “Unfortunately, this school has a zero-tolerance approach to fighting. You both know that.”
I groan.
“Let’s do this. I want you each to write an apology letter to Ms. Bayer. And you both get a day of detention. We’ll figure out when that happens later, ’cause Ms. Jennings is out on maternity leave and detention is kind of on hold . . .” He drifts off like he’s talking to himself more than to us. Then his eyes snap back up to mine.
“But if anyone asks, I’m putting you both on Triple Super Severe Probation. And I totally chewed you guys out, okay?”
Jimmy looks up at him, surprised. “So, what does Triple Super Severe mean?”
“Basically, nothing. Unless you do something else. But don’t tell anyone that.” He rubs his big hands over his face. “That part is partly for Ms. Bayer. She’s—very understandably—upset, but I . . . That’s just how I’m going to handle this. It’s an unfortunate situation, and you’re both victims in your own way. Kind of. Sort of.”
We’re all nodding, like some kind of weird football huddle.
“Okay.” He goes over and opens the door. He raises his voice to an angry pitch. “Now get out of here, and don’t let me see you two back in here again! You understand?”
Mrs. Hawley—the school secretary—averts her eyes as we walk out.
Jimmy and I walk back through the empty halls until we’re close to the room.
“Sorry. I really thought . . .” I mutter.
He stops. “Listen. Those pictures or memes or whatever. They sucked.” He pulls out his pouch of Big League Chew and stuffs nearly half the bag in his mouth. “But I still owe you the mother of all beatdowns. Someday when you least expect it.”