by Rob Harrell
He slams his shoulder into mine and skulks back into Bayer’s classroom.
20
DAZE GONE BY
The next month or so goes by in a blur of guitar tabs, aching fingers, CDs, and some new and exciting side effects from the radiation.
My face, specifically the area between my right eye and my ear, starts to look like a honey-baked ham.
I spend a stupid amount of time looking at my eye area in the mirror. It begins as a faint pinkness, but grows into a bright, monkey-butt red. And it stings like fire, to match my dry, squinty eye. Dr. Throckton gives me some ointment—super gooey stuff—to keep on it at all times so the skin won’t crack or bleed.
But crack and bleed it does—it’s kind of nasty—so that eventually I start to look and feel like a scaly, oozing goo-monster. The ointment leaves oily spots on everything I own: sheets, pillows, coats, shirts, books, and folders. I keep it in my pack and use it constantly—in the slathering department, I’m giving Abby and her lip balm a run for their money.
On top of that, I notice kids keeping a little extra distance between me and them, like they think I’m contagious. In their defense, it does look like I have some sort of Gooey Creeping Crud.
A couple of times I get an “ulcer” on the white of my eye. It’s technically like a super dry spot—and it feels exactly like you have a shard of glass in your eye. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced pain like that. The day it flares up, it hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt to move my eye. So I sit in bed and stare at a spot on my comforter, trying everything I can to NOT MOVE MY EYES. Dr. Sheffler tells me to put a bunch of my nighttime eye goo in my eye and put a bandage over it. It’s essentially a patch, so I get a handful of pirate comments—but at least a bandage looks kinda dramatic, unlike a stupid hat.
Still, the bandage can’t keep the goo from running down my cheek throughout the day. So that’s a good look.
Ross Maloy: Gooey Pirate.
One day in Mr. Brown’s class, my pen ran out of ink, and I borrowed one from Jason Kelly. Then at the end of class, when I offered it back, he looked really quick back and forth between my face and the pen, and swallowed.
“I’m . . . I’m okay. You keep it.”
It was only after he darted away that I looked at the pen. It was shiny from my goop. Then I noticed the shiny spots on the desk.
After that I started carrying these cleaning wipes that Linda uses all the time. I tried to do it without people noticing, but I’d wipe up any gooey spots I’d left behind me.
It was humiliating, like I’d committed some kind of crime. Like I was a burglar wiping his fingerprints.
But the shiny goop and the glowing angry red was still there on my face for all to see. I started sitting lower in my chair in class, just so I could casually prop my elbow on the desk and cover that side of my face with my hand. I got pretty good at it. Made it look natural and maybe even a little suave.
Then there are the headaches and the whole I-need-a-nap-all-the-time thing. Throckton said that shouldn’t technically be from the radiation, but it’s definitely happening. Maybe it’s stress, or from straining my eyes and brain and fingers practicing guitar.
I find myself wishing time could speed up and slow down at the same time. I mean, the treatments are ticking off painfully slowly. When I check off the thirty-one-treatments-to-go date in my calendar, I feel like this thing will never be over. But at the same time, every day gone brings me one day closer to the day Abby leaves—which I never want to get here.
It kind of makes my brain hurt.
About a week after the memes, I’m waiting for Linda in the back parking lot when Sarah comes out. She’s carrying her skateboard—she must keep it in her locker during the day.
My pulse speeds up.
“Hey.” She pulls a pair of shoes out of her backpack and sits on the curb to swap them with the ones she’d been wearing. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” I’ve no idea how to converse naturally. “Waiting to . . . Treatment.”
“Oh, right. Any new weird symptoms?”
“Not really.”
She watches me for a second, then makes the shoe switch so quickly and elegantly it’s like a magic trick.
She stands up. “You know, I haven’t really said anything, but I think the hat looks pretty cool.”
“Seriously?” She has to be joking. “I hate this thing. Makes me look like such a dork.”
She shrugs and raises her eyebrows, and for a split second I think she’s making fun of me. But then she smiles that easy, glowing Sarah smile, and I feel all warm and gooey inside like an idiot.
“Aight.” She looks off into the distance. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
She hops on her board and pushes off down the back drive. As she glides away, she looks back over her shoulder. “Don’t watch! In case I fall!” She fakes for a second like she’s all wobbly and about to go down. But she knows her way around a board.
And then she’s gone—like some kind of freakin’ unicorn.
I have more lessons with Frank, and even meet a couple of other members of Ripe Sponge. The drummer, Denny, looks like a bigger, scarier version of Jimmy—with long hair and arms full of tattoos—but he’s actually super nice and even compliments me on my Rick and Morty T-shirt. Says he’s heard a lot about me. Then he punches me on the arm and calls me Slugger—like he’s heard about the fight. I’m not quite sure how to take that. He offers me some Twizzlers one day, which just seems so bizarre coming from this enormous Death-Metal-looking guy.
I show up one Wednesday night, about a week before Thanksgiving, just as a wild-eyed girl is storming out of the front door, screaming at Frank about how he needs to “grow up!” She slams the door on her car and backs out in a spray of gravel. As I come up the steps, Frank stands with his hands on his hips watching her drive away.
“So, that was Chelsea. Was being the operative term.”
I look back at the cloud of dust settling over the street. “She seems great.”
My fingertips develop some gnarly calluses, and the strings start to hurt less as the days go on. Frank seems impressed at how quickly they toughen up and nicknames me Tips of Steel.
I’m improving, and Frank gets me started on scales. I find a series of YouTube videos that are super helpful, and watch them over and over, playing along. I practice them enough that one day Linda stops by my room and asks with a pained smile and the most syrupy sweet voice ever, “So . . . when do you start playing actual songs, honey?”
My dad enjoys sitting in my room listening to my plucking. He lies back with his eyes closed and his dress-socked feet propped up on my bed. He folds his hands on his chest and smiles like my fumbling scales are the coolest jazz record ever. He barely makes a face when I hit wrong strings.
On the afternoon of Thanksgiving, I’m playing while my dad lies on the floor, listening and fighting off a food coma. To say Linda went overboard is the understatement of the year.
At some point he spots my mom’s bound sketchbook on the shelf under my nightstand.
I see him grab it, and I stop playing for a second.
“Wow,” he says, turning it over in his hands. “I haven’t seen this in a while. Can I look inside?”
“Um . . .”
He must hear something in my voice. He sets it back where it was. “Nope. Never mind. Sounds like it’s private.”
“Well . . .” I start playing again. “It’s not like a Dear Diary thing. Just . . . stuff . . .”
“Like mother, like son.” He smiles. “Your mom kind of kept it for herself as well. I think that’s cool. That’s what it should be.”
I play for a bit before he goes on. “You probably don’t remember how much she loved Thanksgiving, do you?”
“Not really.”
“She really did. It was an Event.” His foot is tapping along. “And her mashed potatoes. Wowza.”
“That good?”
“Songs will be writt
en about her mashed potatoes, Ross. Stories passed down in the history books. Linda tries super hard, but . . .” He casts a quick, guilty look at the door to make sure she isn’t standing there. Gives me a little shake of the head that says they’re not the same.
“I don’t know what she used to put in those things, but . . .”
I keep playing, and he eventually begins snoring.
Abby tolerates my practicing as well, and even quizzes me on different chords from some flash cards I made up.
She admits she has no idea if the chords I play are correct, but she keeps throwing them at me anyway.
“Gimme an E, hotshot!”
She gets me a book with the tabs for some Vampire Weekend songs. I can’t say I’m a huge fan—that’s her thing—but thanks to Abby, those songs have been playing in the background since we were little. Like the soundtrack of our lives, as corny as that sounds.
She wants me to try and play this one song, but it has an F chord in it. It’s literally the first chord in the song.
I can’t play an F chord, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to. It’s that simple. I’m fairly sure it requires ten-inch alien fingers. You have to clamp down a couple strings with your first finger and then stretch your second and third . . . Just trust me. It’s the worst.
One day I walk into my lesson and set down my guitar.
“What is up with the F chord?”
Frank is in the kitchen in a Blasters T-shirt. He looks up and smiles. “Right?”
“I can’t do it!”
Frank walks in and opens a Diet Coke with a loud crack. “Yeah. It’s the bane of every beginning guitar player. And I swear it was in every song I wanted to play when I started.”
I drop down onto the couch. “I think it’s a conspiracy. To keep out people who aren’t serious.”
Frank drains half the can. “Maybe. It’s not a bad theory.”
“There isn’t a trick? An easier way to get that same sound?”
He motions for me to pick up the guitar. “Practice, practice, practice.”
I groan and fall over sideways, my hat tumbling to the floor. “That’s your answer to EVERYTHING.”
That night, we put up our Christmas tree, and I find that beat-up old red envelope, lying in the bottom of the cardboard box with a bunch of fake pine needles. As I pull it out, I try to remember what I wrote to myself.
While my dad wrestles to put the top third of the tree in its trunk, I sit down on the couch and pull out my note.
What a difference a year can make.
21
THE CLUMP
On the Tuesday morning after Thanksgiving break, I come downstairs to a frantic Linda. One of her clients got the time wrong and is waiting at a house for a showing. So we jump in the car and leave early without time to pack a lunch for me. That means cafeteria food today.
At lunch, I head to the cafeteria and get in line, overjoyed at the prospect of slimy Salisbury steak and peanut-butter-filled celery sticks. Abby said she’d try to hold a seat by the windows.
As the line inches past the bulletin board, I see a flyer there that catches my eye.
Attention:
People needed for the
Talent Show Planning Committee
If interested, talk to Sarah Kennedy
Interesting.
An opportunity to talk to Sarah. A built-in reason to spend time with Sarah. My wheels start spinning.
When I get to the sneeze guards, it turns out today’s lunch is pizza. Granted, it’s that weird square pizza with cheese that tastes kind of sweet, but pizza is pizza. The day is looking up. Even the green beans don’t look too wrinkly.
Abby waves me over to a spot way back in the corner. It’s by the windows that look out at a brick wall, which isn’t great, but I can’t really complain. We don’t usually eat in here. People in the cafeteria can be pretty territorial.
I set my tray down as I spot Sarah in line with her friends—Denise Willard (we refer to her as Denise the Unpleasant) and Angie Moosebottom. (I’m not trying to be funny—that’s her real last name.) Sarah is getting her food, and she’s ahead of the other two. If I time this right . . .
Abby is chewing slowly, watching me. “What’s up?”
Before I can think about it and psych myself out, I go. “Watch this.” I give her a cheesy wink. I’m really doing this!
I cross the room quickly. Determined. Sarah grabs her milk and turns just as I step up to her.
“Hey.”
She gives me an unsure smile. “Hi.”
Suddenly—I mean, like, in one second flat—my heart is pounding, my mouth has gone dry, and my hat is making my head itch like crazy. Zero to basket case in 1.1 seconds.
“So, flyer. I . . . flyer.” My mouth has abandoned me. Normal human grammar too. I start gesturing, hoping it’ll help get my point across. “On the thing. About the thing.”
Why is my head itching so bad? The spot is up under the edge of my hat. Maybe it’s some kind of subconscious thing trying to distract me from my embarrassment.
Then Denise and Angie step up, in matching Taylor Swift shirts. I’d really hoped this interaction could be done before they arrived. A group is so much scarier than a single person. Plus, Denise is . . . well, she’s unpleasant. I’ve wondered why Sarah hangs out with her.
Now they’re all looking at me, and I have that panicky feeling they’re really looking at my red, gooey eye. Or my dime slot.
“COMMITTEE!” I manage to blurt out. “Talent show committee! I’m interested. In helping.”
“Oh!” Sarah seems relieved I’m not having some kind of mental break. Denise gives her a why-are-we-talking-to-this-person look. I seize the moment to jam my hand up under my hat to scratch.
This next part happens in slow motion.
Sarah starts to respond. “I think we have enough people, but we can always use . . .”
I finish what might be the best-feeling scratch of all time and pull my hand down.
Something comes with it.
A blur.
My heart stops as I watch it fall toward Sarah’s tray. All four of us watch it, actually. It falls toward her little square of pizza.
There’s a moment after the ENORMOUS CLUMP OF MY HAIR lands on the cheesy surface of Sarah’s pizza before anything happens. A pause. I flash back to Dr. Throckton warning me that my hair might start falling out, but he said NOTHING about it coming out in clumps in front of the most amazing girl ever in the middle of a crowded cafeteria.
I have time to notice that some of my eye goop is mixed in with the hair, holding it together and making it look waaay grosser.
And it’s a big wad. Like a little hamster perched on her slice.
My eyes fly up.
Sarah’s face morphs in disgust. It’s just a reflex. She recovers fairly quickly, but I see it.
Then Denise lets out a loud “EWWWWW-UH!!” Loud enough that everyone in the cafeteria stops. Like in a movie when you hear that record scratch sound, and everybody freezes. At least that’s how it seems to me.
I’m not sure if this makes it better or worse, but my hand darts out and grabs the furry mess before I know I’m doing it. I shove it in my pocket.
“Oh! Oh no. I’m so sorry!”
We’re all looking at it. At the pizza. A number of strands are still there, stuck to the drying grease.
Denise chimes in. “That is so nasty.” She puts a hand to her chest. Like she might barf. Angie is nice enough to just step back.
“Sarah, I’m so . . .” I’m panicking. “It’s from my . . .” I don’t want to say, It’s okay, the doctor said this would start happening, or the word cancer, or the word treatments. Somehow, any of that makes it worse. More . . . contagious, even though it isn’t. “I’ll get you a new tray.” I take it from her. She just looks kind of stunned.
I turn for the line. Every face in the room is still turned our way.
I walk up to Ms. Banfield—the lunch lady—and hand her the tra
y. Even she’s stopped.
“Sarah needs a new tray. I . . .”
Whether she knows exactly what happened or not, she just gives me a quick nod and takes the tray.
A minute later, I walk a new lunch over to Sarah, who’s sitting at her usual spot with her friends. She takes the tray from me—Denise and Angie watching—and I swear my face is burning at a million degrees.
“Ross . . .” She stops, unsure what to say.
I start to say something, but no sound comes out. So, I just smile and back up. Give her two thumbs-ups and a quick bow for some reason.
As I sit down across from Abby, she’s watching me, concerned. I clutch my tray for a while, staring down at my hairless pizza.
Finally, Abby speaks. “Well, that could have gone better.”
I shake my head. No. Not now.
22
HEAD FULL OF BEES
That afternoon I run through a cold, heavy drizzle to Linda’s car. Once I’m in, I lift my hat a little and use a Kleenex to round up some of the hair that falls out. I can feel Linda watching me.
“You okay, Ross? It looks like you’re starting to lose some hair there.”
I stop and glare at her.
“Gee. Do you really think so, Linda?” I know it’s jerky, but it feels really good to say it. Like pushing on a loose tooth with my tongue.
To her credit, Linda doesn’t give up. “Hey. I get it. I’d be upset too.” She gives me a sad smile. “Your hair is part of you. But just remember it’s temporary. You’ll be back to normal again really soon.”
There’s that word again. Normal.
Unfortunately, she caps it off with a big, loud, gurgly sip from her nearly empty Bucky’s tea.
I snap.
“That’s great! Thank you! I’ll remember that, Linda, as me and my temporary ABNORMALNESS wallow around tonight on our HAIRY FREAKIN’ SHEETS!” It’s coming out, and I’m not really in control now.
“Maybe, Linda—just maybe—we can ride along in SILENCE now, so I can contemplate my IMPENDING RETURN TO NORMALCY in a few short months!” I’m bolt upright in my seat, and it takes all I have not to rear back and kick the dashboard.