Wink

by Rob Harrell

  ANGER: I want to light the world on fire and watch it burn.

  That last one may sound harsh, but whatever.

  Frank doesn’t hold back with the volume. As the big mechanical arm starts moving, the music is crazy loud and fits my mood perfectly. Like Frank hooked my brain up to the boom box and my inner train wreck is spilling out of the speakers.

  35

  PLAYING WITH ANGRY

  When I get home, I go to the basement and slam all the rage and self-pity straight into my guitar. At one point, I play what may be the angriest, least accurate version of “Sounds of Silence” ever.

  After that, I move on to some of the harder-edged stuff that Frank has tabbed out for me. Rock stuff. Punk stuff I’ve been listening to on the mixes. I strum super aggressively and press the strings down so hard, it feels like my calluses might fall off. Part of me hopes they will.

  It must sound terrible, or at least loud, because after a while my dad comes down the stairs. I see his feet and cool off a little. He sits about halfway down, and I stop. He’s wearing his favorite Cardinals shirt, and it’s seen better days.

  “That sounded . . . therapeutic.”

  “Yeah. I guess. Kinda.”

  “Good. It’s sounding a lot better, despite the . . . anger. You’re getting better so fast, it’s amazing. I might ask you to teach me.” He comes down the rest of the way. “You okay?”

  I look at the floor. My fingers are throbbing. “Honestly? I’m really sick of people asking me that.”

  He laughs. “Sorry. We mean well.” He drops onto the couch beside me with a dad grunt. Gives my knee a dad pat. Turns and looks at me until I look back.

  “Angry much?”

  I nod and start strumming some random chords.

  He settles back into the old couch. It used to be in our family room till the fabric got all pilled up. Now it’s a basement couch.

  “Ross. Have I ever told you about my boulder?”

  “You have a boulder?”

  “I do. You do now too.” He looks up at the ceiling. “So, listen . . . you were pretty young. What do you remember about when Mom died?”

  I stop playing. “I know she got really sick. And it was breast cancer.” I look at the floor. “But most of it’s stuff I’ve been told. I don’t remember much. I wasn’t even five.”

  He looks over. “Good. I mean that’s good that you don’t remember her being sick. It was awful.”

  We’re both still for a long moment.

  “So, here’s how I think about it. The way I . . . visualize it.” He holds his hands about two feet apart. “I was given a huge boulder that day. To carry around on my back. A big rock full of anger and grief and . . . all that stuff.” He spreads his hands even farther. “Let’s call it a three-hundred-pound boulder.”

  “That’s a big boulder.”

  “Yeah. It is.” He nods. “So, then—carrying around this three-hundred-pound boulder—I’m asked to get on with life. You know? Earn a living. Raise you. Make dinner. Be a good dad. Be a good lawyer. Get out of bed in the morning. Every morning! All while lugging this huge thing on my back. And it doesn’t seem fair at all.”

  I’m nodding. “Yeah. I get that.” And I do. I know my dad was sad and it was really hard on him, but I’ve never thought about it quite this way. How did he get through all that? And it’s not like I was a big help. I was just a kid.

  I notice a few new wrinkles under his eyes, and it hits me that he’s earned them the hard way.

  “I mean, everyone has a boulder, Ross. Don’t get me wrong. But some are smaller. And I’m sure some are a lot bigger. But mine . . . mine got the best of me. Do you remember that?”

  I don’t. “No.”

  “Good.” He sits up and leans forward. Elbows on knees. “But it did. It wore me down. It was too heavy. That’s how I think of it.” He takes a long, deep breath. “And I’m glad you don’t remember that part. I was a mess. Drank too much. Slept too much. I could barely . . . Yeah.”

  He goes quiet for a minute, thinking about it.

  “But do you know what happened then, Ross? After a couple of years of that?”

  “You met Linda?”

  He smiles. “I did. At the Hansons’ barbecue. And—look—I know you’ve had your issues with her, but Linda saved me. Saved us. When she found me, I was nothing but a guy smashed under a boulder.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “She helped me shoulder that big rock, you know? She took that on.” He reaches over and rubs my back. “She didn’t get rid of it—you CAN’T get rid of these things—but she helped me with the weight.”

  We sit there for a while before I have to ask.

  “So . . . why are you telling me this?”

  He laughs. “’Cause I see you trying to carry your rock alone, and it’s painful to watch.”

  “You want me to get a girlfriend? A Linda?”

  This cracks him up. “No, you dork. Just . . . share the load! Release the burden a little! You can always talk with us. Or Abby. Or just yell. Just don’t keep it bottled up.”

  I’m still confused. “But . . . I was literally just down here yelling.”

  He laughs. “I know. And I love it. I think I’m just trying to encourage you to keep at it.”

  Dads are weird. I nod.

  “Look, son. Fathering is not an exact science. Maybe I should have just let you keep playing. Keep yelling, okay? Scream into the void. It lightens the load.”

  “I screamed into a waiting room today.”

  Dad pats me again as he stands up. “There you go.” He puts his hands on the small of his back and stretches. “Good talk. Was this a good talk?”

  I smile. “It was. Eight out of ten. Maybe an eight-point-three.”

  “I can accept that. You play. I’m gonna go do dad stuff.”

  I play for two more hours, until I can’t feel the fingers on my left hand. Then I get on my phone and go down a YouTube rabbit hole watching videos of old punk bands. I start with the Ramones, but keep going. And going. I fall asleep to visions of Mohawks and smashed keyboards and thrash-dancing.

  36

  COURSE CORRECTION

  I go to bed mad and wake up mad.

  With a brand-new idea for the talent show.

  The day flies by like a weird dream. That morning, Sarah—looking all sheepish—starts to come up to me in the hall, and I just shake my head and walk away.

  In second period, I hear her get called down to the principal’s office. Somebody must have talked. I have to admit I feel a rush of satisfaction. I mean, she deserves what she gets.

  At lunch, I tell Abby and Jimmy my idea, and they’re all in.

  Frank and Denny like it too. Lisa needed a little convincing, but our excitement wins her over as well.

  That night’s practice has a whole different energy.

  The next night’s too.

  37

  THE LAST ZAP

  Friday. December 19. That fateful day, to quote some song. A big day. Last day of school before break. My final treatment. The talent show. A lot of things have been building to this day.

  All the same, it’s hard to wake up. My eye hurts like there’s a bunch of sand in there. But finally, I throw back the covers, swing my legs over, and sit on the edge of my bed for a while. Gathering steam.

  I grab a shower, get dressed, apply stupid amounts of face goop, and adjust my Big Stupid Hat in the mirror.

  I guess I’m as ready as I’m gonna get.

  Abby is so jazzed up when she meets me outside the school, I think her head is going to spin off.

  “Big day!”

  We run into Jimmy in the hall, and he’s maybe in the best mood I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a new white undershirt (it still has creases in it) that he’s written on in black Sharpie.

  “I figured it was time people knew.”

  The school day is both the slowest and fastest ever. At times I feel like the second hand on the clock has almost stopped, but the p
eriods seem to zip by. My brain is everywhere but in school, and I may miss some of the finer points of Mr. Jarrett’s American history wrap-up as I run through chord progressions in my head.

  At lunch they play Christmas music over the intercom, and I realize I’ve barely noticed the season, I’ve been so busy and in my head. So weird. I mean, there are decorations everywhere, and I’ve barely paid attention.

  Then it’s final period. I’m not the only one fidgeting, as Christmas break is moments away, but I literally can’t take my eyes off the clock.

  My dad picks me up in the back parking lot and drives me over to the proton center, McDonald’s fries and Cokes in the center console.

  “Last one! You excited?”

  “I am. But is it weird that I’m a little sad too? Like . . . I’ve gotten used to the whole treatment routine.”

  “Nah.” My dad cranks the wheel as we pull out. “That just happens when things end. You’ve gotten to know those nurses and techs really well. And Frank, obviously.”

  “Yeah.” My foot won’t stop tapping. I have nervous energy for days. Plus, a healthy dose of angry energy. It’s a potent mix. Better than Red Bull.

  Frank is waiting in the lobby when I get there. “Ross! How you feeling, buddy? This is a big one. The big finale!”

  I stop and look around the empty waiting room. I wish Jerry was sitting in his usual chair. “I don’t know what I feel. I’m so nervous about tonight this all feels . . . weird. I feel weird.”

  Frank laughs. “Weird is good. We can handle weird. Let’s do this thing.”

  Callie gives me a double high five when I get to the treatment room.

  “Eight weeks! Piece of cake, right?”

  I laugh. “If you say so.”

  The treatment is no different than the others, except I’m about to crawl out of my skin with nerves. I’m painfully aware of how many minutes there are until the talent show.

  I wonder if I’ll miss that big X.

  Doubt it.

  Afterward, Frank is out of the room, so Callie walks me down the empty hallway. She’s telling me she’s going to miss my face when the electric doors open, so I’m looking over at her and don’t notice all the balloons at first.

  Then I do. As well as the huge banner stretching between Throckton’s office and the reception desk.

  There’s a small crowd. My dad, Linda, Abby, Frank. Not to mention the nurses, the receptionist, and Dr. Throckton. There are other radiation techs and business guys from the front office and a handful of people I don’t even recognize. They all yell, “CONGRATS!” and applaud.

  So . . . being the bowl full of awkward that I am, I stand there, unsure what to do. I mean, I’m happy to be done, but I’m not really in a Woo-Hoo kind of mood.

  Finally, Linda steps forward and gives me a hug.

  “You did it, Ross! We’re so proud of you!” I have to laugh as I feel her cold, wet Bucky’s tea pressed against my back. And then my dad’s there, too, and we’re having a big gooey family hug in front of strangers. Yay!

  When it’s gone on long enough, Frank claps his hands a few times and steps forward.

  “Okay, people. Enough of the sappy stuff.” This gets a bigger laugh than it should. I think just ’cause people are feeling good. He goes on.

  “Young Ross, we’re all gathered here today for your graduation. I’ve zapped your head all that I’m allowed to by law, so you are officially done and done. You have my congratulations, as well.” He steps up and shakes my hand in a really formal manner.

  I give him an awkward smile. “Thanks?”

  He looks around at the group of people, then at my dad, who nods. He goes on. “So . . .” He walks over quickly behind the reception desk. “We got you a couple of things. Well, that’s not true. Your folks got ’em. They’re just letting me do the honors.”

  He steps out holding the coolest-looking electric guitar I’ve ever seen. It’s jet-black with a white pick guard, and it’s love at first sight.

  In his other hand is a small amp.

  “Ta-DA!”

  Eyes wide, I look over at my dad and Linda, who look like they’re about to start bawling. Happiness, I suppose. Or some other parent emotion.

  “Seriously?!” I step over and take the guitar, gently, from Frank. “This is the coolest thing ever! I don’t . . . Wow! Thank you!”

  “You deserve it.” My dad’s voice quivers, and there’s a scary moment where I think he’s gonna lose it in front of everybody. Linda, kind of behind him, has her arms wrapped around him and her chin on his shoulder. She’s smiling from ear to ear.

  I slip the strap over my head—it’s black with skulls woven into it, so that might be Frank’s or Denny’s addition—and the guitar fits against my body like a long-lost puzzle piece. I look up at Frank.

  “Tuned?”

  He nods, and I play a few chords. It’s not plugged in, but it sounds amazing. Everyone around us has huge smiles plastered on their faces—maybe Dr. Throckton most of all.

  “It’s a used . . . wait . . . a Rickenbacker?” My dad looks to Frank as he says it. Frank nods. “Frank helped us decide what to get. Said it’s ‘choice.’”

  “It’s beautiful.” I strum a few more times.

  “Okay.” Frank perks up. “One more.” He walks behind the desk again. “This one’s really less of a gift and more of a me-signing-the-lease-over-to-you thing. It’s yours.”

  He pulls out the loaner guitar case that I could swear was sitting at home in my bedroom. He hands it over, and I can tell the guitar is in there.

  I look at it for a few seconds before I look up at Frank. “Your guitar? The acoustic? You’re letting me have it?”

  He smiles. “Well, I mean, yeah. It’s my cousin’s guitar, originally, but he won’t miss it.”

  I look down at the RiPE SPoNgE stencil on the case, and there’s a lump in my throat the size of a Cape buffalo. I don’t trust my voice, so I just point at the case with a questioning look.

  Frank nods again. “Case and all.”

  Somehow the case means more than any of it, with its stickers from other bands and venues and its dents and scraped-away parts.

  I’m not sure what’ll croak out if I try to speak, so I just nod a few times. He gets it.

  Then Abby is there, giving me a huge hug, careful of my hat and the new fantastically awesome electric guitar hanging off my neck.

  “Way to go, Ross.” She says it in my ear, and when I look up, I see Jimmy behind her, looking a little awkward. Somehow, I’d missed him. Abby and I break our hug, and she steps aside to let him through.

  “Yeah, I came. Let’s not get all weird about it.”

  He gives me a big, meaty handshake and punches me on the shoulder harder than he probably needs to. “Good for you for, y’know, living through this crap.”

  I laugh, and then Frank pops his hands together really loudly.

  “Okay! As much as I would like this lovefest to continue, you guys have a talent show to rock in, like, no time at all, really. And you need to get your game faces on. Get ready to bring the thunder.”

  And just like that, all the nerves are back in a rush. My heart may even skip a beat as I remember we’ll be onstage in a couple of hours.

  Then Denny—where did he come from?—puts rock hands in the air and yells loud enough to scatter the nurses.

  “TONIGHT WE ROCK BLOOMINGTON!”

  38

  SHOWTIME

  Abby rides with us, and I thank my dad and Linda about a hundred times on the way to the house. I tell them we’re going to need twenty minutes or so to mentally prepare for the show—and I mean it. There’s so much flying around in my head it feels like a tornado in there. I can tell Abby’s mind is buzzing too. Plus, we have some stuff to do.

  An hour later I walk into the backstage area of the auditorium along with Abby, Jimmy, Lisa, and Frank. Denny gets a few looks as he brings in the drums and guitars. We find a spot for our stuff, and I duck up the side hallway to the lob
by to use the bathroom. I’m so nervous, I’ve gone three times in the last hour. A bunch of kids and parents are in the lobby, making their way into the auditorium—the show is going to start pretty soon.

  I’m walking down the side hallway to the stage door when I hear a familiar voice call out behind me.

  “Hey! ROSS!”

  I turn around and see Isaac and Chris Stemmle coming up the hall behind me. There are five or six other kids from my class behind them—Eric Jennings, Ellen Treacher—but Isaac seems to be leading them.

  “Hey, Isaac.” I look behind me, to see if anyone else is in the hall. “What’s up?” I’m not exactly thrilled to see him.

  He comes up and stops a few feet from me. He’s wearing his huge green backpack.

  “Ross?” He puts his hands out, like he’s telling me to calm down. “Hear me out, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Ross. I don’t expect you to forgive me for the way I’ve been acting, but I want to apologize.”

  I don’t say anything, so he goes on. “There’s no excuse. You’re one of my best friends, and I’ve . . . I haven’t been there for you.”

  He turns around and looks back at the others. He looks conflicted for a second, then drops his arms to his sides.

  “Wait. I don’t . . . I don’t want to do this crap in front of you guys, so . . .” He turns around and gestures for me to wait again. “We’ll get back to that. But some of us . . .” He waves a hand at Chris and the others. They’re nodding. “We got together and bought you something.”

  I look around at them. “You . . . got me something.”

  “Yeah. It was . . . What happened to you, with the phone things and . . .” This flustered not-finishing-a-sentence thing is pure Isaac. “We knew you were playing tonight, and . . .” He bends over and unzips his backpack. Then he pulls out a black cowboy hat.

  “Look. If you don’t want to wear it, just . . . It’s for you. But you don’t have to.”

  He turns the hat around and hands it to me. Someone has re-created one of my Batpig drawings on the front in white paint.