The Right Hook of Devin Velma

by Jake Burt

  “That’s all your ‘Curse’ is! Just you looking for attention like always! Hell, you were probably jealous that your dad had a heart attack, because it meant your family wasn’t watching The Devin Show for two whole weeks! So there you go, looking for idiotic ways to get your followers, and your views, and you couldn’t stop. In fact, I bet you never really cared about saving your dad at all!”

  The class gasped. Ms. Gillespie wrung her hands. Devin stood there, shaking.

  And then he punched me in the face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MOTHER KNOWS BEST

  My mom was a teacher. She got up every day, put her grading into her bag, took the bus to school, and set up her classroom. She had curriculum meetings and a dry-erase board and her own parking spot that she never used.

  Yes, she worked as a teacher.

  But she was really a fighter, and there was nobody she fought harder for than me. I learned that early on. First grade, in fact.

  The Garbageman Fiasco was something I didn’t like to talk about, but it was a good example of what my mom was capable of. I was in Ms. Abernathy’s class. She was what my mom called “old guard.” Taught the same lesson plans for thirty years. Still used a chalkboard. Did her grades in an actual book. And every year, she led her students in the Letterville Parade.

  Okay, so it wasn’t so much a parade as a line, but there was no way Ms. Abernathy was changing the name or how it worked. Each kid was given a job in the magical land of Letterville, based on the first letter of his or her last name. It would have been fine if we got to pick, but we didn’t: the jobs were part of an old kit she had, complete with costume ideas and a script for the kid to say. Devin was a veterinarian. Marielle Brown was a banker.

  Addison Gerhardt?

  Garbageman.

  When I got the card with my job, my script, and my costume idea, I didn’t think much of it. Sure, it seemed a little weird that the costume would be a trash bag with holes cut out and pieces of garbage stapled to it, but I was an Oscar the Grouch fan anyway, and I thought Devin’s outfit, which featured tons of stuffed animals sitting on his shoulders and arms, was even worse.

  I was wrong.

  I went to my mom’s room after school that day, just like I always did, and I showed her my card. Her nostrils got big. Her eyebrows shot up. Her jaw got really tight. And then she grabbed my arm, and we marched down the hall to Ms. Abernathy’s room.

  “My son is not going to be a garbageman.”

  Ms. Abernathy was cleaning out the guinea pig cage with a paper towel. She paused, letting the paper towel go. It fluttered down, where Miss Squeakers snagged it and commenced nibbling. Slowly, Ms. Abernathy turned to face my mom.

  “And why not, Mrs. Gerhardt?”

  “It’s ridiculous. He’ll be teased for years!”

  I shrank back, thinking this sounded like the kind of conversation I should probably wait in the hallway for. My mom wouldn’t let go of my wrist, though.

  “Teased? Whatever for?”

  I was curious, too. It didn’t seem that bad to me.

  At least, not yet.

  “First off, the costume. Wearing trash? His friends will laugh at him up on that stage. The whole school will. And second, garbageman? It’s sanitation worker, if anything!”

  Ms. Abernathy took a deep breath, then lit into my mom. “I think you’re being too politically correct. I’ve been at this for decades, and not a child or parent has complained. Your oversensitivity is doing that boy more harm than good!”

  My mom’s grip on my wrist tightened. I can remember it actually hurting. Then she looked down at me, her nostrils even bigger, eyebrows even higher, and jaw even stonier.

  “Addison, baby. Wait out in the hall for me.”

  I’d never run so fast in my life. And even though I was out of the room, I could still hear them arguing. The louder they got, the smaller I felt. I wasn’t even sure what they were saying, but by the time they were done, I knew one thing for sure.

  There was no way I wanted to be a garbageman.

  In the end, I think my mom won. At least, I remember her working on a costume the next week, and it didn’t involve trash. There was a bow tie, a blazer, an American flag sticker, and a “Vote for Addison!” sign, but no garbage. I never got to wear it, though, because on the day that the Letterville Parade rolled around, I felt so sick that I couldn’t go in to school. My mom said that was just fine by her. She stayed home with me, and we watched cartoons for hours.

  So yeah, my mom was a fighter. And that came with certain advantages.

  But there were disadvantages, too. The one that I feared most was the complete and total inability to just skate by her. Every single thing I did, I had to own. So after school on the day Devin punched me, I was forced to wait, slouched over in Dad’s leather chair, while she spoke on the phone with Mrs. Velma. The whole time, she stood in the doorway of the living room, leaned up against the frame, staring at me. She never said more than “Mm-hmm,” or “I see” until the very end, when she slipped back into the kitchen and I couldn’t hear her anymore.

  I poked at my face gently. It felt like someone had pressed a doughnut around my left eye and told me to look through the hole. At least it was a little open now. Back at school, it had swollen up so bad I couldn’t see out of it at all.

  When my mom returned, she had an ice pack in her hand instead of the phone. She handed it to me, then pulled over the footstool and sat down. I covered up my eye and tried to look pathetic.

  It didn’t work.

  “So, Devin is suspended for the rest of the week. His parents are furious with him, but he’s not talking. They apologize on his behalf.”

  I nodded. It made my head throb.

  Mom lifted her hand, pressing it softly to the ice pack to help me hold it there. I covered her hand with mine. It was warm against the cold.

  “My baby’s first black eye,” she said, smiling. “I’m sorry this happened to you. Tough week, hmm?”

  “Yeah. Really tough.”

  “I know, baby, and we’re here for you,” she cooed. But then she grew quiet, and her smile faded. “I do have one tiny question, though, if you feel up for answering it.”

  It would’ve been nice to cover up both eyes with the ice pack right about then, but she was having none of it.

  “Okay,” I mumbled.

  “Thanks, Addison. Here’s the scenario: I’ve got two boys, best friends since forever. Amazingly, miraculously, one of them saves the other’s life. Then, two days later, one is punching the other in the face in the middle of homeroom, with the teacher right there. Now, I feel terribly for the boy who got punched. Who wouldn’t? Especially since he’s my baby. But, Addison, sweetie, I’ve got to ask myself, and I’ve got to ask you … what could one of those boys have said that would be so bad as to make the other punch him in the face?”

  And so I told her—not just about what I’d said to Devin, but about all of it. I started from the beginning with the Backflip of Doom, through the Kiss Cam plan, all the way to the hairball of hate I’d coughed up in homeroom.

  That was another thing about having a fighter for a mom … most parents would freak out, maybe send me to my room until I was willing to “tell the truth,” or just laugh in my face and call back Mrs. Velma to ask if this was some elaborate prank. Not my mom, though. She didn’t take her eyes off me the entire time, and when I was done, she nodded and said, “That seems about right.”

  I looked down at my legs, then at the arm of the chair, then at her, then back down at my legs, waiting for her to say something else, but she was silent.

  It was more uncomfortable than my eye and fingers combined.

  “So…,” I finally offered.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen,” she said suddenly, shooting up from the stool. The ice pack fell into my lap. I didn’t have the courage to pick it up.

  “Yes, this is the plan,” she continued, pacing back and forth and waving her finger in the ai
r. “Devin isn’t talking to anyone, so my son can’t call him and apologize. Devin is suspended, so my son can’t find him at school tomorrow. But my son will apologize. Oh, yes, he will.”

  The way she said my son was terrifying—equal parts fiercely possessive and intensely disappointed. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them, ice pack stinging my belly.

  “And because my son needs to apologize, he will march into his room immediately. My son will sit down at his desk, take a piece of paper, and he will write a note to his best friend Devin.”

  I held up my injured hand, but she scowled at me and waved that finger.

  “Eh, eh, eh! He will write the note with the pen in his teeth if he must! In that note, my son will explain himself, and will express his remorse for saying such hateful, hurtful things. And then my son will carry that note on his person every waking moment of every day, until he sees his best friend Devin again, and he gives it to him. When that day arrives, my son will no longer be grounded. He will be able to play basketball again, and go out to movies again, and visit places other than school, the library, or home. Assuming the apology is accepted, he may be able to watch TV or play video games again. Do I make myself clear, my son?”

  My mouth was open. My legs slid downward, and when my feet hit the floor, the ice pack slipped off the chair and landed with a splat. I didn’t dare pick it up. With her dark eyes burning into my back, I marched into my room.

  I sat down at my desk.

  I took out a piece of paper.

  And I stared at it.

  Usually, I was better on paper than I was out loud; the only way I had survived all the book reports in fourth grade was that I was able to stand there and read from the sheet, pretending that no one else was around. But here I was, alone, and I was frozen as badly as if I had been up on a stage, wearing a garbage bag and listening to the entire school laugh at me. I tried to think of what to say to Devin that would make up for telling him he was just trying to hog the attention away from his sick dad, but no matter how hard I slapped the side of my head or how wide-eyed I stared at the paper, I couldn’t come up with anything. Heck, I didn’t even have a clue what Devin was thinking. When had this become about which one of us had more followers, or who was pictured on the internet rescuing kittens?

  After two hours, I gave up, certain that I wasn’t going to be able to apologize. Certain that I didn’t deserve a best friend. Certain that I didn’t deserve to leave the room anyway. Not if I wasn’t able to figure out what was really going on with Devin.

  It turned out, though, my mom knew all about that, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPIPHANY: NOUN: A SUDDEN REALIZATION

  While I was busy staring at a blank piece of paper, my mom was on the phone. She was just hanging up when I poked my head into the kitchen.

  “That was Stephanie over at Mornings with Darcy and Rob, calling about the interview tomorrow morning,” she said. It was tough to tell from her voice whether she was still in yell-at-me mode. “They were disappointed to hear that Devin wouldn’t be able to make it.”

  A wave of guilt washed over me. “His parents…”

  “Told him he can’t go. He’s being punished, just like you.”

  I took a deep breath. To tell the truth, I was relieved when I told Devin I was backing out—no answering questions, no scary crowds, no pressure.

  Then, though, I looked over at the hole in our kitchen floor, and I remembered the money. I hung my head.

  “Sorry, Mom. I know I messed the show up, too. I was nervous about it, but I thought that the money could help—pay that water fine, take care of the rent, maybe even let Dad get a car so he could quit the taxi company and work for Uber.”

  My mom pointed at me with a wooden spoon from the counter. “Three things. First, you’re going on that TV show. Your father is taking you, and you’re missing the first half of school tomorrow. You made a commitment. Being grounded doesn’t save you, and Stephanie said they’d be happy to welcome you on alone. Second, this is a major step for you, and one your father and I think it’s time you took. And third, that money is going straight into your college savings account.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing!” said my dad, who had just gotten home. He set his bag down on the kitchen table, took off his hat, and moved over to slip his arm around Mom’s waist. He kissed her on the temple and took the spoon, waving it so hard as he talked that he nearly hit the refrigerator. “I love that you’re thinking of me, Addison, and of this family, but trust me when I say I’d happily drive that taxi for the rest of my life if you could assure me that when I got home, I’d be able to look above my mantel and see my sons’ framed college diplomas.”

  “Copies of them,” my mom joked. “We don’t want you living here forever.”

  “Good point, honey. Copies,” Dad confirmed, and he shoved the spoon into the pot of chili thawing over the stove.

  “That’s not … I … I can’t do it without Devin.…”

  My mom came around, putting her hands on my shoulders.

  “You can, and you will, because it’s time. And besides, it’s Devin who never could have done it without you.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Wh … what?”

  “That boy loves attention, Addison. It’s what keeps him going. But nobody’s attention is more important to him than yours! Why do you think he always waited until you were watching to do those silly dives into the swimming pool every summer?”

  My dad laughed. “Or dragged you to his soccer tryouts?”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “And don’t get us started on the Velma Basement Karaoke Championships … Every time: ‘Addi! Come down here and listen to me do The Lion King again!’ Devin has never been able to do anything without his trusty Addison.”

  Suddenly, I saw it all: Devin grabbing me before the Backflip. Begging me to go to the game. The fifth-grade talent show. Lady Macbeth.

  Asking me to be his first follower …

  “Man…,” I murmured. “I’m such an idiot.”

  My mom sighed. “It hurt him when you told him you wouldn’t support him. You made a mistake. But don’t beat yourself up too—”

  I held up my gloved hand, closed my eyes for a second, and thought.

  Then I dashed back to my room.

  The words I couldn’t find before seemed to fly out of the pencil now. When I was finished, my left hand ached even worse than my right. I had used both sides of the sheet, and my awkward handwriting looked like the jagged lines beeped out by Mr. Velma’s heart monitor. Carefully, I folded it up until it was a little triangle, just like the ones we made to play paper football in the cafeteria when it rained. Then I slipped it into my pocket. As soon as I did, though, I heard my mom’s voice in my head. My son will carry that note on his person every waking moment of every day …

  My pocket was no good. I wouldn’t wear the same pants to school every day, and what if they got thrown in the wash? I looked for my backpack, but it was out in the hall, and I wasn’t ready to face my mom yet. I thought about hole-punching it and wearing it around my neck like a pendant, but that was just weird.

  So I did the only other thing I could think of.

  I shoved it in my shoe.

  If I thought the loafers were tight before, well, there was no way I was forgetting that the note was in there. As I tried the fit, I actually felt better, too. I had said horrible things to my best friend, but the fix, hopefully, was right there, like I had packed my guilt into that little triangle and told it to chill there until it was time for it to go away.

  It almost made me think that was my mom’s plan in the first place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MORNINGS WITH DARCY AND ROB

  When I told them I had finished the note, my parents welcomed me to the dinner table. As we ate, we talked about what to expect from the talk show the next day—no way was I going into that big of an exposure without a game plan. Unfortunately, none of
us was normally home when Darcy and Rob was on, so we had to watch as much as we could online, chairs turned toward our old, slow computer as it buffered through an episode.

  At least we knew who they were: Darcy was a former Miss California, and she had also gone to the Olympics for synchronized swimming, though we couldn’t remember if she had won anything. She was known for being bright, bubbly, and the most fashionable lady on TV. Rob was a former DJ for a big radio show, and he had been on MTV for a while. He was the goofball, always playing pranks and asking dumb questions. In the episode we watched, they were cooking something with a celebrity chef, and every time Darcy turned to talk to the guest, Rob would shake a little bottle of hot sauce over her pan. At the last minute, when it was Rob’s turn to ask the chef a question, Darcy switched the pans. Rob ate it, and he went nuts.

  Dad said, “These people seriously have the number one talk show in the state?”

  My mom nodded. “One of the top shows in the country, in fact.”

  He shrugged, then took another bite of corn cake.

  When dinner was finished, I decided to go to bed early. As I lay there, I regretted it. My mind started playing through all the questions they might ask me, all the jokes they might play on me. I started to fall asleep at one point, but the first dream I had was about Darcy and Rob. In it, they had one of those fifty-foot-tall ladders with a diving board on top. Below was a little bucket of water. Rob was wearing a rainbow pair of swim trunks, flippers, and a yellow duckie inner tube around his belly, just like Devin had when we were little. He was bouncing on the end of the diving board and waving at the screaming, laughing audience. Then the announcer came on and said that it was my job to run out onto the diving board and catch him before he plummeted to his death on live TV.

  I woke up sweating just as he started his cannonball.

  All told, I probably got an hour of real sleep. Fortunately, when I looked in the mirror in the morning, I didn’t seem to have dark circles under my eyes or anything.

  No, the raging purple-and-green black eye covered those right up.