by Jake Burt
Taking a deep breath, just like I had before those fourth-grade book reports, I started to read.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DEAR DEVIN
Dear Devin,
I finally figured out why you punched me in the face.
At first I thought it was because I saved your life, but that wasn’t it. For a while, I blamed my freezing, only it wasn’t that, either. It wasn’t even Twitter, the Velma Curse, that stupid dishwasher, or the Golden State Warriors.
Nope.
It was the Double-Barreled Monkey Bar Backflip of Doom.
We both know I’m not the best at talking. I freeze, and I choke up, and everything gets tangled. That’s why I’ve always needed you. Remember in kindergarten when I got into the Goldfish? You saved me. You’re always saving me, and you’ve been so good at talking for so long that I never thought there’d be a time when you’d be like me: a time when you’d have no words.
But then your dad had the heart attack, and you didn’t have the words. So you talked by doing the Backflip. You were trying to tell me something, over and over, and I didn’t get it.
I get it now, though.
It’s about being afraid. Like, so afraid that you can’t even remember what it was like before you were scared. So you started doing stuff to tell us you were afraid. And your dumb best friend, the guy who should understand being afraid better than anyone, thought you were just trying to get attention, when what you really wanted was support.
Well, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I take it back. You’ve got my support, and my appearance fee, if you want it. My parents said it’s for college, but I’m going to tell them to give it to you. I wouldn’t even be going on the show if it wasn’t for you anyway, and if I survive, it’s because I’m thinking of you.
Also, I forgive you for punching me. You might not care at this point, but if you’re like me, then you’ve learned something else this week: feeling guilty about hurting your best friend is worse than being afraid. I know that for a fact, and if I can help you not have to feel what I feel, then that might be the very best thing I can do. So I forgive you, and I hope you’ll let me help you fight the Curse, because even if I drop your phone, or I freeze, or I mess up, one thing is for sure. I’ll always catch you, Devin.
Your best friend,
Addison
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SHOWSTOPPER
When I finished reading, I folded the note up carefully, using the same crease lines that I’d made before. I set it on the couch beside me, and I reached over to grab my shoe from Darcy, who was still holding it up.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. She didn’t say anything, but her mouth was wide open.
I slipped the note into the loafer, then crammed my foot back in. I stomped on the floor to get my heel in there. Then I put my hands on my knees and pushed myself to a stand. I hugged Darcy again (my left) and shook hands with Rob (his right). Neither of them moved, except when I jiggled Rob’s hand. Then I took my mic off, dropped it on the couch, and walked into the darkness.
“Dad,” I said, “I’m ready to go now.”
I still couldn’t see too well, but I felt an arm around my shoulder, and I knew it was him. We walked out past the ladders and the lights, past all the headsets and black shirts. It was awfully quiet behind us. When we were in the parking lot, my dad pulled out his phone and called his buddy.
“Yeah, we’re done a little early, Steiner. Do you have a fare, or can you swing up and grab us?”
“Hold that request!” a voice screeched from behind us. It was Stephanie, who was running so hard she nearly skidded right past us.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, forgetting that there was a ton of makeup on there. My arm came away sticky.
“Addison,” Stephanie gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Addison, wait a sec!”
Apologize for ruining their show.
NOPE.
Apologize for embarrassing them on live TV.
NOPE.
Look. We just bombed that show. Like, one hundred megaton, drop-it-in-the-ocean-and-unleash-Godzilla-type bombed. We sat there sweating like a pig. We took our shoe off and read a note to a kid who wasn’t even in the room. We probably bled on their couch, and then we walked straight off their stage way before we were supposed to. You’re telling me that after all that, you can’t manage a little apology? What could possibly happen that could be worse than what we just did? Apologize!
THAT MAKES SENSE, I GUESS.
“I’m sorry, Stephanie,” I whispered.
Wait. That worked?
MAYBE.
“Sorry?” she panted. “Sorry? Addison, can’t you hear that?”
She pointed back through the double doors. At first all I could hear were the honks and growls of the traffic outside, but when I concentrated, I could hear something else, like the static on a bad TV channel.
“That’s applause, Addison! You asked us why we don’t rehearse? You are why we don’t rehearse. You are why live programming is still the best medium in entertainment. Lord, you are why people like me have jobs. Will you come back inside? The segment is over; we’re on a six-minute commercial break. Darcy and Rob would like to take a picture or two with you, and I’m sure the audience would love a chance at a few autographs.”
I looked at my dad, who shrugged. I did, too.
My face was smeared with streaky makeup. My hand was bandaged and bleeding. And they wanted pictures? And autographs?
Being famous was weird.
We did go back in, and we did get our pictures taken. I stabbed a pen down at about two dozen notebooks, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at who was holding them. Darcy and Rob were thrilled with me, apparently—Stephanie informed them after the second photo that their show was the number one trending topic on Twitter for all of California. They were already trying to get my clip up on YouTube before anyone else could. Rob was brainstorming titles for the video. I think they went with “Kid Catches Friend, But Drops Mic.”
Just before the next segment started, and right as Dad’s buddy texted to say he was outside, Darcy found me. She gave me another hug—a real one, on the right this time—and said, “Any chance we can get you back onstage to finish the interview, Addison?”
I shook my head so fast my lips jiggled.
She laughed softly, then stepped back. “No pressure. You’ve given us more than enough. After all, we don’t get a lot of real on our show, so it can be a shock when it walks through the door, sits down, and reacquaints us with how messy, uncomfortable, and beautiful it can be. We appreciate the reminder.”
I smiled, and Dad shook her hand. Then I took a big, deep, lung-busting breath, and I sighed.
I still had a half day of school ahead of me, after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DINNER AT DEVIN’S
It turned out to be a great time to be grounded, since that’s pretty much how I was living anyway. The rest of the week was all about hiding in my bedroom, dodging reporters, and declining more shows. We were even getting calls from New York City; The Tonight Show offered to fly all of us out there for a day. My mom told them I’d missed too much school already. I thought it was a good excuse, since I didn’t think I could survive any more TV time.
On Saturday, I asked her if reading the note on live TV counted as sharing it with Devin.
“Addison,” she replied, “I am so very proud of you. Reading your note was incredibly brave, and I felt your sincerity right here in my heart.”
“So I’m not grounded anymore?”
“Child, what kind of mother do you think I am? Of course you’re still grounded. I don’t see Devin Velma with a note pressed into his palm, do I? Fortunately, though, you’ll get your chance tonight at our regular dinner at the Velmas’ house.”
I was shocked; I thought for sure it would have been canceled. Apparently, though, our parents had been scheming about this ever since Devin had first gotten suspended, because they had it all pla
nned out. Mom had even baked brownies.
“When we get there, Addison, you’ll say hello to the family, and then march straight up to Devin’s room. You knock, and don’t stop knocking until he opens that door. Understood?”
“What if he doesn’t want to talk?”
“Be persistent, honey,” Mom said, “because there’s only two ways you’re coming down to dinner: with Devin, or with another black eye.”
“Mom!” I gasped.
“Shoot for the former, Addison,” Mom joked.
“But be ready for the latter,” Dad added, and he shadowboxed a bit.
“You two sound like Benji at school,” I murmured. “He’s in fourth grade.”
“Wise fourth grader!” Mom said, and she shooed me out to the taxi.
Mrs. Velma was waiting on the path to their front door as we pulled up, her hands on the handles of Mr. Velma’s wheelchair. Both of them waved at us, and when Mrs. Velma stepped inside to put my mom’s brownies in the kitchen, Mr. Velma beckoned me into a kneel.
“We watched you on TV, Addison.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m grateful that my son has a friend like you, and not just because you saved his life.”
“Is he, um, grateful, too?”
Mr. Velma rolled his eyes and glanced upward. The light was on in Devin’s room.
“He is, even if he doesn’t know it yet. The Gs have been working on him, and as you know, they can be quite persuasive.”
I smiled and nodded, then started up the steps to the house. Mr. Velma caught me by the arm, though.
“One more thing, Addison.”
“Yes,” my dad added. “And you need to listen, son.”
Mr. Velma pressed a hand over his chest. “I told my son after the show, and now I’m telling you. This? My heart?”
My dad put a hand on Mr. Velma’s shoulder. “My job, our apartment…”
“These are not for you to worry about. They are not your problems.”
“I want to hear you say it, Addison,” Dad pressed.
I looked down at my new shoes. I wished I had a piece of paper to read from then.
“They’re not … not our problems,” I managed through trembling lips.
“That’s right, Addison,” Mr. Velma said softly. “It is incredibly gracious of you to offer your appearance fee to us, but you have to know there is no way we’re taking it.”
“Your insurance, though…”
Mr. Velma shook his head.
“We are in a difficult spot, Addison. That’s true. But selling our store? Getting a second mortgage? Those are difficulties we are prepared to accept. My son growing up without a father? My son forced to grow up too soon because of his father? Those are tragedies, and those I refuse to accept. Your father and I, your mother and Devin’s mother, your brother and his sister in college, and all Devin’s grandmas—we work very hard precisely so you and Devin don’t have to worry. It brings us joy and comfort knowing that you are still boys. So do your jobs, and just be kids for a while longer. Deal?”
My dad nodded, and I exhaled.
“I think we can handle that.”
I shook Mr. Velma’s hand, and my dad and I helped Mr. Velma into the house.
Inside, I could smell corn, baked beans, and hamburgers on the grill. We found the Gs and Mrs. Velma sitting at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables and putting them on a tray. I said hello, and they patted my cheek or shoulder like everything was normal. Triple-G even offered me the plate of vegetables and dip, because she knew I was always hungry. I eagerly went for the carrots.
Then I screamed.
Triple-G’s dentures were right in the middle of the tray, grinning up at me. My hand pulled back so fast that I flung a carrot across the kitchen. It pinged off a pan hanging over the stove.
“That’s disgusting, Mama,” Double-G said, but she was laughing. So was everyone else.
“Nice one, Triple-G,” I added, saluting her.
She winked, and Mrs. Velma mentioned that dinner would be ready soon.
“Addison,” my mom said as she picked up a potato peeler, “I think now would be a good time to go find Devin. He’s upstairs.”
I looked around the table, and the women of the Velma family all smiled at me. Mr. Velma was right. They were strong, and knowing that things were all right with them gave me the courage to climb those stairs.
It didn’t make my voice any less shaky, though, or my knocking any less clumsy when I reached Devin’s room.
“Hey, Devin? It’s me, Addison,” I said after a few heavy fist thumps on the door.
“It’s not locked,” I heard.
At least he was talking. That was a good start. Now I just had to …
Open the door.
WILL THIS BE AS SCARY AS MORNINGS WITH DARCY AND ROB?
Can anything be as scary as Mornings with Darcy and Rob?
FAIR POINT.
When I swung the door open, I saw Devin sitting on his bed. He had a bunch of Legos piled on the comforter in front of him, and it looked like he maybe hadn’t showered in a few days. His hair was sticking out every which way, his face was greasy, and his glasses were on the pillow next to him. It made him seem older somehow. He picked up a gray brick and carefully snapped it into place with the others he had aligned. I recognized what he was building instantly.
“The Millennium Falcon,” I muttered.
“Remember when we built this four years ago?” he said. He hadn’t looked at me yet. Maybe because he didn’t want to see the bruise by my eye? I couldn’t blame him—it had turned a strange yellow-and-green combination in the last few days.
“Yeah. Right after we saw Return of the Jedi for the first time.”
“I hate it when Lando flies it. It’s not the Falcon without Han Solo and Chewbacca.”
I dared to sit down on the bed. An avalanche of Legos tumbled against my hip as the mattress sagged. I pushed them back into the pile.
“What made you want to rebuild it?” I asked.
“Dunno. It was something to do while I was grounded. I thought I’d remember how fun these were and get into it.”
“Are you? Into it, I mean?”
He looked up then, and he flinched when he saw my face. “Not as much. Not sure why. Force Awakens, maybe?”
I crossed myself. “We agreed…”
“Not to talk about Force Awakens. Yes, I remember. Your eye looks cool.”
I reached up to rub at it. “Thanks.”
Devin set down the Millennium Falcon.
“I’m sorry I punched you,” he offered, and he slipped his glasses on. I picked up a few gray pieces and locked them together, a familiar little jolt of accomplishment tickling my fingertips. Reaching over, I stuck them onto the model of the spaceship, right where I remembered them being.
“I wrote you a note,” I said after a few moments. Then I reached down to take off my shoe.
“I know. I saw you on TV.”
I blushed, putting my foot back down. “I was terrible. It made me kind of hope you couldn’t watch TV while you were grounded.”
“I can’t, but my mom and dad made an exception. They even recorded it and had me watch it twice.”
“So,” I said, “I guess you know I’m sorry, too.”
“Yeah, only you can keep the note. Is it still in your shoe?”
“Yeah. It’s a little hard to read; it got all soggy in there.”
“Gross.”
“Gross,” I agreed.
For a couple of minutes, we worked on the Falcon, fishing through the clacking pile of Legos and adding pieces whenever we found a good one. It wasn’t awkward like I thought it might be, or nerve-racking, or weepy-making. It just was, and it felt good, almost like we were back when The Tonight Show was a signal that it was past my bedtime, rather than an opportunity to royally embarrass myself.
As I worked on one of the laser cannons, I said, “I bet my letter got you a ton of followers.”
Devin smirked.
“Doubt it, since I don’t have a Twitter account anymore. After my mom talked to yours, that was the first thing to go. Yours is gone, too. Mom stood over my shoulder and made sure I completely nuked them. She said that if I didn’t know how to treat my best friend, I sure as hell didn’t deserve seventy thousand more.”
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“She wasn’t wrong, Addi.”
I nodded. “Trust me, I know. I had, what, two million?”
“Three-point-two by the time I deleted it.”
“Okay, so I had three-point-two million followers, and not a single one could help me on that stage. I had to yank a crusty old note out of my shoe and pretend I was talking to you just to get through it.”
Devin flicked a piece over to me. I picked it up and put it into place without thinking. It was a perfect fit.
“Your note, by the way. It made me think. You were right. I was afraid. And when I started getting followers … well, it felt good. Every time I looked, there were more people. It helped me … forget? No. Not forget that my dad was sick. But it was something to do, so that it didn’t feel like there was nothing I could do, you know?”
I nodded. “I know.”
“But they didn’t really have my back. Not like you.”
“Yup. That’s all I really wanted to say.”
Devin swept the pile of Legos out of the way and inched next to me.
“Are you cured?”
“Huh?”
“Your freezing. You managed to make it through the entire show. That’s, like, the biggest exposure of all. Did it help?”
I shrugged. “It was just as hard to climb those steps to talk to you. I don’t think cured is how it works.”
“But you made progress?”
“A little, maybe? I’m not sure. Helps when you’re there, though.”
Devin nodded and picked up a little yellow Lego guy. Double-G called from downstairs that dinner was ready, and my stomach reminded me that it didn’t like being ignored for long. I hopped up.
“You coming?”
“I dunno…” He paused, tugging off the Lego guy’s legs, then reattaching them backward. “Your mom and dad … this is the first time they’re going to see me since I punched their kid in the face. Are they mad?”