Boy21

by Quick, Matthew

  I nod.

  I kiss Erin’s forehead once more. There’s a notepad and pen on the table next to the bed, so I scribble a quick message:

  I was here.

  Love,

  Finley

  I follow the nurse, who says, “She’s your classmate?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  She nods once before she says, “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I am.”

  I want to go sit with the Quinns, but for some reason I go to the waiting room instead, and watch all the people who have kids staying overnight at the hospital or who are waiting for loved ones to wake up from surgeries or whatever. They all look just as concerned as I probably do. I see a mom and a dad holding hands, comforting each other. An elderly woman talks to a priest for a while. And a little kid sleeps with a teddy bear in one arm and his thumb in his mouth. So many people with problems and hurting, sick family members.

  Just before they make us all leave, I look in on Erin once more. She’s sleeping comfortably, so I take a cab home.

  33

  THE NEXT MORNING OVER EGGS and bacon, I ask Dad if I should skip school to check on Erin. Before he can answer, Pop says, “Yes.”

  “Have you missed a day of high school yet?” Dad asks.

  “Nope. Perfect attendance. So what’s one day?”

  Dad looks at me and says, “You sure you don’t want to talk to Coach?”

  “I think the team will be just fine without me.”

  “Okay,” Dad says. “I don’t like you quitting anything, but under the circumstances… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with the consequences, that you won’t regret the decision later. I mean, you love basketball, Finley.”

  “Erin’s more important. Right?”

  Pop pulls two bucks from his shirt pocket, holds the money out to me, and says, “Buy Erin some flowers, will ya? Tell her I’m looking forward to the next game of War.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I say, even though flowers will cost more money. It’s a nice gesture and I appreciate it. He’s probably been holding on to those two bucks for years. My dad pays for everything around here, and Pop hasn’t worked a day since he lost his legs.

  On his way to school, Russ shows up at my front door, once again looking very terrestrial. It’s like Boy21 really has left the planet.

  “I’m going to the hospital today,” I say. “Not going to school.”

  “I’m really sorry about how everything’s turned out, Finley. Truly.” He’s cracking his knuckles one at a time.

  “I have to help Erin now. Okay? Stick with Wes in school. He’ll get you through.”

  “It’s about more than getting through,” Russ says. “Can we talk later tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” I have no idea what will happen at the hospital. “I have to go. See you later, man.”

  Russ nods once and then heads for school. He looks lonely, walking all by himself, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

  Dad drives me to the hospital and we buy flowers at the gift shop near the cafeteria. I pick out a single yellow rose in a plastic vase because I know Erin likes yellow and the arrangement is the cheapest they have. I use Pop’s two bucks and Dad covers the rest.

  We walk to the part of the hospital where Erin’s recovering and tell the woman behind the desk that we’re here to see my girlfriend. I don’t have to lie about being Rod because there are visiting hours in this part of the hospital.

  She looks at a chart briefly, runs down a list with the tip of her pen, and says, “Erin Quinn’s not seeing visitors today.”

  “I’m her boyfriend,” I say.

  “Sorry,” the woman says.

  “Can you take this to her and let her know I’m here?” I ask. “She’ll want to see me. She’ll tell you so. I swear.”

  “The patient has requested that no one except her parents be permitted access to her. Those are her wishes.”

  “She’s not a patient,” I say, fully realizing how ridiculous it sounds, because Erin is a patient. “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Maybe so. But she doesn’t want to see you today. Come back tomorrow. Maybe she’ll have changed her mind by then.”

  “Can we send her a note through you?” Dad asks.

  “We can do that.” The woman sighs as if we’re asking her to do a hundred push-ups, or something equally insane.

  “Do you have any paper?” I ask.

  The woman stares at me for a second over her neon-green reading glasses, and then she slaps a pad of paper on the counter.

  I hesitate but then say, “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen, would you?”

  She shakes her head with enough force to set her neck fat in motion, but she hands me a pen. I wonder why she’s so angry, but then someone behind me says, “This is asinine! Why can’t I go in to see my daughter? I’m tired of waiting here!”

  The woman behind the desk probably has to listen to people yell all day.

  I write:

  Erin,

  Pop sends you this flower. He’s looking forward to the next game of War. I skipped school and am in the waiting room. Tell them to let me in and we’ll talk.

  Love,

  Finley

  I fold the note in half and stick it between the stem and the white cotton-looking plant they stuck in with the rose.

  When the woman finishes speaking with the yelling man, she gestures to me and says, “Take a seat. When things slow down a little, I’ll have one of the nurses deliver the flowers to your girlfriend. If she wants to see you, we’ll let you know.”

  “How long will—”

  “Don’t know,” she says without looking up from her lists and charts.

  “Come on, Finley,” Dad says, and we sit down in the waiting room, where a half-dozen people are watching Good Morning America. Some singer I don’t know is performing outside in the streets of New York City. When she sings, you can see her breath. She doesn’t look much older than me, and here she is on TV. How does that happen?

  Dad falls asleep while we wait, and I wonder if Erin really doesn’t want to see me. I start to worry. I feel confused. I can’t imagine why I was denied access to her.

  Finally, Mrs. Quinn appears, looking very tired and unshowered—probably because she spent the night at the hospital—and says, “I’m sorry, Finley, but Erin doesn’t want to see you today.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s tired from the surgery, and she’s not looking very well either. You know how girls are about being seen without makeup.”

  Mrs. Quinn is lying, trying to soften the news. Erin never wears makeup. She doesn’t even own makeup.

  “It was nice of you to bring the rose. It really brightened the room.” She hands me a note, and then leaves.

  It’s Erin’s handwriting.

  You shouldn’t have left your game last night. You should be in school right now. Forget about me. Apologize to Coach and enjoy the rest of your basketball season. Don’t come back to the hospital. I can’t see you.

  Erin

  I keep reading Erin’s note over and over again, but it doesn’t make any sense. Just the other night, she practically begged me to be her boyfriend again, and now she says she can’t see me?

  I start to feel sick to my stomach.

  I don’t know what to do, so I just sit there waiting, hoping Mrs. Quinn will return with a smile on her face and say, “Just kidding!” But Mrs. Quinn doesn’t return.

  Good Morning America ends. Some talk show begins and Dad snores through it all, right next to me.

  He wakes up around lunchtime and says, “How’s Erin?”

  I show him the note.

  “She’s probably angry about what happened. She’s not in shock anymore. She’s feeling the full effect. But she’ll come around.”

  “Do you mind if we stay here?” I say. “I’d like to stay, just in case she changes her mind.”

  “I can sleep anywhere,” Dad says, and then shuts his eyes.

  A
fter school ends, Mrs. Battle and the girls’ team come with balloons and cards, but they aren’t allowed in either, which really makes me worry about Erin.

  When I tell her Erin wouldn’t see me, Mrs. Battle says, “Well, then, we might as well get back to the gym for a late practice.”

  Erin’s teammates look sort of pissed off, which makes me angry, because it’s not like Erin invited them to a party, right?

  They leave all the get-well gear at the desk and file back out to the bus.

  Dad and I eat dinner at the cafeteria.

  “You know,” Dad says, chewing a bite of hamburger, “Erin’s family might be trying to protect you, Finley.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever hit her, well, maybe they’re watching,” Dad says, and then he glances around the cafeteria carefully.

  “I don’t care about any of that. I’m done with that stuff, Dad.”

  “You can’t just be done with it,” he says. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Erin and I didn’t ask to be a part of that world.”

  “Neither did I,” Dad says, which makes me feel bad, because Dad’s life has been pretty bleak, and through no fault of his own. “All’s I’m saying is to give it time, and don’t do anything stupid. You and Erin can leave Bellmont someday. You can go far away. Like I should have done with your mother.”

  This is the first time Dad has mentioned Mom in years. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Mom.”

  “We’re not.” Dad finishes his hamburger, and the conversation ends, because I don’t know what else to say.

  There’s a different nurse at the desk now, so I try one more time to see Erin. I’m denied access again, so I let Dad drive me home.

  Pop’s drinking a beer and watching the Sixers game. “How’s Erin?”

  “She refused to see us,” Dad says.

  “We sent a yellow rose in to her with a note,” I say. “I told her the flower was from you, Pop, and that you wanted to play her in War.”

  “It’s a lot to take in, a loss like that. She’ll come around,” Pop says. “Here’s some strange news for you. Russ is up in your bedroom, Finley.”

  “What? Why?” I ask.

  “Something about stars,” Pop says, and turns his attention back to the TV.

  Dad and I exchange a confused glance before I jog up the steps and into my room.

  When I open my bedroom door, Russ is standing on my desk chair, with his hand in the air like the Statue of Liberty.

  It takes a second to register, but then I realize he’s in the process of turning my bedroom ceiling into a galaxy. He’s already covered two-thirds of it with glow-in-the-dark stars.

  “Surprise?” Russ says halfheartedly when he sees me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I wanted to do something nice for you,” Russ says. “So I bought you your own cosmos.”

  In spite of all that has happened, I smile. No one has ever purchased and arranged a galaxy for me before.

  “Wanna help me finish?” Russ says.

  I nod, and then we’re taking turns standing on my chair, arranging constellations. It feels good just to have something to concentrate on. And when we’ve covered the entire ceiling, Russ shuts off the lights. We stretch out on the floor and bask in the weird green glow.

  “So how’s Erin?” Russ says.

  “Not good,” I say. “She wouldn’t see me.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Give her a few days. Sometimes people need time and space.”

  For a few minutes, we just look at the weird constellations we made.

  “Coach says you come to practice tomorrow, all will be forgiven,” Russ says. “No questions asked. No punishment for missing today’s practice or for leaving the game.”

  “Is that why you came tonight? To deliver Coach’s message?”

  “No,” Russ says. “I came to put up the stars. I came to make you feel better.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, thanks. I appreciate the kind words. But I feel like Erin needs me now. I wish there was something I could do for her.”

  “When I was in the group home a woman used to read to us at night. I would just sit and listen. I couldn’t even tell you the names of the books, but it helped. I never told that woman I liked it when she read to us, but I did. Maybe you could read Harry Potter to Erin? Maybe she’d like to escape to Hogwarts?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  It feels nice to hang out with Russ—especially after all that’s happened. It’s almost like we can pretend we’re still kids or something—and I wonder if that’s also why we like reading kids’ books like Harry Potter. I don’t know.

  I’m glad Russ came to my house.

  I’m glad he made me a galaxy.

  34

  EVERY DAY DAD DRIVES ME to the hospital and I walk up to the desk with the first Harry Potter book in my hand, ready to take my girlfriend to Hogwarts. And every day the nurse says Erin doesn’t want to see me. So I sit in the waiting room, frustrated and angry.

  Mr. Gore says that if I keep going faithfully, eventually Erin will let me in. When I ask how he knows, he says, “True love always wins,” which sounds corny, but I hope he’s right.

  I don’t go to basketball practice, which means that I officially quit the team.

  Coach doesn’t come see me, nor does he send any messages through Russ, and I wonder if he’s mad at me. Or maybe he’s just happy to have Russ playing for him. Maybe in his eyes I already served my purpose. It’s funny how one violent event can make you see the world so differently. When a mobster runs down your girlfriend with a car, basketball just doesn’t seem so important anymore. And Coach’s talks about figuring out life on the court sound like so much bullshit now. Or maybe I did figure out life through basketball—people care about you if you can help them win, and they don’t care about you if you can’t.

  After a week or so, the nurse says Erin has been moved to a different building for rehab. “What building? Where?” I ask. But they tell me it’s confidential, which makes me mad enough to sprint back into the ward to see if they’re lying to me.

  “Erin?” I yell when I reach her old room, but there’s an old lady sleeping in the bed where my girlfriend should be.

  A huge security guard grabs me by the arm and says, “I suggest you exit the premises quietly and without incident.” He escorts me to the door, saying, “Don’t come back.”

  Because I have no cell phone, I walk across the street to the pay phone outside the Wawa, but of course someone has pulled the phone part off, so I have to wait outside the hospital in the freezing cold until Dad returns to pick me up.

  I start hanging out across the street from the Quinns’ house. I just stand on the sidewalk all afternoon, waiting for Mr. or Mrs. Quinn to come home, so that I can ask them where Erin is, but I don’t see them for days. I even get up in the middle of the night and walk down the street just to see if their car is in the driveway. It isn’t.

  A week or so later, a FOR SALE sign pops up in front of their row home, and shortly after, large angry men start transporting the Quinns’ furniture into a huge moving truck.

  “Where are you taking all this stuff?” I ask the men.

  “Can’t say,” says a guy with a spiderweb tattoo on his cheek.

  Another guy with a thick red scar across his neck says, “You best move along. Now.”

  Pop and Dad say that Erin is obviously being relocated, but by whom and why, no one knows.

  I ask Mr. Gore if he’s heard anything. He checks the computer system at school, which states that Erin is being taught by home tutors. He doesn’t know anything else.

  I go to the gym one day and confront Coach before practice is supposed to begin. “What do you know about Erin?” I say, because he knows almost everyone in the neighborhood and he hears things. “Do you know where she is?”

  “How would I know anything?” Coach shakes his head, and th
en says, “I told you not to ask too many questions. Be careful, Finley. And I’m sorry things worked out the way they did, but you made your choice.”

  He turns his back on me, which lets me know he doesn’t want any part of the Irish mob and won’t be getting involved. He’s done with me. After all I’ve done for Russ, I have to fight the urge to shove Coach. I feel so betrayed, even though I realize there’s not much Coach could do to help me, even if he were willing to take the risk.

  One night at four in the morning, when the neighborhood is asleep, I break into the Quinns’ row home. There’s no moon; I can’t really see. They used to leave a key under the third brick in the garden, so I fumble around on my hands and knees, counting bricks and sifting dirt until I find that key.

  All the blinds are pulled, so once I’m inside I can use a flashlight without being seen.

  But there’s nothing left—not even a piece of trash.

  Nothing.

  I shine the light on every inch of floor in every single room; I check every closet; I even look in the attic and basement.

  No trace of the Quinns remains.

  It’s like they vanished.

  I start to feel like I might puke again.

  I stand in Erin’s room, and it still smells like her. Peach shampoo. Her vanishing seems impossible. She would have contacted me if she were allowed, which means she probably couldn’t contact me. I sit down on the pea-green carpet in the middle of four indented circles where the bedposts used to be. I hold my head in my hands.

  Where could Erin be?

  How did I lose the best part of my life?

  I feel alone in the world.

  When I leave, I keep the key, although I’m not sure why. Maybe just to have some part of Erin with me.

  I walk around in a daze for a few days, not answering anyone’s questions about how I’m holding up.

  I can’t think about anything but Erin.

  I get so nervous about her whereabouts that I lose my head and barge into the Irish Pride Pub one afternoon after school. I don’t consider the consequences; I just stride in. It’s a last resort, and the only place I can think of where I might find Rod Quinn.