Momentous Events in the Life of a Cactus

by Dusti Bowling

  How could I ever go to school again? I couldn’t. There was no way. I would have to be homeschooled like Trilby from now on. There was no other option. I would rather die than go back to school.

  Around midnight, I got up from my bed and sat at my computer. I typed out a new blog post.

  I guess I’ve been sort of lucky in my life. Most of the people I’ve known have been pretty nice. Even when they haven’t known how to react to me or they’ve said something stupid or they’ve given me one of the looks, at least it wasn’t out of meanness. Maybe fear. Maybe ignorance. But not usually meanness.

  Sure, people have said mean things. People have made fun of me. People have been rude to me. But I never knew the degree to which people could be mean. And it turns out people can be meaner than I ever imagined.

  So I guess I’ve been lucky that I made it all the way to fourteen without having to come face to face with this unbearable level of meanness. And I don’t know what to do with this knowledge right now.

  I’ve always liked to believe the best in people—that people can change. That there’s good in everyone—or at least more good than bad in everyone. But I know now that I was wrong. It sucks to be wrong. And I don’t ever want to be wrong about that again.

  Then I deleted it.

  12

  Maybe I wasn’t there

  To catch you when you fell.

  But I’m here now

  To listen when you yell.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  I TOLD MY PARENTS I WAS TOO SICK to go to school the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. I didn’t know how I could ever show my face there again. Not after my Great Humiliation, a truly momentous event in history. Like the American Revolution. Or Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. The only thing I could muster the energy to do was stick my ear buds in and attempt to drown out my horrible thoughts with punk rock.

  Mom knocked on my door that third day, then walked in. “How are you feeling, honey?”

  I moaned. “Terrible.” I wondered how long they would believe I was sick.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy working and haven’t been able to spend more time with you while you’ve been feeling bad,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled. I was glad my parents weren’t around. I didn’t want anyone around.

  “Zion’s here.”

  I sat up. “Why?”

  “He brought you some of your work from school.”

  “Well, he should leave so I won’t get him sick.”

  “He says he’s not worried about getting sick. And you don’t seem to have a fever or anything. I don’t think you’re contagious.”

  “You don’t know that, Mom.”

  Zion peeked his head out from behind her. “Hi Aven,” he said softly.

  Mom left, and I swung my legs around onto the floor. Zion dropped a small stack of papers on my desk. He tapped gently on Fathead’s terrarium, but Fathead ignored him. Then he sat down next to me on the bed.

  I couldn’t look at him. He didn’t say anything. Finally he turned and hugged me.

  Pity hug.

  I was so ashamed. So humiliated. And there was nothing he could say or do that wouldn’t make it worse. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He let go of me. “Why are you sorry?”

  I stared down at my feet. “I wouldn’t listen to you. I should have trusted you.”

  “You just always want to believe the best about people.”

  “I should have hated him because of how he treated you. Like, how desperate could I be for someone to like me?”

  “You’re not desperate. And I can’t imagine you hating anyone. Even though . . . ”

  “Even though what?”

  “Yeah, you totally should have trusted me. That’s what friends are for, right?”

  I scowled at the floor. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  Zion shook his head. “No, I told my mom you were sick. She was worried about you. Lando was, too.”

  I cringed. Lando and Joshua were on the football team together. I wondered if the football team would find out—find out that some kids found me so disgusting, they would make a dare out of kissing me like it was the equivalent of eating a Madagascar hissing cockroach. My eyes filled with more tears.

  “Aven,” Zion said. “That guy is a special kind of terrible. Like I tried to tell you. And so are his friends. Forget about it. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Forget about it,” I repeated, the tears rolling down my cheeks. “Like you’ve forgotten about being called Lardon.” I shook my head. “No wonder you were so down on yourself last year.”

  Zion shrugged. “You’ll get past it like I’m getting past it. It’s been tough, though. I didn’t think as much about my weight in elementary school. I mean, I’ve always been bullied, but when I got to middle school it was like a whole new level with Joshua and his friends. I didn’t want to see him do the same things to you. That’s why I tried to warn you.”

  I flinched.

  You should have trusted me.

  I tried to tell you.

  I tried to warn you.

  I could see Zion was hurt. And I was hurt. I just hoped our friendship wasn’t hurt.

  “You’re not . . . mad at me, are you?” I said.

  Zion got back up and walked to Fathead’s terrarium. “No.” But he’d hesitated. And he hadn’t looked at me. “Of course not.”

  “I know I should have trusted you,” I said. “I’ll never not trust you again. And I’m trusting you, and only you, to never ever tell anyone about what happened.”

  Zion turned around. “Of course I won’t. Why would I?”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Then why’d you say that?”

  I shrugged. “I just want you to know I trust you.”

  Zion tapped on Fathead’s terrarium one more time, but she didn’t budge. “Anyway, I can’t stay,” he said. “Ma’s waiting out in the car.”

  I was torn between wanting him to stay and make sure we were okay and wanting him to leave so I wouldn’t have to deal with this anymore. I motioned toward the stack of papers with my head. “Thanks for bringing me my work.”

  Zion smiled. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  I did my best to match his smile. “That and a lot of other things.”

  I walked Zion out then helped Mom set the table for dinner.

  “You feeling any better, Sheebs?” Dad asked once we were all sitting down together.

  I sat down across from him. “Not really.”

  “What’s still wrong? Stomachache?”

  “Yeah, stomachache, headache, throat ache . . . foot ache.”

  Dad tilted his head at me. “That’s a lot of aches. I’m sorry you feel so bad.” He fiddled with his fork a moment. “Are you sure this isn’t about something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Are you afraid to go to school for some reason?”

  “No,” I lied. “I mean, it’s true I don’t want to go anymore, but I’m not afraid. I just think maybe I would like to never to go to school again and possibly become a hermit. That’s all.”

  Dad smiled. “I don’t think you’d make a very good hermit. You’d get lonely.”

  “No, I could do it. I found an entire how-to article complete with steps, tips, and pictures. It didn’t seem hard at all.”

  Mom tossed a potholder onto the table. “Really?”

  “What were the pictures of?” Dad asked.

  “You know,” I said. “Just people . . . hermiting.”

  Mom placed a pot of Swedish meatballs on top of the potholder. “What were the tips?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t remember all of them, but one was to connect with other hermits.”

  “That seems . . . contradictory,” Dad said.

  I nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t a very good article.”

  Mom sat down at the table. “Why are you Googling how to become a hermit, Aven?
”

  “Just curious.”

  “Wouldn’t you miss us?” Dad said.

  “Oh, I’d still have to see you every now and then.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be a real hermit,” Mom said.

  “Then I guess I’d like to become a part-time hermit. So if you never make me go back to high school again, I can accomplish my goal of becoming a part-time hermit.”

  “What has happened that makes you want so badly to never go back to school again?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing,” I insisted. “Like I’ve already told you a hundred times.” I didn’t realize how mean my tone had been until I looked up from my plate and saw the hurt in Mom’s face.

  I stared back down at the table. “Sorry,” I muttered. I took the spoon from the pot with my foot and placed a sad lonely meatball on my plate. I stabbed it with my fork and chewed. I wasn’t hungry.

  I knew they were sitting there, not eating, staring at me. Waiting for me to say something else. But I didn’t.

  “We wish you would tell us what’s going on with you,” Dad finally said.

  But I could never tell them about my Great Humiliation. I could never tell anyone. And I hoped Zion wouldn’t either.

  13

  You don’t know why

  I act the way I do.

  You don’t know why.

  You have no clue.

  — Screaming Ferret

  I WAS SO GLAD WHEN SATURDAY came because I didn’t have to pretend to be sick anymore. Not only was I already behind on my work after missing four days of school, but I had also missed a riding lesson. What did it matter? I would never be good enough in time for the show. I would never be good enough . . . ever.

  I finally left my cave of despair and wandered through the dead park; it was still too hot for many customers. I walked past Sonoran Smoothies without a glance. Would I ever be able to drink another smoothie again without thinking of what Joshua and his friends had done to me? Great. Not only had Joshua ruined high school for me, he’d ruined smoothies. And my phone. And possibly my friendship with Zion. And just my whole life.

  Trilby burst through the doors. “Hey, Aven!” she cried.

  I summoned the best smile I could. “Hi, Trilby.”

  “You want to come in?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t have any money.”

  “I heard you’ve been sick. I’ll treat you.”

  Man, I wished so bad I were homeschooled like sweet, innocent, naïve Trilby. She had no clue how tough life could be. “No, thank you,” I said. “I think I’m allergic to smoothies.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Allergic . . . to all smoothies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you allergic to chicken smoothies?”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “It could be. I could blend up some chicken and make a smoothie out of it.”

  “Gross.”

  “Not that I would ever do that. I would never eat a chicken, much less grind one up in a blender.”

  “I repeat: gross.”

  “Maybe it’s the pineapple,” she said. “Some people are allergic to pineapple. I could make you one without it.”

  “I told you I don’t want a stupid smoothie,” I snapped, and her smile fell. “I’m sorry. I still don’t feel too well. I’m going to check on Spaghetti.”

  I left Trilby standing in front of Sonoran Smoothies, a look of confusion on her face.

  But Spaghetti had no comfort to offer me. And I worried about him every time I saw him these days, which only made me feel worse.

  I made my way across Main Street and stepped through the doors of the soda shop. I walked along the wall, scanning the framed tarantula pictures my birth mother had taken. “Hey, little Aven,” Henry called to me from behind the counter.

  “If I ask for mint chip today, Henry, are you going to give it to me or are you going to give me strawberry?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You want strawberry?”

  I took in an impatient breath. “No, I want mint chip. Repeat after me. Mint. Chip.”

  Henry stared at me. “Mint. Chip.”

  “I don’t want vanilla or chocolate or strawberry. I want mint chip.” In the back of my mind I knew how snippy I was being. First with Trilby and now with Henry. But sometimes a girl doesn’t want what she doesn’t want and wants what she wants, and I wanted the comfort of mint chip right now.

  I watched as Henry took the ice cream scoop. He opened the freezer and I cried out, “Mint chip!”

  He jumped a little. “Okay, okay,” he said.

  I watched with satisfaction as he scooped some mint chip into a bowl. He came around and set it on the table for me.

  I sat down in front of my ice cream and slipped a foot out of my flip-flop. I grabbed the spoon with my toes and shoved a big bite into my mouth, letting it melt slowly, freezing my teeth and making them hurt.

  I felt like crying. Mint chip couldn’t fix this.

  Henry sat down across from me at the little metal bistro table. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” he asked.

  I realized I probably did look like I’d just gotten out of bed. I hadn’t bothered to brush my hair in several days, much less wash it. I probably stunk, too.

  I didn’t want to talk about myself. “Tell me more about the orphanage, Henry.”

  “Orphanage?”

  “Yeah. You know, how you were an orphan, like me?”

  “You’re no orphan.”

  “I was,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I know your mama. You’re no orphan.”

  “My mama’s dead,” I said.

  Henry’s mouth dropped open. “Joe . . . Joe.”

  “No, Henry. Aven was my mother. Joe is my grandmother. Remember? Joe is at the retirement center with Milford the stalker.”

  His face relaxed a little. He nodded. “Right.”

  “How long were you an orphan?” I asked him.

  He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. Then with a shaky hand he put them back on. “Hi, honey,” he said. “Can I get you something?”

  I shook my head and took another bite of my ice cream. “You already did, Henry.”

  “You seem awfully sad,” he said. “Is Joe okay?”

  “Joe’s fine.” I gazed out the windows of the soda shop at the sky, which was turning pink and orange. Sundown syndrome. “She’s at the retirement center.”

  He smiled. “That sounds like a nice place.”

  “It is, Henry. You’ve been there.”

  His eyes lit up. “Have I?”

  I nodded. “Yes, you have. A few times.”

  “Oh. So tell me, little Aven. How many boyfriends do you have right now?” He gave me a wink like he thought he was cheering me up when his words made me feel like garbage.

  “Zero,” I said. “I have zero boyfriends.”

  “Zero!” Henry declared. “I bet they’re breaking down your door.”

  I groaned. “Is there, like, a book out there called Talking to Teenagers for Old People? Because I swear you all say the same things.”

  Henry looked around. “Who’s old?” he said, then chuckled. “Aha!” He pointed at my face. “There’s that beautiful smile. That’s the one the boys will go wild for.”

  My smile fell. “No, they won’t. No one will ever like me like that.”

  14

  We don’t have to talk.

  It’s you and me.

  We don’t have to talk.

  We can just be.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  ON SUNDAY, I WAS LYING ON THE couch, watching TV, blissfully alone since Mom had to drive to some warehouse in Phoenix to pick up an overdue T-shirt order, trying to think of a good lie to get out of school the next day, when there was a knock at the door.

  Whoever it was could go away. I didn’t care. Then I heard the bark.

  Oh, shoot.

  I got up and opened the door. “She lives!” Connor cried out. His
smile dissolved. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.” I walked back to the couch and sat down. “I forgot you were coming over today.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to remind you when you won’t answer your phone.”

  “My battery’s been dead.”

  “Liar. It rang six times every time I called. When it’s dead, it doesn’t ring at all. It goes straight to voice mail.”

  I scowled at him. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

  Connor collapsed down on the couch next to me. “So why are your pants on fire, liar, liar?” He glanced at the TV screen. “And why are you watching a show about off-grid living?”

  “Research,” I told him. “For my life as a hermit.”

  Connor nodded. “I’ve tried the hermit life. It’s lonely. You wouldn’t last a day. You’re far too social.”

  “I’m making some big changes in my life,” I said. “Being less social is definitely one of them.”

  He stared at me. “What’s up with you?”

  I stared back at him. “What’s up with you? Why are you so chipper?”

  He shrugged, blinked his eyes a few times, barked. “School’s just going a lot better than I expected. “

  “You mean because of Amanda?” I tried to hide my disdain when I said her name but probably not very well. “Did you two get together after school this week like you wanted?”

  “Yes.” Connor poked me in the ribs. “What’s wrong? Are you jealous?” He teased me. “You shouldn’t be. I heard you like someone.”

  I shot up from the couch. “I do not. Who told you that?”

  Connor seemed surprised at my reaction. “Zion. He said you liked this jerk Joshua who used to make fun of him when he was in seventh grade. He—”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “I don’t like him at all. When did Zion tell you that?”

  “Last weekend. When we were here.”

  I sat back down on the couch. “I don’t like him at all. Zion’s right. He’s a huge jerk.”

  Connor stared at me. “Are you okay, Aven? You’re not acting like yourself.”