Momentous Events in the Life of a Cactus

by Dusti Bowling

  I sat down on Henry’s small worn sofa and waited for Dad. He came out of Henry’s room and sat next to me. He sighed as he rubbed his eyes and forehead.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He seems to be getting worse all the time.”

  “Some days are good.”

  “Yeah, but those are getting fewer and farther between.” Dad put an arm around me and squeezed. “I don’t want you to worry about it, Sheebs. You have enough to worry about right now.”

  But I was worried about Henry. And I was worried he would die without ever knowing where he had come from and whether he had any family out there searching for him.

  29

  Now is the time

  When it will all collide.

  Did you think it wouldn’t?

  Did you think you could hide?

  — Screaming Ferret

  «HOW MUCH LONGER CAN HE KEEP working? Zion asked as we sat on a bench at school the next morning.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We keep him there because it gives him a purpose, something to do. I’ve read that once old people stop working, they die more quickly.”

  “Do you think he’s going to die?”

  “I hope not,” I said. “But I don’t think he can keep going on like this much longer.”

  “Where’s he going to go?”

  “Golden Sunset has an assisted living section. Anyway, that’s the plan.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Oh, yeah. But he said he doesn’t want to go until he can no longer lift the ice cream scoop.” I thought about him—the day he struggled to scoop the ice cream and dropped it all over the floor. It felt like maybe that day had come.

  Joshua walked by with some friends. He blew me a kiss. I was so completely sick of this. “Keep your diseases to yourself,” I said to him.

  He detoured and walked in our direction with his friends. They stopped in front of us. “I’m the one who’s diseased?” he said.

  “You don’t seem to know the difference between a disease and genetics,” I told him. “Maybe you should grow a brain so you can understand.”

  “And maybe you should grow some arms so you can be less freakish.”

  I stared at him as his friends snickered around him. I decided to ask him a question, a question that had been forming in my mind since the day this all started. I didn’t ask it to be mean, or to hurt him, or to embarrass him in any way. I asked because I truly wanted to know the answer. Because I had to know the answer. Because there had to be a reason for all of this. “Why are you such a bad person?”

  His smile fell for a moment. For once he didn’t seem to have anything to say. His mouth opened like he would make his retort. Then closed. Then it opened again. But before Joshua could speak, Lando was there next to him. Joshua turned to him.

  “Get away from them,” Lando said, getting up in Joshua’s face. Instantly people were crowding around, sensing a fight about to start. High schoolers were worse than ancient Romans.

  Joshua didn’t back down, though. He was surrounded by his friends and had to save face, though he seemed nervous. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend your fat brother and his freaky girlfriend.”

  Lando clenched his jaw. “What did you just say?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Joshua just stood there, a horrible smirk on his face. “You know what I said.”

  Then we heard an adult voice shout, “What’s going on here?” Instantly kids started dispersing and Lando backed away from Joshua, who gave us all one last slimy smirk before walking away.

  A teacher walked up to us and asked, “Everything okay over here?”

  Lando adjusted his backpack over his shoulder, glanced down at Zion and me. “It’s fine,” he mumbled then walked off.

  • • •

  I sat on my bed trying to focus on my English homework. Every now and then I’d glance at the Find My Family box sitting on my desk, like it might slink over and attack me at any moment if I didn’t keep an eye on it. My phone buzzed on the floor and I swung my legs around. I hated that every time I saw my cracked screen it reminded me of that horrible day. It was Zion, so I hit the answer and speaker buttons with my toes.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” he said tentatively.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Um, no. Not really.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My parents are all upset because Lando quit the football team today.”

  I stood up from the bed. “What? Why?”

  “He and Joshua started yelling at each other out on the field, and when the coach tried to intervene, Lando said he couldn’t be on the same team as Joshua and quit. Just threw his helmet down and walked off the field.”

  I shook my head as I sat back down. “No. No, he can’t do that. He loves football. Why would he do that?”

  Zion was quiet for a while before finally saying, “Aven, I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I told Lando about what happened at the mall.”

  I jumped back up. Lando knew about my Great Humiliation? No, no, no, no. “What? When?”

  Zion stayed quiet.

  “When?” I demanded again.

  “Right before practice.”

  Now I did cry. “I trusted you. You said you wouldn’t tell anyone. Why did you tell him?”

  “Because he kept asking me stuff,” Zion defended himself. “Like why you didn’t like him. And I told him it wasn’t that you don’t like him.”

  “You told him I like him?” I shrieked.

  “I told him that I think you’re scared after what Joshua did to you. I think you’re scared of getting embarrassed again.”

  Tears slid down my cheeks. “Well, it’s too late because I could never be more embarrassed than I am now.” I hit the end call button.

  30

  I’m not ready.

  But this is the end.

  I won’t take it.

  Goodbye, my friend.

  — Llama Parade

  I DIDN’T GO FIND ZION THE NEXT day at lunch. I was so angry with him for telling Lando about my Great Humiliation. It made it worse—like I was reliving the whole thing. The thought that it had anything at all to do with Lando quitting football made it so much worse.

  I went to the library during lunch that day. I sat at a table alone and wished Connor were there with me. I felt more alone than I had on that day last year when I’d first met him. I looked around but no one was in there but the librarian.

  I wanted to scream when I saw Joshua on my way to the bus that afternoon. He should have been the one off the football team. Not Lando. Instead of screaming, I ran away when I saw him. Josephine was right. Zion was right. Henry was right. I was a big chicken. I’d become scared of everything.

  After the bus dropped me off, I walked through Stagecoach Pass. The crowds were picking up, and a handful of people walked the streets. I couldn’t deal with their stares today. I ran up the steps of the soda shop to see how Henry was doing.

  Henry wasn’t behind the counter, though. “Henry?” I called to the back. But he didn’t come out. I walked around to the back of the counter.

  And there was Henry, lying on the floor, face down. I rushed to him and knelt down. “Henry!” I cried, but he didn’t move. I jumped up and looked at the phone on the wall of the soda shop—it was one of those old-fashioned kinds. I had no idea how to use it, nor did I think I would be capable of doing so even if I did know how.

  I dropped my bag to the floor and struggled to get the strap off from around my neck as it caught in my hair. I pulled and pulled, tears blurring my vision. I finally managed to get it off, kicked my flip-flops off, and threw myself down on my butt. I started digging around in my bag with my feet. I couldn’t find my phone. This was taking too long. I couldn’t find my stupid phone with my stupid feet. I turned the bag over and shook it with my feet to empty it. Henry might die beca
use I couldn’t get to my phone fast enough.

  I finally found my phone, but my stupid fat toe was shaking as I tried to dial, and I kept hitting the wrong buttons. “Stupid,” I muttered through clenched teeth, tears falling onto the screen. “Stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid no arms!” I cried as I jumped back up to my feet. I ran to the doors and slammed through them with my side. “I need help!”

  Mom and Dad sat in the maroon chairs of the hospital waiting room while I paced across the gray linoleum floor. “Honey,” Mom said, “why don’t you sit down?”

  But I couldn’t sit down. I felt like I could run and run for miles and still not relieve the tension in my body.

  Dad stood up and put a hand to my back. “It’s okay, Aven.” He wrapped his arm around me and squeezed me tightly to his chest.

  “Where is he?” a frantic voice called. I rubbed my eyes against Dad’s shirt then looked up at Josephine. “Where’s Henry?”

  “He’s getting an MRI right now,” Dad said as he ran a hand down my hair. “They think it was a stroke.”

  Josephine’s hands shot to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  “It’s a good thing Aven found him when she did,” Dad said. “The doctor said every second counts.” Dad smiled down at me. “He might not even be alive right now if it weren’t for her.”

  Dad’s words should have made me feel good, but nothing could cut through my worry. Not just my worry that Henry would die, but my fear that he would die without ever having known where he really came from. I didn’t know why it had become so important to me that he know. Maybe it was because I knew what it felt like to wonder where you’d come from and why your parents had given you away. To wonder if they regretted doing so. To wonder if they’d ever loved you at all. To wonder if he even knew I existed.

  My mind wandered to the Find My Family box still sitting on my desk just as the doctor walked into the waiting room. Mom shot up from her seat. “How is he?” she asked.

  The doctor smiled warmly at us. “He’s doing well,” she said. “He did have a minor stroke, but we already had him on IV blood thinners to dissolve the clot in anticipation of that finding. He also has a fairly large bump on his head from where he must have hit it on the floor, so we’re keeping a close eye on that as well.”

  “What about brain damage?” Josephine asked.

  “It’s a little early to tell,” the doctor said. “We’ll know more when he wakes up, when we see whether he’s talking and how much he understands. But like I said, it was a minor stroke. The clot was fairly small, so we have high hopes.” She looked down at me. “You’re the one who found him?”

  I nodded. “I always visit him after school.” I glanced up at Mom and Dad. “And not just for ice cream.”

  Mom and Dad both smiled and wrapped their arms around me as the doctor said, “If more elderly had people regularly checking in on them, a lot more people could be saved.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Good job.”

  “Can we see him?” Josephine asked.

  “We’re still running more tests, so I’d say probably not until tomorrow at the soonest,” the doctor said. “He’s not conscious anyway, but I’ll make sure to have someone call you if he wakes up.”

  It was getting late and we decided there was nothing we could do to help Henry by sitting in the waiting room, so we headed home. The four of us sat down at a table in the steakhouse for a late dinner. “I’ve known Henry a long time,” Josephine said, picking at her side salad (a new addition to the menu). “Longer than anyone. He’s strong. He’s going to pull through this.”

  “There you all are,” Denise said, walking up to our table. “How’s Henry? We’re all so worried about him.”

  “Too soon to tell,” Mom said. “But it was a minor stroke. The doctors are hopeful he’ll recover.”

  “That’s good,” Denise said, wringing her hands. She didn’t look relieved at all. She kept glancing at me, then at our food, then at me. “I really hate to drop this on you right now,” she finally said. “But I’m sure you’d want to know.”

  If this was more bad news, I didn’t think I could take it. And why was she looking at me?

  “It’s Spaghetti.”

  Everyone’s eyes shot to me as my stomach dropped out and my throat went completely dry. “I’m so sorry, Aven,” Denise said, her voice cracking, her eyes instantly filling. “I found him this evening after all the chaos.” She sniffled and wiped at her cheek. “He’s gone.”

  I think there comes a point when your sadness gets too great that you can no longer feel anything at all. You just become numb. Because in that moment, I couldn’t possibly grieve for Henry and Spaghetti and my friendship with Zion and everything else going wrong in my life at the same time. I think I’d finally run out of tears. And I didn’t even know that was possible.

  31

  I can’t go on.

  I don’t have the will.

  I can’t make it

  Up this giant hill.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  I FELT LIKE I WAS IN A CONSTANT DAZE over the next week, so overwhelmed with everything. There was no one for me to talk to, even if I could find words to say. The people I wanted to talk to were gone, and the people who wanted to talk to me I pushed away. The only thing I could do was write down how I felt.

  My mom has told me that God never gives us more than we can handle, which is apparently why I was born without arms—because dude thought I could handle it. But I think I’m pretty much maxed out at the moment. I can’t handle one more thing. I could probably come up with about a thousand hard things about my life right now, but I’ll only give you twenty:

  1. Three thousand kids. And I haven’t made friends with even one percent of them. Not even with one percent of one percent of them, which is only like a third of a person. That’s how bad things are. At least I’m still good at math.

  2. My math skills aren’t exactly reeling in the friends.

  3. Stupid feelings. I wish I didn’t have them. Androids have the good life.

  4. My only career choices at the moment are hermit, llama, and android.

  5. I still have to go to school every day.

  6. I saw an article online about “trust issues,” and I’m pretty sure I have them.

  7. I think Fathead is dead. Aven’s Tarantula Rehabilitation Center is a massive failure.

  8. I’m going to disappoint everyone when I don’t ride in the horse show.

  9. I miss smoothies, and I miss hanging out with Trilby in the smoothie shop.

  10. Keeping secrets is hard. I’ve become a liar.

  11. I’m being bullied at school. And I don’t know what to do about it.

  12. I always thought I was strong, but it only took one mean person to bring me down. I’m weak.

  13. I feel like my best friend is drifting away from me. Or replacing me.

  14. I have a huge choice to make. And I don’t think I have the will to make it. I wish someone else could make it for me.

  15. Henry is in the hospital fighting for his life. If he dies, his untold history dies with him.

  16. Everyone keeps telling me I’m a chicken.

  17. I am a chicken.

  18. I like someone. I like him, like him. And I wish I didn’t.

  19. The person I like is suffering because of me.

  20. And the worst thing of all, the thing that has pushed me to my absolute maximum capacity for sadness, is that I now have a funeral to plan.

  32

  If you only knew.

  Don’t be like me.

  Be like you.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  I STARED OUT THE WINDOW OF THE bus, hoping no one had any comments for me today. I just felt . . . sad. I glanced at the kids getting on in time to see Lando walk up the bus steps. I watched as he meandered down the aisle, scanning the seats. I hunched down.

  He stopped when he got to my row. “Can I sit with you?”

  I nodded.

  Lando sat down next to me and sh
oved his backpack underneath the seat in front of us with his feet. We sat quietly like that for the next twenty minutes as the bus got less and less rowdy and more and more kids got off. I wondered if he was ever going to say something because I knew I wouldn’t speak first.

  I stared out the dingy window, which made everything outside look sad and gross. I felt a sting on my leg. I gawked down at the tiny red spot forming on my pale thigh. I glared at Lando. “Did you . . . flick me?”

  He seemed offended at my accusation. “It was a total accident.”

  I squinted at him. “You accidentally flicked my leg?”

  “Total accident.”

  “You are such a liar,” I said, laughing a little.

  “I’m not sorry about it, either.”

  I laughed more. “That’s nice.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t do anything for no reason.”

  I swallowed. “Like quitting football?”

  “Like I said, I don’t do anything for no reason.” We sat quietly until he finally said. “Are you okay, Aven?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m really sorry about Spaghetti. Zion told me you emailed him about the memorial. He said it was a very formal email.”

  “I don’t have a lot to say to him right now.”

  “He feels awful about everything. I hate to see you both so upset. You’re best friends.”

  “Which is why I trusted him with very sensitive information.”

  “You can still trust him. He would never do anything to deliberately hurt you. Will you please talk to him? Please?”

  The bus halted, and I saw we were at my stop. I stared out the grimy window at the Stagecoach Pass parking lot. “Okay,” I whispered.

  Lando grabbed my bag strap and placed it around my neck. “So do you think your parents will give me a ride home?” he asked sheepishly.