Annette was truly concerned about me, though. In Miss Palma’s class, she offered to come over after school a few days that week and catch me up on my class work in every subject we had together. That was pretty comforting, because I didn’t want to fail all of my finals after the massive makeup effort I had done before my flu episode, and Annette always got A’s in everything.
There was one problem: My math period was Annette’s piano period, so who would bail me out in math? I was tempted to say, “I’m going to fail the hardest subject anyhow, so what’s the point?” I didn’t, though—I was determined to pull all of my grades through this so I wouldn’t add to my parents’ worries. In math class, I went to the teacher and told him I would need help if I wanted to learn the week of new material I’d missed. I was torn between hoping he’d offer to meet me during our opportunity period and teach me the stuff himself and being afraid that spending that much time one-on-one with a math teacher would crack me completely and turn me into a deranged lunatic. “Oh, well,” I figured, “at least I’ll be the life of the under-bridge party crowd then.”
The teacher did not offer to catch me up, though. Instead, he asked for a volunteer who was willing to tutor me at home. And he got one: Renee Albert. Holy cow. Renee Albert was coming to my house! RENEE ALBERT WAS COMING TO MY HOUSE! Even I couldn’t think, “What’s the point of Renee Albert coming to my house?” with a straight face. I just said, “Wow, thanks, Renee!” while every other guy in the class looked at me like I had a big target painted on my forehead.
It was one of my drum lesson days with Mr. Watras, and when I walked in, he handed me a crumpled tissue, pointed to the garbage can, and told me to show him my newfound hoops skills. I got it in—swish!—and sat down at the drum set. It was a great feeling to be playing drums after more than a week away from them, and Mr. Watras must have understood because he just sat back and watched me burning around the kit at full speed for a couple of minutes. When I stopped, he surprised me by talking about my academic situation, which we had never discussed again after the ugly meeting I’d had with my teachers.
So, I hear you’ve made up all of your old work.
Yeah.
Do you have a plan for making up the work you missed last week and studying for finals?
Yes, Annette is going to tutor me in everything except math, and this, um, other girl is going to help me with the math.
Great! Listen, Steven, I’m really glad you’re back on track with this school stuff. We absolutely depend on you in All-City, and I’m thrilled that we can keep you in the ensemble.
Me, too.
But part of me was thinking, “What’s the point of practicing for a stupid concert when my brother might not live to see it?”
The week went by like that, with me going to school, my mom and Jeffrey coming and going between home and Philly, my dad staring off into space even more than he had been for months. I kept having those “What’s the point of…?” moments, but plugged away at life pretty consistently, anyway. And Annette came by three times to help me study.
You know what? She was an amazing tutor. I understood everything when she explained it, and got hundreds on a social studies quiz and a science lab thanks to her. There was an awkward moment when she first saw Jeffrey, because it was her first time seeing him all bald and puffy, but she covered her shock well. And by the second night, she was playing board games with him every time she took a break while I did practice quizzes or writing assignments. He was happy with the attention, and I noticed something interesting: She was much more patient and honestly excited to play with him than I was.
So Annette was the absolute perfect tutor pal, and I should have been kissing the ground beneath her feet and carrying her book bag to school every day, right? But even while I was getting so much from her, I couldn’t stop thinking about next week, when Renee would be coming over.
On Thursday night of that week, Mom and Jeffrey left for a quick two-day trip to Philly for blood counts and a couple of chemotherapy injections. The procedures were pretty routine by then, but the results weren’t. Jeffrey’s counts were really low, so low that the doctors gave him two transfusions: one of whole blood and one of platelets. This turned the two-day trip into a four-day trip. I heard my dad on the phone saying that the hospital bills were running about $2,000 a night, so I knew our financial picture wasn’t getting any rosier. Also, my mom told me that Jeffrey would probably be even more vulnerable to germs in the foreseeable future, so I should be extra-careful to avoid being near anyone who was sneezing or coughing, and to wash my hands when I walked into the house every day. I asked if I should just stay home and live in a plastic bubble with Jeffrey, and she warned me that I might, in fact, have to stay out of school for a while if something like chicken pox started going around.
So I was freaking out. On the one hand, my head was a mess of tumbling worries: rising poverty, falling blood counts, alarming potential for quarantine. On the other hand, Renee was coming! RENEE WAS COMING! To! My! HOUSE!
Tuesday was the big day. Midterm exams were a week away, so I needed Renee’s help pretty big-time. Also, I couldn’t get past the excitement part of the deal: Renee! In my house! I missed math for a drum-section rehearsal (you really have to love the logic of getting called out of math for band right before exams), and Renee wasn’t on the bus on the way home from school. So we didn’t confirm that she would be coming over, but I assumed the plan was on for 7:00 p.m., which was what we had arranged the week before.
I ate with my mom and Jeffrey at 6:00; my dad was still at his office. It was the beginning of tax season, when accountants get busier and busier leading up to April 15th. I figured we could use some extra income, so I was betting my dad would be really busy this year. Anyway, my mom noticed that I was being quieter than usual, and Jeffrey started in.
He’s saving up all his smooth talking for his big date with Renee Albert.
It’s not a date, nutball. She’s just tutoring me in math.
I bet you’re gonna kiss her, right?
She has a boyfriend, Jeffrey. You know that. She’s still going out with Biff, the guitar player.
But she’s coming over to play with you.
She’s not playing with me; she’s teaching me about numbers and stuff.
So when are you going to kiss her, then?
MOM! The kid is out of control. Can’t we get him some tranquilizers or something? Maybe a padded cell upstairs?
Then my mom got rolling. Steven, is there something going on between you and Renee? I notice you’re dressed more neatly than usual, and your hair is even combed down.
And he’s wearing boy perfume, Mom. He wasn’t wearing any last week when Annette came over, but for RENEE he is.
It’s called cologne, monkey boy.
Since when do you wear cologne to learn math? Oh, my son is growing up right in front of my very eyes. Maybe I should get out the video camera.
Maybe you should tie me to a stake, douse me in kerosene, and torch me right on our front lawn.
I won’t need any kerosene, Steven—I’m sure the cologne will go up pretty fast!
Ha-ha, Mom.
Just then the doorbell rang.
Please keep the lunatic away from us, Mom. We have work to do.
Is kissing hard work or easy work, Steven?
MOM! REMOVE HIM!
I went to answer the door, and when I opened it, Renee was standing there, all bundled up against the winter, with a few snow-flurry flakes on her jacket. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, and her hair was blowing around. I just wanted to reach out and brush the strands away from her face, but that didn’t seem like a good tutorial beginning, plus Biff looked like the kind of guy who could rip my arms off and use them as toothpicks. So I just said hi instead.
She said hello back, and I was just about to step aside and let her in. But just then, she sneezed. And coughed. And sneezed again.
Excuse me, Steven. I’m coming down with some kind of virus
thingy, I think. I went home early from school today and skipped cheering, but I didn’t want to stand you up. You have so many big problems going on, I just couldn’t let you down. So I’m here. Let’s get to work!
I blocked the doorway with my body and said something that seemed to float up from a place beyond my worst nightmares.
Renee, I can’t let you in.
What do you mean? It’s cold out here, and we’ve got a lot to do.
I mean, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you come into this house. You’re sick, and Jeffrey can’t get sick right now.
Steven, you’re being ridiculous. It’s probably just a cold, anyway.
A cold could put my brother in the hospital.
Steven, what’s really going on? Do you hate math so much you just can’t stand it? Do you want to fail the class? Then I wish you would have told me that before I came stomping through the snow to come over here.
Renee, I’m serious. This isn’t about math.
And it can’t be about ME. Any boy in the school would be drooling to have me come over. And everybody knows you’ve had a crush on me since third grade, haven’t you? Now just let me IN!
I’m sorry, Renee. Do you want me to call your mom to come get you?
Without responding to me directly, she spun around on her heels like the dancer she was and marched away. I could hear her muttering about me all the way to the end of the driveway:
Uuugggghhh! I walk to the boy’s house in a BLIZZARD, and he doesn’t even let me IN. He drools over me for half a DECADE, but when I deliver myself to his front DOOR, he slams it in my FACE! I will NEVER underSTAND boys! At that point, she fired a parting shot over her shoulder. Go ahead, then, fail math and be lonely the rest of your life.
As I slumped against the door frame, staring at her back and wondering how she could be so graceful in snow boots and a parka when she wasn’t even feeling well, Jeffrey came up behind me.
You know, Steven, you were right. I guess you aren’t going to kiss her.
THE SILVER LINING
OK, a quick status report, as of the end of January:
1. My family was plunging into poverty.
2. My brother had no immune system.
3. My mom had no job.
4. My dad was working about ninety hours a week and appeared to be on the verge of flipping out completely.
5. The hottest girl in the eighth grade came to my house to tutor me, and I booted her off of my property.
6. I was definitely going to fail my math final.
But on a brighter note, my strange, tragedy-induced popularity at school was growing. Word got around that Steven Alper was the guy who kicked Renee Albert to the curb, and people just decided I must be the MAN. Annette was especially thrilled with the whole story for some reason; maybe she figured she’d have no competition for Tutor of the Year now.
Of course, every male I knew thought that sending Renee home made me the Idiot Boy of East Village Middle School, but they still felt an odd sort of admiration for me. It was like I had resisted the spell of a fearsome enchantress—everyone else was under that spell and COULDN’T resist it, so they assumed I had some secret strength. It didn’t matter that they were wrong, that every time Renee walked into homeroom and glared at me, I was torn between two equally powerful urges: to run up to her, drop to one knee, and propose or to run away from her and cry in the boys’ bathroom for an hour. All they saw was a guy who sent the Cheer Queen packing.
Weird.
Annette met with me after school a bunch more times that last week, my brother and mom went to Philly and returned, I played drums and did homework, meals got nuked and consumed, the sun rose in the East and set in the West. Numbness was setting in, but I had just enough oomph left to get me through finals.
I wound up with As and Bs in English, science, social studies, and Spanish, and a big, fat D in math. Mrs. Galley called me into her office one Friday to break the news.
Candy heart, Steven?
Last time I had been there, I practically had to donate blood to get a candy heart. Now she was leading off by offering me one? That right there was enough to tell me she hadn’t sent for me so she could award me an honor roll T-shirt.
What did I do wrong, Mrs. Galley? I made up every scrap of work in every class, I got a tutor, I studied like a monk…
You got a thirty-seven on your math final.
Huh, how ‘bout that? I thought for sure I’d get at least a thirty-nine with that extra credit problem about the two trains.
Steven, I’m truly sorry. You made an incredible effort right up until the end.
Yeah, so did the dodo bird, the passenger pigeon, Vanilla Ice…
How are your parents going to take this news? I know you were quite concerned about their reaction when you had all that homework to make up.
Uh…I don’t know, really. I’ve never gotten lower than a B+ before, but on the other hand, they’re pretty caught up in my brother’s situation right now. Maybe they just kinda won’t notice?
I’m sorry to break it to you, Steven, but I have a feeling they’ll notice this.
I know. How are they going to find out? Are report cards getting mailed home today, or will you call first, or will I have a chance to tell them?
Your report card is probably already in your mailbox. Do you want me to call them before they see it?
Yes, please. You can get my mom on her cell phone. She’s at the hospital with Jeffrey today, but she always has it with her. Please tell her I tried. Please?
She said she would “certainly advocate” for me and then asked whether I wanted to be in the office for the call. I really and truly didn’t want to sit there and watch the live action as my mom got disappointed in me, so I went back to class. I buried my head and got through the rest of the day, but the bus ride home felt like a condemned man’s last walk.
Of course, when I got home, nobody was there. The answering machine had two messages: Dad would be home by 10 p.m., and I should eat without him (well, DUH!), and Mom and Jeffrey would be staying at the hospital another night, but I should call my mom’s cell phone ASAP.
Now here was an interesting dilemma. Should I call and face the problem or not call and enjoy a few hours of lonely, nerve-wracking boredom, instead of my usual lonely, depressing boredom? I pondered that for about seven-tenths of a second before finally going downstairs to play drums until “dinner.” While I was in the basement playing, it occurred to me that my mom might worry when she didn’t hear back, but I just wasn’t in the mood to consider somebody else’s feelings at the moment.
Unfortunately, it also didn’t occur to me that my mom might completely spaz and send my dad home to check on me. Imagine my surprise when basement lights went out! I stopped playing, took off my headphones, and jumped up. The lights went back on. When my eyes re-adjusted, I was looking straight into the vengeful glare of an enraged accountant.
Steven! It’s 6:30. What are you doing?
Ummm…playing drums?
Why didn’t you call your mother when you got home?
Why should I have? She’s just going to yell at me for my math grade, right?
You should have called her because when you DIDN’T, she was afraid you’d disappeared or something. So she had me paged out of an important meeting, and I came charging home. This cost us about $200…and we don’t HAVE $200. It was irresponsible, Steven.
Ooohhhh, irresponsible. That’s, like, the dirtiest word an accountant can possibly say to his kid. I knew things were at a crucial point right now: What I said next would likely determine whether I’d be grounded until marriage or just lectured for a while and then ignored again. But every once in a while, you don’t make the safest choice when you’re thirteen.
IRRESPONSIBLE? Irresponsible, Dad? You really want to talk about “irresponsible?” I don’t THINK you do! Who’s the super-responsible guy who hasn’t actually talked to his firstborn son about ANYTHING in about four months? Who’s the pillar of reliability who
has left his thirteen-year-old to fend for himself for weeks on end? When was the last time you asked me about school, RESPONSIBLE MAN? When was the last time you went shopping for any food that can’t be cooked using two minutes of radiation?
Steven, that’s not fair.
FAIR? You banished me to the old folks’ home for a week, and you want to talk to me about “fair”?
Steven, you know we had to take care of your brother.
Now I was in full-on attack formation. It was like I was playing some kind of Dad Devastator III video game or something—I just couldn’t stop saying the coldest, meanest things that popped into my head.
WHO had to take care of my brother? Have you been playing board games with him every night instead of studying for school? Have you been kneeling with him in front of the toilet every time he throws up? Have you been sleeping at the hospital with him? Have you…
I stopped for a moment and looked up at my father; truthfully, I was kind of surprised he hadn’t smacked me yet. What I saw wasn’t quite what I would have expected. He had sat down heavily on the basement steps, and his head was bowed. He looked like a dog does right after you whack it with a newspaper.
Ummm, Dad? Dad?
His voice was a hollow whisper that I hadn’t heard before and hoped I’d never hear again. You’re right, Steven. You’re 100% right. I have not been talking with you, and I haven’t been taking care of anybody. I haven’t been…I haven’t…since your brother’s…since October…
This was the longest string of words he had uttered in months, but it suddenly dried up, as if he just couldn’t find any more to say. And then he looked at me with this tenderness that was also totally new to me, stood up, and held his arms open.
Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie Page 9