by Don Calame
“No, it isn’t,” Coop says.
“Well, I think it is.” Sean grabs a bag of Doritos from our mountain of snacks.
The screen door to Sean’s house creaks open and slams closed. Someone’s approaching.
“Hey, morons. Put your wieners away; I’m coming out there.” It’s Cathy, Sean’s sister. She pulls back the tent flap, crouches down, and looks inside. “Mom said you girls wanted to see me. This better be good.” She grabs a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips from our junk food stash but doesn’t open it.
I’d say something about her stealing our snacks, but I don’t want to piss her off.
“We have a picture for you,” Sean says. He turns to Coop. “Go on. Show it to her.”
Coop digs his cell phone out of his overnight bag and flips it open. He hits a few buttons, then hands the phone over for Cathy to see.
“Well, well, well. The Virgin Mandy having a panty party. Who’s the muscle-head with her? I can’t see his face.”
“It’s Tony Grillo,” I say.
“The deal was for naked.” She hands the phone back to Coop. “Why didn’t you wait a little longer? It looks like they were about to get busy. What happened? Did you guys wet yourselves?” Cathy reaches over and grabs a Kit Kat bar and an Almond Joy.
“No. But there was . . . an interruption,” Sean says, his eyes darting to the side.
“Matt?” Cathy laughs. “Were we incontinent again?”
“No,” I say, looking away, shaking my head.
Sean leaps in. “Come on. She’s practically naked.”
Cathy ponders this as she rummages through our pile of chips and candy. She grabs a package of Ring Dings. “I know. I’ll just crop the picture of you guys so it’s just from the waist up. That seems fair. Half a cross-dressing picture for a half-naked Mandy.”
“Oh, come on,” Sean says. “If you posted that on Facebook, it’d be good payback. I mean, it’s pretty embarrassing.”
Cathy glares at her brother. “Are you kidding me? There are dirtier pictures in a Sears catalog.”
“Okay.” Sean sighs. “How about the picture of Mandy and I’ll be your slave for a week? Would that work?”
Cathy taps her finger on her lips. “Two weeks.”
Sean groans. “Aw, come on.”
“Three weeks.”
Sean’s shoulders slump. “Fine. Okay. God.” He glances between Coop and me. “But we want to see you erase the picture of us.”
“Where has the trust gone in this world?” She takes her cell phone from her pocket and finds the photo. She smiles wistfully. “It’s a shame, really. You girls look so pretty.”
“Okay, okay. Just do it.” Sean makes a get-on-with-it gesture.
Cathy turns the phone so we can see. She presses DELETE, and the picture of us vanishes. “Happy?”
The three of us sigh with relief.
Cathy laughs. “I’ll let you guys get back to playing show-and-tell.” She plucks another bag of chips from our rapidly dwindling store. “Thanks for the free snacks, losers. Bah-bye.” Cathy stands with her loot, then leaves.
“What if she made copies?” I say.
Sean shakes his head. “No chance.”
“I would have,” Coop says. “Just in case my phone died or something. She probably downloaded it onto her computer.”
“Yeah, I’d be worried about that,” Sean says, “if Cathy was even remotely organized. But I know my sister. It would have been too much of a hassle. Just like putting her plate in the dishwasher.” He collapses onto his sleeping bag. “You guys can stress, but I, for one, feel like I can breathe again.”
“Yeah, well, enjoy it. Because I’m still holding my breath until I figure a way to get out of swimming the butterfly this Saturday.”
“Too bad you screwed us at the mall.” Sean lies back with his hands behind his head. “Otherwise we’d help you out.”
“You’re just mad because I outsmarted you guys.”
“No, actually,” Coop says, “we’re mad because we had a chance to achieve our summer goal and you blew it.”
“You would’ve been caught, anyway. I probably saved you from going to jail.”
Sean’s staring up at the top of the tent with a dopey grin on his face. “It would have been totally worth it.”
“Besides, I owed you guys for bailing on me at the party. Tony the Gorilla nearly killed me.”
Coop groans. “Oh, God. How long are you going to milk that one?”
“I’m just saying —”
“Okay. Fine.” Coop sits up. “But this doesn’t mean that we’re square. I came up with this wicked idea last night, and the only reason I’m offering it to you is that I’d hate to see my genius go to waste.”
“What’s the idea?”
Coop nods. “It’s big —”
“That’s what she said,” Sean interrupts, laughing.
Coop cuts him off with a death stare. He turns back to me. “It’s going to take an Oscar-caliber performance. Do you think you’re up to that, Mattie?”
“What do I have to do?”
“You have to know exactly how to act. It’s the only way you’ll pull it off.”
“Act what? What is it?”
“It’s the one thing you can fake that’ll even fool a doctor. The one thing there’s no definitive test for.” Coop grins big and pauses for dramatic emphasis. “Appendicitis.”
“Are you kidding me? What the hell’s wrong with a simple migraine?”
“Look, if Ms. Luntz hears you have a headache, she’ll know you bailed. And then everyone will know you bailed. But if she hears you had appendicitis? Who’s going to fake that? Nobody. It’s foolproof.”
“Coop’s right,” Sean says. “I’d never even think to fake that.”
“You have to end up in the hospital. And you have to have a doctor confirm it. That way, no one will even question it.”
“I don’t know. That sounds extreme.”
“It is extreme. That’s the point,” Coop says. “My cousin had appendicitis last year, and he was out of commission for, like, a week. It’s perfect. You’re exactly like him. You have all the risk factors. You’re under twenty. You’re male. And you eat a low-fiber diet.”
“How do you know what I eat?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s just what you say when the doctor asks. You eat mostly meat and cheese. You have a severe pain in your lower right side. Here.” Coop reaches over and points to my right side just above my pelvis. “You wince in pain as soon as you feel any kind of pressure. It’s hard to walk. And you feel nauseous.”
“What if they take an X-ray or something?”
“That’s the beauty of it. They can’t see it with an X-ray. All they did was make my cousin piss in a cup. They’ll just keep an eye on you for a few days and give you antibiotics, and when you’re feeling better, they let you go.”
“Is that what happened with your cousin?”
“No. He had to have an operation. But that’s because his appendix burst. Just don’t go over the top with your acting and you’ll be fine.”
“It can’t be that easy,” I say.
“It isn’t. You have to convince them first. But after that, it’s just hot nurses giving you sponge baths and all the Jell-O you can eat.”
“I TOLD YOU THAT YOU would return,” Ulf says, when I enter the pool on Thursday.
“Yeah, well. I’m kind of stuck.” I don’t want to disappoint him, but the only reason I’m here is to see if there is any way I can possibly complete four laps of butterfly before Saturday’s meet. Otherwise, I might actually have to resort to Coop’s ridiculous plan.
“You have taken the step of a baby,” Ulf says, looking uncharacteristically content. “This is the first step in becoming a warrior.”
“I don’t feel much like a warrior.” I put my towel down, then take out my wallet and cell phone and tuck these inside the towel. I want to get the coin-collecting part of the “lesson” over with as soon as poss
ible, but Ulf is blocking my way to the pool.
“When a horse falls on you, you can stay there and say, ‘I am squished by a horse.’ Or you can find another horse. Today, you have made the choice to find another horse. There are many people who would not do the same.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, looking down at Ulf’s left hand. I keep wanting to ask him what the deal is with those black nails. Is he Goth or GI Joe or some weird amalgam? I figure since he’s in such a talkative mood, I might as well try and get an answer. “Why do you paint the nails on your hand?”
Ulf glances down at his nails. “They are as a reminder. Something I do not want to forget.”
“Like what, though? To pick up milk on your way home or something?”
“No. They are to remind me of a person.” He closes his hand. “It is time for you to collect my coins. Go. Nineteen minutes.” Ulf turns and walks toward the office.
Okaaay. Doesn’t like talking about the nails. Check.
I trudge over to the water’s edge and stare down at all those damn coins.
I take a deep breath.
And jump in.
I COULDN’T SWIM FOUR CONTINUOUS LAPS of butterfly on Thursday. I barely managed two before I started sucking pool water.
I’ve been racking my brain for a better plan than Coop’s appendicitis hoax, but for the life of me I can’t come up with one. It scares me that an idea of Coop’s seems like the only logical option.
It’s the morning of sectionals and I’m lying in bed, pressing my fingers into the soft area where my appendix is supposedly located. I practice grimacing in pain when a little pressure is applied. I’ve never lied on quite this scale before, but I’ve never had to deal with anything this big, either. A few days in the hospital is a small price to pay to save face and keep my chances with Kelly alive. It might even gain me a little sympathy. Maybe she’ll bring over some chicken soup and do a get-well striptease.
There’s a knock on my door. “Time to get up, honey.” It’s Mom. “We have to leave in an hour and you want to have time to eat something.”
I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.
“Mom,” I say, “I don’t . . . feel so good.”
The bedroom door pushes open and Mom pokes her head in. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I try not to sound sick. Coop says the I’m-dying voice is a dead giveaway. “It’s hard to sit up. There’s like this cramp in my stomach or something.”
Mom enters the room and moves over to my bedside. “Where? Show me.”
I pull back the covers and place my hand on the right side of my abdomen. “Here.”
Mom reaches over and lightly presses on the spot. “There?”
“Ssss.” I wince at her touch, just like I practiced with Coop. “Yes.”
Mom’s face goes pale. She cups her hand over her mouth. “Okay. Let’s not panic.” She’s not doing a very good job of hiding hers. I really hate having to lie to her like this. “Did you lift anything heavy yesterday?”
“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sure it’ll go away. I better get ready.” I swing my legs around gingerly and get to my feet with just a flicker of the “agony” it’s causing me.
Coop says you have to make sure that you downplay the pain. It’s got to be a perfect balance between what you say and how you act. Never ask to get out of the thing you’re trying to get out of. Always soldier on, like you’re being brave. It’s important that someone else suggest that you stay home. And even then you can’t give in. They have to insist you stay home. Otherwise there will always be suspicion.
I shuffle over to where my swim stuff is.
“Do you want to go to the doctor, honey?”
“No,” I scoff. “It’s not a big deal. I’m actually feeling a little better now that I’m up.”
This is another Cooper suggestion. You don’t want anyone thinking you’re lying about being sick, so make them think you’re not being completely honest about feeling well.
“You don’t look so good.”
“Thanks a lot, Mom. You’re a real confidence booster.”
Mom gives a hesitant laugh, just like Coop said she would. “That’s not what I meant.”
She looks so worried. God, I feel guilty.
Just not guilty enough to stop.
“Let’s see how you’re feeling after breakfast.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
At breakfast Grandpa reads the newspaper, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I subject myself to this goddamn paper every morning. It’s like a catalog of everything bad that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
I’m pushing the bacon and scrambled eggs around on my plate with my fork in an effort to appear not to have an appetite, even though I’m starving.
“You haven’t touched your food,” Mom says, watching me over a bite of her toast.
“Yeah. I’m just not that hungry.”
Mom glares. “You’re not going to a swim meet on an empty stomach, young man. You need your energy. Now eat.”
I spear some egg with my fork and lift it slowly. I examine it before I place it in my mouth. It tastes good. Mom mixed Parmesan cheese and ham in, which makes it all the more difficult not to eat. I pretend that it’s hard to get the food down, but really I’m savoring the one bite I’ll let myself have.
I flinch a little and grab at my side.
This does not go unnoticed by Mom. She drops her fork on her plate. “You’re not being truthful with me.”
I look up at her. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you were feeling better, but clearly you’re in pain. You won’t eat. Something’s wrong. I think we should take you to the hospital.”
“What’s going on?” Grandpa says, folding his paper and setting it aside.
“Matt woke up with a bad pain in his side and now he says he’s not hungry.”
“Where’s the pain?”
“It’s right here.” I place my hand exactly where I did before.
“Sounds like appendicitis. That’s nothing to screw around with. I saw a couple-a guys go down with that in Korea. If your appendix bursts, it’s sayonara.”
“That’s it.” Mom stands. “We’re taking you to the emergency room. Let’s go. Get your shoes on.”
“Mom, please. It’s just a stomachache.”
“Fine,” Mom says. “We’ll let the doctor be the judge of that. I’ll call Ms. Luntz and tell her you won’t be able to make the meet today.”
“They need me to swim.”
“I don’t care. They’ll get someone else. Some things are more important.”
“Mom —”
“You don’t have a choice here, Matt. I’m not going to have my son die because he’s too stubborn to see a doctor.”
I can’t believe this is really working. It’s exactly how Coop laid it out. The stage has been set.
Things couldn’t be going any smoother.
WE’VE BEEN SITTING in the waiting room of the ER for almost two hours now. Our family doctor only works weekdays, so the hospital was the only choice. Mom and Grandpa Arlo are both here with me, and I’m feeling more and more guilty with every passing minute.
There are people here with real emergencies. There’s a guy who got bleach splashed in his eyes and a woman whose arm has inflated to the size of a watermelon and a kid with his hand wrapped in a bloody towel. I’m glad they’re making us wait because, honestly, I don’t want to be the reason any of these people don’t get seen as soon as possible.
I realize now that I didn’t think this all the way through.
I keep glancing at the fenced-in clock on the wall, wondering how the swim meet is going, trying to guess what event they’re up to. I kind of miss being there. Not swimming the fly, but all the other stuff. Hanging out with everyone, eating chips, seeing Valerie and Kelly, playing cards, and rooting for my friends to win their races. I even kind of miss the stupid team cheers.
There’s a small TV mounted in the corner of the room. It keeps fluttering from color to black-and-white. One of the Rush Hour movies is playing, but the sound is off, so you really can’t tell what’s going on. Still, I keep catching myself staring at the screen.
It’s surprisingly quiet here, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights, the flip of magazine pages, and the occasional whisper. The swirl of ammonia and rubbing alcohol is burning my sinuses.
“Matthew Gratton.” A wizened nurse with a scowl and a manila folder calls out my name. If there are going to be any sponge baths, I can only hope she won’t be the one administering them.
Mom, Grandpa, and me all stand and make our way toward her.
“This way,” the nurse says as she turns on her heel and walks down the hallway.
The three of us follow. We take a left at the corner and pass a long row of makeshift curtained-off rooms. There is a lady sobbing and sniffling behind one of the curtains and an old man moaning weakly behind another.
The nurse leads us to a free cubicle with an examination bed, a chair, and a small cabinet. She makes me sit on the bed and takes my temperature and my blood pressure and then writes something down in the folder, which she places in a plastic file-holder at the end of the bed.
“The doctor will be in to see you shortly,” the nurse says before leaving.
“Goddamn it, I hate hospitals,” Grandpa announces. “The smell and the cold lighting and the attitude they serve you. It’s enough to make you never want to get ill.”
Mom gives Grandpa a look. “Everyone here’s overworked, Dad.”
“Please. That’s no excuse. It’s not like people get sick on purpose. Speaking of which, did you see the lady with the elephant arm in the waiting room?” Grandpa says. “Christ. What the hell do you think caused that?”
“Dad, please.”
“Must have been some kind of allergic reaction or something, don’t you think? She was a pretty good-looking gal, too, but if that swollen-arm thing were permanent? I don’t know that I could overlook something like that.”
“I’m sure your opinion’s the first thing on her mind.” Mom turns toward me. “How are you feeling, honey?”