Shoot. This is pathetic, thought Lee. What would it matter if Rhonda did turn out to be the most talented guitar-pickin’ tomboy in the Western Hemisphere? Why did he suddenly have this need for her to be as crappy as him? He hung his head and started down the hall to the exit. He didn’t even bother to stop at a door that had some gawd-awful, torturous guitar strumming coming from it. It didn’t matter if that was Rhonda in there or not. Nothing mattered.
As he walked, Lee suddenly became aware of a dreamy, far-off whisper of music. It was coming from the downstairs library. Without thinking, he followed the mesmerizing sound down the stairs, like a snake drawn to the flute of a snake charmer. He put his ear to the door. Normally he wasn’t the kind of guy who went in for classical symphony stuff, but there was something about this sad-sweet music that pulled him in and wouldn’t let him go. Almost like it wasn’t music at all, but some kind of growing vine slowly curling its sad tendrils around his heart. Violin. That’s what it was.
Lee leaned his back against the door and slowly slid down until his bum met the ground. Any other day he would have been embarrassed to admit he’d been knocked out flat by the sentimental strains of a violin. Right now he was incapable of caring. He closed his eyes and bonked the back of his head against the door. Which turned out to be a colossal mistake. Suddenly he heard a click as the door latch gave way and he found himself lying on the floor looking up at the library ceiling. The music stopped cold.
“Jeez, sorry,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He was out the door, about to close it with a final “Sorry ’bout tha—” when he stopped in mid-sentence. The girl playing the violin looked familiar, somehow, sort of like a cleaned-up version of Rhonda Ronaldson. Lee stared. His mouth dropped open. Oh, my gosh …
Rhonda’s jaw dropped, too. Her arms fell to her sides, violin dangling from one hand and bow from the other. For a second, you could have heard a pin drop. Instead, clunk, they heard Rhonda’s bow slip from her fingers to the floor. That was just the calm before the storm. In the next second, Rhonda gathered up all her fury and fired words at Lee like fast-flying spitballs from a straw. “What are you doing here, ya stupid jerk?”
Lee opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but nothing came out.
Rhonda rammed her violin into the guitar case and slammed the clasp shut. Then she held the case in front of her to hide her ugly dress. “This was none of your business, jerk-head,” she said, pushing past him in the doorway. Lee watched her storm off down the hall. Then he looked at Miss Edwards, who by now had joined him at the door. They both watched Rhonda take her shoes off halfway down the hall and hurl them at the wall. Miss Edwards just shook her head and started gathering up the sheets of music.That’s when the truth hit him like a punch to the gut— Lee, Einstein McGillicuddy, son of Frankinstein McGillicuddy, would never be an Einstein, or even a Frankinstein—he would never be fabulously good at anything. He could easily have shrugged it off—the belch and the poop incidents with Charlotte, the failed math exam and the total turd he’d made of himself in Woodtick’s class, the embarrassing lame-brain optimism he’d felt at the beginning of the day—my shirt is toothpaste blue!!!—gad. Embarrassing, sure, but it was the kind of stuff that might fade, given time. But not this—you just don’t recover from the certain knowledge that you’ll never amount to a hill of stinkin’ kidney beans in this life. If even someone like Rhonda, of all humanoids, was dripping with talent, he knew he was way too far behind to ever catch up. Might as well give up now.
And that’s about when Lee felt his pilot light fizzle out— ffssst—dead; not even the hint of a flame left. He headed toward the exit, numb.
When he got outside, his head rolled back on a limp neck and he found himself looking into the stars.
Einstein?
Frankindad?
Is there anybody up there?
Then he felt a surge of anger. Still glued to the stars, he yelled, “Who’s the director of this piece-of-crap movie anyhow, ’cause it sure as frig ain’t me!”
Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible player.
– Albert Einstein
FADE TO BLACK
CUT
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When angry, count to four.
When very angry, swear.
Mark Twain
“Frick’n Frack’n F*#!!?/*#@*#.” If you’d asked Rhonda why she was so hair-ripping furious (’cause, like, let’s face it, it’s not as if she’d been caught playing the violin naked, or anything), she wouldn’t have been able to tell you. No, she would have refused to tell you, because she refused to even think about it herself. The word “embarrassed” embarrassed Rhonda. The word “emotions” wasn’t in her vocabulary. She wasn’t interested in having feelings in the first place, and if she did, she certainly didn’t want to talk about them.
“For the millionth time, nothing’s wrong with me,” said Rhonda to her mother.
“Oh, yeah?” said Mrs. Ronaldson. “Then why are you murdering that chrysanthemum?”
Rhonda looked down at the mess of purple petals on the kitchen table. She’d absentmindedly taken one of the flowers from her mother’s vase, but she didn’t realize she’d been sitting there pulling it to pieces the whole time.
“I’m just bored,” said Rhonda, hoping that would put an end to the inquisition.
“You’ve been cranky for days,” said Mrs. Ronaldson. “If you’re so bored, why don’t you go for a bike ride, or see what Daddy’s up to.”
“Daddy?!” spat Rhonda. “He’s the last creep in the world I wanna see.”
“Rhonda!” said her mother. “How dare you talk about your father that way!”
Rhonda gave her one of her “hello?” looks. “What’s my father got to do with this?”
“You just said …”
“Oh,” said Rhonda, “that Daddy. I thought you were talking about Daddy McGill …”
“Aha!!” interrupted Mrs. Ronaldson. “I suspected as much.”
Rhonda gave her mother another “have you gone totally batty?” look.
Her mother continued. “That Beanpole boy has something to do with your foul mood these days, am I right?”
Rhonda opened the fridge and faked looking for something inside, just to hide her face (which by now was as red as the hot-sauce bottle in the fridge door).
“Rhonda,” said her mother, her voice softening, “do you have a crush on that boy?”
Crush. Crush! Rhonda hated that word. It embarrassed her more than “embarrassed.” She slammed the fridge door, walked past her mother without dignifying her question with an answer, and walked straight out the front door. Then she saw Lee coming down Agnes’s front steps and she did an about-face and came straight back in. She looked at her mother, who was looking back with an amused smile. That did it! She stormed to the back door, slamming it big-time on her way out, and took the long way to school, mumbling under her breath the entire way:
“… a crush? On that ‘Beanpole boy’? Give your head a shake, Mother. Are you on crack, or what?”
All mothers are slightly insane.
– J.D. Salinger
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hey, Pardner! You’ve reached the McGillicuddy residence. Neither Gert nor Lee can come to the phone just now. Be a pal and leave a message after the beep.
Beep!
Hey, Lee, Slang here. Missed you at the game last night, Buddy. Everything okay? Gimme a call.
Beep!
Hi, this is a message for Lee. Yeah, Lee, it’s Frank here, from Frank’s Meats and Deli. You haven’t been in for your dog bones lately. Hope Santiago’s okay. Just chopped up some fine prime rib and I’ll save the bones as usual. Give me a call if you’re having canine trouble.
Beep!
Frank again. Meant to say howdy to Gert. Howdy, Gert! Keep a seat warm for me at the club! It’s been a while.
Beep!
Hi, Lee. It’s Slang again. Ho
w come you’re not answering your messages these days, man? Not sick or anything, I hope. Championships coming up. Can’t be without my good luck charm. Gimme a call.
June 25
Dear Mrs. McGillicuddy:
I thought I’d drop you a note to let you know that I’ve been a little concerned about Lee lately. As you know, I’ve been Lee’s homeroom teacher for nearly two years now, and I’ll confess to you, Mrs. McGillicuddy, that although we teachers are not supposed to have favorites, I’ve always had a special soft spot for Lee. Although he’s not one of my most academically talented students, he has a sparkle and a generous spirit that shines brighter than most. That’s why it troubles me to have noticed a change come over him recently. The spark seems to have left his eyes, and although he’s completing homework and handing in assignments, he does so with a certain lifelessness that has me worried. I don’t mean to alarm you prematurely, Mrs McGillicuddy. As we both know, it is perfectly natural for children to move through brief rough patches as they grow. But it is the intensity of his “lethargy” this past week that prompts me to contact you. I don’t mean to pry, Mrs. McGillicuddy, but is he having any personal difficulties lately that it might be helpful for me to know about? I’d love to be of some help to Lee, but he doesn’t seem open to talking right now. I’m leaving you with my home phone number, and that of the school‘s guidance counselor, and although the final week of school is always a busy one, we wouldn’t dream of not making time for you. Lee is a wonderful boy, Mrs. McGillicuddy, and I long to see his big goofy smile light up our schoolroom again.
Sincerely,
Margaret Burns
June 26
Dear Stupid Diary,
I decided to start talking to Lee again, not that he deserves it, the stinkin’ spy. But he’s totally weirding me out. He’s too nice. Well, maybe not nice exactly, but completely unbuggable, if you know what I mean. He didn’t even get mad yesterday when I expertly zinged his dumb baseball cap right off his head with my slingshot (no one is better with a slingshot than the Amazing Ron Ronaldson, in case you didn’t know, Stupid diary.) He just picked up his hat and put it back on his head like it never happened. He didn’t even try to catch me and give me a knuckle noogie to the head.
Actually, I don’t think the guy is Lee at all. I think he’s some kind of zombie just pretending to be Lee. Or maybe some green aliens picked him up one night and sucked all the personality out of his body before kicking him off the spaceship. Not that he was ever Mr. Personality to begin with, but you know what I mean, right, Stupid?
Yours truly,
Ron, aka The Amazing One
Dear Almighty Director (whoever you are and wherever you are),
This is to inform you that I, Lee McGillicuddy, officially resign from my starring role in this inferior movie called “My Life.” I don’t like the way the plot is unfolding. If I am the “hero” of this picture, then where are my scenes of heroism?
Nope, the whole production has ceased to be any fun—and, like, I’m not even getting paid (unless you count my allowance, which is beans-all). If you refuse to release me from my role, I’ll have no choice but to go on strike till the script shows signs of improvement.
Yours sinc …
“Oh, my God,” said, Lee, letting the pencil drop from his fingers. “I really am mental.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LEE’S CRAPPY LIFE: TAKE 379
MONTAGE SEQUENCE COMING UP
CAMERA ONE, START WITH A TIGHT SHOT OF THE DOG’S DRIPPING DROOL.
QUIET ON THE SET ANNNND, ACTION!
Woof! Rrrrrrrrrr, woofwoofwoof!! Howwooooooo!
For a dog, Santiago was pretty smart. But she had the worst short-term memory in the history of dogdom. Long-term memory? No prob. She still remembered, as a puppy, looking out through the bars of her cage at the Humane Society, while a guy in a cowboy hat tried to convince his wife to have a heart: “Come on, Gertie, honey-pie, our son deserves a pet. Every boy should have a dog. And just look at that little feller …”
Santiago remembered that day six long years ago like it was yesterday, but if you’d asked her what she’d eaten for breakfast this morning, she wouldn’t be able to tell you, and not just because she couldn’t talk English. She simply would not remember. Of course, that bad memory had its advantages at times. She’d bury a bone in the morning, for example, then rediscover it in the afternoon, with a flurry of excited tail-wagging, like it was a brand new find.
But there were also times when her poor memory put her at a distinct disadvantage. Like every day in the past two weeks when she’d rushed to meet Lee coming home from school and had to rediscover anew that Lee wasn’t much interested in her these days—that he hardly noticed she was there. Each time it felt like a rude shock. It upset her stomach and made her want to hide under the huge rhubarb leaves in the back yard and go to sleep. Not to mention the fact that Lee hadn’t brought her a juicy bone for ages. Howwoooooow!
CUT TO AGNES’S KITCHEN
The Bluebird of Happiness long absent from his life, Ned is visited by the Chicken of Depression.
– Gary Larson (cartoonist and creator of The Far Side)
“Do you think he might be depressed?”
“Depressed? At his age?” said Gertrude, refilling her coffee cup from the pot on Agnes’s table.
“It’s possible,” said Agnes, pulling a tissue from the sleeve of her housedress and giving her nose a quick honk. “Even kids can sometimes drop into a hole that’s hard to climb out of.”
“No. It’s more likely some kind of growth spurt that’s just taken everything out of him. He’s grown another inch and a half in the last month, have you noticed? That’s gotta be hard on a body.”
“Speaking of which,” said Agnes, “don’t you think it’s time to get the boy some new jeans? The ones he’s walking around in are short enough to get him through the next Red River flood without getting wet. In fact, maybe he’s just embarrassed about looking like a goof.”
Gertrude didn’t even hear Agnes’s last comment. She was too busy thinking. “I had a talk with his teacher yesterday. She agreed that a growth spurt might have something to do with it. Or hormones, maybe. Or both.”
Agnes ignored Gertrude right back and continued on with her own train of thought. “I’ve heard about a herbal remedy that’s good for lifting the spirits. St. John’s Wort, I think they call it. Maybe …”
Gertrude looked up over her coffee cup. “Forget it, Ag. Witch’s warts and eyes of newts are not what’s needed here. Don’t go wasting your money on crazy potions. I mean it, Ag.”
CUT TO INTERIOR OF “FRANK’S MEAT AND DELI”
Frank took a bag full of week-old beef bones from the fridge and dropped them into the garbage can with a sigh. Then he took a fresh plastic bag from under the counter, filled it with today’s bones, and set them on a shelf in the fridge. Before turning off the lights to the store, he stopped to look at a crooked Polaroid snapshot, stuck to the cash register, of a skinny kid and his maniac dog. Frank smiled and straightened the picture before leaving the store and locking the door behind him.
CUT TO AGNES
Agnes set the bottle of St. John’s Wort on the counter beside the sink. Then she bent her stiff back to peek inside the oven at the loaf of banana bread she was baking especially for Lee. She knew it was his favorite.
CUT TO SLANG
Slang put his date book in his backpack and got ready to leave his house. Then he took the organizer back out and flipped to tomorrow’s date. There he wrote a reminder to himself: Drop by Beanpole’s place sometime soon. He was about to put the book back in his backpack when he took it out one more time: Remember to bring a team T-shirt for the kid. Size? Slang thought for a second, then smiled and continued writing: “S” for skinny.
CUT TO GERTRUDE
Gertrude folded the two new pairs of extra-long blue jeans she’d bought that day and laid them at the end of Lee’s bed. Then she looked at her watch, hoping he’d get hom
e from delivering flyers soon. She flipped through the TV guide in search of a funny movie the two of them might watch together. Gertrude put a pack of popcorn in the microwave. She parted the living room curtains and looked down the street.
CUT TO LEE’S TEACHER
Mrs. Burns put down her red marking pen, stretched, and went to the kitchen to pour another cup of tea. She carried it back to the dining room table, sat down, and flipped through the messy pile of creative writing essays she’d just finished marking in time for report cards. She took a sip of tea, scratched her cat, Tigger, behind the ear, and put the cup down. Mrs. Burns sorted through the papers until she came to Lee’s and, with her red pen, changed the “C” to a “B.” She took another sip of tea, planted a kiss on Tigger’s nose, and added a plus sign beside the B. “Our secret, Tigger,” she whispered.
CUT TO RHONDA
Rhonda put her violin to her chin and raised the bow. She started playing, but tonight the music made her feel sad. She put the violin down on her bed and peeked through a broken slat in the horizontal blinds at her window. She could see the lights on at Lee’s house. She could see Gertrude looking out the front window. She could see Santiago sitting near the front gate. But she couldn’t see Lee. Rhonda lay on her bed beside her violin and looked at the cracks in the ceiling.
The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records Page 8