This Is Not the Abby Show

by Debbie Reed Fischer

  “What a difference from Mr. Finsecker,” Mom says. “He’s wonderful.”

  “He is,” I say, feeling choked up again. “The best. It was his idea that I try stand-up in the first place.”

  Dad puts his arm around me. “Your friends seem like a nice bunch too. What do you say we celebrate next door at Baskin-Robbins?” Mom doesn’t tell Dad how many points a cone of rocky road is, and she doesn’t tell me I can’t have sugar. “Would you kids like to join us for ice cream?” Dad asks everyone. “My treat.”

  “No, thanks,” Trina says. “I don’t do dairy. I’m a fruitarian. But I’ll come to be social.”

  Grandma and Mom stare at Trina’s pajama pants. “You’re a what?” Grandma asks her.

  “A fruitarian,” Trina repeats.

  Grandma looks at Mom. “A fruitarian. So she’s not Jewish?” Mom shushes her.

  Luckily, my parents and grandparents sit at a faraway table at Baskin-Robbins, giving me semi-privacy with my friends. I invite Drew to sit with us. He films us talking and laughing. Amy takes pictures of us to post online. We put our arms around each other, make faces, and hold up our ice creams.

  I love my life.

  We talk about how Tony’s class is ending in a few days. Looking back, I remember when I thought summer school was the end of the world. It turned out to be the best, most fun summer I ever had. And I learned a lot, about myself and about English.

  Tony already told me I’m getting a B+ for my final class grade, not too bad. Trina says he took us to the next level spiritually and intellectually, and it was a communal learning experience.

  Max and Amy go over all the parts of my set that had them cracking up. “I can’t believe your mom was laughing,” Max says. “Laughing!”

  “I can’t believe it either,” I say. I look around the table at my summer friends. On the first day of school, I told Caitlin they were all wackos, and let her make mean jokes about them. I’ve never been more wrong.

  Trina is fun and unique, even a genius, apparently. She’s been there for me this summer, been there for all of us. She always knows the right thing to say to make a person feel better. She’s convinced me to try a yoga class with her next week, says it will help me control my emotions and stay calm. I asked her if I could bring Mom, and she said yes.

  And then there’s Amy. She might be the nicest person I’ve ever met. The girl doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. It took me a while to warm to her, but I will be a loyal friend to Amy when school starts. She is the one I misjudged the most. Maybe because I was jealous of how the boys looked at her, including Brett. It’s funny, I never think about Brett anymore.

  I watch Max eat his ice cream. Magic Max, with his wavy hair and blue braces like mine. He pushes me to try new things, cheers me on, comforts me when I’m sad or scared, always has time to talk. I once thought he was weird for being so into magic. Now I like it too, and I can’t imagine not having him around.

  But he won’t be. He’ll be in Pennsylvania soon. Our magic shows, our inside jokes, seeing him every day. No more.

  Max spills some ice cream on his shirt, looks down, smiles. He’s cute. I see it now. Maybe I always have. I wonder if Trina is right that he likes me.

  Do I like him as more than a friend?

  I’ve hugged him before, but tonight, hugging him made me feel like a mushy, melted puddle of goo, like an ice cream left out in the sun.

  Maybe I do.

  I should be happy. It’s Drew’s bar mitzvah party. I should be celebrating with everyone on the dance floor. But Max is on his way to Pennsylvania.

  I keep checking my phone for texts from him, but it’s Drew’s Big Day. I put my phone down and force Max out of my mind.

  Drew did a great job reading the Torah in synagogue earlier, which was as riveting as watching a snail cross the street. Now everyone is finished dancing the horah in their fancy dresses and suits, and sitting at the tables to catch their breath. The horah is a Jewish dance from ancient times done on festive occasions. What happens is everyone rushes the dance floor, joins hands, and dances around in crowded circles. Then they lift people in chairs and bounce them until someone gets hurt, usually because someone got a hernia from lifting the person in the chair.

  Waiters serve the first course (some weird salad) while Dad gives his speech all about his wonderful, brilliant son, Drew. Drew walks up on stage and whispers in Dad’s ear. Drew already gave his speech about his Torah portion. What is he doing?

  Dad goes, “What’s that? You want to say something? Sure.”

  Drew goes up to the microphone. “I just want to thank you, Mom and Dad, for teaching me what it means to be a person who stands up for what he believes. I don’t believe in forcing anyone to do something against their will. So I just want to say in front of God and everybody here that I will not be participating in a flag football league, or any organized sports.” He stares right at Dad when he says that. I’ve been joking about Drew becoming a man with this bar mitzvah stuff, but he sounds so sure of himself and confident, it almost seems like he has. “I know you mean well, Dad, wanting me to be good at sports, but I’m not.” Mike, sitting next to me, snickers. I flick him in the back of the head. Hard. He tries to flick me back, but I scoot my chair out of his reach and keep my eyes fixed on Drew, who says, “What I am good at is movies. I think after you watch this, you’ll all agree I have a pretty great family. Enjoy.”

  The lights dim. A screen behind Drew lights up. Then the movie starts.

  It’s fantastic. Plenty of the footage is of me, playing basketball on the driveway, playing football with Dad outside, making faces, writhing on the ground pretending to have a convulsion. Some of the clips are indoors, me horsing around in restaurants, rubbing Beth’s belly, eating popcorn on the couch. Then there’s Grandpa raising his glass, Mom taking a dinner roll out of Dad’s hand, Grandma wiggling her skinny eyebrows, Grandpa’s dentures coming loose. Those are the funny parts. But some of it is serious, like Beth holding up a pair of baby booties, me at the kitchen table trying to study, breaking a pencil on my head, Dad stocking shelves at the store, Mike kissing Beth and rubbing her belly, Grandma dabbing her eyes with a tissue, or Dad with his arm around Mom.

  Watching, I feel something for my family I can only describe as love. Big, warm, mushy love. And maybe pride. I know I won’t feel this way all the time, but right now, right this second, I know I’m pretty lucky to have my crazy family.

  Then when I think the video is over, there’s more. My friends and me in my room waving at the camera, then watching The Breakfast Club on Max’s laptop, at Baskin-Robbins talking and laughing, Max and me performing in front of a group of clapping children, then holding hands and bowing slowly. I hug myself and soak up the images on-screen. That’s what I should have posted on YouTube. Seeing Max up there gives me a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. I wish he was here.

  What if he never comes back? What if we don’t keep in touch?

  My eyes get blurry with tears. I can’t stop them. I wipe them off with a napkin.

  The video ends. Drew steps down off the stage, so I get up from my seat at the Titanic table and run over to him. “That was awesome!” I tell him. “I loved it.”

  “The video or my speech?” he asks.

  “Both,” I answer. “And you.”

  “Thanks. Love you too.” We’re strangely silent for a few seconds. It’s highly uncommon to say you love your sib, at least to their face. I rub the top of his head, giving him a noogie. He tries to give me one, but I duck. Good. Things are back to normal.

  “Time to dance!” the MC shouts, and a fun song blasts through the speakers. Everyone moves to the dance floor. Kids flock near the stage, adults head to the bar. Trina, Amy, and I find each other and jump up and down. Mom and Dad let me invite them.

  “I love your dress!” Trina shouts over the music.

  “Thanks! Amy helped me with it!” Amy smiles as she dances around Trina and me. Who knew Amy could dance? She may not be
good with words, but she has moves like Beyoncé! I tell her she should try out for the dance team. Trina’s dancing, like mine, is eh. We whirl and twirl until everyone just starts jumping and fist pumping. I crash into some people by accident, but they don’t seem to mind.

  I have to give Mom props. Not only did she allow me to put a blue streak in my hair, she let me use Kool-Aid, which is way more permanent than chalk—it takes a couple of weeks to wash out. Plus, Mom did the dye job herself! Right in my bathroom sink! She said she wants us to spend more time doing stuff together. The way things are going, she might take me to a salon to use real dye someday. Fingers crossed.

  Caitlin approaches me, Trina, and Amy on the dance floor, moving more awkwardly than Beth, who has one hand on her baby bump the whole time. Caitlin can’t even keep the beat. But she’s trying, and she’s being nice to Trina and Amy. Caitlin is the one who told me which flavors of Kool-Aid to use (blue raspberry mixed with grape). We’ve been talking since she came home, and she hasn’t insulted me yet. So far, so good. If anyone knows that people deserve a chance to try and change, it’s me.

  I leave the dance floor to go to the ladies’ room. I don’t have to go, but Mom put a basket of toiletries and beauty products in the bathroom, and I might try the cologne because I’m sweaty from dancing/jumping.

  In the lobby, the sight of him stops me in my tracks.

  “MAX!”

  He’s sitting on his prop case, wearing a dress shirt and dress pants.

  “I like your dress.”

  “Thanks.”

  My stomach flip-flops. It’s not the kind of flip-flop you get from seeing a friend. It’s the kind of flip-flop you get from seeing someone you have a crush on, a belly flop that goes on and on inside. I feel warm all of a sudden, even though the synagogue has excellent air-conditioning.

  “What happened to Pennsylvania?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “It’s…postponed. Indefinitely.”

  “But your mom—”

  “She’ll have to wait. It’s complicated. I’ll definitely get to see her, but she’s not ready for me to live with her. I’m okay with it. I had a talk with my dad.”

  My eyes widen, surprised. “You had a talk with your dad?”

  He runs his hand through his wavy hair. “Yeah. It’s the first time he’s listened to me in a long time.” Some of my parents’ friends walk by, eyeing Max and me curiously. “So…for now, I’m not moving.”

  He’s staying! He’s staying!

  “YAY!!” I shout. I can hear my heart beating double-time. I want to hug Max at this news, but somehow I’m frozen.

  Finally, Max says, “Can we talk? In private?”

  I lead him through the double doors to where the temple offices are and find a small room with the door open. Inside is a foldout bridge table, four chairs, and a vending machine. Max rests his prop case on the floor and sits on top of the table. I close the door and sit on the chair across from him. “Why do you have your prop case?” I ask.

  “I remember you saying your mom was worried about having enough entertainment, so I thought maybe she’d like a magic show.”

  “Oh.”

  He clears his throat.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” I ask nervously.

  He shifts his gaze to the door, then back to me. “I want to tell you that, uh…” His cheeks flush red like on the first day of Tony’s class. “You’re loud and hyper and you talk too much. You’re always wiggling your feet or dropping or breaking something. The truth is, you’re like a chimpanzee half the time.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Max, are you trying to start a fight? Because I could say a few things about you too, you know.”

  “No, I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m trying to say you make me laugh.”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t understand. No one has been able to do that since my mom left. My dad barely talks to me. My house is quieter than a cemetery. It’s all I knew before I met you.”

  “Max, I—”

  “Also, you’re always interrupting.” He stops, takes a breath. “But see, here’s the thing. I like being around you. Because it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing…” He shrugs. “I’m just a little more happy when you’re around. I, uh…I like you. Like, really like you.” I don’t have to ask if he means as more than a friend. That’s exactly what he means. “When you asked me that first day of summer school if I thought you were cute? Even though you were just joking, the reason I got so embarrassed is because I do think you’re cute. I always have.”

  !!!!!­!!!!!­!!!!

  I want to stay calm and tell him I think he’s cute too, and that I like him the same way, that he’s the best thing that’s happened to me this whole crazy summer. Instead, I jump up, sit on the table next to him, and throw my arms around him. I briefly wonder if I should try to kiss him or if he’ll try to kiss me. I’m scared. I can tell Max feels the same way, judging by his red face. So we just hug. For a long time.

  It feels nice.

  And then the table makes this ping noise.

  Followed by a louder PING.

  And then collapses. With Max on top of it. And me on top of Max.

  “Are you okay?” Max asks after we recover from the shock.

  “Yeah. You?” We look down at our tangled arms and legs.

  “I think so,” he says.

  About half a second passes before we both crack up. It’s about another second before the door bursts open with Mom behind it. “What is going on in here?” She stops, suddenly registering me on Max on a broken table, and gasps. “Oh, hi, Max. Glad you could make it!”

  “Hi, Mrs. Green,” Max says from under me. “Um…we’re working on a magic trick.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow.

  “It’s called the disappearing table,” I add.

  She crosses her arms. “Right.” Max and I scramble up off the floor. Mom shoots us a stern look, but her eyes are twinkling. Then she spots Max’s prop case. “Listen, you two, I’d be happy to pay you for a magic show. So, whenever you’re ready…” Mom leaves.

  I look at Max. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He takes my hand.

  “Did you know ninety percent of the world’s population kiss?” he asks.

  I squeeze his hand. “Tell me about it later, Captain Trivia. We’ve got a show to do.” We head toward the stage, and into the spotlight, together.

  Author’s Note

  Someone recently asked me, “Why did you write This Is Not the Abby Show? Are you the real Abby?”

  The answer to the first question is that I wrote this story because I wanted to show what it feels like to have ADHD, to help others have a better understanding of those who have it. I also wanted to show the power of friendship, and how much we grow when we spend time with people different from ourselves.

  In answer to the second question, Abby is a mix of several people, including friends I had in school, students I’ve taught, my son Sam, and yes, a little of me. While I’ve never formally received a diagnosis of ADHD, a doctor did tell me that I meet a lot of the criteria.

  One middle school friend of mine heavily inspired Abby’s character. Kate (not her real name) was super smart, but she blurted out answers in class, was easily distracted, and broke everything, including our film projector. (Back in ye olde early 1980s, schools had projectors with old-timey film reels, because there was no such thing as DVDs or YouTube. I know. The horror. Are you okay? Breathe.) Looking back, I realize now that Kate probably had ADHD. She just wasn’t diagnosed or treated for it, which was often the case back then.

  Kate was hilarious, but sometimes her jokes crossed the border into mean territory. If I tripped, she’d scream, “SMOOTH MOVE, EX-LAX!” Like Abby, Kate wasn’t deliberately hurtful or a bully. When I told Kate that she’d hurt my feelings, she felt terrible to the point of tears and always apologized sincerely. Having “no filter”—that
is, having difficulty editing verbal comments, or having “conversational accidents”—is typical of many with ADHD. I think a huge obstacle facing people like Kate and Abby is that they are often misunderstood by classmates, teachers, and family members. That can lead to a lot of sadness and to feelings of hopelessness.

  But people like Kate and Abby are often gifted with the ability to sense things others don’t. One afternoon, while I was sitting in Mrs. Queen’s math class, I spotted Kate out the window, leaving Mr. P’s portable classroom and sprinting toward us like a rocket. What shocked me the most was that she was running on the grass, which was strictly off-limits at our school. No one broke the Stay-off-the-Grass rule. Ever.

  Kate trampled over the forbidden grass as if she were running for her life. She was, in fact, running to save a life, but not her own. She burst into our room, shouting, “HELP! MR. P’S HAVING A HEART ATTACK!”

  I found out later that by the time Mr. P fell to the floor and his students realized what was happening, Kate had already left the building, ten steps ahead of everyone. Kate’s fast thinking and her perceptive, impulse-driven, rule-breaking actions saved Mr. P’s life that day. Those are all ADHD traits. As Abby points out in chapter one: I do pay attention, just not to the same things as everyone else.

  It was important to me to include plenty of humor in Abby’s story. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that so many stars of comedy have ADHD, including Howie Mandel, Channing Tatum, and Jim Carrey. Do they use humor to cover up their ADHD symptoms or to cope with the sadness that comes with it when things aren’t going well? Possibly. Is their quick wit a result of a fast-thinking, extraordinary brain? Definitely.

  The self-confidence that Abby gains in her story was inspired by my son Sam. There will always be those who don’t understand ADHD, like Mr. Finsecker and Abby’s Aunt Roz. It would be nice if everyone were understanding and supportive like Tony, but when someone isn’t, it’s important to try not to let it get to you. Sam told me once: “If someone has the wrong idea about ADHD, that says more about them than it does about me.” How true. Sam’s older brother, Louis, once wrote in a letter to Sam: Some of the things you do may not always make sense to me. However, that is what makes you a unique individual. Louis showed me that adults can learn a lot from kids when it comes to embracing differences in others.