by Beth Vrabel
She buried her head into my shoulder and soon my T-shirt was wet with her tears.
I wanted to cry, too. But I didn’t.
“Thanks for taking me along tonight,” I said.
“Thank you for coming along.”
Mom put the car back into drive and slowly merged back onto the empty highway. I had just started drifting off when Mom said, “When was your last visit with Dr. Carpenio? It’s almost a year, right?”
I didn’t open my eyes and concentrated on breathing steadily so she thought I was asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
I’m a man, right? And men don’t shake when they’re scared.
So I wasn’t exactly shaking Monday as I walked into school. I was trembling.
Okay, trembling sounds even worse than shaking. Fine. I was quaking. Scratch that. Even worse. Whatever. My body was having trouble not moving in miniscule amounts in all directions at once, which might have had something to do with knowing I’d be facing Max.
I thought I’d run into him before homeroom, since he usually hangs around Jocelyn’s locker with her until the bell rings. But the hallway was clear. Maybe the Lord, in his infinite mercy, bestowed upon Max a virus! Or maybe he was too hurt to be here. Shame mingled with fear in my quivering body. Then I remembered that he broke up with Jocelyn, which explained the whole not being by her locker thing.
I have to admit, I was relieved that Jocelyn seemed absent that day, too.
I stood outside the cafeteria doors at lunchtime, no longer shaking. Not that I wasn’t still freaking out a bit. I just think my body had given up on the whole shaking thing. After the lunch bell, I had made a pit stop by my locker. If Max was in school today, I’d see him in the cafeteria at what was now my usual table. Where would I sit? I went to the bathroom. And swung by the library to check the new releases. But there were still fifteen minutes left of lunch and all that trembling made for an empty stomach. I took a deep breath and pushed open the cafeteria doors.
Max sat in his usual seat with his back to where I stood. I knew he knew I was there because all around him, everyone sat up straight. Logan nudged him with his elbow and tilted his head in my direction. Here’s the thing: I could’ve walked the far way around the table but I rushed straight ahead to the lunch line, wanting to get there fast as I could, even though it took me right by them.
I almost made it, too. But then someone kicked out a chair. I think it was Max. And not his usual, “Hey, have a seat buddy” kick. This time the chair was kicked into me. Of course I never saw it coming since Artie was on their side. Picture me, all right? Chair out of nowhere knocks my leg but I’m in such a scaredy-cat rush I can’t stop my forward momentum. I do a funky half-split thing over the chair. I feel a ripping pain that I think is my jeans splitting down the back, but it’s really just my pride (and maybe my butt a little, too, but don’t picture that too much, okay?). I land in a sprawled out dumped-from-the-heavens heap on the sticky linoleum floor. (This next part, I’m pretty sure, happened in slow motion, so picture accordingly.) My head lands on top of my elbow. But just the edge of my face hits the elbow. The right side of my face, of course. The bit of face being my eye socket. Knocking Artie straight out of my head. It whips across the room, skidding to a stop under a table of cheerleaders. Painted-on-iris up, of course, making it seem I was somehow gazing up their skirts.
Brilliant.
By now you’re nearly fifty thousand words into this little tale I’m sharing. By now you might’ve taken it upon yourself to do a little research on the one-eyed among you. Maybe you found out that that a fake eyeball isn’t the round marble pirate shows would have you believe. They’re more almond-shaped and mostly flat, sort of like a river stone. Making it pretty darn easy to kick from one side of the cafeteria to the other. I’m not even really faulting the cheerleader. Maybe she reacted on instinct. But she gave Artie a swipe with her foot as she screamed.
It flew to another table, where the next person screamed and kicked. And so on. And so on. A bunch of kids jumped up on their seats like it was a rabid mouse instead of an eyeball, pointing and screaming as it flew across the floor. More held their stomachs and a couple (for real) rolled on the floor laughing. I couldn’t see the eye; it was much too small. But it was easy enough for the fully sighted to follow, so I knew about where it was from the way people pointed and screamed as it passed. Some people filmed the whole thing with their phones.
What was I doing this whole time? Well, it took way longer than it should’ve to stand up from the floor. When I finally did, the few kids who weren’t actively watching my eye shoot across the room (or, of course, kicking my eye) were staring at me.
Because what’s more fascinating than a fake eye being hockey pucked across the cafeteria? Catching a glimpse of the Cyclops himself.
I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t. I wasn’t. But even though my eye isn’t there, tear ducts are. Not having an eyeball suddenly makes tear ducts wig out a bit. That meant there was drainage, not tears, running down my cheeks.
“Aw, look at that!” some jerk said. “He’s crying!”
“Ew! Can I see the socket?”
“Puke! Socket is such a shudder word! Get a picture!”
I pressed my hand over my eye. Okay, fine. I pressed my hand over where my eye was supposed to be. You’re probably dying to know what an empty eye socket looks like (even though, like I said, at fifty thousand words or so, I’m a tad disappointed you didn’t just look it up online). Maybe you think it’s gooey and filled with pus. Maybe you think when I press my hand over it, it makes a sound akin to stirring a pot of mac-n-cheese. Man, you’re sick. Actually, it’s pretty boring. Just pink skin. Sort of like the inside of your nose, minus the nostril hair and snot, of course. Just skin. But it’s, like, private.
What now, right? Hundreds of people kicking my eyeball around the room. Dozens staring at me. Teachers shouting for order. Tears—I mean drainage—running down my pathetic face. I wanted to run. But I needed my eye. I wanted to scream. But who would’ve listened? I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I needed a friend. But no one even knew me.
I—and if this isn’t stupid, I don’t know what is—turned all the way around so I could face Max Waters. If anyone could stop this, it was Papuaville Middle School’s golden boy. Yet there was Max, laughing as hard as anyone. No splint on his nose or anything. Just a little bruise on the bridge.
Finally a roar split the room. “ENOUGH!” bellowed the fiercest voice I had ever heard. I whipped around again, and there was little round Miss Singer. Everyone froze. Everything froze. Except, of course, my eye, which landed with a soft smack into Miss Singer’s practical plastic clog shoe. She bent down and picked it up. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out, I mentally begged her. “Richie Ryder,” she called, her voice still so loud it echoed. She held out Artie with a steady hand.
I was shaking all over again as I walked toward her. Suddenly the quiet of the room felt like moving through that mayfly swarm. Everyone was watching me, ready for me to crumble. A churning stew of horrible pain, rage, humiliation, and self-pity boiled in my gut, steaming up through my limbs. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to Miss Singer. I was going to erupt. I didn’t want to see the people around me, but my stupid real eye wouldn’t stop working. I’m pretty sure, in that moment, I’d have signed up for a dozen tumors in that eye rather than see faces shining with excitement, lips bit in shame, cheeks red with laughter, as I stumbled to Miss Singer.
And Miss Singer. Her face was the worst of all. Eyes wide and sad, mouth set in a straight line of fury. Her pity was so strong, it vibrated from her. It was tarry and thick, filling my lungs so my next breath quivered.
I wanted to grab that eye and run from the room. Run, and run, and run. Run back to Gramps’s house. Or back to Addison. Or all the way to Alaska. Run, my mind cheered. That’s a good idea. The wetness on my cheeks scalded suddenly and I knew it wasn’t drainage any more.
The quiet—if it’s possible�
�thickened when I reached out a trembling arm for my eye from Miss Singer. This is it, my mind beckoned. Run!
But I didn’t.
I slammed a big old NOPE sign on the pain stew in my gut.
I climbed on top of a chair, standing high on shaking legs as everyone gasped around me. Cupping Artie in my palm, I spit on it, then rubbed it on the hem of my T-shirt.
“What are you doing, Richie Ryder?” Janet May squealed.
Holding up my empty socket with two fingers, I slowly, slowly, slowly popped the eye back into place. Then, arms out like this was all a huge theatrical joke, I bowed.
I bowed three times, in fact. One to the whole of the cafeteria (where everyone hooted and cheered), one to Miss Singer (who had turned a scary shade of green), and one to Max Waters (who probably chipped a molar with how hard he clenched his jaw).
I hopped down from the chair to thunderous applause. I made it all the way to the hall, too, before throwing up.
Even though the nurse sent me home from school, Gramps insisted I go to karate practice that night. “I’ve got plans,” he stormed.
“I’ll just stay home!”
“No way. The grief center people are meeting here. I’m making popcorn.” Sure enough, a gold and black 1970s-era popcorn maker was on the kitchen table.
“I’ll stay in my room, then!”
“You’re going. That tournament is Saturday. You’re going to need all the practice you can get.”
Gramps didn’t even turn off the car in the Waters Martial Arts parking lot—just stopped in front of the doors. Slowly, I got out. He pulled away before I could shut the door, making it slam on its own.
Neither Jocelyn nor Max were there. “What are you doing here?” Master Waters asked as I walked in.
“Practice,” I said, confused.
“But the tournament is Saturday,” Master Waters said, also confused. “Competitors rest up the week before tournaments so they don’t get hurt. Sort of like Max and his broken nose.” Master Waters’s gaze snagged on the bruise blooming across my cheek from my fall in the cafeteria.
“It was an accident,” I said, rubbing at the bruise.
“Those seem to be going around,” Master Waters said. “Hope it’s not serious. Max probably won’t be able to go in the ring, thanks to that nose. If you want, you can go hang out with him at our house.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”
“Ah, no!” I’m such a wordsmith sometimes. “That’s okay. It’s just, you said to train hard …”
“Yeah, go for a jog or something,” Master Waters said. “I’m surprised the kids didn’t mention anything to you at school today.”
“It was sort of a crazy day.”
“Right,” Master Waters said. “Well, your mom paid the registration fee when she picked you up last week. Max handled all the registration paperwork, so you should be good to go. There are usually a lot of kids in your division, so rest up, son.”
Maybe it was bug swarm talk, but when I texted Mom that karate class was canceled, I only had to wait a half-hour at the coffee shop across the street for her to pick me up. We even went to a diner for dinner, trying to give Gramps more time with his meeting. It was nice. Mom talked a lot about the mayflies. I saw her noticing the bruise on my cheek, too, but she didn’t say anything. I mumbled something about falling in the cafeteria.
“You know, Ryder, if you want to talk, I’d love to listen.”
“I know,” I said. My phone buzzed. It was Dad.
“Go ahead,” Mom said, even though we were still in the restaurant. When I got off the phone with Dad, I filled Mom in on what we had talked about (a baby bison was born that morning) and she didn’t push for more details on how I fell.
When we finally arrived home, all the lights were off. There wasn’t even the lingering smell of popcorn in the air. “How was your meeting?” I asked, sitting down on the nubby couch and ignoring the General’s hiss. Mom had gone straight to bed.
Gramps shrugged.
“What?”
“All they want to talk about is moving on. Moving on. Like that’s a good thing. Gah. I’m done with that group.” He waved his hand like he was swatting bugs. “Oh, tell your mom some Dr. Cannoli or whatever called. I’m on your emergency contact list. Says he’s been trying to set up an appointment.”
I was spared having to respond to this by the doorbell ringing.
The General and I raced to the door. The General was a real cheat, trying to trip me for the second time that day. I kicked her off and hissed right back at her. Haughtily, she pranced down the hall to lick her butt.
Jocelyn stood in the doorway, a soft smile on her face.
I waited for the rush of warmth that I always got from the moment I first laid eye on her. The soaring, drenching heat that radiated from her smile to my chest.
Nothing.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Of course.” I stepped back to make room for her. Her bare arm brushed my forearm. No sparks. Not even a flicker. “Actually,” I said, looking over my shoulder at where Gramps perched in his recliner like it was the throne of the Kingdom Crank, “let’s go outside.”
“I heard about what happened at school today,” she said as we settled next to yard horse.
I shrugged. “No biggie.”
Jocelyn scooted closer to me. I let my head fall onto her shoulder for a moment, waiting for the electricity to ignite again. It felt nice, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t like how it had been whenever we were near each other before. Once I figured everything out with Max … after the tournament … I was sure it’d be like it was.
Jocelyn turned so that she faced me. The moonlight shimmered in her dark hair. I ran the tips of my fingers through her hair, knowing it would feel silky and cool. Suddenly her mouth was pressed against mine.
Did I kiss her? Or did she kiss me? Did it even matter?
As we pulled apart, I was glad it didn’t make one of those squelching smacking sounds you hear in movies. Then I was freaked out that that was my only thought. This was (believe it or not) my first kiss. Shouldn’t I be feeling something other than being relieved it was over?
What was wrong with me?
“So, things are going to be weird at school, huh?” Jocelyn squeezed my hand.
“Yeah,” I said. I lay on my back, slipping my hand out from under hers and resting my head on my folded hands. “I’m going to lie low for a while.”
“I’ll sit with you at lunch?” It was definitely a question, not a statement.
“Nah, the quilt club is pushing to finish a bunch of guinea pig squares in time for graduation gifts. I’m going to help out.”
Jocelyn cocked an eyebrow at me. “Really?”
“What?” I shrugged. “It’s a big project.”
“And convenient.”
Across the street, Jocelyn’s mom opened the screen door and called for her.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, not sitting up.
“Bye.” But Jocelyn didn’t get up right away. “Are you … are you upset with me? You seem kind of distant.”
I sighed, still staring up at the night sky. “It’s just been a bad day, that’s all.”
Chapter Twenty
I wasn’t dodging anyone, okay? I actually had a stomachache when I woke up Tuesday. A real one, too, complete with a little upchuck. (Sorry if you’re eating. But if you are eating, do me a solid and don’t use the pages as a napkin. I put a lot of time into this story. I’d like it back when you’re done.) Anyway, it was a legit sickness.
I spent the entire day on the nubby couch watching the Food Network with the General.
“I’m having a, um, meeting in the kitchen.” Gramps stood in front of me, hair slicked back and shiny, and he was wearing a buttoned-down shirt and shiny dress shoes. The look would’ve been better if he hadn’t also been wearing shorts instead of pants, but still, Gramps was looking fine.
I whistled low.
“Gramps, you’re stylin’.”
His ears pinked. “Pschaw,” he said, waving his hand like he was pushing my words away.
“I thought you were done with the grief group thing.”
Gramps smoothed his slick hair with his palm. “Giving it one more try.”
“Is Logan coming over?” Like I said, I wasn’t dodging anyone, but if anyone from school was heading over …
“He’s at school, doofus. Like you should be.”
“Oh. I thought he’d be there for meetings.”
“Logan just came up with the idea. The rest of us are making the group, keeping it to just adults, too. It has a name, you know,” Gramps said. “We’re calling it GAS. Grieving Adults Support.”
“GAS? You’re calling a group of old farts gas?”
Gramps winked at me. “My idea.”
“Don’t worry,” I added as the doorbell rang. “I’ll stay clear.”
Gramps led Rosie, a cotton ball of a woman with frizzy white hair and a roundish body, past me to the kitchen while I took my third nap of the day. I only woke up when I heard the door slam shut.
“Are you okay?” I asked as Gramps stomped by.
“Just dandy,” he grumped.
Stomachache returned Wednesday.
Stomachache Thursday, too.
“Stomach—”
“School or the doctor’s?” Mom said Friday.
I picked school.
“I think I know what’s going on here,” Mom said after doing that Mom thing where she checked my temperature with her cheek.
“Great. Maybe you could explain it to me,” I muttered.
“You’re nervous about the karate tournament.”
I groaned. Honestly? I had sort of forgotten about the tournament. Thanks, Mom, for the new worry.
“Don’t be nervous, sweetie.” Mom kissed my forehead. “You’ll be fine. It’s going to be a strange thing, cheering on your child as he fights another child. Sort of contrary to our hippie parenting. But I guess they don’t give out trophies for hugging things out at martial arts tournaments.”