The Downside of Being Up

by Alan Sitomer

  Maybe my father was right. Second-class guys chasing first-class girls, it was a recipe for nothing but heartache.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your evening,” I said, apologizing again.

  “You didn’t ruin it, Bobby. You made it perfect.”

  My heart jumped. I did?

  Allison smiled at me with a zillion watts of super-teeth, and a grin spread across my face. She then led me out onto the dance floor.

  “Move aside, Daddy!” she ordered Sheriff Mustache. “I want to dance with my date.”

  He looked at our hands, our fingers interlocked. Sheriff Mustache didn’t budge.

  “I said move,” Allison said, pushing past him. “I’m not a little girl, you know.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say another word,” she snapped at her father. “We will talk about this later when we get home.”

  Sheriff Mustache thought about it for a moment, then stepped aside.

  “Wait!” I said. “Hill,” I called out. “Where’s that thing I gave you?”

  “What thing?” she answered.

  “Where’s the envelope I gave you?”

  “This?” she said, pulling it out of her silver purse. “It’s right here.”

  “What’s that?” Allison asked.

  “It’s . . .” I stopped. “It’s for my grandfather.”

  I let go of Allison’s hand and dashed up to Gramps.

  “Here.” I handed him the envelope. “I don’t think I’m going to need this. But you might.” I handed him the keys to the car. “Go get her, Gramps. Go get the girl you love.”

  A big, yellow-toothed grin spread across Gramps’s face.

  “Shall we?” I asked, walking back up to Allison.

  “Lead the way,” she replied.

  Before we got to the dance floor, I heard Gramps say to Sheriff Mustache, “You know they’re gonna make out hot and heavy later tonight, right?”

  “You do realize that this is my daughter you’re talking about, don’t you?” Sheriff Mustache answered.

  “Well, I hate to tell you this,” Gramps responded, “but she’s a tamale.”

  Sheriff Mustache straightened his tie and brushed out an imaginary wrinkle from his jacket, trying to regain the look of a man in a position of authority.

  “Do you have a ticket?” he asked in a formal way.

  “Sure you don’t want a jelly bean?” Gramps replied. “How ’bout a tangy tangerine?”

  We stepped onto the dance floor with perfect timing, because just then the DJ made an announcement. “This next song is for couples only.”

  My heart flapped like a bluebird soaring through the sky. This was the reason every kid went to these crazy things anyway.

  But then tragedy struck. And not from the center of my pants.

  Thank goodness, too. I mean how in the world was I going to do a slow dance with Allison while sporting vicious wood?

  Nope, it was a different disaster: Nathan Ox.

  “Well, if it isn’t boner boy Bobby Connor. Hey Bobby, in baseball, a pitcher can throw strikes or they can throw . . .”

  Nathan wound up to bash me in my egg basket. And I could tell this was gonna be a big one, the kind that sent your pistachios into your throat. But Allison jumped in front of Nathan.

  “You touch him,” Allison said, “and I will tell every person at this school that you are so lame you had to buy your own ticket to the Big Dance and pretend that it was given to you by a Secret Someone because you’re such a loser that you knew no one would ever want to be here with you.”

  Terror crossed Nathan’s face.

  “That’s right,” Allison informed him. “The ticket seller’s daughter knows a few little secrets, doesn’t she?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Nathan said.

  “Oh yes I would,” Allison replied. “I’ll even go grab the microphone and make an announcement over the PA right now.”

  Allison’s green eyes blazed. Wow, clearly she was a woman not to be messed with.

  It took Nathan all of three seconds to see that Allison was a hundred percent serious. And if she did make that kind of announcement over the microphone, it could be the most embarrassing middle school moment ever in the history of our school.

  Well, the second most embarrassing moment. I’d probably always hold the number one spot for all time.

  “What’s the matter, Bobby?” Nathan said to me in a sarcastic tone. “You need your girlfriend to save you?”

  My girlfriend? Wow, I sure liked the sound of that.

  “Yep, I do,” I said, smiling. “I sure do. Now if you’ll excuse us, Nathan,” I said as we walked around him, “it’s time for those of us with dates to go hit the dance floor. It’s kind of a couples-only thing.”

  Both Allison and I laughed, then we headed hand in hand for the middle of the gymnasium. She’d fixed it so that Nathan would never mess with me again.

  Well, never is a long time. But at least he’d leave me alone for a little bit.

  Though it was my first time ever slow dancing with a girl, I swayed back and forth with ease. Something about Allison just made things in my life work.

  “For a while,” I said, “I really thought this night was never going to happen.”

  “Because of my dad?” she asked.

  “Your dad? Nuh-uh,” I answered. “Because of the CIA. Appears there’s been a break-in down at the Pentagon and the Navy SEALs are stumped.”

  “The Navy SEALs?” she said.

  “It’s a black ops thing. My lips are supposed to be sealed.”

  “Sealed, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “And really, with all the secrets I hold with these lips, I think there’s only one true way for me to ensure that democracy continues to exist in the United States of America.”

  “Oh, there is, is there?” Allison said with a gleam in her eye.

  “Most definitely,” I said. “For the security of our country, of course.”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  I leaned in and closed my eyes. This was going to be a magical first kiss, the kind most people only dreamed about. After all, the lighting was soft, the music was smooth, and best of all, the girl was, well . . . first-class. Nothing could stop me now.

  Except for the sudden explosion in my ear.

  “He-hurrggh, he-hurrggh!”

  My eyes flew open.

  “Dude, I just totally made out with your sister!”

  “Shut up, Finkelstein!”

  “Like, does it weird you out that your best friend is completely swapping spit-ola with your baby sis?” he asked. “I mean, that’s just gotta be kinda freaky-deaky, right?”

  “Can we not talk about this right now, Finkelstein?” I said. “I’m kinda busy here.”

  “Gotcha, bro,” he answered. “But just so you know, when she gets back from the bathroom, I’m totally going back for more than just tongue. This time, I’m going for esophagus!”

  Finkelstein, his braces glittering underneath the lights of the disco ball, darted away.

  “Now,” I said, face-to-face with Allison again. “Where were we?”

  “National security,” she answered.

  “Oh, right. The safety of our country.”

  She closed her eyes, I closed mine, and like in a Hollywood blockbuster when the hero finally gets the girl at the end, we kissed.

  Magic!

  21

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One: A Math Poem from My Heart

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One

  The Sum

  No matter how you do the math,

  When you take the two of us

  And subtract you

  Leaves a less complete me.

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One

  The Fun

  No matter how much glee

  When you are not with me

  Is less.

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One

  The Joy

  In this boy

  Is
dead without you

  And I’d do anything to win you back.

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One

  The Rhymes don’t matter

  The pain just splatters

  And splatters and splatters my soul

  Because you are not in my life.

  Two Minus One Does Not Make One

  But one plus one

  Like me and you

  Equals more than two

  It adds up to . . .

  Forever.

  I got an A when I read that poem out loud for English class. But better than that was the kiss I got in the hallway once class let out. Allison practically smooched my lips off.

  “I told ya, Bobby,” Finkelstein said later that night as he put another scoop of homemade candied yams on his dinner plate, “chicks dig poetry.”

  “They sure do, Alfred,” Gramps said. “They sure do.” Gramps turned to his left. “Can I get you more green beans, dear?”

  “No, thanks,” Grandma said.

  “How about a bit more meat loaf?” Gramps offered. “Would you like just a wee bit more? There’s sweet potatoes, too, honey.”

  “I’m good, dear. I’m perfectly good,” my grandmother answered.

  “You know, he hasn’t cooked me a meal since nineteen eighty-one,” she said, turning to me. Gram had blue eyes with wrinkles around the edges, but whenever she looked at me, I always saw a fiery lady who still had some pop. She wasn’t some kind of old woman ready for a museum. My gram had spunk.

  Then again, I guess she had to in order to live with Gramps for all those years.

  “To tell you the truth, I thought he only ate jelly beans,” I said. We all laughed.

  I looked around at the dinner table. Me, Finkelstein, Hill and Allison all greatly enjoyed watching Gramps play the role of a generous and gracious dinner host.

  Too bad Dad and Mom weren’t invited. But I don’t think they would have accepted Gramps’s invitation anyway. They were still mad, especially because Gramps refused to apologize or pay to get the garage door fixed. He thought the episode the other night was some of the best decision-making he’d made in years and he wasn’t gonna budge an inch.

  “Aw, poopy-pants!” Gramps suddenly shouted, remembering something. “The pie is still in the oven.”

  Then, wearing his cooking apron, Gramps disappeared into the kitchen to go make sure he didn’t burn our dessert.

  As soon as he left the room, Gram leaned over and put her hand on mine in that grandmotherly type of way. “I know you wrote the poem, Bobby,” she whispered so that no one else could hear.

  “You do?” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” she replied. “I do.” Gram checked to see that the others weren’t listening.

  They weren’t. They were all too busy staring at Finkelstein as he explained the psychological theory behind his new set of braces. Today’s color: pitch-black.

  “See, it’s like a mouth of infinite mystery,” he told them.

  I shook my head. What a moron.

  “So how’d he win you back, Gram?” I asked. “He told me he read you the poem and that it worked like a charm.”

  “Farts,” she replied.

  I almost choked on my food.

  “What?”

  “I knew he wasn’t the author of that poem,” she said. “It was too good.”

  She took a sip of water and wiped her chin with a napkin.

  “But then he promised not to blow me out from under the covers anymore with gas,” she added. “Do you know how many years I’ve had to deal with him tooting his butt trumpet at full volume?”

  I laughed.

  “I know it sounds weird, but really, it’s about respect, Bobby,” Gram said. “I needed to know that he still respected and cared about me. Relationships don’t survive without respect, care and trust.”

  “Trust?” I said, looking at Allison. Finkelstein had his mouth open big enough to swallow a chair. Hill and Allison peeked inside, inspecting the metallic architectural wonder that was Finkelstein’s latest brace-face adventure.

  “Trust, Bobby,” Gram continued, “might actually be the most important ingredient of them all.”

  I caught Allison’s eye and we grinned at each other. Then Gramps came into the room carrying a piping hot pie, fresh out of the oven.

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” he asked in a big, excited voice. “It’s boysenberry!”

  Hill’s jaw practically dropped.

  “Just kidding,” Gramps said to my sister. “It’s apple. Just good ol’ fashioned apple pie.”

  Hill laughed. Yep, Gramps was a wacko, but he could also be one heck of a sweet guy, too.

  It was a fun night, and life, I had to admit, was finally good. Even if I did have to go back to correctional erectional therapy the following Tuesday.

  Dr. Cox, however, had flown the coop. When I showed up at her office, that’s when they broke the news to me.

  She’d vanished. Maybe to Africa? Maybe to Argentina? No one knew for sure. But she left a note that I was allowed to see.

  Moved to a country that starts with an A. Need to resolve some feelings about yellow dolls. Throw out whatever supplies you don’t want to keep because I am not returning till the hair on my head grows back to at least shoulder length. I shaved it as a symbol of starting new.

  The bad news, however, was the last part.

  P.S. Change the air-conditioning filters because I think there are dust mites in the air, there’s a virus on the computer and Bobby Connor still owes this school eighteen hours of therapy.

  Ah jeez, is she serious?

  In fact, that’s what I told my new therapist.

  “Ah jeez, is she serious?”

  “I’m afraid she is,” said the lady standing in front of me. A moment later, she stretched out her hand.

  “I’m Mrs. Roberts, the new school guidance counselor.” Mrs. Roberts looked more like somebody’s aunt than she did a psychologist. She had shoulder-length brown hair, fingernails painted red, and ruby earrings and necklace.

  “Hey,” I grunted.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You seem a little upset.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you be?” I said. “I mean how long will it be before you ask me if that telephone reminds me of a ding-dong?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Or maybe you have a shopping bag full of vegetables underneath your desk and you want me to identify all the perverted pieces of cucumber.”

  “Bobby,” she said. “You have me all wrong.”

  “I do?” I said. “Are you telling me that all people like you aren’t twisted freakazoids who see ding-a-lings in trees and museum paintings and armrests?”

  “Armrests?”

  “Yeah, armrests,” I said. “I mean I’m just a normal kid. Why is that so hard for you people to see?”

  “I agree,” she answered.

  “You . . . what?”

  “I agree,” she repeated. Her voice was calm and even. “I read your file, looked at your grades, talked to your teachers and have come to the conclusion that, yep, you seem pretty normal.”

  “I do?” I was still waiting to be asked about something wacky like lamps that looked like nakedness.

  Mrs. Roberts smiled again.

  “Yep, more or less normal,” she said. “It’s just puberty, Bobby. That’s all it is. And every young boy and every young girl in this world goes through it.”

  “So what’s the, you know,” I asked, sort of looking down at my pants. “The solution?”

  “Solution? There’s no ‘solution,’” she replied. I dropped my head in despair. “But there’s nothing wrong with you, either. At least nothing that requires counseling, as far as I can see.”

  “So, um . . . ,” I said. “Why am I here?”

  “I really don’t know,” she answered. “Unless, of course, there’s something that you do want to talk about?”

  “Uh, not really.”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Fine. But
if you change your mind, just let me know, okay? I’ll be the permanent replacement here.”

  She scribbled down a few notes in a thin black leather notebook, but I couldn’t see what she was writing.

  “So, that’s it?” I said. “I can go?”

  “Well, we still have to figure out a way for you to get credit for those eighteen hours you owe,” she told me. “I talked to the vice principal, but I can’t get you off the hook for those.”

  “I knew it,” I said. “I knew there was a catch.”

  “Slow down, Bobby, we have some options,” she replied. “Option one, we can continue therapy.”

  “No way, bzzpt,” I said. “What’s option two?”

  “You can transfer to another school,” she offered.

  “I can make the paperwork read so that it doesn’t look like an expulsion.”

  And leave Allison. No way!

  “And option three?” I asked. I was expecting I’d have to stand with no clothes on in the middle of the playground or something.

  “You can write your story.”

  “Write my story?” I said. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Well,” she explained after pausing to make another notation in her leather book, “it seems to me you have had quite a saga as of late. Why don’t you write your adventure, turn it in to me and I’ll consider that good enough to cancel out the rest of the therapy hours you owe to the school.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  She nodded. Her smile was warm.

  I thought about it for a moment.

  “Just write my adventure and that’s it?” I said. “And I can go?”

  “Yes, Bobby, you can go,” she replied. “Of course, you might just find that writing all about it helps, too. Sort of a way to get it all out of your system, if you know what I mean.”

  I decided to go for option three and ya know what? My new therapist was right. It did sorta get it all out of my system.

  Except for my boners. I still get about eighteen weenie pipes a day.

  Some things, I guess, I’ll just never understand.

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