by Josh Lieb
This makes less sense than most things he says—which is saying a lot. He reaches out with his fork and taps me on the shoulder. I realize I am still wearing my cape.
“Costume,” I mumble. “For the school play.”
Mom nearly drops the macaroni casserole. “Are you in the school play, Sugarplum?”
“No,” I say. “They gave me the cape so I wouldn’t bother them when they rehearsed.”
“Wasn’t that nice!” says Mom. She strokes the cape appre ciatively. “Mmmm. Is that silk?”
“Don’t be silly, Marlene. Who would give him a silk cape?” says Daddy, making a snorting sound I don’t care for very much. I click my heels twice. Lollipop leaps into his lap like a kitten and rubs her rough rubber tongue across his neck. Her pretty teeth tickle his windpipe, carotid artery, and jugular vein.
Daddy isn’t snorting anymore. “Oliver! Control your dog!” he screams, holding up his plate with both hands like a shield (and spilling macaroni all over the floor).
“Lolli loves you, Daddy,” I say, but I click my heels one more time. She drops from his lap and starts scarfing up his lost pasta.
Mom passes the casserole to Daddy so he can refill his plate. “They had an assembly at Oliver’s school today to announce who’s running for student council.”
“Oh?” says Daddy, as he selects the three smallest macaronis from the platter and passes it to me. “Who ended up running for president?”
“Liz Twombley. Jack Chapman . . .” I say, as I erect a Mount McKinley of macaroni on my plate. “And me.”
“No, not you,” says Daddy, with a mean eye on my mac. “Remember? You declined the nomination.”
“I changed my mind. Mr. Pinckney put me on the ballot. Now I’m running for president.”
“You never told me that!” screams Mom, who is driven to her feet by the force of this momentous news. “You never told me!” She rushes around the table to hug and kiss me something delightfully awful. I will be sore tomorrow.
Daddy spits the macaroni he’s sucking on into his napkin. “That’s . . . terrific, son.”
“I’m gonna be somebody ’portant. Just like you, Daddy!”
“Erm . . . yes. Well, try not to count your chickens too fast. It’s a long road from nomination to election day.”
“Of course, he’ll win!” shrieks Mom, who emphasizes this statement of confidence by biting my right ear. “Of course, he will! Who could vote against Oliver? Who would dare?!”
My father takes a long drink of water. “Erm . . . of course. Obviously we would vote for him, dear,” he says, looking none too sure about that. “I just don’t want Ollie to be disappointed if he doesn’t—Marlene, the boy needs to breathe.”
Mom relaxes her hold on my neck, barely. I suck in some much-needed O2. Just in time too—another few seconds and one of my bodyguards would have burst through the window to remove her. And that would have been hard to explain.
After some coaxing, Mom is convinced to return to her seat. She sits there now, tears streaming down her jiggling cheeks as she stuffs macaroni into her smiling maw.
Daddy gives me a reassuring tap on the hand. “Son, what you’re doing is very brave. Probably braver than you even know. So, uh . . . good . . . erm . . . luck.”
I fix him with a demonic smile. “I’m gonna be just like you, Daddy. Just like you.”
My father turns his head aside and coughs into his fist.
“Mmb mmbm mmmbbm,” says Mom, through her mouth full of gluey pasta. It takes a son’s ears to decipher her words:
“Of course, he will.”
Chapter 12:
A PHONE CALL TO THE LUXURIA CORPORATION54 CUSTOMER SERVICE HELP LINE.
(Ringing, then a click)
OPERATOR: Customer service. This call may be monitored. How may I assist you?
MAN: Hi. Uh . . . I have a . . . Are you guys . . .
(Awkward silence)
OPERATOR: Are you still there, sir?
MAN: Yeah. It’s just that . . . I have kind of a strange question.
OPERATOR: There are no strange questions when it comes to customer satisfaction.
MAN: Yeah. Okay. Well, the thing is . . . are you guys putting messages on the cigarettes?
OPERATOR: Messages?
MAN: I mean, not on every cigarette. Just on some of them.
OPERATOR: If you’re referring to the Surgeon General’s Warning, that’s on the outside of the—
MAN: No, it’s not that. These are messages printed on the cigarettes.
OPERATOR: Printed?
MAN: Typed.
OPERATOR: How would you type on a cigarette?
MAN: I don’t know.
OPERATOR: What sort of messages are they, sir?
MAN: Kind of like mean fortune cookies. About, uh . . . maybe changing your deodorant. Or starting a new diet.
OPERATOR: Uh-huh.
MAN: I got one today. It says, “IT’S PRONOUNCEDNA-BO-KOV.”55
OPERATOR: It says what?
MAN: He was a writer. It tells you how to say his name. Look, I still have it. I can send it to you.
OPERATOR: Why would you do that?
MAN: To show you it’s typed on!
OPERATOR: I’m confused. Are you trying to sell us a typewriter that types on cigarettes? If so, you should contact business affairs. Their hours are—
MAN: You really don’t know what I’m talking about.
OPERATOR: I’m afraid not.
(Sound of man cursing under his breath)
OPERATOR: Um, sir, forgive me for asking, but are you on any sort of medication that might be altering your perception of reality—
MAN: I’m not on any medication!
OPERATOR. I see. So you’re off your medication. Is there a doctor or family member you can contact—
(End of call)
Chapter 13:
THWARTED
Something strange is going on with my classmates. They’ve been giving me weird looks all morning. Not mean looks, just weird. Any looks are weird, of course, since normally they don’t notice me at all. But these looks are especially weird. Sad, almost. And they’re whispering to each other even more than usual.
I didn’t pay much attention to this at first. After all, if you’re the only human at the zoo, you don’t really care when the monkeys start throwing poo at each other.
But I have just bumped into Liz Twombley in the hallway (normally a pleasant experience) and, to my amazement, I see real tears welling up in her china blue eyes.
“Did I hurtcha, Liz?” I mumble.
“Oh, Oliver!” she gasps, all heaves and suppressed emotion. She throws a hand over those previously mentioned china blues and rushes into the ladies room.
PLATE 10: Pammy Quattlebaum has left a poem on my seat.
Something is definitely going on.
I step cautiously into English class. The room is a beehive of buzzing whispers that silences the second I walk in. Everyone is staring at me, but they all look away as soon as I look back at them. All except for Tatiana. She lowers her expensive pink sunglasses56 and gives me a long slow wink, then resumes writing VOTE4 TUBBY on the wall with a felt-tip marker.
The mystery deepens when I reach my desk and see that Pammy Quattlebaum has left a poem on my seat (see plate 10).
TO A STUDENT DYING YOUNG
By P.E. Quattlebaum
That time your chair collapsed in class
We helped pick up your toppled mass
You’d landed on some wood and screws
We hoped it would not leave a bruise.
A mere bruise now would be as sweet
As the jam you smear on your luncheon meat—
There’s more, much more, but that’s all I can stand to read right now. I look up at her with annoyance and confusion (and, I’m afraid, some intelligence) plainly on my face, only to find her looking right back at me. Her ridiculous cow eyes are full to the brim with sympathy.
I scan the room. Everyone’s r
idiculous eyes are full to the brim with sympathy. Only Tatiana seems normal (for her). She clutches her scrawny belly gleefully, like it’s about to crack open with laughter.
Moorhead enters, but he doesn’t leave the doorway. “Pammy, can you lead everyone in a discussion of the symbolic meaning of television in Fahrenheit 451?”
“Of course, Mr. Moorhead.”
Moorhead turns a sickly yellow-toothed smile in my direction. “Oliver, I’d like to see you in the hallway for a minute.”
All eyes are on me as I follow him out. Moorhead closes the door behind us, and we are alone in the deserted hallway. This close to him, I notice he doesn’t smell quite as noxious as usual. He’s taken my advice about the deodorant.
“Oliver, I have to say, I was as surprised as anyone when you decided to run for president.”
I look back at him with genuine puzzlement.
“But now . . . well . . . in light of what we’ve all heard . . . and you should know, your secret is out . . . well, it makes a lot more sense.”
To him, maybe.
“Just know that we’re all rooting for you. And not just in the election. Every day you hear about another medical miracle, some new treatment. . . .”
And suddenly the answer washes over me like a tidal wave of rainbow sherbet.
They think I’m dying.
“They have wonder drugs these days that were unthinkable when I was your—”
These idiots think I’m dying! And they think I’m running for president as some sort of last-ditch make-a-wish plan to get the most out of life. It all makes sense now—it’s the only way their puny brains could fathom my decision to run.57
“But you’ve got to stay upbeat. Optimistic. That’s the most important thing you can do.”
I display my teeth like two lines of sticky pearls. “My Daddy says I’m very brave.”
“I’m sure he does,” says Moorhead as he rests his comforting caterpillars on my shoulder.
Randy Sparks, the Most Pathetic Boy in School, approaches with a slip of paper in his hand. “Mr. Pinckney wants to see Oliver in his office.” Randy turns to me. “I’m really sorry, Oliver.”
“Stop shouting at me, Randy!” I clap my hands over my ears.
Randy steps back, scared. Moorhead whispers to him, “He’s very sensitive right now.” Then Moorhead slaps me on the back. “You better go see what Mr. Pinckney wants.”
“Yes, Mr. Moorhead.”
He gives me a thumbs-up as I walk away. “Live strong, dude.”
Even Randy almost laughs at that one.
I walk to Pinckney’s office on a cloud of delight. The rash-red floors have never looked warmer, the puke-green lockers have never looked more vibrant and puke-ish. I’ve as good as won the election, and it’s still almost a month away. “O frabjous day!” Every child in my class will vote for me out of misguided sympathy. So simple, so elegant—I couldn’t have thought of anything better myself. It just proves what I’ve always said: You don’t have to be a genius when you’re surrounded by morons.
Every school chum I see only adds to my glee. There’s Jordie Moscowitz, looking sorry he ever teased me. And there’s Alan Pitt—my, aren’t his zits huge today! His face looks like a can of tomato sauce threw up on it!58
And then I get to Pinckney’s door. And I hear something that sends my wave of rainbow-sherbet joy crashing on the fungus-crusted rocks of hard reality.
I push it open slowly, reluctantly. All my worst fears are confirmed. Mom sits there, looking even more melted and shapeless than usual. She weeps copiously as my father (rather unenthusiastically) tries to comfort her. “Oliver’s dying!” she moans. “Dying!”
“No, he isn’t, Marlene. Now calm yourself—”
Mom points a finger at Pinckney. “But he said—” Then she sees me. “Oliver!”
The next five minutes are a blur of hugging and tugging and kissing and crying.
After every Kleenex in the room has been filled with snot, Pinckney brings the meeting to some semblance of order. “Naturally, I was suspicious of the rumor from the start. I had never heard of a disease called progressive”—he checks his notes—“lardonoma. But I needed to make sure. And since you assure me Oliver isn’t sick . . .”
Daddy scowls. “Not in the slightest. He just got a physical last month, and aside from the obvious weight issue—”
“Oliver’s dying!”
My father has reached his limit. “For Pete’s sake, Marlene! We’re all dying!”
She’s not in the mood for a philosophy lesson. As the two of them devolve into a confusion of tears and sniping and apologies, Pinckney takes me aside. “There will be announcements in every homeroom tomorrow, letting everyone know the good news about your health. There’s no reason this should interfere with your candidacy. . . .”
Daddy overhears this. “Oh yeah—thanks for putting him on the ballot.” His argument with Mom has put him on edge. “That was a great decision, Principal. He won’t embarrass himself at all.”
“You’re welcome,” says Pinckney, opting to ignore the sarcasm. He gives a quick worried glance at a locked filing cabinet behind him.
After a final round of sloppy smooches, I’m sent on my way. That leering, lying red hall, so recently alive with promise, now seems dull and lifeless. This world is empty, treacherous, and small.
Victory had hopped into my hands, like a baby bird.
And then Daddy came along and stomped the pretty thing. Mom would never have given me away, but oh, that Daddy . . .
“Beefheart,” I command, in the depth of my despair. There are ten seconds of silence, a sudden click . . . and then, in an incident no school electrician will ever be able to explain, the atonal wonders of my new favorite song, “The Blimp,” start blasting over the public-address system.
The lockers on both sides of the hall shudder rhythmically as I walk past them on my way back to class. My day will come.
Chapter 14:
OLIVER WATSON’S THEATER OF THE MIND PRESENTS THREE PLAYS FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT59
PICK A WINNER!
(Setting: a public basketball court. Time: early evening)
(Sound of applause, hand-slapping, boys saying goodbye)
OPERATIVE 919: Hey, kid. Nice game.
JACK CHAPMAN: Thanks.
OP 919: You’re Jack, right? Jack Chapman?
JACK: I don’t know you.
OP 919: What’s the matter? You’re not supposed to talk to strange men? Well, I’m a strange woman, so relax. . . .
JACK: Goodbye.
OP 919: I just thought you might like to see these pictures I got.
JACK: I’m not interested in any—
(Sound of papers being pulled out of envelope)
JACK: Oh my God.
OP 919: Here. Take a good long look.
(Sound of papers being frantically shuffled)
JACK: Oh.
OP 919: That’s you, right? Picking your nose, eating your boogers?
JACK: Oh.
OP 919: Sucking the scum out from under your fingernails?
JACK: Oh . . .
OP 919: It’s not for me to say, or anything, but you’re a little old for that, aren’t you?
JACK: How did you—?
OP 919: Besides the obvious health risk. You could give yourself a cold or something. Didja ever think about that?
JACK: How did you get these?
OP 919: Funny story. I live in Turkey. Yesterday a guy calls me, tells me to get on a plane to Omaha. Had to make like five connections. So when I land, another guy hands me this envelope, along with your name, this address, and a message.
JACK: Message? . . .