Brett McCarthy (8 page)

mensch

At the beginning of every school year I bring home a pile of papers for Mom to fill out and sign. There’s one we discuss together before she sends it back in: the Emergency Contact Card.

Basically, this lists the names and phone numbers of two adults they can call in case I start running a fever or vomiting during the day and they can’t reach Mom or Dad to take me home. Although this might seem like a pretty straightforward thing to decide, it gets complicated.

For starters, you’ve got to pick someone who’s home, so that eliminates all the working parents. It also eliminates Nonna, who lives at the Gnome Home only from late October to Memorial Day. Then you’ve got to pick someone who’s a close family friend and wouldn’t mind having me breathing germs or throwing up all over their house. Finally, you have to pick someone I like. And there’s where the complication starts.

Emergency Adult #1 is always easy: Aunt Lorena, a.k.a. Michael’s mother. A family friend who’s known us since forever.

Emergency Adult #2 is always the problem. Most of my friends’ moms work, or don’t pass the “willing to clean up Brett’s barf” test. Miss Kathy and Co. might have been a good choice, since they were right next door, but sick kids and day-care toddlers aren’t a good combination.

So every year, after much argument, we reluctantly pencil in Mr. Beady as #2.

This is a serious bummer. Even on a good day—like when I score the winning goal in soccer and Mom makes tacos for dinner—Mr. Beady annoys me to distraction. He’s a tease. He cracks dumb jokes. He’s constantly hanging around Nonna. And he’s a slob. I mean, you’d be more likely to
get
sick at his house, which is so dirty that even cats and dogs refuse to sit on the furniture.

Well. Dogs probably wouldn’t mind. But cats are particular.

But as Nonna always said, and Mom and Dad agreed, “Beady is a mensch.”

I remember the first time Nonna told me that. I was complaining about some stupid thing he had said to me, and she laughed.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You see what a pain he is. Why is he your friend?”

“Because I’ve known him for years and he’s the most loyal, caring person I’ve ever met,” she said. “He’s a mensch.”

“A what?” I said.

“Mensch,”
she repeated. “
A decent, responsible person with admirable characteristics.
It’s a wonderful Yiddish word that perfectly describes Beady.”

“Yeah, like, I really admire the way he keeps his house,” I groused.

“That’s not important,” Nonna said.

“Food poisoning is important!” I argued. “Fleas in the couch, sour milk in the fridge, broken glass on the floor…that’s important!”

Nonna chuckled. “You always exaggerate for effect,” she replied. “Now be honest. You know what’s important. Compassion. Kindness. Generosity. And that’s what Beady is all about. True, he’ll never earn the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. And his jokes are painfully bad. But in a pinch Beady always comes through.”

That conversation kept playing in my head as we sat in the hospital’s waiting room the day of the Super-Sized. The Emergency Contacts had assembled: Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack were seated in vinyl chairs near my parents, making reassuring sounds. Mr. Beady had driven over with us, behind the ambulance. He was making me insane with his pacing.

Not back and forth, but in and out. Out of the waiting room, his glance darting, birdlike, looking for the doctor who would give us news. Then, breathing heavily, impatiently, pacing back inside. A Mensch in a Pinch, I thought, and smiled in spite of everything. When Nonna woke up, I would make her laugh with this description of Mr. Beady. If I didn’t strangle him first. If she woke up.

That thought had slipped unwillingly into my head while we waited. No one had said it, but there it was, this horrible idea that made my hands tremble. Made me want to throw up. Big Bad News was stubbornly knocking at the door, and I didn’t want to answer.

Finally, the doctor came in.

“Okay,” he said, smiling but serious. “We’ve had a little scare today, but we’ve stabilized her and she’s doing fine.”

He said some other things, but I only took in bits and pieces. “Keep her for observation tonight…dehydrated…talking about a garage sale?…” Then he told Mom and Dad that they could see her now, and they started walking out to the hallway.

“Wait!” I sounded loud after the low, hushed hospital voices we had been using. “I’m coming too.”

“Hon, let us go in first,” Mom said.

“No, I want to see her now,” I insisted.

“Brett, wait with us,” Aunt Lorena said. “Don’t worry—you’ll get a chance to see her.”

“What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?” I demanded. I could hear the panic in my own voice.

“Mrs. McCarthy can have two visitors at a time,” the doctor said briskly. He turned, and my parents followed him down the hall. I was about to dash after them, but someone held my arm. Mr. Beady.

“Wait,” he whispered in my ear. “Let them get a little ahead of us.” He held me like I was a puppy pulling on a leash. We watched the three of them disappear around a corner of the long corridor. Mr. Beady cleared his throat and, turning to Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack, said, “I’m going to take Brett to the cafeteria for a cola. We’ll be right back.” He led me from the waiting room by the elbow.

“Now be quick and be quiet,” he muttered as we power-walked in the direction my parents had taken. “We don’t want them to see us…yet.”

We tracked the doctor and my parents down several long hallways and finally to an area with a sign that read
INTENSIVE CARE UNIT
. Ahead was a large, open room, guarded by a nurses’ station. Two women in aqua-colored uniforms stood between us and that open room. Mr. Beady frowned.

“I believe,” he whispered, “that diversionary tactics are called for, Miss Brett.”

I could have kissed him. Instead, I simply nodded.

Mr. Beady strode purposefully to the nurses’ station counter. “Hello!” he exclaimed cheerfully. Thunderously, it seemed, in that subdued place. The women in aqua jumped, both scurrying quickly toward the loud man who didn’t seem to realize there were sick people trying to sleep. A window of opportunity opened before Brett McCarthy.

I crouched low and crab-scuttled to the base of the counter. Only Mr. Beady could see me as I inched closer to the open room ahead.

“I hope you ladies can help me,” he boomed. “I’m looking for a friend who was recently admitted.”

“Certainly, but could you lower your voice, please, sir?” one nurse replied politely. “This is the Intensive Care Unit.”

“I’m sorry…what did you say?!” Mr. Beady shouted. He cupped a hand to one ear. “I’m a bit deaf,
deah
!”

The sight of Mr. Beady playing the old deaf man was almost too good to miss…but I had a mission. Darting from the cover of the counter just as Nurse #2 joined in the attempt to shush him, I took refuge behind a row of wheelchairs in the open room.

I saw six beds arranged in a semicircle. An amazing configuration of monitors, tubes, and electronic IV setups surrounded each bed and dwarfed the patient in it. I spotted my mom, my dad, and the doctor hovering over one of them.

I unfolded from my crab position, stood upright, and tiptoed quietly toward them. The doctor was the first to see me and started to frown. That’s when I realized Mr. Beady was right behind me.

“This is Mrs. McCarthy’s granddaughter,” he said firmly. “Give her one minute.” The doctor stepped back.

Nonna looked so small. They had dressed her in a pink, flowery hospital gown, and her white hair was spread over the pillow like milkweed floss. A plastic tube was taped beneath her nose, blowing oxygen into her lungs, while an intravenous needle connected to another plastic tube was taped to the top of her right hand, feeding fluids directly into her veins. Of course, I didn’t know all this at the time. To me, at that moment, it looked like aliens had gotten hold of her. Later, as time and hospital visits went on, I’d come to understand what all the gizmos were for.

Nonna was awake and smiled when she saw me.

“Brett!” she said. Her voice was raspy, like dry leaves. I could tell right off that she barely had the strength to lift her head. I wanted to hug her so badly, but all the tubes put me off. Made me afraid to touch her. I could feel tears coming, and for the first time ever I didn’t know what to say to her.

She reached out to me with her untaped hand. I took it. It felt cool and soft.

“I hate for you to see me like this…wearing pink. With flowers,” she whispered. “You know how I hate florals.” Her eyes glinted up at me mischievously. “Promise me you’ll run home and get my Happy Bunny nightshirt. I won’t sleep a wink without it.”

I saw her then. Through all the tubes and tape and pink flowers I could see my Nonna, smiling up at me, and I burst out laughing. And crying too. I bent over and gave her a hug.

“Nonna,” I whispered in her ear, “you were right. Mr. Beady
is
a mensch.”

pro•voked

Jeanne Anne’s nose, as it turns out, was not broken. But it might as well have been. It looked like she had two black eyes. Two black-purple-and-green eyes, to be exact. The bruising across the bridge of her nose resembled a rainbow.

We both returned to school on the same day, with orders to report to Mr. Hare, the principal, before first period. They wanted us to have a little “face time” before turning us loose on the school.

Dad drove me in early. Too early for anyone to be waiting at The Junior. I hesitated before getting out of the car.

“Today won’t be easy,” Dad said.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” I sighed. He reached over and squeezed my hand.

“But we can get through this, Brett.” I pulled my hand away.

“It’s important right now that we each do our part,” he continued. “For you, that means getting back on track here at school. It would mean a lot to your grandmother. It’s important that we don’t worry her unnecessarily.”

“I don’t worry Nonna,” I snapped. “You’re the ones who worry her. You and Mom.”

“Brett, please…”

“Why do you have to be so negative?” I said loudly. “I mean, last night…it was like you were planning her funeral or something. Okay, she has cancer. It’s serious. But people beat cancer all the time. Nonna’s tough. She’ll beat this thing.”

That was Mr. Beady’s line. He’d said it after we’d returned from the hospital. The Super-Sized Day of the Big Bad News. When my parents finally said the C word in front of me.

Nonna had cancer. Cancer of the pancreas, to be precise. Her tan turned out to be jaundice; her brown-tail moth rash turned out to be an itchiness caused by the jaundice. Jaundice is this yellowy color that happens to your skin. It means something’s not working.

No one was able to tell me exactly what a pancreas does, but one thing was clear: You can’t just cut it out, like an appendix. You need your pancreas.

I heaved the door open, stumbled out of the car, and slammed it shut before Dad had a chance to reply. If I had to hear him say another word, I would explode. Little pieces, all over The Junior.

Jeanne Anne and the principal were already seated when I arrived at his office. I have to admit, I wasn’t quite ready for the Rainbow Fish.

“Whoa,” I said, staring.

“Yes, thank you, Brett. Please sit down,” said Mr. Hare. Ironic name. The guy’s bald as a Ping-Pong ball. He launched right in.

“Girls, before we can put this unfortunate incident behind us and move ahead as good citizens, we need to clear the air. Brett, I’d like you to apologize to Jeanne Anne.”

I had guessed this was coming. I took a deep breath.

“I’ll apologize for losing control as long as she apologizes for insulting my grandmother.”

Jeanne Anne gasped.

“See?” she demanded, looking at the principal. “She’s not one bit sorry!”

“Brett, are you refusing to apologize?” No-Hare asked. He sounded incredulous.

“No,” I replied.

“Then…?” He looked at me, eyebrows raised like little upside-down V’s.

My heart raced. Go on, I thought. Make my day.

“Yes, I hit her,” I said, faking calm. “But I was provoked. She owes
me
an apology.”

Provoked:
aroused to a feeling or action; stirred up purposely.
She started it.

Unprecedented, yet again. In the life of Brett McCarthy, Formerly Law-Abiding Junior High Honors Student, this was a first. Flagrant disrespect for authority. Refusal to take responsibility for her actions. I didn’t recognize myself.

The little V’s scrunched into a frown.

“Miss McCarthy, are we going to have to extend your suspension?” I stood up, shouldering my book bag.

“On what grounds?” I said. “
I’m
willing to apologize. She’s not. Suspend her.” I started walking out the door. Jeanne Anne sputtered.

“I didn’t insult her! She insulted me! She…promoted…me!”

I couldn’t resist that one.

“Not only are you completely unreasonable,” I said, “but you’re also stupid. It’s ‘provoked.’ Not ‘promoted.’” I walked out.

I had already decided that even if he called my name and demanded that I return, I’d ignore him. I wanted a scene. I wanted them to call the school resource officer and drag me—maybe even with plastic cuffs restraining my hands—down the crowded corridors. Into a waiting patrol car. Put me under hot lights. Deny me food and water until I apologized. Which I knew would never happen, because there was no way Jeanne Anne would ever apologize to
me.

I wound through the hallway, now filled with students, toward my locker and first class. Language arts, with Diane.

She was wearing new clothes. One of those all-in-one sweater-shirt things, with the cuffs. A girl knows every item of clothing in her best friend’s closet, even if she herself is mall-phobic. Diane’s hair was pulled back with a clip I hadn’t seen before, and she wore a skirt.

A skirt. Of course. All the football players wore ties and the cheerleaders wore skirts on home game days.

I took my seat alongside her and stared straight ahead.

“Hey!” She poked my arm. “Hey, girl! Where have you been?? I’ve sent you, like, fifty e-mails!” I turned to her.

“Home game today?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. To her credit, Diane blushed.

“Listen, we need to talk. You have no idea what’s been going on….”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” I said.

“No, really…,” she continued. “Listen, I know I should have told you about the cheerleading thing. I didn’t even know if I was going to make it, you know? But there’s
so
much more happening…we really need to talk.”

I knew what she meant. Her world had come crashing down on her during the past week. Kit had told me.

Apparently, the evening of October 17th, the day I slugged Jeanne Anne, got suspended, and first heard the word “pancreas,” the Pelletier kids got the Big Bad News. Merrill heard it up close and personal from Mr. Pelletier. They’d rented a movie and brought home dinner from McDonald’s. Somewhere in between the Chicken McNuggets and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, he told Merrill that he would be living in a different house from now on, but that Merrill could visit him on the weekends. He assured Merrill that he’d like the new house: There was a dog, and another little boy almost his age. And the little boy’s mother, a lady named Pamela, who was very nice.

The Pelletier women dined out that night. Mrs. Pelletier’s version of the BBN was a bit different from Mr.’s. For example, she didn’t use the word “nice” to describe the lady, Pamela. And she said “under no circumstances whatsoever” would Diane spend weekends at the house with the dog.

I should have heard all this myself. We should have been on the phone that night, best friends, sharing bad news the same way we shared Gifford’s Moose Tracks ice cream. Separate spoons, but both digging out of the same container.

Instead, I turned the computer off that night…and every night of my suspension, cutting off Diane’s only means of communicating with me since The Ban on phone calls. I knew her life had just unraveled, that her whole world had been redefined. But I was too wrapped up in my own BBN to be anybody’s BFF.

Before I could reply to Diane, the Rainbow Fish entered. There were little gasps across the room as people got a look at her face. She stopped at my seat.

“Mr. Hare told me to give you this,” she said. She held a sheet of white paper aloft, then dropped it, letting it flutter slowly to my desk. It was typed on front-office stationery. It said I had lunch detention at the principal’s office every day, indefinitely.

I folded the letter neatly in half, then ripped it along the crease. Then I ripped the two halves into quarters. Into eighths. Sixteenths. Jeanne Anne stared, her mouth dropping open. The class was dead silent, watching us, and the sound of tearing paper seemed unusually loud.

“You are
so
getting into trouble for that!” Jeanne Anne exclaimed.

“Getting into trouble for what?” Language arts teacher approached.

“Brett ripped up a detention letter from the principal!” she declared. Language arts teacher frowned.

“Jeanne Anne, take a seat, please. Brett, is that true?”

Redefined Brett McCarthy put on her best clueless face.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said innocently. Jeanne Anne, bless her, took the bait.

“Liar!” she shrieked. “You know I just handed you a letter and you ripped it up!” Language arts teacher picked up a few scraps.

“I can’t read this,” he said impatiently. “Brett, what is it?”

“Old homework,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.

“You lying
witch
!” Jeanne Anne yelled. That did it. Especially because the teacher thought she’d said something way worse.

“Jeanne Anne!” Language arts teacher was pretty mad. “We do not use that sort of language in this classroom! Pack up your things, young lady. Follow me. The rest of you…sustained silent reading until I get back!”

“What’d I do? She’s lying!” Jeanne Anne was pretty close to tears. “Call the principal. Call him right now. He’ll tell you….”

The old me might have felt a little sorry for Jeanne Anne at that point. Bruised, multicolored face. Totally losing it. Hauled off by the teacher while the real criminal played innocent.

But this was Brett McCarthy, Redefined, and I didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy in reserve. I ducked my head to hide the smile as Jeanne Anne and the teacher left the room, as I heard her finally burst out crying once they reached the hallway. I searched my backpack for a sustaining book. Diane stared at me. Shocked.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked. As if I knew.

“Shh!” I said, putting my finger to my lips. “This is supposed to be
silent
reading.” I buried my nose in my book and didn’t look up until language arts teacher returned.

A long time would pass before Diane and I spoke to each other again.