Brett McCarthy (9 page)

pen•sive

Here’s the thing about detention letters: You can rip them up, but you can’t ignore them forever. Eventually they catch up with you. Kind of like former best friends.

It turns out my fight with Jeanne Anne set off an earthquake in the eighth grade. Shifted the tectonic plates of our little world, so now there was this big rift, the Mescataqua Grand Canyon, with some kids on one bank and some on the other.

In other words, people took sides.

This was really obvious at lunch. Mom didn’t have time to pack my lunch today, so I was buying. As I came off the food line with my tray of chicken fries and chocolate milks, I realized I had nowhere to sit. Our table—the Kit, Diane, Brett, and (unfortunately) Jeanne Anne table—was now occupied by a group of Band Jocks. I hesitated, looking over the sea of heads for an empty chair next to someone who still liked me. Someone from the same circle of Hell.

“Brett!” Kit was waving at me from the back of the room, the long table usually filled by girls from our soccer team. Gratefully, I steered myself toward her at a near run.

That’s when I realized just how much had changed. As I wove through the maze of tables, almost every kid I passed greeted me; and not always in the—shall we say—most
pleasant
way. There were high fives, some
Welcome back, Brett!
s and even some guy who shouted out, “McCarthy rocks!” But there were hisses and catcalls too. I heard
Loser!
more than once, and from one table—I’m convinced it was Darcy’s crowd of starving somersaulters—someone pelted me with a doughy bread ball, which landed on my tray.

I slid next to Kit, who promptly picked up the bread ball and hurled it, hard and with amazing accuracy, in Darcy’s direction. Kit plays baseball on the
boys’
junior high team, so no one tossed it back.

“That was different,” I said. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

“No problem,” she said. “D’you see where Diane is?”

Instinctively, I turned toward Darcy’s crowd. Sure enough, at a small table near them I picked out the back of Diane’s new sweater, the sun glinting off her perfect licorice hair. She was near the windows, eating lunch with a guy. The guy. Bob Adonis Levesque. And their heads were bent close together in what seemed to be a very friendly conversation.

“Whoa,” I said, unprepared for the second time that day. “When did that happen?”

“During your suspension,” Kit replied. “What, she didn’t tell you? I figured you were going to fill
me
in.” I shrugged.

“Oh, c’mon!” Kit prodded me with her elbow. “Give it up. Whaddya know?”

“I’m banned, remember? Her mother won’t let her call me.”

Kit stared. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You haven’t talked to Diane. All this stuff has come down, and you’ve let a
phone ban
get in your way? What gives?”

First Michael, now Kit. Why was everyone so amazed that I didn’t have up-to-the-minute info about Diane Pelletier’s life? Did it ever occur to them that I might have other things to think about?

“Do
not
tell me this is about cheerleading,” Kit said.

“You think it’s cool that she’s gone over to the Dark Side?” I demanded. “You are the most anti-cheerleader person I know! You call them Bulimic Butt Wigglers!”

Kit looked pensive.

Pensive:
musingly or dreamily thoughtful.
Thinking about what I just said.

“You know,” she finally sighed, “you’re right. I think cheerleading is stupid and I have called Darcy a Bulimic Butt Wiggler. Frankly, she is. But this is
Diane.
She’s awesome.”

“People change,” I said. Where had I just heard that? Oh, right. Michael.

“C’mon, Brett,” said Kit. “If it makes her happy, why should we care? Besides, it was only a matter of time. She’s gorgeous, and she can do handsprings without messing up her hair.”

Before I could reply, the loudspeaker cut through the noise of the cafeteria.

“Would Bettina McCarthy please report to Mr. Hare’s office? Bettina McCarthy.”

Of course. My detention. I was supposed to be dining with the principal.

There’s a reason why human beings invented nicknames. It’s to make sure that people whose birth certificates say something like…like Hilda or Percival or Bettina can make it through life without being emotionally scarred. For most of my life, “Brett” had saved me from the humiliation of “Bettina.” Now, thanks to the women who worked in the front office, my cover was blown.

At first no one had any clue who Bettina McCarthy was. But a few geniuses figured it out when they saw me pick up my tray and head for the exit. They started banging on the tables, chanting, “Ti
na!
Ti
na!
” and within seconds the whole room took up the beat. It was a little scary, actually. How I imagine a riot would look in a maximum-security prison. I could see teachers and lunchroom aides glancing around nervously.

I made for the shortest route to the exit doors, which, unfortunately, led me right past the future homecoming princesses (Darcy’s posse), the romantic darlings of Mescataqua Junior High (Bob and Diane), and a long Guy Table filled with the Smoking Demigods of Cool (Bob’s friends).

I fixed my eyes on the exit but couldn’t help hearing the hisses and insults from Darcy’s crew. Couldn’t help noticing that Bob and Diane were among the few people in the cafeteria
not
pounding or yelling, just silently watching me go. Couldn’t help overhearing one Demigod, whose clueless comment just about said it all:

“Bettina?” I heard him ask. “I thought her name was Josephine.”

mon•u•men•tal

The free fall my redefined life had taken might have stopped at that point
if
I had headed straight to No-Hare’s office. But instead of trotting off to the principal, I made for the lockers, grabbed my backpack, and left the building. This, as it turns out, was a monumentally stupid choice.

Monumental:
massive; outstanding; very great.
Incredibly huge.

Taking off from school without permission is practically a federal crime. We’re talking Office of Homeland Security, Bomb-Sniffing Dogs, and Search and Rescue Helicopters. When a junior high kid disappears, adults go into panic over-drive. Apparently they combed the building, interrogated kids, called my parents, and finally put out an all-points bulletin with the police for a missing eighth-grade girl.

I was, of course, at the Gnome Home, unaware of the havoc I had caused. Watching soaps and eating the leftover chocolate-raspberry-chip brownies Nonna and I had baked a few days earlier.

Just as the closing music and credits rolled, signaling the end to that afternoon’s episode of
The Young and the Restless,
Dad arrived. He pushed the kitchen door open with such force that it banged against the wall and made me jump. If that hadn’t been enough to give me a heart attack, the look on his face sure was. A foreboding combination of rage and panic.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he demanded.

“Eating cookies and watching TV,” I replied instantly. True, but smartmouth, nonetheless.

“Home. Now!” he boomed. My dad never booms. “You have some serious explaining to do!”

The Spanish Inquisitor, looking somewhat less furious and a whole lot more scared, waited in the kitchen.

“Are you aware,” she said in a choked voice, “that half the Mescataqua police force is out looking for you?”

“I’ll call the school and tell them we found her,” said Dad. He disappeared into his study and closed the door. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and braced myself for the Lecture of a Lifetime. When I turned to face my mother, I got just the opposite.

Her face crumpled. She put her hands over her eyes, and tears slid between her fingers. She sobbed without making a sound. Until you’ve made your own mother cry, you just don’t know misery.

In Michael’s and Dante’s defining circles of Hell, I had officially slipped from the Seventh Circle, the Violent, to the Ninth Circle: Traitors to Family. I would pencil it into his Fifth Period notebook myself.

Dad spent a long time on the phone in his study before rejoining us in the kitchen. He wasn’t booming anymore and he seemed a whole lot scarier.

He had the following Big Bad News: I was suspended again (a full week this time). I was grounded (not that I had anywhere to go). Most importantly, Mr. Hare had decided to bar me from playing soccer for the last few weeks of the season. Not even practices.

“Wait a minute! Can he do that?” I said, feelings of extreme guilt pushed aside by panic. “I mean, he can keep me from games while I’m suspended, but the rest of the season?”

“He just did,” Dad said quietly.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Kids do worse things than cut school and they still play. He’s wrong.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Mr. Hare has my full support on this decision,” he said. “I think this might be a good way to get your attention.”

“Dad…please. You have my attention, okay? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left school. Mom”—I turned to her—“I’m so sorry. I know…this is the last thing you need right now. We’re
all
upset. But please, don’t make things worse for me. I need this.”

Dad frowned. “You need soccer?”

How could he possibly understand? He never played sports in school, never played on a team. He’d been one of those Gifted and Talented sorts himself. Mom had been an art geek. They had no clue what it felt like to stand at the corner of an emerald-green field, wind up, and boot a ball in a perfect crossing arc. Hear the roars and cheers from the crowd. I searched for language my college-English-professor dad could understand.

“It’s not just a game, Dad. It…
defines
me.”

His face resembled a mask. His spoke quietly, without a trace of emotion.

“Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it?” he said.

ig•no•min•i•ous

Mr. Beady took me that evening to see Nonna. It was her last night in the hospital, and she was anxious to go home. Well, more like
demanding
to go home. Once they’d got some fluids into her, and finished running all their tests, she claimed she felt like her old self.

“Beady, you’ve gotta get me out of here,” she chirped the moment we entered her room. She was sitting straight up in bed, on top of the covers. She wore her cozy magenta chenille socks and one of the Happy Bunny nightshirts we’d brought from home. Her half-eaten dinner was pushed aside (“These people cook worse than
me
!” she’d declared) and her night table was crowded with big vases of flowers and about a zillion crayon colorings from the Kathy kids.

“We’ll spring you
tomorrah, deah,
” he chuckled, settling into the vinyl armchair beside the bed. “Cheer up. Miss Brett and I brought you an Italian from Emilio’s.”

I sat on the edge of her bed and handed her a paper bag containing a twelve-inch submarine sandwich stuffed with ham, pastrami, salami, provolone, shredded lettuce, onions, and peppers. Nonna grinned, reaching inside. “Oil and vinegar, salt and pepper,” I said.

“I adore you,” she said. “Your mother brought bran muffins today. They’re in the drawer. Take them on your way out.”

Mr. Beady and I watched silently as Nonna tucked into her Italian. Her McCarthy appetite had returned, although her jaundice remained. It would take some time, the doctors told us, for her color to improve.

“Did you bring the forms we talked about?” she asked Mr. Beady between bites.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly. “But wouldn’t you rather visit with Brett instead of filling out forms?”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my ignominious day. A Mr. Beady word I’d looked up.

Ignominious:
characterized by disgrace or shame; dishonorable.

“Go on, Beady,” said Nonna. “I’d like to see what she thinks, anyway.”

Mr. Beady sighed and pulled a sheaf of papers from an inside coat pocket. He placed it on the bed alongside Nonna.

“‘Taking Charge of Your Health Care,’” she read aloud. “‘Maine Health Care Advance Directive.’”

“Translate?” I said. Nonna wiped her fingers, flipped a page, and read on.

“‘When you need medical care, you have the right to make choices about that care. But there may come a time when you are so sick that you can’t make your choices known. You can stay in charge by putting your choices in writing ahead of this time. This is called giving advance directives.’”

“Oh,” I said. Maybe talking about my ignominious day might be preferable. Even though I had direct orders from my parents
not
to tell Nonna about the second suspension. An unprecedented move, since I always told Nonna everything. But our redefined lives had new rules, apparently, and Not Upsetting Nonna had become Rule #1.

“Maybe you should wait until Mom and Dad are around to do this,” I suggested.

“She tried,” said Mr. Beady. “They fought.”

“Since when do you fight with Mom and Dad?” I said. So much for Rule #1.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a
fight,
” Nonna explained. “More like a tearful disagreement. For one thing, I want to be an organ donor. That wasn’t a big problem for them. You all know how I’m into recycling. But I also want a Do Not Resuscitate order, and that upset them.”

“That means if her heart stops beating, or she stops breathing, she doesn’t want the doctors to do CPR and all the rest of it,” Mr. Beady translated.

“Why not?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. It was hard not to show how much this conversation was freaking me out.

“Because when the ol’ ticker stops tocking,” Nonna said, patting her chest, “I’ll assume it’s time to go. And I want that to be peaceful.”

“‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’” Mr. Beady said in a gravelly voice.

Nonna frowned. “Not yet, Beady. No Dylan Thomas yet,” she said. Mr. Beady rose from his chair and wandered to the side table packed with vases.

“‘Wasteful, weak, propitiatory flowers,’” he sighed, fingering the petals of a large daisy. I saw him glance slyly at Nonna, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t disappoint.

Nonna snatched up the empty sub bag, rolled it into a ball, and threw it at him.

“That’s it! Out, Beady,” she exclaimed. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee from the machine. I warned you: No Philip Larkin, especially
that
poem. Give me some time alone with my granddaughter.”

Mr. Beady, beaming and not looking one bit repentant, gave me a little wave and left the room. Just as Michael was to movie lines, Mr. Beady was to poetry. Add a poetry-quoting dad to the mix, and it was enough to drive a person insane.

“Now, where were we?” Nonna smiled as the door closed.

“Who’s Philip Larking?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Larkin. Philip Larkin,” she said. “A British poet, and I can’t stand him. Beady loves his work. The only thing he might enjoy more than reading Larkin is torturing me about Larkin. It’s an ongoing battle.”

“Are there other families on the planet that fight over poems?” I wondered aloud.

“I certainly hope so!” she said. “What else is worth fighting over, except perhaps love and politics?”

I sighed, stretching myself across the foot of her bed. “You want to know what
I
can’t stand?” I said. “I can’t stand the way Dad says ‘poem.’ Most people just say it like ‘pome.’ Simple. But Dad says it ‘po-ehm.’ Like it’s got two syllables. Drives me nuts.”

Nonna looked thoughtful. “I think it does have two syllables,” she replied.

“No way,” I said.

“Yes way,” she persisted. “I really think it does. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely a two-syllable word.
Po-ehm.
Look it up when you get home.”

“Oh, god, are we really talking about poems and pronunciations?” I moaned, hands over my eyes. “You people are weird and making me weird too. I’m doomed.”

“Well, you brought it up,” Nonna said brightly. “Since you don’t seem to want to talk about my advance directive.”

I didn’t reply.

“What is it about discussing these forms that bothers you?” Nonna asked.

“Nonna…duh!” I exclaimed. She looked startled.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about you dying!” I said. “I think that should be a no-brainer, okay?” I rolled onto my stomach and hung my head over the edge of the bed. The blood rushed to my ears. Nonna and I stayed like that for a while.

“Brett, look at me,” she finally said. I rolled over.

“I owe you an apology,” she said carefully. “In so many ways you seem so wise and mature to me that I talk to you as if you’re an adult. That’s not fair, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I don’t want to talk about dying either,” she declared. “I want to talk about living. I have a lot of living left to do, and I’ll need your help in getting it all done. But Brett…living is not the absence of dying. Dying is part of the deal. We all do it—some better than others, if you want my opinion. And I want to die the way I’ve lived.” We let that sit for a while before either of us spoke again.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I finally said.

“Give it some thought,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a proposal for you.”

Then Mr. Beady, with his knack for interruptions, returned.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, resettling into his vinyl resting place.

“We’re planning a party,” Nonna told him.

My eyes widened in surprise. Nonna never spoke sarcastically to Mr. Beady, no matter how annoying he was. But then I realized: She wasn’t being sarcastic.