Extreme Vinyl Café (2 page)

“I don’t even know what that is,” said Dave.

Morley sighed and dropped the little piece of plastic into a set of rolling plastic drawers. “It’s a tail stabilizer for a Sigma 6 Dragonhawk.”

The night before they left, Morley took Sam out to buy sheets for his new bed. He chose flannel Ninja Turtle sheets. Morley was beaming when she got home. “Just when you have given up hope,” she said.

“Did he buy them in earnest or irony?” asked Dave.

“Don’t want to know,” said Morley.

M
orley and Dave left on Friday morning.

“We’ll be back next Sunday,” said Dave. “We’ll call every night. Six o’clock.”

“Fun, fun, fun,” said Sam under his breath as he and his sister watched their parents pull out of the driveway. Given their past experiences under similar circumstances, this was a stunning flash of optimism.

When Stephanie was thirteen and babysitting her little brother for the first time, she had made Sam, who was about seven at the time, spend the entire afternoon cleaning her bedroom. At sixteen, she’d invited someone over—Sam never knew who—and he had been sent to his room with a video, a family-sized bag of chips and strict instructions not to come out for the entire evening.

Something about their relationship had changed. It was nothing either of them had done. It was just the relentless tides of breakfasts and dinners, of socks and underwear; time tumbling them the way the ocean tumbles glass—smoothing the sharp edges, rolling the hard green of impatience into the emerald softness of love. It was just the work of the ocean and the laws of the family asserting themselves.

Since she has been away at school, Stephanie’s appetite for bugging her brother has … dissolved.

“We’ll go out for dinner,” she said. “There’s a place I want to show you.”

It was the way she said “we” that Sam noticed.

“I’m going to meet Becky,” she said. “She needs to buy a dress. I’ll call you later. We can meet.”

There
, thought Sam.
She did it again
.

Then Stephanie gave Sam her cellphone number, but nothing else. No instructions or even advice.

He liked this. This was cool. He felt grown-up and independent. They should have sent Stephanie to university years ago.

S
am spent that Saturday morning amusing himself,
and
annoying Arthur, the dog, with his Nerf gun. Peter Moore
came over in the afternoon with his new video game. Murphy came over too. They played for six hours.

Dave phoned at six. “The boys can stay for dinner. You could order pizza,” he said.

Then he added, “The healthiest choice is the one with the grilled vegetables and no cheese.”

“We’ll get that one, for sure,” said Sam, rolling his eyes. “Can we have it with steamed broccoli?”

After Peter and Murphy left, Sam stayed up watching DVDs. Stephanie didn’t seem to care when he went to bed. Or whether he took a bath. Or what he ate. He stayed up past midnight on Saturday. Later on Sunday.

O
n Monday, at the end of library class, Mrs. Atkinson asked Sam to stay behind.

“Are you feeling okay?” she said.

“What?” asked Sam. Sam happened to be feeling on top of the world.

“You don’t look well,” said Mrs. Atkinson. “I thought I would ask.”

Sam shook her off. He felt fine. As he bounced down the hall he was thinking, Mrs. Atkinson is
weird
.

Then it happened again. After lunch. In between periods four and five, Mr. O’Neill stopped him in the hall and asked him the same thing.

“Are you feeling okay? You look a little sallow.”

“I’m fine,” said Sam. He didn’t say anything about Mrs. Atkinson. But it was strange. Twice in a day. It made him wonder.

He went to the boys’ room and peered at himself in the
mirror. He looked fine. But after school, they were playing ball hockey in Peter’s driveway, and Peter said, “What’s the matter with you?”

And Sam said, “What do you mean?”

Peter said, “You look green.”

Sam asked Stephanie that night.

“Do I look okay?”

“Your jeans are too baggy,” said Stephanie. “You should get a job and get decent jeans. When I was your age, I was buying my own jeans.”

“Jeans are
supposed
to be baggy,” said Sam, looking at his legs dubiously.

“Not like
that
,” said Steph.

When his parents called, Sam wanted to tell them what Mrs. Atkinson had said about him looking bad. But he didn’t want to worry them—especially his father, who had a tendency to overreact.

“Before you go to bed,” said his father, “check the oven and make sure it is off. Also the back door. Make sure the back door is locked. And don’t light any candles. You’re not lighting candles, are you?”

“No,” said Sam. “I’m not lighting candles.”

“What about your sister?”

T
he next morning they had gym first period: basketball. Skins versus Shirts. Sam was a Skin. After five minutes Mr. Reynolds pulled him onto the sidelines. “You look a little green,” said Mr. Reynolds. “You’d better sit out.”

Sam went into the boys’ room and looked in the mirror again. It wasn’t just his face. It was his whole chest. He spun
around and peered over his shoulder at his back. He felt a rush of anxiety. Something
was
wrong. It was like he had a tan, but weird. He changed mirrors, and it was the same. It was his ears and his cheeks too. It was like he had a bruise all over his body. But different. Brighter. Sort of greeny grey. Maybe he
wasn’t
feeling so good.

When gym was over he tried to brush it off.

“It’s just the colour of my skin,” he said. “You shouldn’t judge someone by the colour of their skin.” The truth was he was feeling worried.

W
hen Sam’s parents phoned at supper, Dave said, “Before we left, I meant to check the smoke alarm and I forgot. Will you check the smoke alarm? There should be a little light flashing every ten seconds. If it’s not flashing every ten seconds, call us on Mommy’s cell.”

“I’m fine,” said Sam.

Obviously he wasn’t fine.

“You
do
look a little green,” said Stephanie later that night. “Do you feel okay?”

The truth was he didn’t feel okay. The truth was he was feeling tired. The truth was he was getting a headache.

“I have a headache,” he said.

“Take off your shirt,” Stephanie said. Sam stood in front of her with his shirt off.

“Turn around.”

She said this quietly, ominously. Then she said, “You should go to bed.”

“I’m fine,” said Sam. But he didn’t sound convinced. He headed for his room. Stephanie came upstairs ten minutes
later. “People turn orange from eating too many carrots,” she said.

Sam was lying in bed, on his back, the covers up to his chin. “I’m not turning orange,” he said. “I’m turning
green
.”

Stephanie said, “Because maybe you’ve eaten too much green stuff.”

“But I haven’t had a single vegetable since Mom and Dad left,” said Sam.

Stephanie was back ten minutes later with a plate. There were beets, an apple and a cut-up red pepper.

Sam said, “You want to turn me red?”

Stephanie said, “Red and green are complementary colours. I am trying to balance you.”

“I feel sick,” said Sam.

T
he next morning he was definitely worse. He came downstairs and there was an undeniable mouldy pallor to his skin. It seemed worst around his head, his wrists and his neck, but his whole complexion was vaguely off.

“I am going to phone Dr. Keen,” said Stephanie. “You should stay in bed.”

Stephanie’s concern scared him. She
never
paid him
this
much attention. And she wasn’t just paying attention—she was being kind and concerned. It could only mean one thing: He was dying.

“I’m okay,” he said.

Sam went upstairs. He didn’t want to stay in bed. He wanted to get dressed. He opened a drawer and stared at it. He pulled out a green sweatshirt. Maybe if his shirt was green, it would mask his skin. He stared at himself in the
mirror. He couldn’t decide whether it made it better or worse.

He came downstairs and stood in front of his sister.

“Do I look like a broccoli?” he asked.

Stephanie said, “You have an appointment with Dr. Keen this afternoon. You should stay home from school.”

He went back upstairs and got back in his pyjamas. He read for a while, but he was feeling worse and worse. It was hot under the covers. He began to sweat. He rubbed the perspiration off his forehead onto his pyjama sleeve. And he froze.

There was a bright green smear on his shirt sleeve. His sweat was the colour of lime Kool-Aid. Now his
sweat
had turned green. That could only mean one thing: Whatever he had was coming from inside of him.

It was suddenly obvious to him. He had been colonized by some weird green thing. A space creature, possibly. Or some sort of pond algae. Maybe his insides were going mouldy— like swamp water, or a piece of cheese that had been in the fridge too long. It really didn’t matter what it was, because it was pretty obvious that whatever had taken hold of him wanted out. His chest could erupt at any moment.

Murphy came over after school.

Sam said, “I think I have an alien.”

Murphy nodded earnestly. Then he took off his glasses, pulled out his shirt and polished his glasses on his shirttail, which is what Murphy does when he is thinking very hard. He polished his glasses, then he put them back on and bent over Sam, who was lying on his bed despondently. Murphy peered at Sam, coming closer and closer until their faces were less than six inches apart. Sam was getting uncomfortable.

Sam turned his head and said, “What are you doing?”

Murphy reached out and took Sam’s chin and twisted it so they were face to face again, and he said, “Breathe.”

“Why?” said Sam.

Murphy said, “I want one too.”

A
t five o’clock, Stephanie took Sam to Dr. Keen.

On the way there, Sam was thinking Dr. Keen would tell them there was nothing to worry about. Sam thought Dr. Keen would say that boys his age turned green all the time, that it was a perfectly normal thing and would go away in a couple of days.

But that’s not what happened. Dr. Keen took one look at Sam and frowned. He agreed that Sam did not look at all well. Dr. Keen listened to Sam’s heart, and looked in Sam’s ears. He took Sam’s temperature. Then he shook his head and said he was flummoxed.

“We’ll do some tests,” said Dr. Keen.

Sam said, “Do you think maybe I have an alien?”

Dr. Keen said, “I don’t know what you have. I’m a little perplexed.”

Dr. Keen was writing in his file. Sam wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or talking to himself. He was muttering. This is what he was saying: “If he were blue, that would be a different matter. If he were blue, then cyanosis or something else that involves his heart and lungs … if he were
yellow
, well then … primary biliary cirrhosis, Wilson’s disease, yellow fever, liver or pancreatic cancer, jaundice, hyperbilirubinemia, anemia, hepatitis A, B, C, D, E, or Y, or, of course, gallstones.”

“Hyperbili … what?” said Sam nervously.

Dr. Keen looked up at him and said, “What? Oh. Hyperbilirubinemia. But you’re not yellow.” He looked back at the file and muttered, “And you’re not blue, either.”

“No,” said Sam. “I’m green.”

“I’m going to take some blood,” said Dr. Keen.

Sam looked away as Dr. Keen got ready to draw the blood.

“Deep breath,” said Dr. Keen.

Then he said, “All finished.”

Sam said, “Well?

Dr. Keen said, “Well what?”

Sam said, “What colour is it?”

O
n the way home, Dr. Keen’s list of diseases echoed in Sam’s ears. He couldn’t remember all their names … just hyperbilirubinemia, and that there were a lot more. Blue ones and yellow ones.

When he got home, he crawled morosely back into bed. Pretty soon he was crying. He wanted his mother and father. Why were they away when he needed them? Probably he would be dead when they came home.

Maybe he should call them. If his mother were here, she would sit beside him on the bed and tell him not to worry. If his father were here, he would … panic.

Okay, he wasn’t going to phone them.

He got out of bed and began to pace. Maybe he could figure this out. Stephanie was right. If carrots made you orange, it made sense that green stuff made you green. He had to avoid anything green.

He went over to his desk and started making a list: beans, broccoli, Brussels sprouts. There was a lot of green stuff when
you thought about it: lettuce, spinach, peas—though it had never occurred to him just how much—asparagus, apples…. He kept adding to his list. No wonder he was turning green. Cabbage, kiwi, and cucumbers … he was slowing down. He stared at the paper for a moment without writing anything. Then he added
Collard greens. Bok choy. Mint-chocolate-chip ice cream
.

He was staring at his list when Murphy called.

Sam said, “The doctor did a blood test.”

Murphy said, “What colour was it?”

Sam told him about Dr. Keen’s list.

Murphy said, “I’d better come over.”

M
urphy was standing at the foot of the bed wiping his glasses.

Murphy said, “It’s worse than we thought. All those blue and yellow diseases.”

Sam said, “I don’t have them.”

Murphy was shaking his head. “When you mix blue and yellow together, what do you get?”

Sam shrugged.

“You get green,” said Murphy. “It is possible you have all of them.”

It was the worst night of Sam’s life. A sense of doom settled upon him. His mother and father called, but he couldn’t remember what they talked about.

Murphy was right; the doctor wouldn’t have taken blood if he didn’t think something horrible was happening. In his head, he had already got the tests results back. He had hyperbilirubinemia. His life was as good as over.

At nine o’clock the phone rang. He prayed it was his mother. He and Stephanie had decided not to tell their parents anything until they got the test results. They didn’t want to ruin their trip. But if it was his mother, he was going to tell her now.