After Ever After Page 10

  Imagine my surprise when Flash told me I’d flunked. He did it in the worst possible way, too. He made a big speech about how “Some of us just need a little extra push to achieve vic-tory, but others need a rocket strapped to their butts!” Then he gave back everyone else’s tests, and called me into the hallway for a private chat.

  “Alper,” he said, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

  “Uh, I scored so high you broke your slide rule calculating my grade?”

  “Funny, but no. The good news is that you’re def-initely working faster than before.”

  “So what’s the bad news?”

  “Let’s just say that if I ever need someone who knows how to make a lot of mistakes really fast, you’ll be getting the call. Didn’t you think at all while you were taking the test?”

  My head was spinning. “No, but you said that thinking is the enemy of math.”

  “Hmm, did I?”

  I nodded weakly.

  “Well, geez, what do I know? I’m not even a math teacher!”

  I was in a terrible mood when I got home. All I kept thinking about was what Lindsey had said about her and the high school boys. I know I should have been worrying about spending another year in eighth grade, or my father disowning me, or how many enemies Tad would make in high school without me there to run interference for him. But instead I just kept picturing Lindsey surrounded by an army of guys: Jocks. Studs. Genuises. Older guys with money, confidence, maybe even cars.

  I was sure she’d be totally happy to just tell them, “No, thanks, I’m seeing this really cool half-wit who’s repeating eighth grade.”

  I just wished I could talk to Steven about everything. For the first time all year, I went into his room. I’d never really noticed before how much of his stuff was from his eighth-grade year, my kindergarten year, when I was first diagnosed. There were his two favorite pairs of drumsticks: the autographed ones I’d kind of ruined that summer before school started by stirring a big old vat of raw meat with them, and the ones that he’d given to Samantha, that girl who’d been a patient on my floor in the hospital and died of leukemia. There was the poster for his first All-City jazz band concert, the one that he’d had to leave during intermission because I got a fever. And there, pinned to his bulletin board, was a picture of me and Steven on his eighth-grade graduation day. With one hand, he was holding his mortarboard cap over his head, and with the other, he was tipping my baseball cap. Our heads were mostly shaded, but you could still make out how short our hair was. Mine was just starting to grow back after chemo, and he had shaved all of his off so I wouldn’t have to go through being bald all by myself.

  Amazing how much of his life I’d messed up.

  When I heard my mom tromping around downstairs, I hurried out of Steven’s room and headed down for dinner. I swear, I was planning to tell my parents about my failing grade on the pretest, but right when I was building up my nerve, my dad launched into a whole big round of congratulations about my eighty-three on the midterm. He looked so happy about it that I just couldn’t stand to destroy the moment. I figured he’d have the whole next year to suffer over my stupidity.

  I went up to bed early, but had some trouble falling asleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept picturing Lindsey and all those high school guys. Plus, it gradually dawned on me that I could hear raised voices from downstairs. I tried to ignore them for a while, but eventually I gave up, sighed, and dragged myself over to the closet. Their conversation was yet another eye-opener.

  “Look,” Dad said, “it’s bad enough we’re not telling Jeff about the other thing. But now you go and write letters to everyone in the world to get him excused from the test?”

  “It wasn’t everyone in the world. At first, I tried the principal. He sent me to the superintendent. The superintendent told me to take it up with the state department of education, so that’s what I did. Plus, this wasn’t just about getting Jeffrey excused completely. They aren’t even going to give him extra time or a small-group testing site. He’s going to be right in the middle of three hundred kids in the gym, trying to concentrate and crank out the work — with no computer. I’m sorry you don’t think we should advocate for our child, though.”

  “Advocate? Advocate? Is that what you call it? Because I call it ‘enabling,’ as in, ‘you are enabling your child to remain an infant.’ You saw Jeff’s grade on that midterm. He can do this!”

  Mom fired right back: “I’m telling you — AGAIN — a classroom math test is a million years removed from the statewides. It’s like seeing your kid get a hit in T-ball, and saying he’s ready for the major leagues. Besides which, I’m not saying he should be excused from taking the test — just from being held back if he fails. In education, we call that ‘protection from adverse consequences.’ It’s considered an essential characteristic of a quality learning environment.”

  “Well, in the business world, we call that ‘babying the worker,’ and it’s considered an essential characteristic of a poorly run company.”

  “Honey, I don’t want to baby Jeffrey. Really, I don’t. I just want him to have a chance.”

  “Then maybe we should be getting him a professional tutor,” my dad said.

  “You know we don’t have that kind of money, especially now that the rate is going up on the second mortgage. And don’t start in again about how we could have paid back the insurance company faster if I’d gone back to work sooner. That was years ago.”

  Holy cow. My parents had taken out a second mortgage on our house?

  “Whatever. All I’m saying is, if you really want him to get through this, a pro is probably more effective than some gym teacher. Or Tad. Especially now.”

  Especially now? Why does everybody I know always seem to be speaking in code?

  “You’re a pro. If you’re so stuck on this, why don’t you work on Jeffrey’s math with him?”

  My dad sighed. “You know how much I’d love to do that. But Jeffrey doesn’t listen to me. He never has. You know what? Maybe we should just fly Steven back from Africa once a week. Jeff listens to him like everything he says came down from a mountain carved on two clay tablets.”

  Whoa. Did my dad actually sound jealous of my brother?

  “Jeffrey loves you, too, you know that.”

  “Not enough to let me anywhere near his math homework.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. All this time, I’d thought my father was so disappointed in me that working with me disgusted him. But the worst thing was that Dad was right: I had always liked Steven better.

  At lunch the next day I told Tad about the pretest, and of course he got really upset about it. “Jeff,” he said, “there’s only one thing to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna have to tutor you twice a week.”

  “Tad, I’m already going to the extra classes every Tuesday and Wednesday, plus I have math every single day, AND you’ve been helping me once a week since October. Do you really think another hour and a half will make a difference?”

  Tad picked at his food, looking at it as though it might bite him. “I don’t know, but what’s the other option?”

  “Well, my mom is trying to get the state to excuse me.”

  He nodded. “I know,” he said.

  “You know? How?”

  He stopped looking nauseated for a moment — long enough to flash the famous Tad Ibsen smirk. “Uh, your mother and I have always been close.”

  “No, I’m serious. I didn’t even know about this until last night, so how do you —”

  “I’m sorry, Jeff, but I can’t tell you. I promised someone.”

  “Someone?”

  Just then, Lindsey banged her tray down next to mine. I jumped.

  “Hi, guys!” she chirped. At least one person at this table was having a good day. “What are we promising?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tad make a frantic throat-cutting signal to
Lindsey as he said, “Nothing.”

  Lindsey’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Oh.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Whatever was going on, Lindsey was in on it, too.

  You know what? Thinking isn’t the enemy of math. Methotrexate is. I tried so freaking hard the next month that I thought my brain would explode, but numbers and stuff just don’t stay in my head right. I had a feeling Tad was pretty frustrated, too.

  Halfway through our fifth twice-a-week session, in the middle of checking my work on a word problem, he sighed and pushed my laptop away. “Let’s take a break,” he said. “YVONNE!” he bellowed. Tad’s sister came charging into the room, pigtails flying in every direction. “Do you want some milk and cookies?” he asked her. She nodded. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go get them and bring them here!” She scampered out.

  “Tad, why are you always so mean to her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stop it. I’m serious. You’re on her all the time. Why?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I nodded.

  “Truthfully, I always figured I’d probably die. And I thought, Maybe it will be easier for everyone if Yvonne doesn’t get too attached to me.”

  “So you were being nice by being mean?”

  It was Tad’s turn to nod.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Oh, really? Like you never gave up on anything when you were in treatment? Think real, real hard. If you’re not totally full of crap, I guarantee you’ll come up with something.”

  He was right. I knew exactly what he meant. I remembered sitting in front of my math homework in fourth grade, with my head in my hands, saying to myself, Oh, who cares about this stuff? Mrs. Hanson said if I don’t know my math facts I’ll be in trouble when I grow up. But what if I don’t grow up? And then I remembered closing the workbook, going downstairs to find Steven, and asking him to play checkers with me.

  Still, I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. Since when had Tad become, like, my therapist? “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

  I had a weird feeling Tad was about to smack me or something, but then Yvonne came in carrying a huge tray with organic oatmeal cookies, cups, napkins, and a carton of milk on it. We stopped talking, and wolfed down pretty much everything. When Yvonne was piling the garbage back on the tray, Tad touched her arm and said, “Thanks, Y. That was perfect.” She blushed, and scurried away.

  Nice to know there was hope for one of us to change, anyway.

  Two days later, Tad was absent again. I asked Lindsey if I could come over to her house — thanks to global warming, we were having the first no-snow winter anybody could remember, which sucked for the planet, but kind of ruled for eighth-grade boys who need to get around on bikes. She argued that I should stay home and study, but I swore I would just sit at home and watch basketball on TV if she didn’t let me come over. So she let me come over. For the next few weeks, Tad was in and out of school, but every time I asked whether he was all right, he got all growly. So I guess it was easier not to ask. I mean, I hate to say this now, but I almost hoped he’d be out on tutoring days so I could sneak over to Lindsey’s. Until the night Lindsey kicked me to the curb.

  When I got to Lindsey’s house, her mom let me in and led me to the basement door. “Go on down,” she said. “Lindsey is just helping her father out with some editing.” I basically have to turn sideways and crab-walk to get down steep staircases, but I made it down OK. Lindsey’s dad was sitting on front of a huge, awesome computer monitor, and she was leaning over his shoulder. They were watching video footage of a tanker truck explosion over and over. “Lindsey,” her dad said, “do you think this is, I don’t know, a little drab?”

  Drab? I thought. How drab can it be? It’s a freaking explosion!

  “Maybe,” Lindsey said. “Here, try this.” She reached over her father and did a while lot of really fast mouse clicking. Then the explosion came on again, and it was somehow much cooler. “Well?” she asked him.

  “That’s it, Linds! Was that a blue filter right after the flash?”

  “Yup. See, this way it’s like the way a person’s eyes would react to a burst of bright light. You’re putting the audience right there, you know?”

  Lindsey’s dad saw me then, and said, “Come on down, Jeff. Did you know your friend Lindsey is a genius?”

  “Uh, sure. I mean, yes, sir. She sure is.”

  Lindsey’s eyes flashed. “Don’t knock yourself out with excitement or anything, Jeffrey Alper.”

  I froze up in horror. “I didn’t mean — you were — the explosion was — you’re awesome!”

  “And don’t you forget it, Jeffrey! See you, Dad!” she said, and pushed me upstairs. Her mom brought us some drinks and chips, and then left us alone in Lindsey’s room. Wow, California parents were just so different. If I wanted an instant alone with Lindsey at my house, I had to take her on a freezing death-march to the park, but at Lindsey’s, they just fed us and disappeared. Leaving me IN Lindsey’s ROOM.

  I liked it.

  At least until Lindsey turned to me and said, “Jeff, we have a problem.”

  “Uh, we do?”

  “Yes, we do. I, uh, I think maybe we shouldn’t spend time together outside of school until after the statewide tests next month.”

  Whoa. I felt like I had just been hit by a brick. Just then, it occurred to me that the mistletoe was gone from the doorway. “What? Why? Are you breaking up with me? I don’t believe this! I thought everything was going so well, and now —”

  She put her hand over my lips. “Jeff, stop! I’m not breaking up with you.”

  “Then why —”

  “I just don’t want to be a distraction. If you failed the test by, like, one point because you were with me instead of practicing, it would be awful.”

  “You’re not a distraction. I swear! I mean, you are, but I can’t study all the time. Can I?”

  “Maybe you should, Jeff. Just until the test is over. By then your parents will be off your case, too, and we won’t have to sneak around like —”

  “What do you mean, sneak around? Your mom just poured me a glass of milk. Apparently, she noticed I was here.”

  “Ha-ha. We’re not sneaking around my parents, Jeffrey.”

  “Well, uh …”

  “No, NOT well, uh! I don’t want to feel like we’re in trouble all the time. It’s not right. And Tad thinks —”

  “What does Tad have to do with this?” My mind was putting together some ugly clues: the mysterious glances, the strange silences, and whatever dire secret project they’d been doing together on the nights I’d been sitting home alone. “Oh, God, are you and Tad —”

  “NO!” Lindsey practically shouted. “I can’t believe you’d even think that! Tad and I aren’t anything except two people who care about you.”

  “But then, what’s with all the secrets? Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on? I mean, I’m glad you care about me so much that you’re dumping me, but —”

  “I’m not dumping you! But I promised Tad, OK? I can’t tell the secrets because they’re not mine to tell. If you really want to know what’s going on, why don’t you go over there and ask him?”

  I didn’t care how she played it off, I still felt very much like a dumpee. “So you want me to get out?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “But you want me to go to Tad’s house, right? Which means getting out of this one.”

  “Fine, go!”

  “All right, I will!”

  “Good!”

  I started to storm out of her room, but it’s hard to storm effectively when you’re limping. And then I had to come back in because I forgot to put down my milk glass.

  Yeah, I know. I’m super-bad.

  As I got to the doorway the second time, Lindsey said, “Jeff, you can call me anytime tonight if you need to talk after …”

 
After what? I thought. Is Tad going to dump me, too? I just didn’t get it: She was chasing me out of the house and telling me to call her at the same time.

  I hobbled out of there as fast as I could, and before I could change my mind, I was rocketing across town on my bike. I was all worked up — I felt like I was in the intermission of a really scary play. I mean, what are the chances that you’d have your first-ever romantic breakup on a night when it’s not even the worst thing that’s going to happen?

  I got to Tad’s in record time, and rang the bell. His mom came rushing to the door, and said, “Shhh!” She led me through the foyer into the dining room, where three places were set for a late dinner.

  “What’s going on, Mrs. Ibsen? Is Yvonne asleep or something? I just came over to see how Tad’s feeling, and if maybe he was up for some tutoring.”

  She gave me a weird look, kind of like she pitied me. “No, Yvonne’s not asleep, Jeffrey. Tad is.”

  I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. “Tad’s asleep?”

  “Oh, son,” Tad’s mother said. “Don’t you remember what evenings were like when you were in treatment?”

  In treatment? In treatment?

  I sat down in whatever chair was closest, and Mrs. Ibsen put a hand on my shoulder. How could I have been so blind? How could I have been so totally, obliviously stupid? I wasn’t going to be sneaking in a math session, because my tutor — my best friend — had relapsed. Tad had cancer again.

  Thinking isn’t the enemy of math. Methotrexate isn’t, either. Cancer is.

  When I finally got home that night, I turned on my computer. It was too late to call Lindsey, but I thought maybe she’d be online. In a rare example of perfect timing, I had gotten an e-mail just a couple of hours before, probably while I was having a breakdown at Tad’s house. It was from Steven.