After Ever After Page 3

  OK, you can see why creative writing is my only good subject. But my point is, Steven’s relationship with Annette — and with me and Mom and Dad — was like Pluto being a planet. Until it wasn’t. One day in May, Steven showed up at home unexpectedly and announced to my parents that he was finished with school. He had to go out into the world and find himself. And he needed to do it — alone.

  Basically, my hero woke up one day and quit the world.

  The next day in school, everybody was totally going insane over the letters. The math teacher lectured us about how this proved the seriousness of her subject, and how we had to buckle down and apply ourselves. I mean, what does that even mean? Are we supposed to strap ourselves to our desks? Tighten our pants a notch? Put on straitjackets?

  In social studies, the teacher lectured us for forty minutes on the history of aptitude testing, and how the Nazis tried to use IQ tests to prove their insane racist theories. Maybe this was just a hunch, but I had a feeling she wasn’t a big fan of the new rule.

  Mr. Laurenzano gave us a whole spiel about how just because science wasn’t on the state test, that didn’t mean it wasn’t an important subject. Plus, he said, we’d be using tons of math and reading skills in our science work, so obviously we should pay careful attention in his class every single instant. At least, I think that’s what he said, but I wasn’t paying such careful attention. Mostly I was just trying to turn my computer screen at an angle so Lindsey couldn’t read Tad’s completely inappropriate IMs in the window.

  Miss Palma discussed the new rule, then outlined the reading and writing portions of the test. You know, in case some kid had just moved to New Jersey from Mongolia. Or California, come to think of it. When she was all done with that, some girl raised her hand and asked whether the rule would change what we would be learning for the year. Miss Palma’s nostrils flared and she said, “I have always taught my students to read well and write well. Now, why in the world would I let some idiotic test interfere with that?” She turned to the chalkboard and pressed the chalk so hard it squeaked as she wrote the day’s journal topic: Write about a time you were pressured to do something with which you didn’t agree.

  All righty, then.

  In gym, I thought for sure we would be safe from the test lecture. I was wrong. There are five gym teachers in my school, four of whom are sane. The fifth, Mr. McGrath, was in charge of my class. I’d never had him as a teacher before, but I knew him because he sometimes came into the workout room and yelled randomly during other gym teachers’ classes. He liked to scream and yell, and he had this odd habit of emphasizing random syllables. When we got there, we dressed in our ultra-dorky two-tone green gym uniforms, and then he made everyone sit on these red dots on the floor, in order of our last names.

  That put me, Jeffrey Alper, right behind Lindsey Abraham. Believe me, I had never before loved the concept of alphabetical order so deeply. Amazingly, despite the fact that I looked very much like an ear of corn in my uniform, Lindsey looked like a stunning supermodel in hers. I could barely stand to look at her. But that didn’t stop me.

  Once everyone was on the right dot, Mr. McGrath shouted at us for about fifteen minutes about how all this testing was a bad idea. I was with him there, but then he started in on how all the brainpower in the world wasn’t as important as staying in shape. It was like he thought we were marines, and he was our drill sergeant:

  “We were all born with two things: a body, and a brain. The prob-lem is that you all sit in school all day on your big, old, cushy hi-neys working on the brain part. Then you go home, and what do you do? You sit around some more. And let me tell you, when I was a kid, we didn’t have any of this Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Wii, three-D GameCube stuff. Our three-D game platform was called a park. Our Nin-ten-do virtual reality war game was called hide-and-seek. And Wii was the sound we made when we jumped fifteen feet from a tire swing.”

  It seemed to me like maybe Mr. McGrath had taken a couple of headers off of that tire swing. But he wasn’t done yet.

  “So that’s why we will be de-vo-ting this year to getting your gigantic, soft pos-tee-riors into tip-top condition. We’re gonna run. And when I say ‘run’ I mean, ‘RUN.’”

  Lindsey suddenly turned to me and said, “Aha. I always wondered what people meant when they said ‘run.’” I laughed. How could someone with such a perfect neck be so funny, too? Somewhere in the world, there had to be an eighth-grade girl with no neck who still told knock-knock jokes and wondered why the world was so cruel.

  Mr. McGrath was reaching a climax. “We’re gonna lift. We’re gonna work out. That’s what I did every day when I was your age, and that’s what earned me the citywide two hundred–meter running title in nineteen eighty-one and nineteen eighty-two. That’s what earned me my high school nickname: Flash McGrath. And that’s what will get you into the best physical condition of your lives. And I know you won’t be thanking me now. But you’ll be thanking me la-ter, when you get married and your wedding dress doesn’t have to be the size of a pup tent to fit over your massive, rounded —”

  “Wow,” Lindsey said. “One day, I will have to come back and thank him for his touching interest in the shape and well-being of my butt. What do you think?”

  I thought if Lindsey mentioned her butt again I would have a heart attack. She turned back around and I tried to compose myself as I watched my red-faced lunatic of a gym teacher finish his rant. He was so out of breath he had to stop to rest and wipe his face on a little towel he kept hanging from the back pocket of his sweatpants. His huge sweatpants.

  It was pretty ironic, really, but Flash McGrath weighed about three hundred pounds and smoked like a chimney. I looked across the gym to where Tad was sitting in his wheelchair. He reached back, patted his butt, and raised one eyebrow. I laughed. But I also wondered what was going to happen if the obese fitness nut and Tad started getting on each other’s nerves. When Tad decided he didn’t like a teacher, the results weren’t always pretty.

  Halfway through the period, Mr. McGrath ordered the class to do a bunch of push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. I mumbled something to Lindsey about having to go somewhere, left my dot, and walked over to the glassed-in side room where they keep the state-of-the-art exercise bikes, treadmills, stair climbers, elliptical machines, and weight training equipment. Normally that stuff is just for the athletic teams, but ever since Tad and I had been put on a physical therapy plan in sixth grade, we got to go in there, too. Tad was supposed to walk on the treadmill for a few minutes every day to strengthen his muscles and bones, and I was allowed to use whichever machines I wanted as long as I got my heart rate up.

  On a usual day, I worked until the sweat poured out, while Tad sat in his chair and made wisecracks. I got onto the exercise bike and started pedaling, and Tad popped a wad of gum in his mouth. He began blowing bubbles and chatting with me as though I wasn’t in the middle of a workout.

  “So, D.A., did your parents (POP!) freak over the letter?” He calls me D.A. sometimes. The D stands for “Dumb.”

  “No. Why would they freak?”

  “Uh, because you always totally bomb the state test, and your parents (POP!) probably want you to make it out of middle school before they croak of old age.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Tad. It means a lot to me.”

  “No (POP!) problem. I’ve got your back. Speaking of which, what are we going to (POP!) do about the test?”

  “What do you mean? We’re going to take it. It will be fine. Plus, it’s, like, eight months away. Why are we even talking about this now?”

  “Because I am not (POP!) going to high school without you. You might be a D.A., but you’re my D.A.”

  “Dude. Dude. It’s all good. I’m going to high school. Now will you be quiet and let me work out?”

  “Fine. I bet Lindsey Abraham will miss you next year, though.”

  I stopped pedaling. “All right, genius. What’s the plan?”

  “Simple. I tutor you.�
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  “How’s that going to help? You tutor me now half the time.”

  “No, I mean, I seriously tutor you. Hours and hours, one (POP!) on one. It’ll be kind of fun, hanging out with your pal Tad and doing lots of good old math. But I’m warning you — I’m gonna work that chemo-soaked little brain of yours. Think of how much you’ll learn (POP!). You might be a math-tard now, but by April, I’ll turn you into a fire-breathing math machine. You’ll eat, breathe, and sleep math problems. Buddy, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll (POP!) be a math problem. We’re gonna —”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  “No. Why bother? I’m never going to pass anyway.”

  “What are you talking about, Jeff? You have to (POP!) pass this thing, man. You have to.”

  Tad has never understood how much I hate math. I guess he’s similar to my father that way. It’s like they’re both fish, and they think I’m a moron because no matter how much they pressure me, I don’t suddenly start breathing water. But it’s not my fault that the chemo messed up my math skills and left Tad’s alone. “Tad, I can’t pass it. I don’t just hate math. I really, really suck at it. You might as well tutor a tree.”

  “D.A., I’m not going to let you give up on this. There’s no option.”

  “Sure there is. I could just, uh …”

  “All right, fine. I don’t have to start tutoring you right away (POP!). Your parents could try to get you exempted from the testing requirement. Maybe if the school puts it in your five-oh-four plan or something.”

  A 504 plan is what you get if you’ve got problems that mess with your learning, but your parents or the school don’t want to put you in special ed. Tad calls it “Sped Lite.”

  Tad kept talking. It’s pretty hard to stop him once he gets going. And he’s always going. “Why don’t you just go home and ask your parents to start working on this? Your mom’s a teacher — I bet she knows all the angles. And your dad could —”

  “I said NO!!!”

  Tad was so startled he actually rolled backward a step or two. I never stand up to him. He thought for a few seconds. When he spoke again, I could hear the amazement in his voice. “Oh, geez. Your parents didn’t get the letter, did they?”

  I looked away.

  “Did they?”

  “Not so much,” I mumbled.

  “Holy cow, D.A. This is bad. This is very bad. What were you thinking?”

  I didn’t reply. But that never stops the Tadmeister. “OK, you weren’t thinking. No problem, then. We’ll just go back to Plan A.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “What the heck is Plan A?”

  “Tutoring time. Your parents don’t need to know a thing.”

  I buried my head in my hands. “You still don’t get it. I won’t pass this test no matter what you do. It would be like … like telling you that you couldn’t graduate unless you walk across the stage to get your diploma. It’s not tricky. It’s not hard. It’s not a little problem for you to solve. It … is … impossible!”

  “I could walk across the stage if I wanted to. I just don’t want to.”

  “Tad, that’s not the point. This isn’t about you. The point is …”

  Tad wheeled right up next to my bike. He looked pretty mad. “It is about me, you stupid little …” He stopped and breathed hard for a little while. “Look, everyone’s always assuming we can’t do things. Oh, Thaddeus, you’re too sickly to be in gym. But it’s OK. You’re too weak to use your own damn hand to write. But don’t worry about it. Don’t you see? Even if nobody else thinks so, you can pass this test, Jeff. You can. And I can —”

  “You can what? Get all the glory for saving your semi-moronic friend?”

  “No, Jeff. I can walk across the stage at graduation. All right? That’s the deal. We’re a team. I tutor you, and you work out with me. You pass, I walk.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As cancer.”

  I didn’t want to do this. I just wanted to close my eyes and hope it all went away. But I heard a rustle next to me, and suddenly Tad was standing up. He took a step and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “How hard can it be?”

  When I got home that afternoon, I was starving. I decided to make some oatmeal. That’s kind of my tradition when I’m uptight about something. I guess there are worse things I could do under stress, right?

  Some kids do drugs. Some kids light stuff on fire. Me, I heat oats. It started when I was a little kid. My parents liked to sleep late, so Steven used to make me oatmeal for breakfast. That was the best — no grown-ups in sight, a hot meal in front of me, and my big brother by my side. Then, when I got a little older, I started making the oatmeal for Steven. I remember the morning after his high school prom, when I was nine, I brought him oatmeal in bed at eight AM. He chased me out of the room by throwing about fifteen pillows and pieces of dirty laundry at me. Then, about five minutes later, he came out to the kitchen and said, “So where’s my oatmeal, you little madman?”

  I wonder if they have oatmeal in Africa. I bet they do, but they probably call it “ukumani” or something. And I bet they throw a few really disgusting, many-limbed bugs into the pot for flavor. I kind of hope so.

  Anyway, the key to oatmeal, Alper Brothers–style, is your milk-to-water ratio. It’s got to be a fifty-fifty mixture. Once you’ve got that down, you can basically chuck anything in there as long as it’s sweet. Myself, I’m big on berries. Or honey and nuts. Steven once made a batch with flaming bananas on top, but I’m not that brave.

  Plus, sometimes my hands shake, so the flame part could get ugly.

  On this day, I had my water and milk going on the stove, my oats standing by in a measuring cup, and a little pack of Craisins mixed with brown sugar ready to be dumped in at the end. As I stirred the liquid, I started thinking about Lindsey Abraham. I had never really liked a girl before. I mean, I had noticed a ton of girls in my life, and I had a lot of female friends. But nobody had ever rocked my whole entire planet out of its orbit in two days before. And she seemed to be flirting with me.

  On the other hand, I figured I had no shot with her whatsoever. For one thing, she was probably flirting with everybody. She was at a new school, with no connections, and she was ultra-beautiful, so why wouldn’t she be checking out all of her options? And, let’s face it, I was nobody’s idea of the hottest guy in eighth grade. Here’s a partial list of male eighth graders who put me to shame:

  Matt Hanuszak, sports stud

  Dylan Straniere, once appeared in a commercial (even if it was for cat food)

  David Nedermayer, lives in mansion, hosts pool parties

  Josh Albert, is nearly as good-looking as his famously hot cousin, Renee

  That one goth kid with the black crosses on his guitar (even though he wears eyeliner)

  Even if she were somehow, against all odds, a bit interested in me, I knew that would all change once we had “The Conversation.” Every cancer survivor out there has had The Conversation a million times, and it never goes well. You kind of try to hem and haw, to put it off, to pretend you don’t limp everywhere and carry a laptop to all of your classes, but ultimately, anyone who might become friendly with you must find out about your cancer history. And people say the stupidest crap in the world to you right after it comes out. Here are three possibilities, drawn from my worst experiences:

  Me:

  Well, you see, I, uh, I’m a cancer survivor.

  Person #1:

  And how’s that working out for you?

  Me:

  Well, you see, I, uh, I used to have leukemia.

  Person #2:

  Dude, how come you’re not, like, bald?

  Me:

  Well, you see, I, uh, I had acute lymphocytic lymphoma when I was five.

  Person #3:

  Whoa. That must’a sucked. I once had my tonsils out….

  So how in the world was I ever supposed to get a girlfriend? There’s e
nough that can go wrong in a normal boy-girl interaction without throwing in all of my baggage. But if a regular, ordinary relationship is like juggling a bunch of different-size, jagged pieces of metal — and from what had been going on between my brother and Annette, that seemed to be a pretty good simile — then throwing cancer into the mix is like juggling a bunch of different-size, jagged pieces of metal while riding a skateboard on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

  I mean, Lindsey Abraham could have her pick of any guy she wanted. So why would she choose me?

  But, I thought, she was totally joking around with me in gym. About her butt.

  Don’t get your hopes up.

  But she was.

  But you’re a short, chubby kid with glasses, a limp, and brain damage.

  And your oatmeal is boiling over.

  By the time my parents came home, I had managed to scrub about 80 percent of the burned, milky goo off of the burner. Mom made pasta for dinner, and the garlic scent mostly covered up the lingering odor of my disaster. As we sat down to eat, Dad wanted to know all about my academic subjects, as usual. But Mom had other ideas:

  “Jeffrey, who’s this Lindsey girl?”

  I nearly choked on a chunk of bread, but managed to say, “Whu-huh?” Thankfully, my windpipe cleared from the force of the huge coughing fit that followed, because it would be pretty embarrassing to have “Whu-huh?” as my last words.

  “Oh, Jeffrey, I just ran into Mrs. Ibsen at the market. She told me all about your new friend. Tad said she’s a glamorous new girl who’s swept you off your feet.” Mom put her elbows on the table, and leaned all the way toward me. “So what’s the deal?”

  On second thought, maybe I should have just choked. I looked away from her, and caught Dad’s eye. If there’s one thing my father gets, it’s how to avoid difficult topics. “Wow,” he said. “Honey, this sauce is dee-li-cious! What do you call it?”