Thirteen by Lauren Myracle

  I ignored him. His breath got fast. Yes, it hurt me, too, but tough.

  “Winnie?” Mom said, clopping into the den in the clogs she’d taken to wearing. The pregnancy was making her feet swell, and clogs worked better than her normal high heels. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  Great, I thought, expecting to get scolded for being mean to Ty.

  But when I followed her into the hall, Mom took my hand and said, “Baby, I need you to do something for me. I need you to go with Ty to the hospital.”

  My stomach dropped out of my body. “What? Why?”

  “To visit Joseph.”

  I must have looked blank—which I was, but not for the reason she thought—because she said, “His friend who’s so sick?”

  “No, I know who he is.” I tried to get my act together. “Why’s he in the hospital?”

  Mom squeezed my hand. “He’s not doing well, Winnie. None of the treatments have done what they hoped.”

  Oh, no, I thought. “But he’s not…I mean, he’s not going to—”

  “I hope not. But Joseph’s mom let Mrs. Webber know that Joseph would appreciate visitors, and I think that’s a really nice idea. I’d take Ty myself”—she glanced at her watch—“but Mimi from my prenatal group is throwing me a surprise baby shower. I have to be there.”

  “A surprise baby shower?”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a surprise,” she said. “But this is my fourth time on the baby train, you know. I know the signs.”

  “Couldn’t you take Ty tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s not good. Joseph has chemo.”

  “I thought you said the treatments weren’t working.”

  She sighed.

  “Mom?”

  “It’s complicated. And honestly, if it were one of you…”

  “If it was one of us, what?”

  “Chemo is hard. Hard on the kids, hard on the parents.” She paused. “But sometimes, I guess, it’s even harder to give up.”

  I didn’t want to think about that. I refused to think about that. “There could always be a miracle,” I said.

  “That’s true,” she said. “There could always be a miracle.”

  The hallway where we stood was dark, even though it was only four o’clock. This part of the house always got dark first, because there were no windows. I could see Mom’s face, but it was difficult to read her expression.

  “Winnie…do you not want to go with Ty to visit Joseph?”

  I stubbed my sock-footed toe on the hardwood floor. What was I supposed to say? It’s not that, it’s just that I don’t want to miss a call from my boyfriend, who doesn’t know how to tell other girls he’s taken?

  “It doesn’t have to be a long visit,” Mom went on. “I’d drop you guys off on my way to Mimi’s, and then Dad would pick you up on his way home from work. You’d be there probably an hour.”

  I was such a jerk. Such a pathetic loser for caring about my own problems when Joseph’s were so much worse.

  “Joseph’s mom doesn’t want him to get tired out, anyway,” Mom said.

  “Okay, yes, I’ll go,” I said.

  “Great,” Mom said. She stepped into the den and projected her voice. “Ty, want to go visit Joseph at the hospital?”

  Ty turned from the TV. First he looked at me to see if I was still mad at him, and when he saw I wasn’t, he untangled his legs. “Can I bring Sneaky Bob?”

  “Sure,” Mom said. Her expression went soft as she watched him slide down from his pile of pillows, and her hand—the one not holding mine—went to her rounded belly. I don’t know if she even realized it.

  “Grab your jackets, you two,” she said. “It’s cold out.”

  Joseph’s hospital room was pale blue with a border of clown wallpaper. A bouquet of miniature balloons on plastic sticks sat on the table, along with a slew of teddy bears and get-well cards. Get well, as if it were Joseph’s choice and he just had to snap to it. I know nobody meant anything cruel by the cards, or anything other than We love you, we’re thinking about you, we’re praying for you. But seeing them all jaunty on the table made me feel like the world was a sad, sad place. I wasn’t very good at sadness.

  “Dad’ll be here soon to pick you up,” Mom said, kissing the top of Ty’s head. She smiled tentatively at Mrs. Strand, Joseph’s mother.

  “I’ve got to run,” Mom told her, “but Winnie’s going to stay and hang out with the boys. She’s very responsible, if you want to get a cup of coffee or something.”

  Mrs. Strand nodded. Circles shadowed her eyes. “I could use some coffee. I think I will.” She looked at Joseph. “Joseph? If you need juice, or more crackers, just ask Winnie, all right?”

  “Or me,” Ty said. So far he’d stayed glued to my side, but now he edged closer to the metal railings of Joseph’s bed.

  “And push the call button if you feel like you need Nurse Anna to come check on you,” Mrs. Strand said.

  “Mo-o-om,” Joseph said. He was upright in his bed, propped on two pillows. His red knit cap looked bigger than it used to. His eyebrows no longer existed, I guess because of the chemo, and his skin was raw and rashy.

  “All right, all right,” Mrs. Strand said in the martyred tone of mothers everywhere. “It’s just that I love you, that’s all.”

  “I know,” Joseph said.

  Finally the grown-ups left, and it was just me, Ty, and Joseph.

  “So, um, how are you feeling?” I asked, and immediately hated myself. How was that any better than Get well soon?

  “Okay,” Joseph said. His arm was rashy, just like his face. He scratched it.

  “I like your shirt,” Ty said. It was dark blue with a bright yellow sun on it, and underneath was the word HOTLANTA.

  “Thanks,” Joseph said in a monotone.

  Well this is going to be fun for all of us, I thought to myself.

  Ty walked over to Joseph’s bed and held up Sneaky Bob. “This is Sneaky Bob Lizard. He’s a lizard.” Then, realizing how he’d repeated himself, Ty thwacked his head. “Duh!”

  “Is he a Komodo Dragon lizard?” Joseph asked.

  “Probably. You can hold him, but he’s heavy.” Ty heaved Sneaky Bob over the rail and dropped him on Joseph’s chest.

  “Ooof,” Joseph said, just as I cried, “Ty!” I rushed over, but Joseph was grinning under the weight of Sneaky Bob.

  Joseph hefted Sneaky Bob onto the bed rail and said, “Watch this.” He nudged Sneaky Bob’s abdomen, and Sneaky Bob fell to the floor with a satisfying thud.

  Ty cackled. He snatched Sneaky Bob up and balanced him on the rail at the bottom of the bed, which was higher than the side rails. “Geronimo!” he exclaimed, shoving Sneaky Bob off.

  “Don’t be too rough,” I warned. “He’ll pop, and beans will fly everywhere.”

  “Beans?” Joseph said.

  “No, poop!” Ty said, thrusting Sneaky Bob in Joseph’s face. “Poop will fly everywhere and hit you in the eye!”

  “Ty!” I said.

  “And pee,” Joseph said. He reached down and wiggled a clear plastic bag hanging from an IV pole. It was half full of a pale yellow liquid; I suddenly realized what it was. “My pee bag will explode and pee will go everywhere!”

  I made the sign of the cross, partly for effect and partly for real. Ty and Joseph were deep in seven-year-old-boy land; nothing I could do was going to save me. “Gross, you guys!”

  The poop became a poop mountain; the pee became a pee ocean. And then somehow a Poop and Pee Airline was invented to fly travelers to Poop Mountain and Pee Ocean, although the code name for the airline was Dolphin Airlines, to keep the unsuspecting from being tipped off.

  Um…yeah. I backed away slowly and carefully and vowed to beware any airlines named for sea mammals.

  Mrs. Strand returned just as Sneaky Bob took a death-defying plunge off the table, his tail lashing the cards into a pile of invisible poop. Ty and Joseph guffawed. Mrs. Strand’s eyebrows shot up.

  I hopped out of the chai
r.

  “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said. I knelt to gather the cards.

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Strand said.

  “I don’t think they hurt anything—I mean, well, except for the cards, but—”

  “Winnie,” Mrs. Strand said. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

  I raised my head and saw that she meant it. In one hand she held a box of granola bars, and in the other a plastic-wrapped ten-pack of juice boxes. She looked different than when we’d first gotten here. Not happier, exactly, but once again ready to take it on, the pain and unfairness her child was going through.

  Joseph’s chortling helped. I saw it in her eyes.

  When we left twenty minutes later, Sneaky Bob stayed behind. Ty checked with me first, clutching my shirt and yanking me to his level.

  “Ow,” I complained.

  “I think Sneaky Bob wants to stay here,” he whispered.

  “You do?”

  “With Joseph. But I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  For just a second, it did hurt my feelings. Which was crazy. And then that selfishness went away, and I thought, Oh, Ty.

  “You want to give Sneaky Bob to Joseph? Forever?” I asked.

  He nodded. His fingers tightened around Sneaky Bob’s green scales, and I knew he honestly did want to. I also knew he was already missing him.

  “It won’t hurt my feelings,” I said.

  So Ty gave Sneaky Bob to Joseph, who propped him beside him on the overstuffed hospital pillow. At first Mrs. Strand got all motherish and said, “No, no.” But she relented when the faces of both boys fell.

  “Well…all right,” she said. “Thank you, Ty. That was very, very nice.” She turned to Joseph. “Joseph, is there anything you want to say?”

  “Poop,” Joseph said solemnly.

  He and Ty fell to pieces.

  It was after six by the time we got home. Ty turned on the kitchen lights while Dad plonked the McDonald’s bags on the table and lifted out burgers and fries. Sandra was having dinner with Bo, and Mom was still at her baby shower, so Dad, Ty, and I were feasting on quarter pounders and fries.

  Only, I didn’t know if I was hungry. Maybe yes, maybe no. The red light on the answering machine was blinking: it all depended on what happened when I pressed the “PLAY” button.

  I pressed. Mom’s voice filled the kitchen, reminding Dad of the new McDonald’s rule, which was that we had to get milk, chocolate milk, or O.J. as our drink, as if that would balance out the vats of grease in our meals.

  “Too late!” crowed Ty, slurping his Coke.

  Next came a message from Sandra’s friend, Elise. Boring.

  And that was it. Just those two messages, no more. I checked caller ID, to see if Lars had called but not left a message. He hadn’t.

  Well. That was that, then. The kitchen felt empty without the hustle-and-bustle cheerfulness of Mom. Sandra, if she were here, would either be grouchy and sullen or hilariously cheeky, and I missed her, too. The smell of cheese and dead cow wrapped around me.

  “Winnie, come sit down,” Dad said. “Your quarter pounder’s getting cold.”

  “I will,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t. “I’ve just got to make a call first, okay?”

  I went to the den so I could talk in private. If he was even there. If he wasn’t over at Stephanie’s or Brianna’s for another wild blowout.

  “Mitchell residence,” Lars said when he answered, because he thought it was a corny-cool way to pick up.

  I said nothing. I felt dead inside, which was so dumb. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t even sick. There were so many things in the world that were more important than my pathetic problems, and yet here they were anyway: my pathetic problems, making me feel dead inside.

  “Yo,” Lars said. “Hola! Anyone there?”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Winnie!” he said, sounding, as always, happy to hear from me.

  “You didn’t call. You promised you’d call, and you didn’t.”

  He laughed. Not a real laugh, but a defensive “guy” laugh.

  “I was going to,” he said. “It’s, like, seven-thirty! The night is young!”

  I waited.

  “I was watching CNN with my dad. World issues, man. Big, big, big.”

  I blinked back tears. I didn’t want to be this nagging freak-girl. I didn’t like the way it made me feel, the way it changed me.

  “You have to be nicer to me,” I said.

  Again, he laughed. “What? I’m King of Nice. What are you talking about?”

  “You have to be nicer to me, or…or…”

  “Or what?” he said. Still Lars, still charming and jokey, but with a thread of fear. It snaked in and pierced my numbness and almost broke my resolve. Almost, but not quite.

  “Or I have to break up with you,” I whispered.

  What more was there to say? Nothing. So I hung up.

  February

  VALENTINE’S DAY SUCKED. Seriously, it was the meanest, suckiest holiday ever. If you had a boyfriend, then Valentine’s Day was fine and dandy and chocolate candy. But if you didn’t? Then lucky you, you got to skulk about in your cloud of loser-ness as blissful couples gamboled like fawns and flung rosebuds into the air.

  It was a gloater’s holiday, that’s what it was. It encouraged people to gloat, gloat, gloat. Look at me! I’m happy! Look at me! I’m loved!

  But I wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t loved, and as I trudged through the motions of getting ready for school, I wished I could push a fast-forward button and skip over Valentine’s Day entirely. Ever since Lars and I broke up—which I guess is what we did, although that wasn’t what I wanted—school had been nothing but misery. Whenever I saw Lars in the halls or on the quad, Cinnamon yanked my arm and pulled me the opposite direction. She said Lars was a jerk, just like Bryce, and that I was better off without him.

  “He has to prove himself to you,” she said. “And he hasn’t, so he doesn’t get to talk to you.”

  “But what if I want to talk to him?” I asked.

  “Too bad,” she said.

  Dinah was kinder. Dinah said that Lars liked me, she knew he did, but that he hadn’t learned to be the sort of person he had it within himself to be. Or something like that. She agreed that he had to come to me, though.

  “He kind of has to,” she said, scrinching her face like she knew it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  So, yeah. School sucked. Today would be even more miserable than usual, because of Valentine’s Day carnations. Last year, Lars sent me a pink carnation. We were young and innocent and hadn’t even kissed yet—hadn’t even held hands!—but he sent me a pink carnation, and I floated on air.

  This year, there would be no pink carnations, and their absence would be a blinking neon light above my head. A blinking light of sadness as deep as my bones.

  Ty wandered into my room as I gloomily tugged on a pair of black hose to go with my black skirt and shirt. I figured I was in mourning, so I might as well dress like it.

  “Those are ugly,” he commented, regarding my floppy stocking feet. He plopped onto my bed. “They look like rotten elephant trunks.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t wear those ugly things if I were you. I would take them off and throw them in the trash.”

  “Well, when I want fashion advice from a seven-year-old, I’ll ask for it,” I snapped.

  His expression faltered. “Why are you being mean?”

  “I’m not being mean—you are. You’re the one coming in here and telling me how ugly I am!”

  “Not you! Your stockings!” He looked worried, the way he always got when he thought someone was mad at him.

  “It’s the same thing. Saying my stockings are ugly is the same as saying I’m ugly, so you should think about that next time before you start insulting someone.” It was working—I was making him feel as bad as I did—only it didn’t feel as good as I’d hoped. So I tried to soften it. “Okay, Tyler-poo?”

&nb
sp; His breaths quickened. “You called me poop! You called me poop!”

  “What? No, I didn’t.”

  “Poo is poop, so you did, too!”

  Oh God. Why had I bothered?

  “Ty, give it up,” I said. “You’re acting like a baby.”

  “Nuh-uh, Winifred-vomit.”

  “Uh-huh, Tyler-dirty-belly-button.”

  “Nuh-uh, Winnie-diarrhea!” Ty cried. He got to his feet, hands balled into fists. “Nuh-uh, Winnie-dirty-bagina!”

  I gaped. I knew I wasn’t being the best big sister…but calling someone a dirty bagina?

  “Ty, you need to apologize,” I said sharply.

  “You need to apologize!”

  “No, you do. And if you’re not going to, you need to shut up and get out of my room.”

  Ty looked shocked. Then came the tears. Big floppy tears that didn’t spill out, but just welled in his eyes, giving him the appearance of an abused orphan.

  I felt bad, but it was a twisty, pissy kind of bad. The world was a hard, cold place—how would he ever survive if one measly “shut up” could bring him to tears?!

  “It is weird,” he whispered. “I miss you, but you’re right here.”

  “Yeah, well, I won’t be forever,” I said. “No one will. And then how will you feel, huh?” There was a stabbing in my heart as I pointed to the door. “Now leave.”

  In the front seat of Sandra’s car, as we drove to Westminster, I stared out the window with my head resting against the glass. A line from a Dr. Seuss book played through my head: Gray Day. Everything is gray. I watch. But nothing moves today.

  Sandra flicked on the turn signal as we approached the school, and I sighed.

  “Could we just not?” I said. “Couldn’t we skip, just this once?”

  Sandra glanced at me. The two of us hadn’t spoken for the whole ride, and I got the sense she wasn’t in the greatest mood, either—probably because Bo was out of town visiting the University of South Carolina.

  She bit the corner of her lip…then did the strangest thing. She flicked the turn signal off. I lifted my head. I sat up straight and watched, amazed, as we passed Westminster’s front gate.

  “Are you serious?” I said. Excitement filled me, but anxiety, too. “We’ll get busted! We’ll totally get suspended!”