Dexter the Tough (6 page)

Dexter hadn't planned to tell Robin any of that, but the words just came tumbling out. He had to shut his mouth tight to keep from telling the rest, about Dad and Mom and Grandma and the dog that Dexter wasn't allowed to have. . . .

“Wow,” Robin said. “That's bad. At least it's just the kids who have been mean to me. All the grown-ups have been nice.”

“Well,” Dexter said. “You're a lot luckier than me.”

“I guess so,” Robin said.

He kept standing there, like he was waiting for something.

“Um, Dexter?” he started to say. “Do you—”

But Ms. Abbott came around the corner just then.

“Dexter! I've been looking all over the place for you. There's a phone call for you. They transferred it to my room—”

Dexter took off running.

M
s. Abbott had left the phone just dangling from the wall. It took Dexter two tries to scoop it up.

“Hello?” he whispered into the receiver.

“Oh, Dexter,” Mom said on the other end of the line. “I've got the best news! The bone marrow transplant—they found a donor!”

“They did?” Dexter was so surprised, he almost dropped the phone. “But Dad said they couldn't! He said—”

“I know, I know!” Mom said, and she was almost laughing now. Dexter couldn't remember the last time he'd heard her laugh. “But, it's like, the doctors wanted to double-check
and triple-check the registry before they started him on the experimental treatment, and something new turned up, a donor in Kansas, someone who must have just signed up—”

“Daddy has to go to Kansas?” Dexter asked. He tried to remember exactly where Kansas was.

“No, no, they'll ship the marrow to the hospital here—oh, Dexter, isn't this wonderful?”

Dexter was trying to take it all in. He still felt dazed, like his feelings hadn't caught up with the news.

“Then you'll come home?” he said. “And we'll be . . . just like before?”

He meant, before Daddy got sick. He could picture him and Mom and Dad living in their house in Cincinnati again, Dexter going to his old school, playing with his old friends at recess, Daddy sometimes even coming out and playing football with them in the yard . . . It would be like nothing bad had ever happened.

“Well, it's going to be a while still, but,
yes, that's what we're working toward,” Mom said. “This could completely cure Daddy, so he'll never be sick again. Can you imagine? No more living out of hospital rooms, no more chemo making him throw up, no more being apart from you. . . . ”

Dexter tightened his grip on the phone.

“You don't like being away?”

“Dexter! Haven't you been listening every night when we tell you how much we miss you?”

Actually, Dexter hadn't. Or, if he'd been listening, it hadn't really sunk in.

“I thought maybe you liked Seattle,” he said.

“Oh, please!” Mom said. “Did you think I've been sightseeing? Going up in the Space Needle? Hiking at Mount Rainier? I've barely left the hospital. And that's okay—I want to be here with Dad. He . . . needs me. But I hate being away from you, and I can't wait until Daddy's better and we can all go home. That's why this is the most incredible news—aren't you excited?”

“Yeah,” Dexter said, except “excited” wasn't quite the right word. It was more like he had hope bubbling up inside him now, hope for things he hadn't even let himself think about before.

“When Daddy gets better,” he began slowly. “When you come home—when we're all back at our house together . . . then can I get a dog?”

The words just slipped out. Dexter bit his tongue, afraid that Mom would think he was being selfish, that he didn't really care about Daddy. But the dog was his test. If they let him get a dog, that would mean that everything was really okay.

Mom didn't get upset. She started laughing again, sending bursts of giggles through the phone.

“Oh, Dexter,” she sputtered, gasping for air. “Oh, Dexter—yes!”

G
randma wanted to celebrate.

“Think we should throw a party?” she asked when Dexter got home from school. “Want to invite some friends? How about that boy you met in the park?”

“Nn-oo,” Dexter said slowly.

“Okay, just us,” Grandma said. “I understand. Want to order pizza? Ribs? As far as I'm concerned, tonight you can have all the ice cream you want. . . . ”

The phone rang just then.

“Yes, yes,” Grandma said into the receiver. “You heard right. We're so happy . . . ”

Dexter walked over to the kitchen window
while she was talking. The window looked out on Grandma's garage, where she'd kept Uncle Ted's bike before she let Dexter ride it. Maybe she'd never get it back now, because Dexter was too ashamed to go over to the Bryces' to get it.

Grandma hung up from her phone call.

“That was Marilyn Dowd, who lived next door when your mom was a little girl,” she said. “And that reminds me”—she began dialing—“I should let Peggy Fristian know, too. . . . ”

This time while Grandma was on the phone, Dexter pulled his story out of his backpack. Ms. Abbott had told him that, because of the big news, she'd give him an extension on his story. He wouldn't have to turn it in until next week.

“You probably don't feel like concentrating on schoolwork right now,” she'd said.

Ms. Abbott hadn't known until today that Dexter's dad needed a bone marrow transplant. She didn't know that Dexter hadn't felt
like concentrating on schoolwork since Dad got sick.

On the phone, Grandma was telling Peggy Fristian—whoever that was—“I just had to share the good news! Of course we still have to pray for Thomas's complete recovery, but this is such a miracle. . . . ”

Dexter reread his story, all the way up to the last line: Robin was crying before Dexter hit him.

The thing was, Dexter did kind of want Robin to come over and celebrate. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter's dad was going to be okay. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter's mom hadn't just left him behind for no good reason. He wanted Robin to know that Dexter was going to get a dog. He even wanted to tell Robin the jokes about tranplanting marshmallow fluff.

But Dexter had
hit
Robin. Dexter had beaten Robin up. And Robin had told his mom about it, and there was no way Robin's mom would want Robin hanging around with Dexter now.

Dexter remembered how he thought that when Dad and Mom came home, it would be like nothing bad had ever happened. Dexter didn't really understand how a bone marrow transplant worked—he thought it was kind of like a do-over in basketball, where Daddy's body would get a whole new chance to make good blood, instead of bad.

There wasn't any kind of a transplant that could undo Dexter beating up Robin.

How could Mom and Dad have such good news, when everything was still so messed up for Dexter?

“P
sst.”

It was time for recess, the next day. Dexter was just walking out of the school—last, as usual. The “Psst,” came from behind the door, then there was a whisper, “Hey, Dexter. Over here.”

Dexter let the door swing shut. Robin was crammed in behind the door, like some sort of secret agent.

“I've got someone for you to talk to,” Robin whispered. “Follow me.”

Robin yanked the door open again and slipped inside.

“I don't think we're supposed to—,” Dexter started to say.

Robin poked his head out the door.

“What? I can't hear you through the glass. Come on. Hurry up!”

Dexter sighed and followed Robin. Who had ever heard of anyone sneaking back
into
a school building during recess?

Robin led Dexter away from the fourth-grade hallway, into a part of the building that Dexter had never seen before. Judging from the crooked finger paintings hanging on the wall, it was probably the kindergarten wing.

“There he is,” Robin said softly.

A man with a broom was sweeping dirt into a dustpan.

“Mr. Chandler, this is the kid I was telling you about,” Robin said. “Mr. Chandler, this is Dexter. Dexter, this is Mr. Chandler.”

Mr. Chandler was young and had a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. He had a bandana wrapped around his head, like a pirate.

“Nice to meet you, Dexter,” Mr. Chandler said, holding out his hand. “From what Robin
tells me, I think I owe you an apology. Something about polishing the floors too well?”

“Uh . . . ,” Dexter said. He didn't know what else to do, except shake Mr. Chandler's hand.

“Mr. Chandler's the janitor,” Robin said. “He's really a nice guy.”

“Yeah, I felt terrible when Robin told me about you falling down your very first day here,” Mr. Chandler said. “Think I should change the brand of floor wax we use?”

Dexter shrugged. Robin started nodding like crazy.

“I've got an idea,” Robin said. “Maybe Dexter and me could help you try out the different kinds, see what works best without getting too slippery. Could we?”

“Sure,” Mr. Chandler said. “I always like having helpers.”

“See?” Robin told Dexter. “Didn't I tell you he was nice?”

Dexter flushed red. What if Robin had
told Mr. Chandler that Dexter hated him?

“It wasn't just falling down that made me mad,” he mumbled. “The secretary was mean to me, too.”

“Oh, right, she went off and left you in the middle of the hall,” Robin said. “And you didn't know where you were or what you were supposed to do.”

“Betty Sue did that?” Mr. Chandler said. He looked shocked. “Betty Sue's the nicest person I've ever met. She wouldn't leave a new kid alone when . . . Wait a minute—when was your first day?”

“Monday. A week ago,” Dexter said.

“Oooh,” Mr. Chandler said. “I bet I know what happened, then.”

“What?” Robin asked.

“Well, one day last week—it had to have been Monday—Betty Sue caught that stomach bug that's been going around,” Mr. Chandler said. “She kept having to run to the bathroom to throw up. She said she wanted to finish up her work before she went home
to rest and get better. And—I remember now—she said she threw up for the first time right before the first bell rang. That must have been when she was taking you to your class. But Betty Sue would have apologized. She wouldn't have been mean about it.”

Dexter narrowed his eyes, staring at some kindergartener's mess of red and blue paint. Now that he thought about it, he remembered that the secretary had looked pale and clammy. And she'd had beads of sweat on her upper lip, right before she'd run away, leaving him behind. And she'd said something, but Dexter hadn't really heard her. It'd been right then that he'd stepped forward and his feet had flown out from under him, and he'd crashed to the ground and all those kids had laughed at him. And then he'd run into the bathroom.

And when he came out of the bathroom, and saw the secretary again, maybe she had said something. Maybe she'd made all kinds of apologies. Dexter hadn't been able to listen
to anything then, because his ears were buzzing and his eyes were blurry.

And his hand hurt, from hitting Robin.

“Maybe you should talk to Betty Sue,” Mr. Chandler was saying now. “She'd feel really bad if she knew you were still upset. She'd probably bake you some chocolate chip cookies to make it up to you.” He grinned. “If she does, will you share some with me?”

It was hard to hate Mr. Chandler when he was grinning like that. And it was hard to hate anyone named Betty Sue.

“That's okay,” Dexter mumbled, staring at his shoes. “I'm not mad anymore.”

“That's great,” Mr. Chandler said, stepping forward to pick up his dustpan. “Now, if you don't mind, I really need to finish this hallway before the afternoon kindergarteners—”

Mid-stride, one of his feet shot out from under him. His arms flailed backward, like he was trying to grab for the broom to hold himself up. But the broom flipped over and
landed on the handle of the dustpan. It flipped over, too, sending an arc of dust flying up into the air. The dust landed right on top of Mr. Chandler. Flakes of dirt hung in his eyelashes.

Dexter didn't mean to laugh, but it was impossible not to. The giggles came bursting out of him. Robin was laughing, too.

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Chandler,” Robin managed to say, between giggles. “We shouldn't—are you all right?”

Mr. Chandler stood up and brushed himself off. He took off his bandana and shook the dust from it down into the dustpan.

“That's okay. You can't be a janitor and be afraid of a little dirt. And—I guess I deserved that for polishing the floor so much that even
I
slip on it. We're testing new floor cleaners, tomorrow, you hear? And—” He rubbed his elbow, the part that had hit the floor the hardest. “I definitely need your help!”

D
exter sat at Grandma's kitchen table. With the graham cracker box and two cans of pears, he built a little fortress around his homework paper. He glanced once toward the living room, where Grandma had the TV turned up loud. If he leaned forward a little, he could see her on the couch, slumped over. This time, he wasn't scared that she was dead. In fact, he was glad she was sleeping. That meant she wouldn't see what he was working on.

The reason Robin was crying was because he was homesick. And kids
teased him about his name and called him a crybaby. And he'd never gone to school before, just had his mom teach him. And he didn't know how to make friends. And . . .

What was he supposed to write next? “And so I hit him”?

Dexter crumpled the paper and hid it behind the graham cracker box. He got out another sheet of paper. He smoothed it down flat and started over.