Sorta Like a Rock Star (11 page)

After school I collect Ricky at his locker and go to Franks’ room. Franks usually has to pick up his kids after school—because his wife isn’t a teacher and works regular adult hours—so Franks doesn’t stick around too long after the last bell, but I catch him in the hallway just before he is about to leave for the day.

“Did you even hear about what we did for you last night?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” Franks says, his hands full of folders. “Principal Fiorilli filled me in.”

“And?”

“And?”

I try to shrug off his lack of gratitude, but I can’t control the shocked expression on my face, which says,
Aren’t you even going to say thanks?

“I appreciate your speaking on my behalf, Amber. And you too, Ricky.”

“Mr. Jonathan Franks is Ricky Roberts’ favorite teacher.”

Franks gives Ricky a quick but heartfelt high five.

“So why aren’t you like—more touched by our gesture?” I ask.

“Well—I’d like to think I’m keeping my job because I’m a good sales and advertising teacher, and not because you threatened the school board without bothering to ask how I felt about your doing so. Maybe the school board voted the way they did simply because they think I am a good teacher.”

I can’t even believe that he isn’t thanking me properly and freaking out with happiness. I thought Franks would hug me for sure. I really thought this was going to be our moment.

Something inside me snaps.

“What?” I say. “
We
saved your job, Franks.
We did it
. Us. Franks Freak Force Federation. Are you even serious with that good teacher crap? You play video games all day and offer kids easy electives so they can pad their GPAs. We saved your butt. Don’t you understand that? They would have fired you if it weren’t for us.”

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I am sorry.

“Why did you
really
go to the school board meeting, Amber? For me, or for you? I don’t need saving.
Do you?
” Franks says very coolly. Then he adds, “If you need help, I’m willing to help you here at school. Anytime between 6:30
AM
and 3:15
PM
. Just ask. My door will always be open to you. But stop coming to my house. It crosses the line, Amber.
It crosses the line
.”

And then Franks walks away from us.

“Amber Appleton is crying. Why is Amber Appleton crying? Where is Amber Appleton going? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”

I cry raging tears all the way to Donna’s house with Ricky trailing me.

“Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”

He only stops repeating the question when he opens his math workbook and sits down at the kitchen table.

I let BBB out of his room; he pisses for a full minute—making a yellow river—and then jumps up into my arms.

I give him a long squeeze before I mop up the river with paper towels.

Before I leave, I give Ricky a bowl of pretzels and a can of mandarin orange seltzer, and then I’m on Donna’s bike, BBB in the basket.

“Stop crying,” I say to myself. “You have old people to cheer up. They believe in your ability to keep the tears at bay. They are depressed enough already about being old. Buck up, Amber! Buck up! You can’t battle when you’re crying. You need to defend your title. Stop crying!”

At the last second I remember to stop at Alan’s Newsstand and buy a large cup of hot cocoa and a Snickers bar, and when Alan asks if I have been crying, I say, “What?” and laugh crazily, so he won’t ask me again. Then I finally pull it together as I pedal the last few blocks to the Methodist Retirement Home.

I got this Wednesday gig here after I saw an ad stapled to one of the big old trees in front of the retirement home. I was walking by after work and the hot pink paper of the ad caught my eye, so I took a closer look. The ad read something like this: “Today is the perfect time to make a new friend. Seniors have wonderful stories to tell and are always ready to share their grand array of life experiences. If you want to be a senior pal, if you want to be regaled by stories of olden times, please inquire within. Make a new friend today.” I’m totally down with making friends, I’m a very good pal, and I absolutely love being regaled, so I inquired within and signed up for the program. I became a regular at the Methodist Home once Rita’s closed for the season and I stopped scooping water ice after school.

When I first went to the old folks home, I was told by the staff that I was simply to talk with the old people in the common room—do puzzles, listen to stories about grandchildren, the Depression, the cost of milk seventy years ago, all of which started to make me feel really depressed. These people didn’t need someone to listen to their crappy stories; they needed a spark, something to remind them that they were still alive. And it was pretty obvious that the staff paid them little to no attention, especially since people die here, like every day. Every week I come back someone’s missing. But for the longest time, I wasn’t sure what I could do to liven up the joint.

Then I met Joan of Old, who—on the outside—is the meanest person you ever met, but on the inside, she’s actually pretty philosophical, which you have to discover by breaking through the meanness by being mean yourself, so she will respect you. I discovered this by accident one day when I told her I wanted to go to Bryn Mawr College and she said I’d never get in because I wasn’t smart enough.

Her rudeness surprised me because old women are supposed to be really grandmotherly and nice, so I lost my cool and cursed her out really badly, calling her some pretty nasty things, which made her smile, which was weird, but led to my having a kick-ass idea: turn the common room into a word-battle arena where hope dukes it out with despair once a week, which sounded crazy loopy at first, but I’ve always trusted my visions, so I pitched my idea to some of the older men—who were always putting their arms around me and squeezing my shoulders—and they ate the plan up and made it happen.

Because she loves being evil, Joan of Old agreed to play her part right away, and it has really improved morale at the home very much—or at least that’s what the residents tell me anyway.

The front of the Methodist Retirement Home has these huge slavery-times plantation columns and a porch with wooden rocking chairs that look out over a big old rolling lawn, but I use the back entrance, where you have to sign in and pass through security, which—on Wednesday afternoons—is pretty much Door Woman Lucy.

So I park Donna’s bike behind a bush—hiding my ride, so it won’t get stolen—grab BBB, and then walk into the visitor’s entrance with my pup in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other.

“Ain’t no dogs allowed in this building,” Door Woman Lucy says from behind her desk, shaking her head slowly, staring into my eyes. “You know the rules, Ms. Appleton. I don’t make ’em, and I need to get paid, so that funky little rat’s gonna have to stay outside.”

“DWL.” That’s what I call Door Woman Lucy to her face, and I think she likes the nickname, because she always smiles when I say it. “It’s cold out.”

“Sure is.”

“Too cold for a dog to be outside.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Bet it gets cold every time that door opens.”

“Sure does,” Door Woman Lucy says, lifting one eyebrow.

“I just bought this hot chocolate here, but I’m not really feeling much like drinking a delicious wintertime beverage right now. But it would be a shame to throw it away. I’d really hate to chuck a fresh cup of hot chocolate.”

“Ms. Appleton, as you know, I’m not allowed to accept bribes from visitors, but if you left that drink on my desk, knowing that it won’t change the fact that that dog of yours must stay outside the building, I’d maybe see it don’t go to waste.”

Very slowly, I place the cup on her desk, lay the Snickers across the lid as an added bonus, sweetening the deal—because I really do dig Door Woman Lucy—sign the clipboard with all the lines and names of people who have visited today, record the time of my visit, and then I step away slowly, making my way into the building, BBB under my arm.

“Thanks for leaving that dog outside, Ms. Appleton. I’m sure you understand that rules are rules,” Door Woman Lucy says.

“Oh, I understand,” I say.

BBB barks once to convey that he understands as well.

And then B Thrice and I both walk through a second door and into the home.

We make our way through some depressing hallways with dusty fake plants in the corners, but we don’t see any staff members.

There is a great cheer when I walk into the common room.

I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m sorta like a rock star to these people.

I slip BBB to Knitting Carol, who hides my pup in a lap full of yarn. B Thrice loves to sleep in yarn, so no worries. Knitting Carol loves dogs, so it’s a match made in heaven. With B3 in her lap, she’s smiling like a little girl on Christmas morning. True? True.

“All right, kid,” Old Man Linder says to me, massaging my shoulders from behind. “The old broad has been mumbling nasty things about you all week. She’s coming at you hard today. Don’t let her rattle you with any low blows, because the wrinkly bag’s brimming full of ’em, as you are well aware.”

Old Man Linder is my manager. He’s something like a hundred and fifteen years old and has to drag around an oxygen bottle that pumps pure air through these clear tubes that are stuck up his nose. His breath stinks and he has spots all over his face, but he is a kick-ass manager, and he hasn’t thrown in the white towel on me yet. He’s tough as nails, so I trust him to manage my corner.

Big Booty Bernice has shut the common room doors, so the staff won’t hear the cheering and come break up the battle in the middle of my exchange with Joan of Old.

All of the old people are slowly pushing chairs and wheeling the wheelchair-bound into position, so that everyone can see and hear, which means that everyone has to be really super-mega close to the battle, because old people don’t see and hear too well. Word.

White hair abounds, along with homemade sweaters, no-name dress sneakers, cough drops, ear-hair, yellow fingernails, shaky limbs, wrinkles, diapers, and an intense hospital smell that dries out your nasal passages in—like—ten seconds.

Joan of Old is in her wheelchair, front and center, staring me down with her wrinkly pink eyelids, trying to psyche me out. She might weigh eighty pounds if her clothes were soaking wet. She’s wearing all black like always, still mourning her husband who died—like—thirty years ago. True.

Joan of Old wiggles an old pink finger at me and then shakes her head so that her black bonnet falls a little to the left, so she straightens it with her bony shaky hands.

Joan of Old has no manager, mostly because everyone in the home hates her. She is such a downer most of the time, and she likes to quote depressing Nietzsche 24/7, which, of course, wins her no friends.

I take my place by the sunniest window in the room, and Old Man Linder says, “Remember, the crowd doesn’t always get your newfangled MTV kid references, so keep your jokes age appropriate. You’re battling for our happiness. This is the only thing we look forward to all week. Besides this weekly battle, our lives bore us to death. This is the one thing that’s different and exciting, so don’t let us down. You making that old crusty broad smile—this is something to believe in. It breaks the awful chain of days. So for us, please just keep going at her until she smiles. No mercy!”

I nod once and roll my head along my shoulders, crack my knuckles, and jab the air a little—like Cassius Clay. (Also known as Muhammad Ali, sucka!)

All of the old people are seated and waiting for the battle to begin, so Old Man Thompson—who actually wears a bowtie every Wednesday, just to play the role—stands and turns to face the audience. He’s hunchbacked but sprightly.

“Welcome once again to the Wednesday Afternoon Battle between Hope and Pessimism. To my left we have the indomitably hopeful one, the girl of unyielding optimism, the teen of merriment, the fan favorite, the girl you wished were your granddaughter or maybe even your great-granddaughter, the only minor who visits the home on a non-holiday, the undisputed Wednesday Afternoon Champion, Amber the Princess of Hope Apple-Tooooooooooooooon!”

I raise my hands in the air and hop a little.

The people clap and all the old dudes with front teeth left whistle.

“And now the challenger,” Old Man Thompson says, and everyone starts to boo. “This woman needs no introduction. The woman in black. The constant mourner. The self-proclaimed nihilist. The one who says the building is too cold and forces management to keep the thermostat so high that we have to dress as though we are all back in the spring of ’36 when we had that record-setting heat spell. The woman who once faked a heart attack because she thought we were having too much fun at last year’s Christmas party. You know her well. You have no doubt suffered her insults at least once in the last twenty-four hours. The brittle broad you love to hate. Joan! Of! Old!”

Boos abound. Someone throws a crochet hook at Joan, but misses her head by at least four feet.

Joan’s little raw bony hands swat at the many booers, whom she cannot identify—because she is blind.

“All right, ladies,” Old Man Thompson says, “front and center.”

Joan of Old wheels herself over, and I step to her.

“Now we want a clean battle,” Old Man Thompson says, his breath smelling like he powdered his tongue with the dust found at the bottom of a Tums bottle. “Politics and religion are off limits. This is a Methodist home, so let’s keep the cursing to a minimum. You know the rules. Joan of Old smiles and the young lady wins again. Amber Appleton cries, and the old broad wins her first battle. The challenger calls the flip.”

“Tails,” Joan of Old says.

Old Man Thompson flips and catches a quarter, smacking it down on the back of his spotted and veiny hand. “Heads!”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Joan of Old asks. “I’m blind, you know.”

“Feel the top of the coin for all I care,” Old Man Thompson says, offering the back of his hand to Joan of Old.