Sorta Like a Rock Star (20 page)
Read Sorta Like a Rock Star Online
Authors: Matthew Quick
Tags: #Humour, #Young Adult, #Contemporary, #Religion
A week or so after Ty visits solo, I receive an envelope with a second place Marketing Club ribbon in it. A note reads:
AA,
I tried to win for you. I really did.
Franks said I was robbed by the judges.
My Friendly’s offer still stands.
Ty
PS—M.C. regionals weren’t as much
fun without you. Everyone else agrees.
Even Franks said it. If Ricky hasn’t told
you already, no one made nationals.
“Amber?”
“Yes, Father Chee?”
“I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For putting unneeded pressure on you. For putting a cross on you when you are already suffering. It was wrong of me. Selfish.”
I don’t say anything.
“Unless you ask me to keep coming, I will no longer come to visit you every day. In fact, I will never come again if you do not ask me to come. I want to help you, yes, but I also have been coming here because I need to believe that you are someone I need you to be, so that my faith will be increased. This is not fair to you. You spoke this truth the last time we talked. So this is the last time I will come to your room uninvited. The Korean Divas for Christ miss you very much and would love to sing with you again, but they will be just fine if you choose never to return to us. It is your life to do with as you wish, and you should make the decisions you think are best. I will be praying that you are who you need to be, always. And for selfish reasons, I hope that I will see you again soon. But Father Chee will also be okay either way, so do not worry about him. Goodbye.”
When Father Chee turns to leave I want to hug him and tell him to stay—that I want him to keep coming every day—but for some reason, I say nothing.
FC does not come the next day, and I am equal parts surprised, angry, and sad.
F
LOWERS ARE IN THE
G
ROUND, WHERE WE CANNOT SEE THE
F
UTURE WONDERMENT
Easter comes and goes.
I do not go to church.
I do not celebrate the resurrection.
S
UN STREAMING THROUGH THE
W
INDOW, MY CARPET IS WARM
E
NOUGH FOR BARE FEET
Jared and Chad-in-a-backpack visit me again for the first time in weeks.
“I know you told us not to come,” Jared says.
“But we came anyway,” says Chad.
“Did Ty really come here solo?” Jared asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“He’s growing a beard,” Chad says.
“What?” I ask.
“Ty says he’s not going to shave until you come out of your room and agree to go to Friendly’s with us,” Chad says.
“He’s calling it a friendship beard,” Jared says. “Says it’s an outward sign of his support for the reunification of The Five.”
“And he grew a full beard in days!” Chad says. “He’s beginning to look like Bin Laden.”
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Because his beard is getting all long and pointy at the chin,” Chad says. “Not because he actually wants to look like a terrorist or anything like that. Ty’s a patriot. Red, white, and blue—tried-and-true.”
“No, why is he growing a beard? Seriously.”
“As an outward sign of his support for you,” Jared says. “Just like I told you. It’s a friendship beard.”
“But I’m not seeing the beard, because I’m in my room, so why would he grow one?”
“He sorta sent us here today to tell you about it,” Chad says. “Show her, brother.”
Jared flips open his cell phone, hits a few buttons, and suddenly bearded Ty is smiling through the little square screen. His beard is sort of pointy at the chin, but he looks nothing like Bin Laden.
“We wanted to see you anyway,” Jared says, “because we miss you a lot and we feel really badly about your missing Marketing Club regionals and refusing to be a part of The Five. But Ty is really worried about you. He’s really upset.”
Jared says, “So what should we tell him?”
“Tell him?” I say.
“What’s your reply?” Chad asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Will you—maybe go to Friendly’s with us?” Chad asks.
“I’m not going anywhere right now,” I say.
“But maybe you
maybe
will—like—go to Friendly’s again with us in the future?” Jared asks.
I sigh. This is ridiculous.
“Okay,” Chad says. “We’ll take that as a maybe and leave before you change your mind.”
When they leave, I sigh and shake my head.
I hear Donna ask Chad and Jared how it went, and they say “Pretty good” just before I hear them exit through the front door.
A
IR GOES IN AND OUT
,
O
F MY NOSE, THROAT, LUNGS, BLOOD, HEART
,
B
RAIN
—
AND SO
I
AM
“Do you notice anything different?” Donna asks me. She’s sitting down on the side of my bed, rubbing my back lightly with her hands. She’s been doing this lately. She also has been combing my hair at night. I don’t say anything to her about this—because I secretly like it when she rubs my back and combs my hair, as if I were a little girl again and she were my mom.
Donna’s not my mom—my mom is dead—but it still feels good.
I don’t say anything to Donna, because I’m still being a cat.
“When was the last time you saw Bobby Big Boy?” Donna asks me after rubbing my back for—like—fifteen minutes or so.
I think about it, and suddenly, my heart starts beating really fast.
It’s been days—maybe weeks.
No, it can’t be.
When
was
the last time I saw BBB?
I haven’t thought about BBB even once for so long.
I am a terrible pet owner.
I sit up.
“Bobby Big Boy?” I yell.
“Shhh,” Donna says, “he’s sleeping downstairs.”
“Is something wrong with him?”
“Well. He’s been acting a little funny,” Donna says. “So—I’m just going to say this, Amber—I called a veterinarian today.”
“Why?”
“Bobby Big Boy has had a lot of diarrhea lately. He hasn’t been eating regularly. He’s been lethargic—looking sort of
unthrifty
. And today when I took him for a walk he—well—he collapsed.”
“What?”
“He recovered. He’s okay now. But I’m taking him to the vet in a few minutes, and I wanted to know if you wanted to go with me.”
I run downstairs and find BBB in his room, lying on his bed.
His eyes are glassy.
He doesn’t even pick up his head when I walk into the room.
I pick him up in my arms and kiss him.
“I’m sorry, B3. I’m so so sorry I’ve neglected you. I’m here now. I’m here.”
His eyes look so sad—defeated.
I hate myself for neglecting him, for not noticing that he was suffering—I’m such a cat, such a bad pet owner.
I finally leave the house.
Donna drives B Thrice and me to the veterinarian. Ricky stays home and does math problems.
“Do you think Bobby Big Boy might die?” I ask Donna in her Mercedes, with BBB curled up in my lap.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” she says.
“So you think this could be serious?”
“He’s a relatively young dog, and pet medicine is good these days. We’re taking him to the best veterinarian in the tri-state area. Dr. Weissmuller at Weissmuller Pets of Childress.”
“We’re taking you to the best, Bobby Big Boy. You hear that? The best.”
When we get to Weissmuller Pets of Childress, I carry BBB into the waiting room and a woman wearing black scrubs asks us if we have been there before, and when we say we haven’t, she asks for BBB’s medical records or anything that would prove he’s had all of his shots.
“Where did you take him before you started living with us?” Donna asks me.
“Nowhere. He was never sick before,” I say.
“So you’ve never taken your pet to the vet before?” the lady asks me—sending me tons of attitude, cocking her head to one side and resting the end of her pen on her puffy apple-red kiss-shaped lips.
“Listen, I found him in a Nike box when I was living on a frickin’ school bus. We were so poor we couldn’t even afford to eat—like ever. My mom was killed a few months back by a psychopath, so I don’t need any extra crap from you, okay?”
“Oh,
oh, my God
. You’re
Amber Appleton
, aren’t you?” the woman says, so nicely now. “I’m so sorry. The name on the file says Roberts. I didn’t know. Let me get the doctor right away. Just give me ten seconds.”
She disappears into another room.
I can see that all of the other pet owners waiting to see the doctor are staring at me now. Regular, work-weary people. A collie is barking at B3, a poodle is hiding under a chair, and this little kid with a runny nose is holding an evil-looking ferret with pink eyes.
“Ms. Appleton?”
When I turn around, a man in peach-colored scrubs is smiling at me.
“Right this way,” he says.
In a room with photos of dogs taped up all over the walls, I put BBB down on a silver examination table. He lies on his side and breathes slowly.
“What is wrong with you, my friend?” Dr. Weissmuller says to BBB, shaking his paw like formal men in suits do whenever they meet.
“Bobby Big Boy has been tired lately,” Donna says, “he’s not eating much, he threw up yesterday, he’s had diarrhea—and today he collapsed while we were taking a walk.”
Dr. Weissmuller feels BBB’s belly.
“What do you feel?” I ask.
“His abdomen is distended.”
“Is that bad?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet,” he says, and then removes a long needle from a drawer. “I am going to stick this into the place where I think there is a tumor, and if blood comes out—then we’ll know something.”
Dr. Weissmuller inserts the needle into BBB’s belly.
Blood comes out, but BBB doesn’t move or even whimper.
“You see the blood?” he asks.
Donna and I both nod.
“So we should do an ultrasound to see if the tumor is on the spleen or liver.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“If the tumor is on the liver—there is nothing I can do for your dog. If it’s on the spleen, we can operate.”
“How much is the ultrasound?” Donna asks.
“Seventy-five dollars.”
Donna nods once and says, “Do it.”
Dr. Weissmuller picks BBB up so gently and takes my doggie into another room, leaving Donna and me alone.
“I don’t have any money to pay for this,” I say. “I blew through my Rita’s money back in January.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Can I borrow the money from you?”
“I’ll pay, don’t worry, Amber.”
“What about the surgery?”
“If BBB needs surgery, I think I can afford it,” Donna says.
I shake my head—and I even cross my arms. I know that I mooch off Donna all the time, but taking responsibility for BBB has sort of become symbolic to me after all that has happened: it’s one of the few things that I can control, and so I simply say, “No.”
“No?”
“BBB is
my
responsibility. I’m going to pay for the surgery if he needs it,” I say.
“How?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Amber, you just need to worry about getting yourself together now and—”
“Stop,” I say, and then we wait in silence.
After a few long minutes, Dr. Weissmuller returns and gently places BBB down on the silver table. “The tumor is on the spleen.”
“So what now?” Donna asks.
“The tumor is bleeding into the abdomen. I will remove the spleen and we’ll do a biopsy. They send me the results in less than a week. If the tumor is benign—your dog will live.”
“I can’t take two deaths in one year,” I say to Donna, crying.
Dr. Weissmuller says, “I recommend surgery. Again, I will take out his spleen, and if the tumor is benign, your dog will live.”
“What if it is benign, and we do nothing?” Donna asks.