Sorta Like a Rock Star (21 page)

“Your dog will eventually bleed to death—internally.”

“How much is the surgery?” I ask.

“There can be complications, and maybe your dog will need blood transfusions—all told, the cost should be around two thousand dollars. Should I leave you alone to discuss this matter?”

Donna nods and Dr. Weissmuller leaves the room.

“Can I borrow the money?” I ask Donna.

“I’ll pay for all of it, Amber.”

“No. I just want a loan. I want to take care of this myself.”

I can see that Donna wants to help me. Her eyes are kind and her face is compassionate, but she doesn’t understand that charity is for old people and cripples.

I bury my face in BBB’s fur.

“Dr. Weissmuller’s going to get you feeling better, and then I’m going to get better too. I’m going to take you to see Ms. Jenny just as soon as you are healthy. You stay alive, BBB, and I’m going to be a better pet owner. I promise.”

I cry harder like a chick as I hold BBB close to my cheek.

“Dr. Weissmuller?”
Donna says.

Even though Donna protests, I sign all of the forms; I agree to pay for the operation in installments over the next few years, Donna co-signs, and then we leave.

As we are driving home, suddenly, I’m saying, “Will you drop me off at Private Jackson’s house?”

“Why?” she asks.

“I really need to see him.”

“So does this mean you’re officially out of your room?” she asks, sorta surprised and maybe even hopefully.

“Something like that,” I say.

“Okay,” Donna says.

I give her directions and she drives me to PJ’s house.

When Donna drops me off on the curb, she asks if I want her to come pick me up, and when I tell her I’ll walk home, she says, “Amber, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I just need to spend some time with PJ. I’m cool. Really.”

“Okay,” she says. “But call if you want me to pick you up. Cool?”

I nod once and then walk toward PJ’s house.

CHAPTER 52

It’s dark, so I know that Ms. Jenny has already gone for her run.

I also know that PJ is home, so I knock on the front door.

When PJ opens the front door, he doesn’t say anything about my mom or about me or why the hell I haven’t visited him in months—he doesn’t even ask if I liked the haikus he has been sending me every day. He only says, “Please come in. I’ll put on the tea.”

When I enter his house I see the blank spot on the last wall of his living room—the hole that I have not yet covered with doggie haikus—and it makes me feel really depressed.

I sit down on the couch as Private Jackson makes tea.

Ms. Jenny comes looking for BBB, and when she doesn’t find him, she jumps up on the couch and ducks her head under my hand, so that I will pet her.

I pet her with all I got.

When PJ brings me the tea, it is green—like always.

I sip it.

He sits and sips his cup.

I sip mine again—and then I start sobbing.

I sob so hard I drop my teacup and Ms. Jenny jumps off the couch and hides under the coffee table.

I can’t stop crying.

I can’t stop shaking.

Snot is running down my nose—spit down my chin.

It all comes out.

Everything.

My dad leaving us.

Being homeless.

My mom’s murder.

BBB’s having a tumor.

I’m not even an adult yet.

It’s not fair.

It’s really not fair.

I close my eyes so hard—trying to stop the tears.

I start to cough wildly.

I feel like I might die.

And then Private Jackson is next to me on the couch.

He’s moved toward me for the first time.

I throw myself at him.

He hesitates for a second or two, but then he puts his arms around me.

I bury my head in his yellow button-down shirt, and he holds me.

After a few minutes, I stop coughing, but I can’t stop crying.

I soak his yellow button-down shirt with hot tears.

We stay entwined like this on his couch—father-daughter style—for a long time.

When I finally let go, Private Jackson turns his face from me quickly and says, “I will get you more tea.”

Before he leaves the room, I see that his face is also streaked with tears.

He stays in the kitchen for a long time—longer than it takes to make green tea.

When he returns, he hands me a new steaming-hot cup.

When I sip, he says, “I just wrote a haiku in the kitchen.”

He has a piece of paper in his hand, so I ask, “Can I read it?”

He hands it to me.

It reads:

T
HE SUN SETTING THROUGH

P
INE TREES AT THE EDGE OF TOWN

M
AKES ME SQUINT AND SMILE

“It’s good,” I say. “But it doesn’t capture the present moment.”

“Maybe sometimes—on special occasions—every so often, it is best to capture a different moment, maybe, when the present moment is not the right moment for you. It is sometimes nice to think that more moments are always coming. Always. Like the moments when you come to visit me.”

“True,” I say, and then sip my tea, realizing that what PJ just said is like—revolutionary for him, so I don’t push it. I simply enjoy the present moment—having released so much emotional baggage—as this moment bleeds into the next one.

Silence.

We sip our cups for an hour, not saying a single word, just occupying the same space.

When I finish, I stand and say, “You’re a good man, Private Jackson.”

“I will wash the teacups now,” he says.

“I’m going to bring BBB here in a week or so to visit Ms. Jenny, cool?”

“Ms. Jenny will be looking forward to the visit very much,” he says, and then takes our teacups into the kitchen.

I let myself out of PJ’s house and then walk through the darkness, navigating the Childress streets back to Donna’s house—thinking about Dr. Weissmuller cutting open Bobby Big Boy and removing his spleen—and before I know it, I’m praying again, asking JC to be with Dr. Weissmuller, to help him to be exactly who he needs to be, so that BBB will be okay. And then I sorta promise JC that I will try to return to my hopeful self if He spares BBB’s life—even after what happened to my mom—which is a pretty good bargain for JC, as far as I’m concerned.

I’m still sorta mad at JC, but I’ve missed Him too. True.

I sorta need to pray, and all.

Praying keeps me sane.

Maybe it’s my true favorite?

When I get to Donna’s house, I find Ricky in the kitchen eating Ritz crackers and peanut butter.

“I’m sorry, Ricky,” I say.

“Ricky Roberts is supposed to leave Amber Appleton alone because her mother was killed and it wasn’t fair, so she is mad at everyone for now, but she will snap out of it in the future. Yes. In the future.”

I snap both of my fingers and then give Ricky a kiss on the cheek.

“Amber Appleton kissed Ricky Roberts! Yes!”

“I’m sorry I was mean to you, Ricky,” I say, and then I notice that Donna is in the doorway watching the apology.

So I walk over to Donna, say, “I’m going to school tomorrow,” and then I give her a big old hug before I go up to my room and stare at the ceiling all night—wondering how in the hell I will pay for B Thrice’s surgery.

PART FOUR

We’re Not Alone

CHAPTER 53

I don’t sleep a wink.

Around five thirty, I get up and make omelets.

Eggs, milk, peppers, mushrooms, tequila—all whisked up in a big old silver bowl.

Omelet jizz in the pan.

Sizzle.

Sizzle.

Sizzle.

Fold over: O to D.

Flip, flip, flip.

Plates in the oven.

Oranges halved.

Donna’s juicer used.

Coffee put on.

The paper I get ready for Donna.

The table I set.

“Good morning, Amber,” Donna says, big old smile on her face.

“Hope it is,” I say, and then serve the omelet.

“Amber Appleton is making omelets for Ricky Roberts, yes-ssssss! Tuesday is omelet day. Yes.”

“Is it Tuesday?” I ask as I serve Ricky, noticing the Tuesday Chase Utley jersey. “I haven’t really been keeping track of the days.”

“Tuesday—all day,” Donna says from behind the business section.

We eat omelets.

“How do you think BBB is doing?” I ask.

“I’m sure he’s fine. We’ll pick him up just as soon as I get home from work,” Donna says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

I clean the table when everyone is done eating as Ricky does math problems.

After I have everything in the dishwasher, I go shower, put on makeup, and pick out a killer outfit from the new clothes Donna has been buying me for the past two months. I go with these designer jeans that make my butt look pretty good, and this crazy preppy purple v-neck sweater that makes me look like I might be going to play tennis.

When I come downstairs, Donna says, “You look great. But are you sure you’re ready to go back to school? I don’t want you to feel rushed.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I have to execute my plan.”

“What plan?” Donna asks.

“The Save Bobby Big Boy Variety Show,” I say.

“What’s that all about?” Donna asks.

But then—suddenly—Ty is beeping his car horn out front.

“Have to drive to school with Ty Hendrix!” Ricky says, and is out the door, backpack in hand.

“Take this,” Donna says, and then hands me a twenty.

“I don’t need your money,” I say as I put on my backpack.

“You have to eat lunch, Amber. Please.”

I take the bill, shove it in my front pocket, and then give Donna a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a good woman,” I say, and then I’m out the door.

Ty is just about to pull away when I yell, “Wait!”

He smiles all surprised when he sees me running toward his Volvo station wagon.

I’m shocked to see his beard.

It’s already three inches long.

He looks like frickin’ Rip Van Winkle.

“You comin’ to school today?” Ty asks as I climb into the backseat.

“Yep,” I say.

“Cool,” he says, and then turns up the radio before pulling away.

P!nk’s “God Is a DJ” is playing.

I sorta dig that song, which Ty knows, so I sing along—yelling out the curse words that the radio station bleeps out.

Ricky counts to himself—
who knows what he is counting?

Bearded Ty keeps on looking in the rearview mirror, watching me sing—so much that I worry we might crash, but I only smile at him and sing louder.

P!nk kicks butt. Period. She’s another one of my women heroes. She doesn’t need a man to take care of her—no way.

We park two blocks from the school.

“Going to play Halo 3 with Mr. Jonathan Franks!” Ricky says, and then we follow him toward the The Franks Lair.

“It’s good to have you back in school,” Ty says.

“Are you going to shave now?” I ask.

“Not until you agree to go to Friendly’s with us.”

“Why?”

“Because I made a vow,” Ty says. “Respect the sanctity of the friendship beard.”

When we knock on Franks’ outside door, Jared kicks it open and I see ten or so boys playing Halo 3. Chad, Jared, Lex Pinkston, some other meathead football players, a few guys whose names I don’t know, and Franks.

“Amber?” Franks says, and then everyone turns and looks at me.

The Halo 3 game stops.

“I’m back,” I say.

“Welcome,” Franks says, and then walks over to shake my hand like I’m the president or something.

Everyone looks really nervous—I can feel the tension in the room.

No one knows what to say, because my mom was murdered.

Everyone is looking at me.

“Listen,” I say, “I know you are all probably freaked out by what happened to my mom, but it’s not contagious.
Right?
”

No one laughs at that one.

Blank faces all over the room.

“Listen. I don’t want to talk about my mom. Cool?”

“Cool,” Chad says from Das Boot.

Everyone else looks like they think I have the plague or something.

“Listen, to top it all off—and this is no bullcrap story—my dog might have cancer. He had to have an operation last night, which I can’t afford. Now I know a dog is not a person or anything, but I went ahead and said I’d pay for it all, and I’m broke. So I need to raise—like—two or three grand. I don’t even know if BBB made it or not—I find out later today—but I have to pay regardless, and I’m assuming he did, because he’s a fighter.”

“BBB has cancer?” Jared says, and sounds truly concerned.