After Ever After (9780545292788) (11 page)

When I finally got home that night, I turned on my computer. It was too late to call Lindsey, but I thought maybe she'd be online. In a rare example of perfect timing, I had gotten an e-mail just a couple of hours before, probably while I was having a breakdown at Tad's house. It was from Steven.

His next chance? His next chance for what? Never mind — I didn't want clarification. What I really wanted was to scream and yell and punch the walls. But I settled for just typing really hard.

So my mom came in. I wasn't sure if she was going to yell, or be all huggy and supportive. I also wasn't sure which would be worse. At least with yelling, you can get all mad and defend yourself. But with the sympathy visit, you have to talk about all the horrible stuff that's going on.

As soon as I saw her face, I knew it was support time. Her eyes were all red-rimmed, and she was holding a crumpled-up, soggy-looking tissue in one hand. “Oh, Jeffy, I'm so sorry,” she said.

“Why?” I said. “You didn't give Tad leukemia. Plus, I'm not mad at you. You're supposed to be mad at
me
.”

“Jeff, don't get me wrong. I'm not happy that you were sneaking over to Lindsey's house when you were supposed to be studying with Tad. It was irresponsible, and an incredibly bad idea at this point in your school career. But at least that's normal kid stuff. I understand it. This cancer thing, though —”

I did
not
want Mom to talk about “this cancer thing” yet. Just hearing Mom say it made me feel like someone had just plugged my spine into an electric
socket. So I went with the Lindsey angle. “Mom, can I tell you why I went to Lindsey's?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Buddy,” she said, “I know
exactly
why you went to Lindsey's.”

I could feel my face turning bright red. “Mom!”

She chuckled. “You don't have to explain that part to me, all right? I was a teenager once, too. And teenagers do this stuff. The only teen I know that never really rebelled is your brother. So he's doing it now.”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighed. “Jeff, do you remember when you were in third grade, you had to do a report about the Amish?”

Hmm. I had some vague recollection of trying to make a black hat out of construction paper. “Uhh, yeah?”

“You might remember that the Amish people have a tradition called Rumspringa. Does that ring a bell?”

What was this woman
talking
about? This was the worst crisis of my life, and she was having flash-
backs of my elementary school social studies projects. I shook my head, which was all the encouragement Mom needed to slip into teacher mode.

“See, when Amish children turn sixteen, they get to spend a year acting like regular, ordinary, modern people — what the Amish call ‘the English.'”

“And?”

“The idea is, they spend a year trying out all the things that are forbidden in their culture. Then at the end of the year, they have to decide whether to give it all up and go back to living the Amish life, or leave their culture and live in our world.”

I still didn't get it. “So?”

“So that's a really brilliant idea, I think. Kids need to get this stuff out of their systems. Parents agonize over it, but it's true. If you never rebel, you build up a ton of resentment. And then, when it comes out later — boom!”

Oh, now I knew where Mom was going. It's funny: I had thought of a lot of reasons why Steven had quit the world, but being insufficiently Amish wasn't one
of them. “You leave your family, dump your girlfriend, and go to Africa?”

“Bingo. Your brother spent his teen years being perfect. With everything that was going on, there was just no room for him to go wild. So he started dating the most responsible girl in the world, threw himself into every worthy cause he could find, acted like the ideal big brother, and never did anything wrong at home.”

“So this is all because of my cancer, right? I know I ruined Steven's life. But does he have to stay away forever?”

“You absolutely did NOT ruin Steven's life. And he'll be back,” Mom said.

“Oh, yeah? What about this?” I asked. I let her read Steven's message. Not my unsent reply, though.

When she finished reading it, she said, “Don't worry. I know your brother. He'll be home by your graduation.”

“But —”

“I've never seen two people as attached to each other as your brother and Annette. Trust me. He'll be back, and it will all be fine.”

It must be nice to be totally delusional
, I thought.
I'd love to believe my brother was about to give up his wild ways, drive home from Africa in an Amish buggy, and get back to normal. I'd love to believe I could fly, too, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna go jump off a building. “Trust me,” she says. Sheesh.

“Now,” Mom said. “About Tad's illness.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“It isn't going to go away just because we don't talk about it, Jeffrey.”

Great
, I thought.
NOW she's a realist.

“Mom, can I please just go to sleep?”

“All right, but I'm downstairs if you need me.”

She ruffled my hair and went out. I curled up in bed and faced the wall. I don't think I actually fell asleep until about four
AM
, though. Steven had always been the one person who could calm me down in the middle of the night, and no matter what
my mother said, he wasn't exactly available. So I lay there, hour after hour, and tried very, very hard not to think about Tad.

I figured,
Hey, if denial works for Mom, why not give it a try?

Speaking of denial, Tad and I didn't discuss his cancer for another week or so. I mean, I tried to bring it up several times, but he was all
Don't worry about it, I'll be fine. Let's study.
Or
Chill, Jeff. It's N.B.D. I'll just take my Gleevec and my prednisone, get into remission, and get a bone marrow transplant. No biggie. Now put on your big-boy pants and do another set of curls.

I got madder and madder, but you can't make a guy talk about his cancer before he wants to. Meanwhile, Lindsey kept trying to get me to talk, but I just kept getting madder and madder at her, too. I mean, first she knew about Tad's sickness before I did, and didn't tell me, then she dumped me on the night she sent me to find out. She kept telling me it was all for my own good — because, you know, I love to be patronized and pitied at the same time. I felt like I was a racehorse with a broken leg, and she was my vet. What was she going
to do next, take me out behind the barn and shoot me?

Oh, and my mom heard back from the state department of education. That's what finally blew everything wide open. The morning after I overheard her telling my dad about the decision, I made the mistake of telling Tad about it while I was on the exercise bike.

“So then,” I panted, “my father goes, ‘Good. Now Jeff can stand on his own two feet and show 'em.' Then Mom goes, ‘Or he can fail the test and get held back. I can't believe this is happening right now, when Jeffy has already been through so much.' Dad gets all snappy and goes, ‘And another thing: Stop calling him “Jeffy.” For God's sake, the kid is thirteen years old. Maybe this is the perfect time for him to prove himself.'”

“You know what, D.A.?” Tad said. “I know the test thing sucks, but I think it's kind of cool that your dad has faith in you.”

“Sure. It's swell. Except I think my mom's right.”

Tad said, “Stop.”

“What?”

“Stop pedaling. This is important.”

“Dude, I'm just hitting my pace here. I can talk fine.”

“Jeff, stop. Please.”

Yowza. Tad never said please. I stopped, grabbed my little sweat towel, and wiped my forehead. “OK, what's up?”

Tad looked right into my eyes in an oddly intense way and said, “Both of your parents are right. You shouldn't have to pass the stupid test to graduate. But you WILL be ready for it. All you have to do is work hard and stop with the self-doubt crap. Brother Thaddeus has a plan.”

Brother Thaddeus? What the heck was
that
about? I mean, I've had cancer, too, and it didn't suddenly turn me into a monk. “What plan?”

“Can't tell you yet.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “you've been big on the not-telling-me lately.”

Now Tad looked annoyed. “Oh, gimme a break,
Jeff. In case you hadn't noticed, I've had more on my mind lately than whether or not I've given you your daily briefing.”

“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but it's not like you forgot something minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have a cavity — that's minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have a bad hangnail — that's minor. Forgetting to tell your best friend you have freaking
leukemia
is major!”

Tad looked down and played with the right wheel of his chair. “I didn't want to tell you until after the test. You
have
to pass.”

“I've been hearing that a lot lately. But I don't care — your cancer is a bigger deal than my math score.”

“Whatever,” Tad said. “I just … look, your score matters to me, OK? I just want to know you're gonna make it to high school.”

Just then, I saw through the glass wall behind Tad that Flash McGrath was striding toward us.
Great
, I thought.
The one time he comes in here all year, and we're not even doing anything.
I started pedaling again.
“Uh, Tad?” I said. “We can talk more about this later, all right? I think it's time for you to get on the treadmill.”

“Not doing it,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“No point.”

“No point? What about graduation? What about your big walk across that stage? Isn't that going to be, like, the biggest beau geste of all?”

“Jeff, you still don't get it. Impressing Brianna isn't my biggest beau geste. Walking fifteen feet in a gown wouldn't be my biggest beau geste.” His voice dropped so low I could barely hear it over the sound of the exercise bike. “
You're
my biggest beau geste. Getting you onto that stage is way more important to me than strolling across it.”

Flash was now staring in at us, but I guess because I was pedaling again, he got bored after thirty seconds or so, and turned away. I still wanted to get Tad onto his machine, though. All of a sudden, it felt like the most important thing in the world. Sometimes when you're at a huge fork in the road, you don't
even realize it until later. But other times, you can feel it in your bone marrow.

“Yeah, that's very touching, Tad. Remind me to buy you some flowers later. Now get off your butt and start walking. Come on, I'll only make you do a minute today if you crank up the speed a little.”

“They scheduled my transplant, Jeff. If my cancer is in remission, they're going to do it three weeks after the statewides. Then I'm going to be in isolation for at least six weeks.”

I stopped pedaling. I can barely do math when I'm sitting still. “Wait, but that means —”

“I'm not going to be at graduation.”

This couldn't be. It just couldn't be. “Tad,” I said, “get on the treadmill. Please.”

“Jeff, weren't you listening just now? There's no point. I'm going to be in a damn hospital bed on the day you —”

“I don't care! Get on the treadmill! You can't just quit on me!”

“I'm not quitting on you, I swear. It just … I'm pretty dizzy lately. And it hurts to walk.”

“GET ON THE TREADMILL!” I shouted. “Get
on
! Get ON!” I started trying to push Tad's wheelchair across the room, but he locked the wheels. “You have to! You
have
to!”

I must have gotten pretty loud, because Flash walked into the room — and found Tad hunched over with his head in his hands, and me sitting on the floor, crying. He sent me down to Dr. Galley's office, and kept Tad for a private chat — probably the first time in history that a teacher thought Tad would be easier to handle than me. I tried to calm down on the way to the counseling office, but it was like the air was too thin or something. I just couldn't catch my breath.

The guidance secretary took about a millionth of a second to decide she didn't want any part of me, either, and practically shoved me into Dr. Galley's office. Within two seconds of my butt hitting the chair, I was wiping my nose and sucking on a candy heart at the same time. Dr. Galley was as unfazed as ever. All she said was, “Rough day at the office?”

And then I told her everything. She ignored her phone, her beeping e-mail, and even some knocks on her office door. When I was finished, she said, “May I see your application, please?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you seem to feel that everything that's wrong is because of your cancer. Am I right?”

“I don't think that, I
know
it. If I hadn't had cancer, Steven wouldn't be having his stupid midlife crisis. AND I would have a normal relationship with my dad. AND my family wouldn't be poor. AND I wouldn't suck at math. Sorry, I mean ‘stink.' AND I'd still have a girlfriend. AND Tad wouldn't be worrying about my stupid math when he should be worried about himself.”

“OK, then I want to see your cancer application.”

“Dr. Galley, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“So, when you got cancer, you didn't fill out any kind of application first?”

I was baffled. I shook my head.

“You didn't write a letter to Santa asking for a lethal blood disease? You didn't go to church and pray for chemotherapy? You didn't sacrifice a goat to the Leukemia God?”

I shook my head again. What was this woman talking about?

“You know what this means?”

“Uh, you had an extra martini with lunch?”

“Jeffrey, it means your cancer wasn't your fault. Which means other people's reactions to it aren't your fault, either. And then there's Tad: Nothing you've done has anything to do with Tad's relapse.”

“I didn't say my cancer was my fault.”

“Not in those words, no. But look — have you ever played cards?”

“Um, yeah. When I was little, in the hospital, Steven used to play Go Fish with me all the time. And then when I got bigger, he and Annette taught me to play Hearts.”

“And when the cards were dealt, did you punch yourself in the head every time you got a bad hand? Or did you just play the cards you got?”

I thought about that for so long that Dr. G. gave me another candy heart. I still wasn't sure whether she was completely bonkers, or a genius. But I felt a little better, like whatever had been clenched up in my chest had relaxed a bit.

“OK, I get it. I can't control the past. But that doesn't solve my problems. Or Tad's. What am I supposed to do if he's just giving up?”

“Support him, Jeff,” Dr. Galley said. “That's all anybody can ever do. Find a way to support him.” And with that, she sent me off to class. Of course, I spent the rest of the day in a fog, trying desperately to find a way to show support for Tad — the one person in the world who loathed being helped in any way. I mean, what was I supposed to do, organize a group hug in English class? Bring him daisies at lunch?

As if I didn't have enough to think about, I didn't get a chance to talk with Tad the rest of the day, and then he was out of school three days in a row while I sat and worried. When he showed up in homeroom on the fourth day, he just chattered away as
though nothing had happened. But in gym, he got back on the treadmill. In fact, he was working out harder than ever.

Meanwhile, something else was going on. Kids kept coming up to me and saying, “Dude, I'm totally with you,” or “I'm behind you all the way, man.” I had no clue what they were talking about, but I just kind of nodded and half smiled at them. It's bad enough not knowing what the heck is going on, but it's even worse to admit it.

I should have asked somebody.