Crazy Page 16

  We watch the hawk soar in ever-widening circles above the golf course. Then Cap notices my shivering, so he removes his glasses and we set off walking again. "Better keep moving," he says. "Not much wind, but when you stand still, it starts to feel chilly. You're not too tired, are you?"

  "No, I'm fine, I guess."

  "Good. Then I think we should discuss the matter of your bed-wetting. Have you always had this problem?"

  CRAZY GLUE: We told you. He knows. Soon he'll put two and two together and come up with crazy. Just like dear old dad.

  I want to bolt, but I just stop and stand with my hand jammed into my coat pocket, my other hand in a fist.

  Cap stops, too, and puts his arm on my shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not the only foster child we've had who wet the bed."

  AUNT BEE: Foster child? Is that what you are?

  SEXY LADY: I thought foster children were little kids. Doesn't he know you're a hot, sexy dude?

  CRAZY GLUE: You're nobody's foster kid. Tell him that. You're nobody's foster kid.

  I twist away from him. "I—I'm not your, I'm not a foster child. I'm just here for like a week, and I'm sorry about your bed. If I wrecked your mattress, then ..."

  Cap raises his hand and squints at me. "Nonsense, son. We're not upset with you. I just thought maybe I could help. This is a problem that needs to be nipped in the bud. You don't want to grow into an adult and still have this issue."

  "I only wet the bed when I have this one bad dream," I say through clenched teeth.

  Cap puts his arm on my shoulder again and kind of pushes me along so that we're walking. "Care to tell me about the dream?" he says.

  "It's nothing." I shrug. "I mean, I'm just under the ocean floor, like under all this sand, and there's all this pressure—all the weight of the ocean—and, well, that's all. I pee in the bed and wake up."

  I look at Cap and he's nodding. The sun makes the silver streaks in his hair shine like mica.

  CRAZY GLUE: Oh no, here comes the 0fatherly advice.

  LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh.

  "Sounds upsetting. Any idea why you keep having that dream?"

  CRAZY GLUE: He's clever. Wants you to fink on your dad and tell him about getting buried alive. Tell the dude to stuff it. Go on, tell him.

  I stop walking again. "Look, I don't know, okay?" I say, squinting into his eyes. "It's just a dream. Are you some kind of dream expert? Is that what they taught you in the navy?" I shake my head. "I don't want to walk anymore. I want to go home—uh, I mean back to the house. I'm tired. And don't worry. I always clean up my mess and I don't have that dream too often. Hardly ever."

  I start to walk off and I feel this hand grab my shoulder and pull me back. I stumble, and Cap has to catch me so I don't fall. I look up and Cap looks mad. His lips are clenched like an asshole...

  CRAZY GLUE: We're talking a real sphincter here.

  And his nostrils are flared.

  "Jason, I understand that you're upset. You're in a tough spot. I get that. But I didn't cause your problems. Get mad at the situation, not at me. I'm trying to help you. I'm on your side. And you'll find if you can talk something out, often the problem you thought was so big just shrinks or disappears altogether. You need to talk about your dream to someone."

  CRAZY GLUE: Who asked him?

  I cross my good arm over my bad. "Look, I'm fine on my own. I don't need your help. I'm not even a real foster kid, so you don't have to treat me like one. Like I said, I'm only going to be here for a few days or a couple of weeks at the most. That's all. And I already have a father. He's great. He's really great. So I don't need another one."

  I sound like a kid. I know I do, but I can't help it.

  Cap tilts his head. "How about a concerned friend, then? Can you stand to have me just be your friend?" he says, his voice softer, his mouth relaxing.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: You've got to hand it to him—he's stubborn.

  I bite the inside corner of my mouth and glance sideways to keep from having to look at him. "Yeah, I guess so," I say.

  He tousles my hair. "Good deal," he says.

  I look at him. "As long as you don't do that to my hair again," I add.

  He laughs and slaps me on the back, and we head back toward the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MRS. LYNCH DROPS me off early at school on Monday so she can get Gwendolyn to her preschool and then get to her job at some crafts boutique where she works part-time. Cap, it turns out, works part-time at the country club doing some kind of office work now that he's retired. He had already left by the time I got up.

  We pull up to the school, and the grounds are empty except for a couple of guys I see running up the steps and entering the front of the building.

  I take a deep breath and open the car door. It feels like I've been gone forever. The weekend felt like a whole month, maybe 'cause I spent most of it alone in my room thinking too much about Dad and Reed. I hate how I keep lumping them together in my mind as if they were alike somehow, even though they're not. Dad would never stab anyone.

  Anyway, I'm afraid to ask about Reed, where he is, because I'm afraid I can't handle the answer. The way people come and go in your life, where they're present and alive one minute, and missing or dead the next, is an idea that's too big for me to grasp. Life just seems way too fragile all of a sudden, and everybody seems to take it so lightly, as if they think we're all made like army tanks, big and strong and able to roll over anything in our way. And it's not just our bodies that are fragile; our minds are even more so. I don't know what fine membrane separates sanity from insanity, but after watching my dad slip-sliding around on the border between the two all my life, I know how easy it is to cross, and this scares me. This scares me to death. I've just been wondering, what if I had had the switchblade in my hand? What if Reed had dared me and I was the one with the switchblade? Maybe I would have used it. Then I'd be the one missing. It could have been me. I could have been Reed. Reed is me and I am Reed is Dad is Reed is me.

  CRAZY GLUE: Got that?

  It's too easy to slip up, to slip off, and flip out. That's what I was thinking about all weekend—trying so hard to hold on to me—to—to sanity.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: That's what you've been doing since your mother died. You're holding on too tight. You're like your dad's violin, and all the strings are going to bust one of these days.

  It's all I know how to do—just hold on.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Maybe Cap is right; you should tell someone what that dream is all about.

  CRAZY GLUE: You wet the bed twice last night. You're getting worse, goob.

  I get out of the car and Mrs. Lynch asks me, "Are you going to be all right? Don't forget your lunch, and here"—she grabs a couple of dollars stashed in a cup holder beside her and hands them to me—"in case you need a snack. I'll pick you up at three, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure," I say, but see—how is it one day I'm struggling to scrape together a few pennies to keep me and my dad going and the next day someone shoves two dollars at me just like that? That doesn't make any sense to me. How can life be like that? How can someone be alive one second and dead the next, or sane one minute and crazy the next? Is all this supposed to make sense? Does everybody get it except me?

  SEXY LADY: You're still hot, Jason. Dim, but hot.

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  I'm wracking my brain trying to make sense of it. A few days ago I was wearing high-water jeans and Dad's old boat shoes. Now I'm wearing jeans that fit, a new T-shirt, a pair of new running shoes, and the hunting jacket, all appearing out of that hall closet in the Lynches' house like some magic-hat trick, and I have a large sack full of food, and money to buy even more food if I need it. It's insane.

  I think about my dad. I called Sam several times this weekend, and he said Dad was doing fine. He said he's been transferred to St. Mary's Hospital. I wonder if he, too, is getting lots to eat. I wonder if he gets a new set of clothes.

  CRAZY GLUE: Oh sure he d
oes. The kind with the extra-long sleeves that cross and tie around the back. He wasn't transferred; he was committed. Let's get real here. Isn't that what you're doing now? Getting real?

  Hey, don't get mad at me. You're still here, aren't you? I haven't gotten rid of you, have I?

  SEXY LADY: You need us. Just remember that. We're here for a reason.

  I watch Mrs. Lynch and Gwen until they ride out of sight, and then I just stand on the sidewalk, frozen. I don't want to go inside the school, but I don't know where to run to if I don't go. I can't move. I just can't move.

  CRAZY GLUE: You're coming unglued, goob.

  Someone tell me what to do. Come on—one of you tell me what to do. Should I run? Tell me. Come on, Crazy Glue. You're such a big mouth. Tell me. FBG with a mustache, you always have good advice. What should I do? Where should I go? Aunt Bee? Sexy Lady? Hey You—do you know?

  "Whoa, Pope-a-Dopester! You're back, man. Why didn't you call and let us know?"

  I whip around and there's Haze loping toward me, coming from the parking lot where his ratty old van is shivering and shaking and coughing.

  I'm confused because I'm so relieved to see him; yet I'm still pissed at him for what he and the others did to me. But since I don't know what else to do, and none of you are giving me any help, I say, "Hey! Looks like your car is sick over there."

  Haze grins. "Yeah, what is that? I swear it's gonna explode on me someday."

  He catches up to me and throws his arm around my shoulder and just like that we walk together toward the school.

  CRAZY GLUE: It was that easy all along, goob.

  "So, how's that wing of yours, Popester?"

  I lift the arm still in its sling. "Good. It's better every day. I got stabbed with a switchblade, though," I say. I smile 'cause I know this will get a rise out of Haze, and I want it to for some reason.

  Haze takes his arm off my shoulder and steps away from me. "Are you shittin' me?"

  CRAZY GLUE: Bingo!

  Haze looks so stunned.

  "This kid in the foster home I'm staying in stabbed me in the stomach." I shrug, like it's no big deal, like it's just part of the foster home experience, but then I think of Reed, and the words "there one minute and gone the next" pop into my head, and I stop smiling.

  CRAZY GLUE: You don't fool us. You're so proud of your war wound.

  Haze puts his arm back over my shoulder. "Dude, you gotta be one messed-up hombre, huh? Even my parents and their shit can't compete with all your shit, man!" He jostles me and lets go.

  Am I messed up? What's the difference between being crazy and messed up, anyway? Is there a difference?

  CRAZY GLUE: It's a matter of degree.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Just exactly how real do you think we are?

  We reach the steps of the school, and Haze turns and looks straight at me. "Hey, sorry about what happened about your dad, okay? I mean, man, I'm really sorry. I hope he gets better really fast, and if there's anything I can do—I mean, I guess you think I've done too much already."

  CRAZY GLUE: He could have pushed him under a train. That would have been worse.

  AUNT BEE: Oh, he's all right. Give him a break.

  "Yeah, well, thanks, Haze. Thanks for the apology." I nod and press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

  Haze frowns. "So, is he okay? Is he liking his new digs and all, or is that a dumb question?"

  I'm about to answer, but then I notice he's shaved off his beard and he doesn't have any makeup on.

  "Hey, what's with your face? Where are the tears?"

  I expect Haze to make a joke, but instead he shakes his head and looks at the ground. "For your dad, man," he says. "For both your parents."

  I blink. "What?"

  He shrugs and gives me this lopsided smile. "Okay, it wasn't a tattoo, just makeup, but teardrop tattoos, real ones, they're like some gang symbol for how many people you murdered. I couldn't go around wearing that. Not now, not anymore." He heads up the steps and I follow. "I got rid of the tears and shaved the beard out of respect for your parents."

  I'm not sure what to say. I'm too stunned.

  CRAZY GLUE: How about "Whoa, man!"

  "Thanks," I say.

  CRAZY GLUE: Lame!

  Haze reaches for the door and opens it, then pauses. "Maybe you don't want to hear this, okay, but after what happened that afternoon with you and your dad—I mean, the way you protected him and locked yourself in the bathroom and all, and seeing how important he is to you, it kinda woke me up. I mean, I only wore the tears and the beard in the first place to get back at my parents for all the hell they've been putting me and my sister through the past couple of years, but, hey, they don't deserve all the crap I've been giving them. My mom doesn't deserve it, you know? I need to start showing her some respect, too. Right?" Haze nods, more to himself than at me, and answers his own question. "Right."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  IT DOESN'T take me long before I'm feeling overwhelmed in my classes. Every teacher hands me a paper listing all the work I've missed since being out. I'll be playing catch-up for the rest of the year and probably into the summer.

  I'm worried about seeing Shelby in Biology, but she's not in class. I guess I'm glad. I don't think I'm ready to face her, yet. I think about the Dear Mouse letter I e-mailed and I wonder if she's Tattletale.

  In History, Mrs. Trudell hands me back the essay exam I took just before I stopped coming to school and says in front of the class, "Jason, would you care to explain this—this disaster to me? You've got no punctuation, no spacing, and all your words are written in lowercase. I didn't even bother to read this mess. I gave you a zero." She stands in front of my desk, holding out the paper. I look at my tiny scrawl. The words all run together, no beginning and no end. That's what I tell her. I say, "I don't like beginnings and I don't like endings, so I just wrote middles." I take the paper from her.

  The whole class laughs. Someone nudges me from behind and I hear his laughter.

  CRAZY GLUE: You're even funny when you're serious, goob. Or is this just crazy?

  LAUGH TRACK: (Exaggerated laughter).

  The laugh track's laughing, so I'm going with funny.

  The morning drags on, and then at lunchtime Haze catches up with me again. "Today's Gomez day, remember?" he says.

  I had forgotten, but I nod and follow him to Dr. Gomez's office, glad not to have to get a tray of food from the cafeteria first. I have my own sack lunch now.

  The first thing I notice when we enter the office is Shelby's mural. She's painted over her rainbow and has created a darker, more surreal painting. There's black water with foamy waves and a threatening sky, purple mountains and an iceberg and a single black tree, and a single sexless person standing on the iceberg, arms raised to the sky. All of this swirls here and arches there and forms ragged peaks everywhere. It has a frenzied and desperate feel to it, somehow. It makes my heart race. I don't like it. I turn to Haze. "When did Shelby do this?"

  Haze flops onto one of the floor pillows. "Over the past couple of weeks. She must have finished it this weekend, though. That iceberg wasn't there last Thursday." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a can of Mountain Dew, then pops it open and takes a gulp.

  I move to join him, but then Pete enters the room. When he sees me, his eyes water and he hugs me without saying anything. He just holds me in this fierce grip. It makes my bad arm throb.

  "Yeah, okay, thanks, Pete," I say, squirming. He lets go of me.

  He smiles at me and rubs his head. "I didn't know you were back. So, how you doin'? We tried to visit you in the hospital, but you had already left. We didn't know where you had gone. They wouldn't tell us anything."

  "Yeah, me either, hardly," I say, smiling. I'm surprised that I'm so happy to see him. He looks the same as always, bald, dressed in his white T-shirt and jeans, and carrying some handmade African cloth thing for a backpack—same old Pete. I like that not everything changed while I was gone.

  I tell Pet
e about living with the Lynches; Haze tells him about my getting stabbed; I tell them both about how it happened. I feel I need to tell this story, for some reason.

  Then Dr. Gomez bustles in with her arms loaded down with books and papers, and a mug of coffee in one hand and her lunch in another.

  She sees me and says, "Oh! Oh!" She rushes over to her desk to drop her load; then she rushes back over to give me a hug. She smothers me in heavy perfume and color—the yellow, orange, green, and purple of her flowing blouse—but I don't mind. It makes me think of Sexy Lady.

  SEXY LADY: But I'm still prettier, right?

  All this hugging feels good. I've missed hugs. My mom used to hug me a lot.

  CRAZY GLUE: You were always embarrassed by it.

  AUNT BEE: Shh! He's having a rare memory of his mother.

  She releases me and I push my tongue up against the roof of my mouth. It doesn't help. I know my face is burning.

  "I only just got in," Dr. Gomez says. "I didn't know you were back. It's so good to see you. How are you? How's your dad?"

  "Okay, I guess. They moved him to another hospital."

  "Good, he'll get the help he needs. You look good—taller."

  CRAZY GLUE: The hem of your jeans actually comes all the way down to your shoes for a change, that's why.

  "So, sit down and tell us how you're doing," Dr. Gomez says. She grabs her coffee off her desk and sits on the pillow next to the one I choose.

  She looks around and asks, "Where's Shelby?" Then she twists all the way around to look at the mural. "I see she finished the new mural. It looks wonderful."

  We have a quick discussion about Shelby. Nobody has seen her and we all hope her mother is doing all right. This gets everybody, especially Dr. Gomez, onto the topic of our mothers. After naming something we're each grateful for (I choose lunch sacks), Haze talks about why he shaved his beard and got rid of the makeup and says he has a newfound respect for both his parents because of me.

  LAUGH TRACK: Aw, isn't that sweet.

  "That must make you feel pretty good," Dr. Gomez says to me. "Look at the effect you've had. Already something good has come out of a tough situation. We should remember that. There's always something good."