by Lois Metzger
Mike: “I asked you what happened. If you don’t understand me, just say so.”
Amber: “I understand you better than you think!”
Mike: “Huh?”
Amber: “Drop dead.” She stands. She nearly falls over.
Mike grabs her by the arm.
Mike: “You okay?”
Amber: “Let go of me!” She leaves the cafeteria.
Amber is emotional and she feels things deeply. All the most interesting people are like that.
Mike cleans up after her: the saltine wrappers, the crumbs, the soggy noodles.
Tamio’s in the hall—the last person Mike wants to see.
Tamio: “Look at this.” Tamio has his cell phone open. There’s a picture. It’s a guy, hunched over, in a jacket that’s too big for him. He looks old and wasted. Homeless Mikor something.
Mike: “Um, okay. What is this?”
Tamio: “That’s you.”
Mike: “No way.”
Tamio: “Look again if you don’t believe me.”
Mike: “I don’t need to look. I already know it’s not me.”
Tamio: “See, it’s your black North Face jacket—”
Mike: “Everyone has a jacket like that.”
Tamio: “Maybe, but nobody else is wearing theirs yet.” He starts waving at the air. “What’s that smell?”
Mike: “FireBalls.”
Tamio: “What’d you say?”
Mike is stunned. Tamio always understood him, or so Mike thought.
Tamio: “I only took your picture so you could see for yourself. You look terrible. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”
Ha. If Tamio only knew how many hours Mike spends in front of a mirror. Anyway, Mike only looks in his mirror at home, which tells him all he needs to know. He doesn’t trust other mirrors.
Mike: “I look fine. What’s your problem?”
Tamio: “What’s my problem? What’s wrong with you?”
Tamio’s jealous. You’re getting yourself together, without his help.
Mike: “You wish you were me, asshole.”
Tamio: “What?”
But Mike can tell—Tamio heard him that time, all right.
After school Mike wants to run, but it’s raining.
You can run in the rain.
Mike runs. The rain is exquisite, the way it’s highlighted against the streetlights, a spray of glistening drops against silver-white light.
See what you would’ve missed if you stayed home?
Mike works out in his room. Seventy-five crunches, fifty push-ups. When he breathes in, he can feel his ribs.
Strong body, strong mind. Infinitely strong.
Amber calls. Mike thinks maybe she’s still mad, but she says, “I’m so happy! I lost four pounds. I hated being in the hundreds.”
Her voice drops to a whisper:
“I love that there is less of me.”
CHAPTER 18
IT’S ALMOST HALLOWEEN, TRICK-OR-TREAT TIME. Kids at school are talking parties and costumes. Not Mike. He has far more important ways to spend his time. Speaking of trick-or-treat, Mike’s mom is full of surprises, and none of them good.
Mom: “I made an appointment for you this Friday. You’re going to my doctor.”
Mike: “What for?”
Mom: “You need to see a specialist.”
Mike: “Why?”
Mom: “You’re too thin and you know it.”
Mike: “I’m not. I got on the scale—”
Mom: “I don’t care. You’re always dressed like it’s snowing in here while it’s hot as hell in the house.”
Mike yanks off his jacket and sweatshirt. Unfortunately his shirt slides up too.
Mom (breathes in): “Oh, my God.”
Mike: “What?”
Mom: “Your chest… it’s caving in on itself.”
Mike knows she’s seeing it wrong. When he looks in the mirror, he sees results from his hard work.
She’ll never understand the way you’re fine-tuning your body. She can’t appreciate it.
Mom: “You’re going to the doctor and that’s final.”
Of course Mike can’t stuff his dad’s paperweights into a paper gown at a doctor’s office. He feels a stab of panic.
Call Amber.
Amber’s right there, as always.
Amber: “Drink lots of water before you go, and I mean lots. In the waiting room, drink even more. You can put on a good five pounds that way. Temporarily, of course.”
Mike: “What if this doctor can, you know, tell? Take one look at me and figure it out?”
Amber: “Doctors are idiots. They’re so easy to manipulate. Just tell them what they want to hear.”
Mike: “And what’s that?”
Amber: “They practically tell you what to say. It’s like being in a school play and they’re feeding you your next lines.”
At the doctor’s office, Mike’s mom paces in the waiting room.
Mom: “My doctor’s not here. She has a family emergency. You have to see someone else.”
Mike drinks another paper cup of water. It’s shaped like a cone with a sharp needle point at the bottom.
Mike: “It’s fine.”
Mom: “It’s not. I don’t have a good feeling about it. I don’t know this doctor.”
It could be Dr. Seuss, for all Mike cares. He really has to go to the bathroom. He drank a gallon of water at home and he’s gulping down another gallon here.
Mike and his mom are called into the doctor’s office. The desk is covered with piles of papers. Mike’s mom stiffens at the sight of it.
Doctor: “I’m Dr. Steiner.” He’s over six feet tall with deeply lined skin and black hair that curls over his forehead. He probably dyes his hair. “Hello, Michael, nice to meet you.”
That’s good. Michael is an adult, mature name. Mike sounds too curt and abrupt, or like the object you talk into so your voice can be heard.
But Mike’s mom has to put in her two cents: “Nobody calls him that. It’s Mike.”
Mike: “It’s okay. Nice to meet you, too.”
Doctor: “Do you mind, Mrs. Welles, if Michael and I speak privately?”
She minds, all right, but she leaves the room. She even closes the door behind her.
Doctor: “Your mother’s very concerned about you, Michael. Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
Tell him what’s going on, how your mother can’t cope.
Mike: “My parents just split up. It’s really hard on my mom. She can’t leave the house. I mean, she left today, but not usually. She sleeps a lot during the day. She takes baths that last for hours.”
Doctor: “I see.”
Mike gets a stab of guilt. I try to tell him to ignore it, but he says, “Lately she’s better. She goes to a therapist. She’s working again.”
Doctor: “Mm.”
No matter—the damage is done. The doctor thinks Mike’s mom is unhinged.
Doctor: “Now, Michael, I want to ask you a few questions. Just between us; your mother will not be privy to the answers. Do you take drugs?”
Amber was right. The doctor is practically shaking his head as he asks this.
Mike: “No.”
Doctor: “Are you sexually active?”
Mike: “No.”
Doctor: “No trouble at school? No failing grades?”
Mike: “I’m getting all As.”
Doctor: “Excellent. You’re not dieting, are you, Michael?”
Mike: “No.”
Doctor (grinning): “You seem fine so far. Let’s check you out, shall we?”
Dr. Steiner leads Mike to a cold room with a doctor’s scale and a metal table covered with crinkly white paper. The doctor tells Mike to put on a paper gown and discreetly waits outside the door. Mike badly needs the bathroom. Dr. Steiner comes i: &n and tells Mike to stand on the scale.
Don’t worry about the number. What matters is how you look, not what you weigh.
Doctor: “According to
your record, you’ve lost about thirty pounds since the spring.”
Ha, with all that water, make it closer to thirty-five.
Doctor (raising the bar that measures height): “You’re five nine and a half.”
Mike: “I didn’t grow at all in six months?”
Doctor: “I’m sorry—what?”
Don’t worry about it. Growth comes in stages.
Mike: “Never mind.”
The doctor moves on to Mike’s blood pressure. It’s taking all of Mike’s concentration not to pee.
Doctor: “Well, Michael, your weight’s a little low for your height, and your blood pressure’s a little low too. Do you exercise? That might explain it.”
Mike: “I run.”
Doctor: “Good for you! So do I, when the knees don’t bother me. You’ve got to watch the knees, especially when you’re an old fart like me. Are you cold? I try to keep it warm in here.”
Mike (teeth chattering): “I’m fine.”
Doctor: “Look at that, your finger’s bleeding.”
Mike looks down. The cut, from the day he bought the mirror. He doesn’t know how it opened up again. Did the paper cup stab him?
Mike: “Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?”
Doctor: “Go right ahead.”
After Mike goes to the bathroom and gets his clothes back on, he returns to Dr. Steiner’s office. His mom is there.
Mom: “Don’t you think he’s too thin?”
Doctor (slowly, like he’s talking to a child): “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Welles. What all the girls are getting—anorexia nervosa.” He says it like it’s Italian food. “Michael’s just a skinny teenager, like we all were, once upon a time.” He laughs.
Mom: “He barely eats. He skips breakfast. Who knows what he has for lunch? At dinner I see him pushing his food around—”
Mike: “I eat after school. That’s when I get hungry. I make some mac and cheese—”
Mom: “But you don’t eat it! You throw it all away!”
Amber was right. His mom goes through the garbage. Dr. Steiner gives Mike a look of sympathy, for his crazy mom. Dr. Steiner stands. He casts a shadow over Mike and his mom.
Doctor: “Mrs. Welles, Michael’s in excellent shape.” Unlike you, he seems to imply. The doctor is smiling. Mike is smiling. I am smiling, in my way.
Mike’s mom is not.
CHAPTER 19
ACCORDING TO THE WEATHER REPORTS, IT’S UNSEASONABLY warm for November. Then why does it feel to Mike like Belle Heights is ushering in a new ice age? At any moment he expects to see icebergs floating down the expressway. But, freezing weather aside, life is perfect. Mike and I are in sync, partners in the project that is Mike. He works out until his body sings—that’s how it feels, this pain that is also not-pain, because its intensity is so satisfying. He looks in the mirror and admires the tightness of his skin, the clean lines of his body. He is focused. If his mind ever drifts to unpleasant topics, I put him back on track:
Strong body, strong mind. Everything in its right place.
Mike takes Amber’s advice and starts putting the food he’s not eating in Ziploc bags. He stashes them all over the house—behind shelves, under his bed, in the corners of closets. But sometimes he forgets to take them outside, and one night his mom says, “It smells like something died in here.”
Mike tries to remember all his hiding places, but it’s difficult. He has so much on his mind.
Mom: “I think it’s a mouse.” She sounds frightened. “I always thought, because of Mighty Joe Young, mice would stay away. Could you look around? Just the thought of finding a dead mouse …” She shivers.
Mike finds bags of rotting food hidden everywhere. The worst offender is in the coat closet, near the front door—a moldy greenish-brownish mush of something in the pocket of a jacket belonging to his dad.
Mom: “Did you find anything?”
Mike: “A dead mouse in the coat closet. In the corner, all curled up.”
Mom: “Oh! Poor thing.”
When Mike tells Amber about it, she laughs and laughs. She finds it hilarious that his mom feels sorry for a mouse that never existed.
Now Tamio’s waiting for Mike outside homeroom. Before Mike can brush past him, Tamio says, “Amber’s in the hospital.”
Mike: “No way. I just talked to her.”
Tamio: “When was that?”
Mike has to think. He wonders why it’s so hard to concentrate sometimes.
Because your mind is on important things.
Mike tries to remember his most recent conversation with Amber. It feels like they talk all the time, but he realizes they haven’t actually spoken since lunch on Friday. Today is Monday. The weekend—running, working out, looking in the mirror—flew by.
Tamio: “She had a heart attack.”
Mike: “You’re crazy. She’s too young.”
Tamio: “Well, she screws up her body. She makes herself throw up.”
Mike: “Where’d you hear that?”
Tamio: “Why do you think she’s always trying to cover it up with those candies? Like the ones I smell on you.”
That is not why Amber likes FireBalls. But never mind. Mike is so upset, his hands start shaking.
Calm down. Tamio doesn’t even know Amber, remember?
Mike (taking a deep breath): “You don’t know anything about Amber.”
Tamio: “I figured you knew. I thought maybe you were trying to help her out.”
Mike: “She doesn’t need help. She’s happy. She’s the happiest person I know.” Mike remembers how Amber almost fell down in the cafeteria. “She probably just broke her ankle.”
Tamio: “Dude. It’s not her ankle.”
The bell rings.
All day everyone is talking about Amber.
Melissa Sacks (stopping Mike in the hall): “Have you seen her in the hospital? Is she okay? A heart attack! That’s, like, such a huge thing. Is there anything I can do?”
Mike remembers Melissa pretending to stick her finger down her throat at the sight of Amber. She can go to hell, that’s what she can do.
Finally Mike makes it to the last class of the day. He’s exhausted. Mr. Clayton is talking about a new star system that’s just been discovered. Apparently Mr. Clayton is the only one excited about it.
Mr. Clayton: “Imagine—a triple-sun system! The main sun is bright yellow. There’s also a large orange sun and a small red one. It’s one of the oddest places in our galaxy.”
When class ends and kids pile out, Mr. Clayton looks right at Mike.
Mr. Clayton: “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Mike wants to go home, call Amber, run, work out. He wishes he were anywhere else, even in that triple-sun system, which at least sounds warm.
As Mike approaches Mr. Clayton’s desk, Mr. Clayton says, “Your finger’s bleeding.”
Mike looks down. It’s covered in blood. He wonders why he never feels it. Why hasn’t it healed yet?
Some things take time.
Mike (all innocence): “Is that what you wanted to tell me, about my finger?”
Mr. Clayton: “I’m concerned about you, Mike. Several times you seemed to lose your balance. I thought you might pass out.”
It’s unfortunate that Mr. Clayton noticed that. The last class of the day is always the hardest to get through because Mike is so eager to leave and get on#x2 with his life. Sometimes he stands up too fast and he’s short of breath and the room goes suddenly dark. But it only lasts a moment.
It gets hot in here and that makes you dizzy.
Mike: “Yeah, well, it gets hot in here and I get a little dizzy.”
Mr. Clayton: “Maybe you should take your jacket off, then.”
Mike (with a shrug): “I guess I forget I have it on.”
Mr. Clayton: “You’ve lost weight.”
You were sick. You had the flu.
Mike: “I had the flu.”
Mr. Clayton: “You didn’t miss school.”
&nb
sp; Mike: “Yeah, I had it over the weekend. It was a weekend-only kind of thing.”
Mr. Clayton: “My nephew looked a lot like you, not long ago. It turns out he was really sick.”
Mike: “I just got a checkup from a doctor. He said I was fine.”
Mr. Clayton: “My nephew had five checkups, and five doctors told him he was fine. But he was really sick.”
Does Mr. Clayton have more medical expertise than five doctors?
Mr. Clayton: “Now he’s on the road to recovery.”
Mike: “Who?”
Mr. Clayton (carefully): “My nephew.”
This is so tedious.
Mike: “The road to recovery. That’s good.”
Mr. Clayton: “It’s a long road.”
Mike: “Well, at least he’s on it.”
Mr. Clayton: “My nephew was on the wrestling team. His coach wanted him to be a certain weight. He stopped eating, just—stopped. He exercised like crazy. He ran for hours. He could do hundreds of sit-ups.”
Don’t be jealous. You’ll get there.
Mr. Clayton: “His parents told him he couldn’t run. He snuck out in the middle of the night, and his body just gave out. He collapsed, hit his head, needed seventeen stitches.”
His parents shouldn’t have told him he couldn’t run. That’s how accidents happen.
Mr. Clayton: “He almost died. He could’ve bled to death.”
Mike: “Well, at least he didn’t.” Mike turns to leave. “See you tomorrow.”
Mr. Clayton: “You take care of yourself, now.”
It sounds like a threat.
CHAPTER 20
MIKE CAN’T GET THROUGH TO AMBER ON HER CELL—it goes straight to voice mail. He looks up her number and calls her house.
Woman: “Hello?”
Mike: “Hi, this is Mike Welles.”
Woman: “Amber said you might call.” Of course it’s Amber’s mom, but she doesn’t identify herself. Her tone is so flat, she sounds like a computer. I take an instant dislike to her, but Mike reserves judgment.
Mike: “Is Amber all right?”
Amber’s mom: [nothing]
Mike: “Hello?”
Amber’s mom: “I can’t go into it right now. You can’t call her directly. You can visit if you want. Let me give you her information, the hospital and visiting hours.”
