by Ryan Gebhart
I slam the door, and jeez, I really should have grabbed my coat. Snow is falling in wet, heavy clumps and soaking into my shirt, but I can’t go back now. I’m making a point. And that point is — just everyone shut up and leave me alone.
I arrive at the front doors an hour early, and the janitor Mr. Colby is mopping the floor. He smiles and lets me in.
“Thanks.”
I feel bad because my footsteps leave muddy slush on his clean floor. I go to the cafeteria and toss my backpack on a table. Except for the occasional echo, this place couldn’t get more quiet. This is the perfect opportunity to cram for my test.
I grab my phone and check Bright’s status.
Last night he posted: I kicked two field goals! Still lost tho :(
And then a bunch of girls in our grade left a comment about how he’s such a good kicker or how cute he looks with his buzzed hair — it’s all so lame. They think kicking field goals is impressive? Whatever. I’m going to Wyoming to be a hunter. That’ll prove I’m a more dominant male than Bright. While I’ll be providing meat and fur for Karen, what will Bright have to offer Mika? An extra three points?
So after third-period art — we’re working with charcoal, and I did a drawing of a bear kicking a football — my clothes have finally dried off and I’m starting to feel normal again. Then I enter Ms. Hoole’s class and right away something feels different.
Even though Brighton’s been dating Mika since the first week of school, he still always sits next to me. We don’t have assigned seats, but after a while we assigned our own. Today he’s sitting by Mika. Her smile is so big that her braces glisten from four rows away.
I don’t want to care. I drew the football-kicking bear for him.
In the middle of the regular pre-class commotion, Timmy, one of Bright’s lamer football buddies, snatches the drawing from me, unfolds it, and looks at it with a scrunched face.
“Gay,” he says.
“Give that back.”
“You have a crush on Bright.”
My insides burn with rage that he would even think that. I have to make the best comeback ever.
“That’s totally stupid,” I say.
“This bear . . . Look, it even has Bright’s number on the jersey.”
“So? Give it back.”
I swipe and get a fistful of ripped drawing when Ms. Hoole enters.
“Tyson,” she says, singling me out even though practically everyone is acting up. My face gets warm. “Take a seat.”
She stands in front of her desk, a stack of tests in hand.
I see Bright glancing over, rolling his eyes. Ashamed of me.
Whatever. Just focus on this test, and get out of here as soon as possible.
The entire test is multiple choice and fill-in-the-blanks. Questions about names and places I won’t remember a year from now.
Why can’t Ms. Hoole test me on which years Gramps served in the military?
1951 to 1952. He was part of the U.S. Second Infantry Division.
In which battle was he shot in the thigh?
The Battle of Chipyong-ni, located in the South Korean province of Gyeonggi-do.
I hand in my test. I already know I failed.
Snow is still falling on my walk home, and my hands are stuffed in my pockets. It’s not that cold, but since I’m not wearing a jacket, the wind bites through my wet long-sleeved shirt. Mika’s mom offers me a ride, but Bright’s in the car and I know he thinks I’ll embarrass him. So I say no. Besides, I like being the first to make tracks in the snow.
It’s also Friday. Yay.
When I get home, Gramps’s truck is gone. There’s just a pair of tire tracks in the snow.
I stomp my shoes clean on the welcome mat. “Mom? I’m home.”
Mom is sitting on the sofa, staring at the television, but the television isn’t on.
“Where’d Gramps go?”
“Tyson, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry about last night. I know I shouldn’t have gone —”
“It’s about your grandfather.”
I pause. My mind starts going crazy, and my breath gets real short. “Did he die?”
Her eyes get big and she does these quick little head shakes. “Oh, no. He just — no, he’s getting older, and you know, people his age sometimes need a little help.”
I get ahold of my breath, but my heart still races. “Is he sick? He looks different.”
She clears her throat. “It’s just with your father finally getting more shifts at the Hampton Inn and me getting my nursing degree, we need someone to take care of him. This is a very normal thing.”
“You’re getting your degree online. You’re home all the time. And what does ‘this’ mean?”
“Your father and your gramps went to this really nice place up in Rock Springs. The Sunrise Village Nursing Home.”
“A nursing home? What? Why — why did they go up there?”
Tears fill her eyes, and then she says, “He’s moving there.”
I don’t want to cry or yell at Mom. I don’t want to punch a hole in a wall or have a hug. I just want to know why Gramps didn’t tell me something was wrong with him. Does he think I can’t handle bad news?
The truth is, I do want to cry my face off, yell all the bad words at Mom, punch five holes in the wall . . . and I desperately need a hug. Gramps moved three hours away, and he didn’t even tell me.
Frustration and sadness build up behind my eyes, but I can’t cry. That’s what little kids do, and little kids are told Santa Claus flies in a magical sleigh and his elves build us Nintendo Wiis in their workshop. They’re told babies come from a stork. They’re told Gramps isn’t dying; he’s just feeling a little under the weather.
It’s one thing for Mom and Dad to treat me like a kid — they’re stupid. But Gramps couldn’t tell me?
Mom pulls me in for a hug. With my teeth clenched, I shove her away. “Get off.”
The front door closes. Ashley’s in the hallway, hanging up her jacket and kicking off her boots.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Tyson,” she says.
I go, “Mom and Dad put Gramps in a nursing home.”
She comes in, wearing old jeans and a University of Colorado sweatshirt that aren’t cooperating with her growth spurt. She makes a sad face, and it’s so fake. “That’s awful. Mom, what are we having for dinner?”
“Chicken stir-fry.”
I can’t stand the way Ashley pretends like she’s some angsty teenager even though she’s only eleven. She really doesn’t care that Gramps is sick?
My hand squeezes into a fist, and I punch the wall. I imagine the drywall crumbling down with my unstoppable force, but I don’t even make a dent.
Pain explodes inside my knuckles, and I let out a sound that’s half roar, half screech.
“Tyson!” Mom yells. “What has gotten into you?”
I’m so angry! It’s like someone is feeding me electricity through a wire connected to my chest.
I breathe through my nose. “When are we going to see Gramps?”
“Next weekend. Your father is working tomorrow and Sunday, and I have a test to study for. Will you please settle down?”
Completely unfazed, Ashley says, “Can we have something else? We had chicken last Friday. I’m so sick of chicken.”
“I could pick up McDonald’s.”
“Get me a ten-piece Chicken McNugget with barbeque sauce and a Coke.” Ashley vanishes upstairs. She doesn’t care that we just lost a member of the family. She doesn’t care about anything. Ever since we moved here, she’s just been hiding in her room.
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m going sledding.”
“What about dinner?”
“Get me the nothing with a side of nothing.” As Mom is hurling more questions at me, I just say my “uh-huhs” and my “yeahs” and play the role of the kid who doesn’t care.
“Tyson, come back here. Don’t you want to talk about this?”
“No.”
<
br /> I go upstairs, get my phone, and message Bright.
Want to go sledding? I say.
Within seconds he messages back: Going to steamboat.
Right.
Karen’s online, but I’m not friends with her yet, and my heart speeds up just thinking about sending her a message.
Everyone thinks I’m a kid? Yeah, well, does a kid message a girl?
With the blinking cursor, I write into the box by her profile picture. She’s with her two older brothers at a Houston Astros game. She’s holding a red snow cone.
I type: Hey its tyson . . . im in choir class with you first period. I like snow cones too.
That’s stupid. What’s she going to say back? Yeah, snow cones rock!!! You’re cute ;)
I delete my message and turn off my phone. No one ever gives me winky smiley faces. Girls like boys who are cool. They like funny boys or boys who play football.
I’m invisible to girls.
Whatever. Who needs winky smiley faces? Who needs friends or girlfriends? Everyone else gets in the way of what I want to do — Bright would rather play football and do the whole “normal” thing. He thinks we’re too old to be sledding. It’s just parents and little kids at Snowshoe Hill.
I fish Jar Jar’s body out with my little green net, put him in a Baggie, and carefully stuff him in my jacket pocket. He deserves a proper burial.
I’ve had Jar Jar Newtingston for five years. Brighton got him for me as a birthday present in third grade, and he named him Jar Jar because he was all into Episode 1 of the Star Wars movies and Jar Jar Binks was his favorite character. But if anyone asks him now about Episode 1, he’ll say it’s stupid, just because that’s what everyone says.
All dressed up in my gear, I get my sled from the garage.
“Mom? Can you drive me to Snowshoe?”
She dabs the corner of her eye with a tissue. “Okay.”
She backs the minivan out of the garage. The snow is already starting to melt. By tomorrow, it’ll all be gone. By Monday, it’ll probably be warm again.
The drive is deathly silent — we don’t speak, and Mom has a habit of keeping the radio off.
The snow over at Snowshoe isn’t that good. The sun has turned it into a slushy, muddy mess, but at least there isn’t a soul out here. All I want is to be outside and alone.
“I’ll be back at six to pick you up.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as she disappears, I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the plastic Baggie with Jar Jar in it. This isn’t just the death of a pet; it’s the end of an era.
I scoop out a clump of mud with my hand, place him in the hole, and pat the mud on top of him.
Maybe I should move on like Brighton did. Join the drama or the outdoor club. Find new friends. It can’t be that hard. People gain and lose friends all the time.
With my sled tucked beneath my arm, I huff up to the top of the hill, struggling to keep my balance, because the ground is really slippery and the soles of my boots are caked in mud that looks like chocolate frosting. I have on three layers of clothes right now, and it’s complete overkill. But Mom always says that since the weather changes every five minutes, I need to dress prepared.
I bust out of my winter clothing and end up in just my long-sleeved shirt and snow pants. I leave my stuff on top of the hill, sit Indian-style in my plastic sled, and with my hands in the snow, I give my best push. Halfway down the hill, my sled stops.
If I were a year younger and hanging out with Brighton, we’d be laughing about how we’re stuck in the mud. But now he’s in Steamboat Springs with his cool new friends, and they’re probably laughing and talking about boobs or backflips as they soak in a hot tub.
Is he really happy he’s not hanging out with me anymore? Will he ever invite me into his new group? Would I even want to be in it?
I lug my sled back to the top.
“You think we’ll get our six-point this season?” I say out loud, but I already know the answer. Gramps is seventy-seven and in a nursing home.
Wow, I can’t believe he’s already that old. Are everyone’s lives on fast-forward?
What does he have? Alzheimer’s disease? Nah, can’t be. He’s totally with it. Maybe he’s got some kind of cancer. If he told me he had cancer, I wouldn’t cry. Would I?
God, I need to stop thinking about this.
I shove off. For a second, my hands are up. I’m getting some serious speed, and when I hit an unexpected bump, I clutch onto the sides of my sled, but I go tumbling out. Dizzy and laughing, I get to my feet. Four high-school kids in the distance point at me and laugh.
I gather my sled and my hat and do one last run. It sucks not having any friends.
I should get Gramps something so he knows I haven’t forgotten about our bear swear. I’ll get him a card and a stuffed elk. And maybe I can put some red food coloring on its temple, as if it got shot in the head.
When Mom picks me up, I throw out the idea, except for the fake-blood part.
“I think that would be a lovely gesture,” she says.
At the mall gift shop, I find a smiling stuffed elk, and after browsing over a million sappy cards with poems and cursive writing — the kind you’d get someone on their deathbed — I grab the perfect one.
On the front it says: I was looking for the perfect kind of cake to cheer you up . . .
I open it and there’s a picture of a buff dude with his shirt off. The caption says: . . . so I got you a beefcake.
Gramps is going to hate this.
It’s perfect.
I pay for the card and the stuffed animal and I’m ready to get out of the mall, but then we pass the Halloween store.
A lady dressed as a witch has two full-size bear costumes in her hands, debating where they should go on display.
Oh, my God, they’re so nasty. It’s like she’s holding up two actual skinned bears. They’re like some old-school outfit pagans would wear. The upper jaw would hang over my head like a hat, and the rest I’d wear like a fur coat. And those claws must be three inches long!
I have to get it. Every Halloween me and Bright go all out on our costumes. We’re a legend around school. Even if he doesn’t dress up with me this year, this would definitely solidify my reputation.
“You’re not getting those hideous things,” Mom says, escorting me out. “Don’t spend your money on something you’ll only wear once.”
“How much did you spend on your wedding dress?”
She laughs.
When we get home, I go up to my room to write in the card. I’ve been thinking about what I want to say to Gramps. Do I ask him what’s wrong, or why he doesn’t trust me?
Nah, I’ll save the serious stuff for when I see him.
Dear Gramps,
I hope you like the stuffed elk. We’ll kill a real one before the season ends. I bear swear!
I love you, Gramps!
— Tyson
P.S. Did you know they named an olive oil after you? It’s called Extra Virgin :]
I really doubt that Gramps and I are still going to the Grand Tetons. I know Gramps said you never break a bear swear, but we only have two more weekends before elk season ends, and he lives in a nursing home now. And even if we somehow found a way to get him out of there, should we? He might be too sick to handle the wilderness. I mean, this could actually kill him.
On Saturday morning, when I get back from dropping off my package with the card and the stuffed elk at the post office, there’s an envelope on the kitchen table. My name’s on the front next to a really crude drawing of a bear paw print.
Inside is a letter and a newspaper clipping.
Second Bear Attack in Bridger-Teton This Month
A sixteen-year-old girl from Oklahoma was airlifted out of the park Wednesday afternoon after a grizzly bear reportedly attacked, breaking both her legs. The incident occurred at Hackamore Creek, two miles from another attack last week in which a Portland man lost his arm. Local authorities believe th
e same bear was involved in both incidents. The Forest Service is cautioning visitors to the park not to cook food with lingering smells, to make constant sounds when traveling through the woods, and to always carry a can of bear mace.
And then I read the letter:
Tyson,
Pack all my hunting stuff when you come here next weekend. The key to the gun safe is in my bottom dresser drawer. Don’t tell your parents we’re going. Looks like you might get to see your bear after all. Cool, huh?
Mom and Dad would freak if they found out Gramps told me where he keeps the key. When we moved here last month, him and Dad got in a fight about how he kept his rifles displayed above the TV, so they went fifty-fifty on a gun safe. It’s not like I don’t know how to handle a rifle, and I would never treat it like a toy. At the shooting range, Gramps always stressed the importance of gun safety. But Dad thinks that Ashley and I are going to be the next tragic story about two kids finding a gun in the house.
“What did Gramps have to say?” Dad asks, entering the kitchen. “He told me to give that to you.”
I fold the clipping and letter and shove them in my pocket. “He’s just looking forward to seeing me.”
Gramps wants me to unlock his gun safe and break Mom and Dad’s trust for a bear swear. Do I really want to go through with this? Just so I can go hunting and maybe see a grizzly? I mean, dragons and vampires are only in stories, but grizzlies are actual living monsters. They can weigh over one thousand pounds. They bury horses and eat rotting flesh, and just the thought has my pulse racing. I mean, it’s cool and all, but would I be able to outrun a bear? Would Gramps?
I just have so many things on my mind that when Ms. Hoole hands back my test on Monday with a grade of thirty-six and a “See me after class” note, I’m all whatever about it.
When the bell rings and everyone leaves the classroom, I go to her desk and put my test in front of her. “What’s up, Hoolio?”
“Tyson,” she says, “I’d like to ask you the same question.”
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t do so good, did I?”
“Have a seat. I’ll write you a pass.”
