by Tim Green
“No. I’m fine.”
“Quiet down in front!” The yell sounded like the same person who scolded Harrison for throwing his wig.
“Blow it out your butt!” Justin yelled right back.
“We’ll see what the manager says about that.” The voice rolled down at them from the rear seats.
They waited, but both of them knew what was coming. The opening scene of the movie—two spaceships plummeting toward Earth in a deadly duel—was disrupted by the wavering beam of a flashlight that ended up in their faces.
Justin held a hand in front of his face. “What’s the problem?”
“I’d like you two to come with me, please.” The manager wore a red vest and he shined the light down at their feet so they could see his bearded face and enormous barrel chest. He looked like a lumberjack.
“Why? Because of some butthead?” Justin’s voice was loud enough for everyone to hear as he jabbed his thumb toward the man who had complained.
“Justin, stop.” Harrison put a hand on Justin’s arm.
“My friend is handicapped.” Justin wasn’t getting any quieter. “And you’re going to harass him?”
“That’s got nothing to do with you being a little loudmouth jerk. Now come on, before I call the police.” The manager’s voice rumbled at them.
Harrison slipped his jacket on and struggled to his feet with the crutches. “Justin, come on.”
“Well, we’re taking our popcorn. We paid for it.” Justin kept his chin up and his voice loud enough to spoil the opening scene for everyone else.
“Take your popcorn, but leave.”
“Harrison, you want your hair?” Justin asked, scooping up the wig before he took the soda and popcorn from Harrison.
Harrison worked his way up the aisle, crutches clicking. When Justin got even with the man who complained, he made a loud farting noise. Harrison wasn’t sure if it was real or just his friend blowing on his bare arm, but either way, Harrison’s face felt hot. Harrison didn’t want to even look at the manager, even when the man offered him a soft-spoken apology and a pass to come back another time without Justin. He just took the pass and kept going. Justin kept right up with him and didn’t stop yapping at the manager until they reached the escalator.
“So much for the movie.” Harrison took the wig from Justin and jammed it in his pants pocket as they rode down.
Justin raised the tubs of popcorn in the air. “That was just to get you out of your cave. I heard that one stunk anyway. Did you see how many people were there? The place was empty for a reason.”
They reached the first floor in the middle of the food court and Justin set their popcorn down on a tabletop. “Let’s eat this stuff, right?”
“Then what? I don’t want to call Coach and tell him we got kicked out.”
“We can just hang out. Window-shop. I don’t know.”
Harrison looked around. “I don’t want to stay here.”
“Oh.” Justin glanced at the wig hanging from Harrison’s pocket, then his bald head. “I get it. Okay. It’s getting cold, but there’s some benches outside.”
Justin held the heavy glass doors for Harrison. They sat down on a bench beside the entrance.
Justin blew hot air into his hands and said, “Maybe you should put that thing on your head, just to stay warm.”
Harrison pulled the wig from his pocket and plopped it on like a hat. “Is it straight?”
“Here.” Justin fixed it and offered Harrison some popcorn.
They hadn’t sat on the benches for more than five minutes before Justin pointed at the door. With a mouthful of popcorn, he said, “Look.”
Chapter Eighty-One
BECKY WAS WITH HER mom and dad and little sister. They were talking and laughing together before they stopped in front of the bench.
“How are you feeling, Harrison?” Doc Smart asked.
Harrison’s hand drifted to his wig. “Good. Thanks.”
“Were you guys at the movies?” Becky wore jeans and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was as pretty as ever.
“We walked out of Transformers,” Justin said before Harrison could even think of a response.
“I heard this one wasn’t as good as the last. We went to Space Dogs, for my little sister. Do you guys need a ride to town?”
Harrison looked at Justin, who shrugged. “Sure.”
They got in with Becky’s family. Becky climbed into the back of the Suburban and her little sister sat between Justin and Harrison in the second row. Becky and her family talked about Space Dogs. The conversation was normal and natural, and Harrison began to relax.
“Dad,” Becky said, “can these guys come over for a little?”
Her dad glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sure. It’s early.”
They pulled into the circular driveway of the enormous house and got out.
“Want to hang in back?” Becky asked.
“Isn’t it a little too cold?” her mother asked.
“Look at those stars, Mom,” Becky said. “It’s not cold.”
“Nine o’clock,” Doc Smart said, offering his wife a hand up the front porch stairs.
“Thanks, Dad.” Becky nodded to Harrison and Justin and they followed her.
Next to the fish pond was a swinging bench. They sat down, Harrison in the middle, and stared at the sky. Becky sighed and put her hand on Harrison’s arm.
“If you two want to be alone . . .” Justin said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Becky gave Harrison’s arm a squeeze. “Look at that Milky Way.”
They sat for a minute, just looking, before something thrashed in the water. Harrison jumped.
“It’s just the fish.” Becky leaned forward to look.
“What are they doing?” Harrison asked.
“They fight sometimes. Usually it’s when we feed them.”
“Can we see?” Justin stood up.
“There’s a light on that post.” Becky pointed to a post near the walkway leading to the pond.
Justin flipped it on and the water came alive with a flurry of orange and white as the fish teemed back and forth in a frenzy. “Oh my God. Are they attacking that white one?”
“They do sometimes.” Becky peered into the water.
“Look, Harrison. Look at that big white one.” Justin’s eyes were wide with excitement. “Awesome.”
Harrison studied the big white Koi that Becky had shown him weeks ago. “What’s wrong with it? It looks different.”
“They eat at his fins,” Becky said. “But he’s okay. My dad says he’ll live.”
The big, sleek fish was spotted with gray and thinner than it had been. Instead of the sweeping fins that billowed like silk, jagged stubs stuck out from its sides and back.
The horror of it filled Harrison. “Yeah, I get it.”
He leaned hard on his crutches and swung them for all he was worth, clacking down the path and circling the house to the driveway. When he hit the pavement, he really took off, swinging his prosthetic like a wildman, but without any of the quick precision the major demanded.
It wasn’t long before he heard their footsteps slapping the pavement behind him.
“Harrison!” Becky shouted. “Don’t go!”
He never slowed down and he never looked back.
Chapter Eighty-Two
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, THE J72 sat propped against the tree with a big red bow.
“I thought it was kind of twisted.” His mom stood with her arms folded across her robe.
“It was my idea,” Coach said.
Mrs. Godfrey directed a short nod at her son-in-law. “And I approved.”
“It’s the best present I ever had.” Harrison raised the metal leg and caressed the long, smooth titanium shin and squeezed the rubber foot that looked much like his own.
“Should we open the other presents?” his mom asked. “Or do you want to put it on?”
“If he can, he should.” Mrs. Godfrey’s eyes reflected the
blinking lights on the tree.
“Major?” Harrison peered at the old soldier, who sat on the couch in a sweat suit after having run five miles before the sun even came up.
“‘When the will is ready, the feet are light.’” The major hopped up. “Let’s get that thing on.”
It fit perfectly.
Harrison stood, beaming at the four adults. The major disappeared in the direction of the garage, where his apartment was, and returned quickly. He held out a black cane to Harrison, also with a red bow.
“The only present I ever gave that I hope you won’t need.” The major smiled and scratched the stubble on the side of his face. “You’ll need it at first, though. Ah . . . trust me, will you?”
Harrison did trust him, so he grabbed the cane and took a step.
“See? It’s not as easy as it looks, but you’ll be okay.”
“And I can play football with this?” Harrison asked.
“If you can play, it’ll be with that,” the major said. “Yes.”
Harrison tried to move too fast, staggered, and nearly fell.
“I got you.” Coach caught him and they all laughed.
The days went quicker with the J72 because there was so much more for Harrison to learn and to do. The shin was a sleek-looking piston that had some give to it, allowing him to spring slightly when he moved. The joints were solid but streamlined; they moved without a click or a clack and slipped easily back and forth as if they were bathed in oil, even though he could touch them without leaving anything slick on his fingers.
The complexity of the J72 allowed Harrison to move with much more ease, and the focus became more about control than about generating the brute strength needed to swing the leg back and forth. Sometimes he forgot he even had cancer, he got so excited. That was impossible, though, when he had to go into the hospital later the next week for his second-to-last chemotherapy treatment.
He couldn’t keep from hanging his head, even when he saw Marty’s toothy grin and the bright expression on his pale face as he cranked himself upright in the bed.
“Look at. You.” Marty gulped and the machine at his neck hummed. “The bionic . . . man.”
Marty knew all about the J72 because he and Harrison were friends on Facebook. He tried to return the smile, but it fell flat. “I’m sorry, Marty. I hate this place.”
“That’s how. You are. Supposed. To feel.”
“You’re always looking at the bright side.” Harrison tossed his bag down on the dresser and sat on the edge of his bed.
“The second. To last. Treatment. Is the . . . hardest. The last. One is . . . easy.”
Harrison tilted his head. “Have you had your last?”
Marty nodded and grinned. “Five. Of them.”
That was enough to make Harrison feel bad for moping, but Marty wasn’t finished.
“My first. Last. Was when. I was . . . nine. That. Won’t. Happen . . . to you.”
“You can’t say that.” Harrison dropped his voice. “You don’t know.”
“I . . .” Marty’s eyes blazed. “Know.”
Harrison told Marty more about all the things he was able to do with the J72 and how hard the major was training him. “I’m going to play football again, Marty. They said it’s possible.”
Marty stared at him and blinked.
“Are you okay?” Harrison asked.
“Will you. Do me. A. Favor?”
“Sure, Marty. What?”
Chapter Eighty-Three
MARTY WRIGGLED HIS BODY and straightened up a little more. His face glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. “When you. Play your. First game. Would you. Write my . . . Name. On your. Shoes?”
“Your name?”
Marty’s big head wagged up and down. “Sometimes. Players. Write things. On their. Shoes . . . That way. I will. Be. With you.”
“Well, you can come.” The possibility excited Harrison. “Why can’t you just come to the game?”
Marty raised his arm and the plastic IV tube swung and jostled the bag above his bed so that it glinted with light from the window.
“But they always have an ambulance at the games.” Enthusiasm flooded Harrison’s voice. “You could ride in back and have everything you need and—”
Marty held up a hand for him to stop, and a strange sound, something like laughter, pitched about in his throat. He shook his head. “You are. A good. Dreamer. Harri. Son. I like. You . . . And. Maybe. You are. Right. Maybe. I will. Be there. With you.
“But . . . Will you . . . Promise?”
“To write your name on my shoes? Of course I will.”
“And you. Won’t. Forget?”
Harrison scowled. “No. Of course I won’t.”
Marty lay his head back and the bed hummed down. Harrison knew that was Marty’s way of saying he needed to rest, so he didn’t bother him about it.
The second-to-last treatment was awful. He got sick again. It wasn’t as bad as the first time, but Dr. Kirshner shook his head and knit his eyebrows and explained to Harrison and his mom that things like that just happened sometimes and they couldn’t explain it. Finally they found a medicine that gave his aching stomach some relief, but not before a fitful night of sweaty tossing and turning.
Just before Harrison left, Marty held out a black Sharpie pen and pressed the voice machine to his neck with the other hand. “I think. You will. Be. Famous. When you. Play. Football. Again. They will. Ask you. On. TV. About. Your shoes. And I . . . Will be . . . Famous. Too.”
Marty held up a bony fist. Harrison bumped it with a fist of his own, and the two of them held a smiling gaze between them long enough for Harrison to notice the light reflecting off the glaze over Marty’s big brown eyes. Harrison and his mom were in the hallway outside when he heard the voice buzzing from inside the room.
“Good-bye. Harr. Ison. My . . . Friend.”
Chapter Eighty-Four
HARRISON ASKED HIS MOM to buy him a new pair of football cleats.
“The season is a long way away, Harrison.” His mom folded her arms across her chest. “What are you up to?”
“It’s like an inspiration thing. You can use my lawn money. I just need you to buy them, please. White ones. Size 11.”
“I thought you’re a 10.”
“I’ll be 11 by next season.”
“You will, will you?”
“Yup.”
The way his mom sighed didn’t allow for any surprise when she brought them home the next day. Harrison unwrapped the cleats, tossing the tissue paper aside and using the Sharpie to write “MARTY” in big, bold letters on the toes of both cleats. He set the cleats on the floor of his closet, facing out, so he’d see them every time he dressed.
The major only waited a few days for him to recover from the chemo before he started working Harrison twice a day again for several hours in the morning and again in the afternoon. With all the therapy, lifting, stretching, and walking, Harrison needed the time between workouts to have lunch and lie down to regain his strength. The major was tough on him. Every time Harrison tried to stop, the major would bark and get several more repetitions—or steps, or whatever he was doing—out of him.
Then one day the major clapped his hands and rubbed them together and flung open the garage door. “Today is the day.”
“What day?” Harrison blinked at the sunlight pouring in on him as he tied his sneaker tight.
“The day you start jogging.”
Harrison swallowed and looked out at the driveway. It suddenly seemed unending, but he stood and walked carefully toward the major, concentrating on his form and the rhythm of the J72.
“You got to swing it just a little harder, like the drills we do on the parallel bars. It’s that same quick rhythm. That’s why you’ve been doing those drills.” The major held Harrison’s cane and used it to point at the J72.
Harrison nodded.
“You ready?”
“I wasn’t even thinking about it, but I guess I’m ready.”
The major stood beside him and turned, slowly starting down the driveway. “I’ve found that the best way to do this is just do it. Come on.”
Harrison flung the prosthetic leg out in front of him and hopped gingerly with his good leg to catch up to it.
“Good. Again. Don’t stop.”
He swung and caught up, swung and caught up. He was halfway down the driveway when he began to laugh.
“I’m doing it!”
“You are. Come on.”
The major turned up the street. Harrison followed. They got to the stop sign and the major stopped and hugged him tight.
“That’s as good as I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?” Harrison’s leg ached a bit, but he was flying high. “Can we run back?”
“No, no. We walk back.” The major handed him the cane. “This was a great start, but we need to go slow and careful. You have to promise me, Harrison. I’m pushing you like I’d push an Army Green Beret, but you can’t push too hard. There are limits and I know what they are. If I say you can jog a block, that’s it, you don’t jog two. Your leg is still healing, and if you go past the point it can handle, you could do a lot of damage.
“Come on, use the right form. Use the cane, too. Here we go.”
They returned to the garage, and the weights and stretching and therapy seemed easy. Harrison was delighted and hungry to get back out and run again.
Within a week, Harrison was jogging around the block with the major, and it felt to him like they were flying, not jogging. It was a freedom he’d never experienced before, even carrying the football on a touchdown run.
“Major?” Harrison asked after a jog one day. “When do we cut?”
The major tilted his head. “Soon. I want this running thing ingrained in your mind and your body, too. Cutting is something entirely different and I don’t want you working those muscles until the running is down cold. You’re getting close, though. I can tell you that.”
“And then I’ll be on my way to playing.” Harrison could barely catch his breath.
