Momentous Events in the Life of a Cactus

by Dusti Bowling

  Dad stared at me from across the booth. “I’d like to kick that Joshua’s a—”

  “Ben,” Mom cut him off. “That won’t help. And Aven is solving her own problems like she’s always done. Aren’t you, honey?”

  I nodded. “I’m trying to.” I took in a deep breath. “High school has thrown me out of whack. But I’ll be okay. I’m sure I will.”

  “You will,” Mom said. “And now you have a few days at home to recover before you have to go back.”

  “I’m not afraid to go to school anymore,” I told her. “And I absolutely have to be back by Halloween.”

  37

  Let’s live like we mean it

  Because today is the youngest we’ll ever be

  For the rest of our lives.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  I WAS LYING ON MY BED READING Love, Stargirl, listening to Llama Parade, trying not to think about Spaghetti, actively recovering from my concussion, when my computer made the little noise that lets me know an email has come in.

  I put my eReader down and sat at my desk. I saw who the email was from and nervously clicked on it. I read it. I read it again. I read it a third time. I sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Pondering. My heart racing. I got up, dug my phone out of my bag, and set it on the floor in front of me. I dialed the number from the email with my shaking toe.

  A man answered the phone. “Hello,” I said to the man. “My name is Aven Green. I found you on Find My Family.”

  “This is incredible, Aven,” Mom said from the front seat of the car. “I didn’t think anything would actually come back from the test. I can’t believe it.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

  “When do we meet him, Sheebs?” Dad asked.

  “He flies in in a couple of days,” I said from the back.

  “And he’s excited?”

  I smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “So excited.”

  Mom took a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. “Well, he should be. It’s simply incredible,” she said, her voice cracking. “And to think . . . all these years and he never even knew.” She cried into her tissue.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “I have every right to be emotional right now.”

  “Well, you’d better get it together,” Dad said. “Who knows what might happen at this thing?” He looked at me again in the rearview mirror. “Are we really doing this tonight? Is it too late to back out?”

  “Way too late,” I said.

  Mom dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “I think it will be fun.”

  “It’s going to be so much fun,” I assured them.

  “I don’t know. . . . ” Dad said.

  “Remember,” I told him. “Today is the youngest you’ll ever be for the rest of your life. Do it while you can.”

  Mom whipped around in her seat and faced me, her eyes huge in the dark car. “Aven, that was profound.”

  “I totally know!” I cried. “It felt profound as I was saying it. Like it should be in song or something.”

  “Hey, remember when you used to write songs?” Dad said.

  “Yeah, but they weren’t any good.”

  “They were, too,” Mom said. “I think you should try it again.”

  Dad pulled our little car into a crowded parking lot lit by a few dim street lights. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I could feel the hum of electric guitars shooting across the cool night air. The steady beat of drums pulsed through my whole body.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea for Ms. Head Bonk here?” Dad asked, getting out of the car. “I don’t know if a loud rock ’n roll concert is the best remedy for a concussion.”

  “Don’t say rock ’n roll,” I told him. “It makes you sound old.”

  “What should I call it then?”

  “Punk. And don’t worry. I’ll stay out of the mosh pit.” This time, I added secretly to myself.

  “What’s a mosh pit?” Mom asked as we walked through the parking lot.

  “It’s like an area where everyone jumps around and slams into one another.”

  “Yeah, you definitely need to stay out of that,” Mom said, then she turned to Dad. “I might try it out, though.”

  Dad laughed. “Yeah, right, Laura. I can see you now.” He shook his head. “Not in a million years.”

  Mom’s face hardened. She stared straight ahead at the big gray block building in front of us, her jaw set with determination. “I am definitely going in that mosh pit. Make sure you have your phone out to record me so there’s proof.”

  “This is going to be so much fun,” I said. “Thank you guys for taking me.”

  Dad put an arm around me. “If it’s important to you, Sheebs, it’s important to us.”

  “Next stop!” I announced. “The tattoo parlor!”

  “No,” Mom and Dad both said immediately.

  I sighed. “Yes, I suppose there is a limit to your coolness.”

  “You’ll rethink that statement when you see me moshing,” Mom said. “Or is it mosh-pitting?”

  I laughed. “Moshing.”

  Trilby and her parents were standing outside the building already waiting for us. Trilby threw her arms around me. “I’m so happy you’re here!” she cried.

  She pulled away, and my mouth dropped open. She ran a hand over her shaved head, which had hair chalk designs all over it—flowers and rainbows mostly. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you look incredible. But why did you do it? Is it because of the heat?”

  “I decided my hair was just another way I was conforming to the Man’s expectations of me,” she said. “And it feels amazing!” She rubbed her hands frantically over her head and jumped around in a circle. “And think of all the money I’ll save on shampoo!”

  I tore my eyes away from Trilby’s scalp and found Mom and Dad were already chatting with her parents—wanting to know how things were going with the smoothie shop, how they liked working at Stagecoach Pass. Dad eventually asked what to expect from “this thing.”

  Trilby’s mom put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ben—no crowd-surfing for first-timers. And Screaming Ferret’s a good intro to punk. Nothing too hardcore.”

  “I’m actually going to go in there and listen to something called Screaming Ferret?” Dad said. “Do they think that name makes them sound enjoyable?”

  “Dad!” I cried. “You’re going to like them. They’re amazing!”

  I loved the sound of the music blasting through the small opened doorway as we waited in line to pay cover charges and get our hands stamped. The bouncer took one look at Trilby then told her to put her hand out. He stamped “underage” on it. “No going into the over twenty-one area for you, baldie,” the bouncer said. Then he turned his attention to me. He scanned over me, an intense look of contemplation on his face. He scratched at his tattooed neck. Then he stamped “underage” on my nub.

  The bouncer gave our parents wristbands (and I thought Mom was going to die of pride when he asked for her ID), and then let us into the stuffy, loud, crowded building.

  We slowly inched our way closer and closer to the stage, completely surrounded by singing, dancing, and shouting people—most of them older than Trilby and me but definitely younger than our parents. Our group didn’t exactly fit the punk-show profile. And I loved that.

  We all stopped when we reached a small open area surrounding the mosh pit. It was pure chaos in there—people flying here and there and everywhere. Every now and then someone would tumble out of the pit and into the crowd and the crowd would push them back in. I’d never felt so much energy in my life.

  “Get ready to record, Ben!” Mom cried out, but Dad just stood there gaping at Mom as she flung herself into the mosh pit.

  “You shouldn’t have told her she wouldn’t do it!” I shouted in his ear.

  He laughed and pulled out his phone to record her. A young guy with about a dozen piercings in his face stuck his hand up at Mom and cried
out, “Right on, lady!” Mom smacked his hand before someone slammed into her, knocking her out of our sight and into the chaos. Dad kept recording, even though we couldn’t see Mom anymore. I guessed he was hoping she would come up for air at some point and he could catch another glimpse of her. I realized right then in that moment that Dad didn’t just love Mom. He liked her, liked her. And he liked her. That was maybe the most important thing of all.

  I stood there awhile, taking in the scene, gazing around at all the people, all dressed so differently, like we were at Comic Con again, and they were wearing costumes.

  But they weren’t wearing costumes at all. And the people at Comic Con weren’t wearing costumes. Lando as Captain America—Isaiah Bradley—jumping up on the coffee table and flexing his foamy muscles—that was the real Lando. Lando at school was the Lando in costume. I looked next to me at Trilby, at her shaved head with the colorful designs, at her tank top with another punk band on it. Trilby never wore a costume. I watched as she pumped her fist in the air, jumped up and down, and sang along to the music. She stopped and looked at me, breathing hard, sweat already pouring down her face. “Who cares, Aven?” she yelled. “Just who the heck cares?”

  I closed my eyes, let the music, the lyrics fully sink in.

  I’m seeing things clearly now

  For the first time ever.

  I see me.

  I’m not what they thought.

  I am what I believe.

  I found myself yelling the words along with Trilby as she put her arm around my shoulder. And then we were jumping up and down together, shouting and singing and fighting in our own tiny way against the Man.

  And I finally knew exactly who the Man was in my life.

  The Man was Joshua and his friends.

  The Man was Janessa looking at me like she was better than me.

  The Man was every kid who’d ever called me a freak.

  The Man was movies and magazines and books that portrayed beauty as being only one thing.

  The Man was every single person who had ever seen me as less than.

  The Man in my life was sometimes . . . me.

  I opened my eyes and looked at Trilby. She stopped jumping and raised her eyebrows at me. “Thank you,” I yelled at her.

  She smiled. “You’re welcome,” she screamed.

  Sometimes the friends you make aren’t the ones you expected. And sometimes the place you find yourself in isn’t the place you were hoping for. And sometimes, if you keep an open mind, you’ll find they’re so much better than what you imagined.

  38

  No action means no results.

  Get up. Get moving. Get out of your seat.

  Fight, fight, fight.

  You can take the heat.

  — Screaming Ferret

  ZION STARED ACROSS OUR LUNCH table at me. “You look good.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “No, really. My mom did a great job of fitting—”

  “I swear I will Kung Fu your face if you say another word.”

  Zion stuck a carrot stick in his mouth, loudly chewed it, and swallowed. “I don’t think you’re using that word right.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Just saying—I’m pretty sure it’s not a verb.”

  “Just saying—I don’t care.”

  Zion took another bite of carrot. “You want to go trick or treating later?”

  “Aren’t we getting too old?”

  Zion frowned. “Are we?”

  I stared at him. “I don’t know. Aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know . . . Are we?”

  I shrugged. “Nah, let’s go. We can do your neighborhood.”

  “Well, we can’t exactly trick or treat at Stagecoach Pass.”

  Just then, with the greatest flourish I had ever seen, Lando burst through the cafeteria doors, all giant foamy muscles and blue and red spandex and plastic wings on his masked head.

  He ran through the cafeteria, a blur of blue, stopping every few seconds to put his hand over his brow and scan the room. Several kids giggled as they watched him.

  My heart pounded as I hunched down in my seat, wishing I could pull my green robe over my head. Zion glared at me. “Scaredy cat.” I sat back up straight and turned to Lando. He spotted me and his mouth opened wide. Then he jumped up on the nearest table and pointed at me. “You dare come here to challenge me, Armless Master!” His voice boomed through the cafeteria, which was quiet now except for some snorts and giggles.

  I shakily stood up from my seat and faced him.

  I am Aven Green.

  I am good.

  I am brave.

  I am punk.

  And I am fighting the Man with every action I make.

  “I do,” I said, my voice not nearly as strong as Lando’s.

  He jumped down from the table and walked dramatically to me, whipping his head around. I bit my quivering lip. He pushed his foamy-muscled chest into my foamy-muscled chest and we bounced off of each other. “So, we meet again, Armless Master.”

  “So we do,” I said, wishing I had some better comeback, wishing I were capable of mustering something even slightly witty at that moment.

  “At last I have found the secret weapon to defeat you! You SHAN’T survive!”

  I giggled, my face so blazing hot at this point, it could fry bacon. “Do your worst.”

  Lando threw an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. He leaned in and whispered hesitantly, “Can I kiss you?”

  The last time I thought a boy was going to kiss me flashed into my mind, and my fear and insecurity from the past several weeks tried once more to take over, to control me.

  But I wouldn’t let it.

  Because this was nothing like that time. And Lando was nothing like that boy. And I was already stronger than that girl.

  I nodded and closed my eyes. Trusting. Again.

  It felt good to trust.

  Then he pressed his lips to mine.

  Firm.

  Soft.

  Warm.

  Cool.

  It was pretty much everything I’d ever hoped it would be, even when I pretended that I’d never hoped for it all.

  Lando pulled back with a loud dramatic smack.

  Of all the ways I had imagined my first kiss to happen, this was certainly not one of them. It wasn’t private. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t like in some romantic comedy or fairy tale. And I doubted anyone’s first kiss was like mine. Like everything else in my life, it had to be totally and completely weird, funny, bizarre, and different.

  Lando pranced away from me like a ballerina, jumping through the air, one arm outstretched like he was on a serious mission. Real Lando had crashed into School Lando. And I was glad to see it.

  Lando turned as he reached the cafeteria doors. “This isn’t over, Armless Master!” He raised a finger in the air. “It shall never be over between us! NEVAH!” Then he burst out of the cafeteria.

  Everything went completely back to the way it was. The sounds of noisy high schoolers resumed as though nothing had happened, and I sat back down across from Zion. He took another bite of carrot and sighed. “That was so unrealistic. Captain America and the Armless Master aren’t even in the same comic book universe.”

  I shook my head, my brain buzzing, my pulse still rapid, my feet bouncing on the cafeteria floor. “You truly are a geek.”

  Zion’s lip turned up a little at one corner, and I think I glimpsed a hint of pride in his brown eyes at my words.

  I snuck a glance at Lando’s table. He hadn’t come back, but two girls sitting there were watching me. The moment I made eye contact with them, they smiled. Then they waved. I smiled and lifted my foot to wave back at them. They giggled and waved again.

  I guess everything hadn’t gone completely back to the way it was.

  39

  We meet again.

  My old friend.

  Together till the end.

  — Kids from Alcatraz

  I W
ALKED INTO THE HOSPITAL room. I sat down next to Henry’s bed. He turned his head to me. “Hello,” he said.

  I sincerely hoped he was clear today. “Hi, Henry,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”

  He smiled. “Aven.”

  “Aven Green,” I said.

  He nodded. “Aven Green.”

  “I’m doing it, Henry,” I told him. “I’m taking your advice.”

  He licked his shaking wrinkled lips. “I’m glad.”

  “I have something important to tell you,” I said, hardly able to keep my voice steady.

  His face lit up. “What is it?”

  “Well, um, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Who? Joe?”

  “No, Joe was here earlier. Remember?”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah.”

  “She’ll be back tomorrow. There’s someone else here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a second.” I got up and went out into the hallway. I came back with a man pushing an older man in a wheelchair. I sat back down at Henry’s bedside.

  “Who are they?” Henry asked.

  “This is Robert,” I said. “And this is his father, Walter.” Both men seemed like they were straining hard not to cry as they watched Henry. “They came all the way from Chicago to see you.”

  “To see me?” Henry said.

  I nodded. “Henry . . . ” I swallowed hard. And swallowed again. “Walter is your brother.” Henry’s mouth dropped open as he stared at the two men. “He’s been searching for you his whole life.”

  I moved out of the way, and Robert pushed Walter to Henry’s bedside. Henry’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. His lips trembled. He pushed the button on his bed so he could sit all the way up and face his brother.

  They looked so much alike. It was like Henry was looking into a mirror—a mirror that made him look even older than his already really old self.

  Walter stuck out a feeble, shaking hand, and Henry grasped it. They stared at each other, holding hands, little gasps escaping their mouths, sniffing every now and then, until Walter said in a hoarse, whisper-like voice, “I was five when Mama and Daddy died. You were only a baby. I wanted to take care of you, but they took you away from me. You and Nora. She was only three.”