Finding the Worm

by Mark Goldblatt

  It was kind of stunning to hear Howie say that, on account of how long he’d been sweet on Beverly. I mean, that crush lasted from the start of third grade until the end of sixth grade. Even now, a half year after I’d told him to forget about it, that she didn’t want to be his girlfriend—which the entire block, except for him, knew—he still couldn’t look her in the eye. Except here he was, standing at the bus stop, looking her in the eye, looking her right in the eye, and telling her he’d race her.

  It definitely caught Beverly off guard. The expression on her face changed. The sarcasm went away, and her nose wrinkled as if to say, You want to race me? She didn’t say the words, but you could tell she hadn’t figured on Howie being the guy to step up. Plus, Howie was pretty fast. It was always close between him and Lonnie about who was the second-fastest guy on the block. Lonnie was shiftier and harder to catch, but Howie had beaten him by a hair the two times they’d raced.

  “Are you sure you want to, Howie?” she said.

  “What’s the matter, Segal? Are you chicken?”

  “I’m not chicken! I want to race Jul—”

  “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!”

  She shook her head. “All right! You’re on!”

  Howie said, “See you in Ponzini after school.”

  I admit it: I was curious to see Howie race Beverly. I wouldn’t have given Beverly a chance until I saw her race Eric. But with how bad she beat Eric, I honestly didn’t know who’d win between her and Howie. Of course I knew if Beverly won, she’d nag me even more to race her. Which I wasn’t going to do. Which I’m not going to do. What I mean is even if she wasn’t a girl, I wouldn’t race her, because it’s not close. I’ve played tag with her a hundred times, and I can catch her from behind without breaking a sweat, and she’s never caught me, not even once—except maybe in wolf tag, when she had three or four guys helping her chase me down.

  None of us talked to Howie about the race beforehand. You could tell it was on his mind during the bus ride home. Beverly was sitting near the front of the bus, by herself, in the third row of seats, and we were sitting in the back, and Howie kept glancing up at her when he thought none of us was watching, even though all of us were watching every move he made.

  She got off the bus first at the corner of Parsons and waited for us. As I hopped down the last step and onto the sidewalk, she shot me a look that said what Eric had said to me after their race: This whole stupid thing is your fault. That ticked me off, because, yeah, you could say it was my fault for not racing her, but it’s not like she had to keep bugging me to race her. So I was rooting for Howie even more after she shot me that look.

  The walk to Ponzini was real quiet. It felt mechanical, like we were robots doing what we were supposed to do, what we had to do, and there was nothing else to say about it. No one knew about the race except the six of us and Beverly. She didn’t have time to bring out her cheerleaders. Or else she didn’t want to bring them out, maybe because she knew how emotional the thing was for Howie. Three years is a long time to stay sweet on a girl, especially if you don’t have the nerve to talk to her, and then to find out that she’s known you were sweet on her the entire time, and that the entire block has known the entire time—I mean, it’s just hard.

  Without even looking at one another, Beverly and Howie took off their coats and walked side by side to the far end of Ponzini. That was where the starting line was—the first fence post. The rest of us waited at the finish line, which was the end of the fence, by the garage door.

  Then Lonnie shouted, “On your mark … get set … go!”

  The race wasn’t as close as I thought it would be.

  Howie got off to a good start. He definitely reacted quicker to Lonnie’s voice, and he might have been ahead for the first couple of steps—it was hard to tell because they were running toward us—but Beverly passed him after that, and when Howie caught sight of her, his arms started to flail, which is never a good sign. She had him by six steps at the finish line … and she was coasting. Not that she was rubbing it in. She wasn’t waving at us or making a show of winning. She just wasn’t running full speed.

  By the time Howie crossed the finish line, he looked killed. He shrugged as he walked over to us, but his eyes were blank, like there was no one home in his head. It was painful to see, how blank his eyes were, how glazed over and flat they looked. It made me mad, and for a second I thought maybe I would race Beverly, then and there, and I’d beat her worse than she’d beaten Howie, even worse than she’d beaten Eric. But then I noticed the look on her face, and I realized she felt bad too. She was standing ten feet past the finish line, alone, staring up at the brick wall of the apartment building. She couldn’t bear to look at Howie. She couldn’t bear to look at any of us.

  Then, out of nowhere, Quentin said, “I got next.”

  The rest of us stared at him in disbelief.

  “C’mon, Quent,” Lonnie said. “You know you can’t—”

  “No, I can do it,” Quentin said. “I want to race her.”

  Beverly had turned around and was shaking her head. “I won’t do it, Quentin.”

  “You want to race everybody else. Why not me?”

  “Because …”

  “Because what?”

  Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She couldn’t answer him.

  “Because you’re still sick,” Lonnie said.

  “But I’m not sick anymore! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

  “Because it’s too soon,” I said. “You still can’t walk from your house to the bus stop without catching your breath. Maybe in a month or so—”

  “I’m not a baby, all right? I know what I can do.” He turned to Beverly. “I want to race you. I want to race you right now.”

  “No, Quentin, I’m not doing it,” she said.

  He lowered his head and said in a soft voice, “I’m begging you, Beverly.”

  The way he said that, the way he said the word “begging,” he put her in a real tough situation. How could she say no? On the other hand, how could she say yes? She looked at me, like I might have an answer, but I had nothing. I looked straight down at the ground.

  “You really think you can do it?” she asked.

  He nodded at her. “I’m sure of it.”

  “And you swear you’ll stop if you start to feel sick?”

  “I swear.”

  Beverly took a deep breath, then said, “Let’s race.”

  As soon as she said that, Quentin peeled off his coat and dropped it to the ground. He kept on his ski cap, though, because of the wig, and I was thankful he kept it on, since it was real cold out. But I still had a bad feeling watching the two of them walk together toward the far end of Ponzini. Except if you didn’t know Quentin was sick, there was no way to tell anything was wrong. He’d been home for four weeks. He looked skinny, but not skeleton-skinny like that first day back from the hospital. He was walking all right too, keeping up with Beverly, and she wasn’t slowing down on his account.

  Lonnie started to inch forward as they were walking. It took me a couple of seconds to realize what he was doing. He was changing the finish line, bringing it closer, shortening the race.

  He turned to me and said under his breath, “Jules, why don’t you make sure it’s a fair start.”

  I nodded and began to trot after them. Beverly heard my footsteps coming up behind them, and she turned around. She looked real relieved. “If you tell me you want to race too, I’m going to slug you.”

  “I’m just making sure no one cheats.”

  She laughed. “You think I have to cheat to beat this guy?”

  “I know you won’t cheat. I’m not so sure about Quentin.”

  That made Quentin laugh.

  They got to the starting line and turned around.

  I said, “On your mark …”

  But Quentin held up his left hand. “Hold on a minute.”

  “Are you out of breath?” I said.

  “I’m just revv
ing myself up.”

  Then Beverly said, “Quentin—”

  “I’m fine!”

  Nothing happened for maybe ten seconds.

  Then Quentin said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

  I said, “On your mark …”

  The two of them crouched over.

  “Get set …”

  Beverly shot me one last, desperate look.

  “Go!”

  It was a fair start. Beverly reacted quicker, but Quentin’s first step was longer, and for the first few steps, the two of them were dead even. Then, though it didn’t seem possible, Quentin started to pull in front. His head was down, and his arms and legs were churning, and maybe ten steps into the race, he had Beverly by a full step—and not because she wasn’t trying. Her head was down too, and she was leaning forward, running as hard as she could.

  Then, without warning, Quentin stopped running.

  Except stopped running doesn’t get across how sudden it was. One second his legs were working, and the next second they were buckling under him. I’ve never seen a guy go down like that. It was as if he’d been hit across the chest with a baseball bat as he was going full speed. That was where he grabbed too—his chest. He seized up in the middle of a stride, grabbed his chest, and stumbled forward until he dropped to his hands and knees. Beverly caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and she stopped running too, and the rest of us ran toward the two of them.

  By the time I got there, Beverly was kneeling alongside Quentin, who was lying facedown and not moving. Tears were rolling down her face, and she was screaming, “What happened? What happened?”

  But she was getting nothing back. He was breathing, but he was just lying there. She reached down to grab his shoulder, but then she didn’t touch him. You could tell she was afraid to lay a hand on him. I was too. I slid down next to her, but I had no idea what to do.

  Lonnie ran up behind us and yelled, “Get his face out of the dirt!”

  I leaned forward, but I couldn’t roll him over. I couldn’t make myself do it.

  “All right, get out of the way!” Lonnie yelled, and he knelt down on the other side of Beverly. He grabbed the back of Quentin’s shirt and rolled him over onto his back. You could see Quentin’s eyes fluttering even though his eyelids were still closed. Then Lonnie got down on his stomach and said into his ear, “Quentin? Hey! C’mon, wake up! Do you know who I am?”

  Quentin’s eyes slid open, and he took a deep breath. “Are you God?”

  As soon as he said that, he started to laugh, but then the laugh turned into a cough, and the rest of us sat there and listened to him cough for the next half minute.

  It was an awful cough. It came from his guts, not from his throat. On the other hand, when he wasn’t coughing, he was smiling. Not just smiling, he was grinning like a fool. Not even Lonnie knew what to make of it.

  As the coughing died down, Lonnie slipped his hand behind Quentin’s head and helped him sit up. When Quentin had caught his breath, he looked up at Beverly and said, “I was winning.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Did you fake that?”

  “No!”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran out of gas … but I was winning.”

  “What difference does it make, who was winning? I thought you were dead!”

  “That was great. It was just … great.…”

  Beverly jumped to her feet. “You’re an idiot! You’re all idiots!” Then she turned to me and said, “And it’s your fault!”

  “That’s right!” Eric said.

  “It’s not my fault,” I said.

  Beverly rubbed the tears from her eyes and stormed out of Ponzini.

  February 25, 1970

  Sluppy

  Here’s the thing about writing stuff down, and the reason I recommend it: when you read back what you wrote, stuff makes more sense. When I first started to write about what happened last week in Ponzini with Beverly and Howie and Quentin, I felt like the whole thing was Beverly’s fault—maybe because she said the whole thing was my fault. But after I wrote it down and read it back, I got a different feeling about it. It wasn’t Beverly’s fault, what happened. Not really. I’m not saying it was my fault, but it wasn’t hers.

  She took it real hard, though. She didn’t hang out with us over the weekend, not for a minute. Then, on Monday and Tuesday, she wouldn’t ride the bus with us—which she’d been doing ever since Quentin came back to school. She walked to school, even though it was pouring rain both mornings. She walked right past us at the bus stop. She didn’t even nod in our direction.

  But you know who took it even harder than Beverly?

  Quentin.

  I don’t think he’d ever had anyone get mad at him, let alone stay mad at him. He couldn’t take it. He kept asking me how long it would be until Beverly wasn’t mad anymore, and I kept telling him I didn’t know. That didn’t sit well with him. After she walked past us on Tuesday morning, he followed her halfway down the block, trying to apologize, but she wouldn’t even turn around. If Lonnie hadn’t chased him down and brought him back to the bus stop, he likely would’ve missed the bus.

  Last night, he showed up at my house with a note. He wanted me to copy it over so that he could give it to Beverly. (If you’d ever seen Quentin’s handwriting, you’d know why he needed me to copy it over.) Here’s what the note said:

  Dear Beverly,

  I feel real sluppy since the race we had, which is a word I discovered that means “sorry” and “unhappy.” I really thought I could do it. I didn’t mean to scare you so bad. Please don’t be mad at me no more.

  Sincerely,

  Quentin

  I copied over the note while he sat on my bed and waited. I fixed up the punctuation, but I kept the words the way he wrote them. So even if Beverly recognized my handwriting—which she likely would because of how many classes we had together—she’d know it was really and truly Quentin’s note.

  He read it after I was done and nodded.

  “How are you going to get it to her?” I said.

  “I’ll slide it under her door,” he said. “I got an envelope.”

  “Can I see it?”

  He unfolded the envelope from his back pocket and showed it to me. On the front he’d written “FOR BEVERLY,” which you could just about make out, because he’d written it in capital letters. His print capitals weren’t as bad as his cursive.

  “How are you going to get into her building?”

  “I’ll wait for somebody to come out,” he said.

  “You want me to go with you?”

  He shook his head. “You did enough already.”

  This morning Beverly walked past us again at the bus stop.

  But she said hello to Quentin.

  March 3, 1970

  What Was in the Box

  After a week, Beverly’s freeze-out started to get to me too. If it was just the thing at the bus stop, I could’ve taken it a lot longer. But I also had to deal with her in homeroom and then in half of my regular classes. That was the worst of it, because none of the other guys were there, so the icicles were pointed straight at me. I’d stop by her desk and start talking, just to see if I could get something back, and she’d stare straight ahead. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

  “Let her cool off,” Lonnie told me. Which was kind of an ironical choice of words.

  But another weekend came and went, and she didn’t come around, and even though—if you think about it—I hadn’t done anything wrong, I started to feel like I had. I decided to make things right. I didn’t have a plan, just a gut feeling that if I could talk to her for couple of minutes, with no one around, she’d at least hear me out.

  I finally got my chance yesterday, after school. I was standing in line for the bus outside McMasters with the rest of the guys, and I noticed Beverly at the end of the block, about to turn the corner. I nudged Lonnie and pointed her out. He understood what I meant. As the bus pulled up, I trotted off to c
atch up with her.

  She carried her textbooks and school supplies in a blue backpack, which always looked big enough to flip her backward, but she also had a brown cardboard box tucked under her right arm. It was the size and shape of a pizza box, but she was holding it sideways, against her body, so I knew there was no pizza inside. She heard my footsteps coming up behind her and glanced over her shoulder. When she saw it was me, she turned back around.

  “I just missed the bus,” I said. “Can I walk home with you?”

  “Not if you’re going to lie to me.”

  “I didn’t miss the bus. I was thinking maybe we could talk.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever you want to talk about.”

  “I’m not the one following you home.”

  “I’m not following you home.”

  “Then what would you call it?” she said.

  “We live on the same block. We’re going in the same direction.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  I took a deep breath, but I didn’t answer her. I let maybe ten seconds go by. Then, at last, I said, “What’s in the box?”

  “None of your business,” she answered.

  “C’mon, Beverly.…”

  “C’mon, what?”

  “I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

  “I don’t want to talk about what’s in the box,” she said.

  “Then what do you want to talk about? We can talk about anything.”

  She looked me in the eye for the first time. “Why won’t you race me?”

  “I already told you—”

  “Why won’t you race me really?”

  It was a tough question to answer, because the real answer was the one she thought was fake: I didn’t want to race her because I knew who’d win, and I knew it wouldn’t be close. It was like when Principal Salvatore first called me into his office about the painting. You keep telling people the truth, but they don’t want to hear it because it’s not deep enough.