Better Nate Than Ever

by Federle, Tim

  And for just a second I allow myself to remember that this was an exciting adventure, no matter what, even if I didn’t get E.T. Even if I have to go home.

  James Madison’ll be expelled, after all.

  And one of the Bills is an outcast now.

  Hey. Maybe he’ll need a friend.

  The Flower’s Alive

  Freckles meets us at a Duane Reade.

  There’re Duane Reades in Queens, too, FYI, for people who are thinking of moving out here; though, ask your parents first, because you don’t want them showing up drunk at your aunt’s house, believe me, if you run away.

  Freckles picks up some fruit and milk and deodorant (“I’m low on Arm & Hammer,” he says, elbowing me. I must have used a lot.) “Your mom,” he says, as some kind of preparation, “is feeling a lot better. I think she’s just really embarrassed, and maybe you guys can . . . I don’t know. This isn’t my family. But maybe you guys can be extra nice to her when you get back.”

  Aunt Heidi buys fresh flowers for the apartment. I bet you could even get a new car at certain Duane Reade locations. And I find a Maxwell House canister (Mom’s favorite) and decide to buy her an apology card in the Hallmark section, something that features a cartoon boy crying his eyes out, holding a broken plate. Scenes from my life. At the last minute, I go more mature and buy her a blank card with the Brooklyn Bridge on the cover. Something to help subliminally convince her that the bridges here are fewer but cooler than back home. Maybe she’ll let me come back for some audition. Someday.

  But I avoid the Reese’s Pieces in the candy aisle. Duh.

  Freckles asks about the audition. And perhaps my stomach drops and perhaps he can tell.

  “Nate,” Heidi says, glaring at Freckles, “I’m telling you. You never know what could happen. They just didn’t need to see anything else today. They could have just said to you, ‘Thank you, you aren’t going any further at all in the E.T. process.’”

  For the record, I have heard the phrase “the process” about a jillion times since getting to New York. Still have no idea what it means.

  “They could have just cut you. But maybe they’re still considering you. You never know.”

  “That’s right,” Freckles says, lamely.

  We pay for everything (Heidi does), and she and Freckles lead me out through the entrance vestibule, and just before we’re about to break to the street, I pass another homeless coat-drive box.

  “Hey, Freckles, wait,” I say, and he turns around. “We wear about the same size jacket, right?”

  He laughs.

  “For real, though, can I borrow a sweatshirt the rest of the day, back at your apartment? And I’ll give it back before Mom and I take off, tomorrow or whatever.”

  “Okay . . . ,” he says.

  And I remove the yellow/burgundy thing (it takes a couple tries, it’s that big) and drop it in the box, shocked at how much work it takes to stuff the whole thing in. Man, was this coat gigantaur. God, there was even a built-in change purse, I see now, and an umbrella holder made of mesh. It kind of had everything going for it but an appropriate fit.

  Somebody else’ll appreciate it.

  “Are you sure your mom would let you donate that jacket?” Freckles says.

  “Yeah, it was kind of on loan, anyway.”

  We race back to their apartment, my bare arms freezing.

  Kids are starting to appear in costumes, on the street, looking just like the kids back home. The getups aren’t any better, and that really blows my mind; I’d think in New York the ghosts would be ghostier and the witches witchier. But I guess a kid’s Halloween costume is the same everywhere. A bunch of little boys, smaller than even me, come toward us, dressed as a pack of cowboys.

  “Look out for Indians,” Aunt Heidi says, and Freckles sort of fake-hits her and says, “Native Americans,” and we sort of laugh.

  For a second, I think that we’re passing a pretty convincing caveman, but it turns out to be a really wrecked homeless guy, his beard stringy and dotted with bits of food. He is shivering, a ratty tank top hanging from his frame. He reaches out his hand and says, “Spare change, please?”

  “Sorry, man,” Aunt Heidi says. “We’re actors.”

  We are?

  We are?

  Freckles takes his own coat off and hands it to this man, calling me an inspiration as we walk away.

  “Aunt Heidi!” I say. I’m still stuck on being called an actor. To be part of this club! It’s intoxicating. I guess she’s right, though: I’ve been through a weekend of Broadway auditions, and they didn’t even hate me. They even asked to see some of the things I did a second time, even if Garret Charles said, at one point, “I can’t figure out why that’s so compelling, young man,” in his British accent, “but I could watch you slam into that wall a thousand times. It is . . . vibrant, somehow.”

  Heidi’s walking ahead of us, concealing a smirk.

  “So we’re actors?” I say.

  Freckles sort of skips, and tickles Heidi, just like a nice boyfriend might, and says, “Are we, Heids?”

  And she says, “Oh, we’re nothing until something happens. But my old commercial agent called, and they want me to go in for a Talbot’s ad tomorrow.”

  “No way!” I say, or scream. “That’s, like, so huge.”

  “Well,” Aunt Heidi says, grinning or trying not to, “it’s not huge until I get it. And I don’t think people my age even wear Talbot’s, so I’m kind of insulted about that. But, yeah. It’s whatever. It’s nice.”

  “Wait,” Freckles says. “Weren’t you going upstate tomorrow? Wasn’t Troy taking you on some hayride or something?”

  Aunt Heidi sighs, smiling at a girl dressed as a dead girl, and says, “Oh, you know what? Troy only takes me on road trips when he’s been seen in bars with women I could have mothered. So, you know? I just—I canceled on him.”

  Freckles hides a smile.

  “I said something had come up.”

  “You’re so going to get that Talbot’s commercial, Aunt Heidi. You so are.” And I know she will, actually.

  We get to their lobby, the rain just starting up again.

  “Okay, when we get upstairs?”

  “Yes?” they both say.

  “I don’t know what. I don’t know what to say to her, but I need you to stand between us in case she’s come to her senses and wants to ground me.” Though, hey: I’d technically be grounded in the state of New York.

  And just as we’re about to get into the elevator, I look over and see that dead lobby plant, from earlier, and—you wouldn’t believe it—a single bud, popping up from a branch.

  “Look at that,” I say, stopping, dropping my bookbag. “Wasn’t that thing dead before?”

  “It was. Yeah, actually,” Heidi says, with real wonderment.

  Freckles says, “It’s the weirdest thing. We have a joke about that plant. We call it—”

  “The Charlie Brown Christmas tree,” Aunt Heidi says, completing his sentence. It’s a ridiculous thing to call it, of course, because it’s obviously a tropical plant and not a tree at all. But I know what they mean by the joke.

  I walk over and inspect it and, sure enough, all the leaves have lifted. Raised like they’re being held by something small and invisible underneath.

  “Elevator’s here, Nate,” Freckles says. “You should pick off that little flower for your mom.”

  But I shake my head. “Nah, let’s leave it,” I say, backing up from the plant slowly. “Aunt Heidi bought flowers. Let’s give the little Charlie Brown plant a chance.” And the elevator door dings shut and I watch as, I swear to you, the whole plant exhales.

  Pushing itself up maybe another half inch.

  You have to be as short as Nate Foster to appreciate how big a half inch can feel, or look. Or sound, on a résumé.

  We get back to their apartment, but Mom’s nowhere in sight. Maybe she just left me here. And, weirdly, I hope she hasn’t; I hope she’s not back on the road by hersel
f. Dad called me brave. A brave person worries about other people and not just himself.

  Heidi pours us all a glass of water, and we sit on the futon, all three of us, and right then the bathroom door opens and out she comes.

  Wearing Heidi’s Pitt T-shirt.

  “Sherrie,” Heidi says.

  “Heidi,” Mom says.

  They both stay exactly still, and the way the light is hitting (or maybe it’s the fake Halloween lantern in Heidi’s window, but still), Mom looks so young. Tired, sure, but so pure, her face scrubbed so clean; her hair up—I didn’t even realize it’d gotten this long—in a ponytail. She looks, in fact, just like my aunt, from all those photos Heidi’s hiding under the coffee table.

  Mom steps forward and shifts on her feet, a baby taking her first walk, and then puts her head in her hands, and her shoulders shake. And Aunt Heidi stands up to walk over, but just stops. Stops and lets out a little cry. The cry of a girl ready to be forgiven, years after having sold her sibling out to a pair of adults who would, a short time later, die on a distant continent.

  The cry of a woman ready to weep with her sister.

  “I just stepped on something,” Heidi says.

  Or not.

  “Like a mouse or something.”

  And that makes Mom and me scream, at exactly the same pitch. And that makes Freckles and Heidi laugh. Thank God.

  Heidi reaches down and picks up my lucky rabbit foot, dropped this morning—so early—when Mom flung me across the room. I guess I must have blown that audition all on my own, on account of no rabbit foot.

  Aunt Heidi places it back in my hand like it’s a rosary.

  And when I look up again, the air is knocked out of Heidi’s lungs, such is the type of hug Mom is giving her. They look like Siamese twins, like the Side Show actresses (infamous musical flop about Siamese twins, but this reference isn’t being used here in a swear-word context.)

  And I guess Aunt Heidi didn’t get rid of all her tears after all, not in therapy or anywhere else.

  Because here they are, the Monongahela and the Allegheny meeting Mom’s Ohio River, the two of them sobbing like strangers going as long-lost sisters for Halloween. Trick-or-Treat, and hot Doonesbury, they got treat. They ended up with a bag full of treat. And I think one of them keeps chanting “We have so many missed birthdays to make up for” but who knows? Their voices overlap in a general emotional girl-babble.

  It’s pretty embarrassing for Freckles and me, but it’s also pretty wonderful for me.

  The doorbell ding-dongs, and children squeal outside, and Freckles goes, “God! We spent all that time at Duane Reade and didn’t even think to pick up candy.”

  But I say, “One sec.” And you better believe it, I’ve still got a few handfuls of Reese’s Pieces in the bottom of my bag.

  I open the door, and standing there is a little boy, dressed up as—oh, God—Elliott from E.T. A red hooded sweatshirt and a blacked-out face. It’s very meta. He’s not just Elliott but actually going as “Halloween Elliott,” just like in the movie.

  “Nice costume,” I say, gulping. Taking him in. Accepting my fate.

  And he says, “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “He’s SuperBoy,” Freckles says, coming up behind me. “He’s going as SuperBoy, and his costume is underneath.”

  Freckles sprinkles a raw handful of Pieces (kind of gross, I know) into the boy’s pillowcase, shutting the door.

  And if I’m not mistaken—and I’m not—the boy says, quite clearly, “More like SuperFag.” With the “Fag” part echoing down the hall and back under the door frame, hovering, infecting everyone in the apartment.

  Even when you yourself have gotten used to being harassed, there is still nothing worse than the feeling of your family being mortified for you. You never adapt to that, to that cloak of hot shame.

  “That kid’s a jerk,” Freckles says.

  “He’s an a-hole, actually,” I say. But I really say it, the whole word.

  I turn to Freckles and to Mom and to Heidi, to all of them, and say, “He’s an a-hole,” again. Sometimes there is no greater act of adulthood than swearing in front of your own mother.

  But hey. It’s like the boy was giving me a preview of life back home. Like he was getting me prepped to return.

  And by the way, this isn’t one of those things where I tell you that, in life, we’re each both a little good and a little bad, all just trying our hardest. That kid’s an a-hole, and I’m not. Sometimes people are just a-holes, and you have to decide, every day, which kind of kid you are.

  (Not to get all preachy on you.)

  Anyway.

  I guess this is the part where I pack a snack and get in the minivan. And never look back.

  A Boy Soprano with a Ballsy Chest Voice

  It wasn’t all that bad, you know? I met a cool aunt and her nice roommate, and I might not have seen Wicked, or my own reflection without new zits, but it was still an adventure. I’ll have escape stories to tell my Flora’s Floras coworkers, someday. If my mom even hires me to work there. If I’m lucky enough to fade back into the grey.

  (“SuperFag,” by the way, is still echoing in the hall, lingering so long, the landlord might have to start charging it rent.)

  “SuperFag . . . SuperFag . . . SuperFag . . . Su—”

  “I’m going to . . . make hot apple cider,” Freckles says in about as awkward a way somebody could say anything at all. But he just stands there.

  We all just stand there.

  The apartment is so still, with only the beating of a grandfather clock above my head.

  “Well, now what?” I’m about to say, desperate to change the subject. “We need to pick up ‘I Heart New York’ T-shirts for Libby before hitting the road. That’s my only requirement.”

  But before I can manage any of that, the tick-tocking silence is ended by a ringing, from my pocket.

  Freckles makes a face at me, the girls still busy Kleenexing their eyes.

  Ring ring.

  I fish out my Nokia from the übertight jeans.

  Ring ring.

  And there it is.

  Ring ring.

  212.

  Ring ring.

  Flashing across the screen.

  Ring ring.

  “It’s them!” I yell. “It’s E.T.!”

  Ring ring.

  We stare at one another for about a thousand heartbeats (which, here, only lasts a single second) and Freckles and Aunt Heidi both make the same face. Of bewilderment and awe. Of “Oh my God. You actually got the show.”

  Ring ring.

  But Mom cuts through all that, clear across the room, walking right up to me. She reaches out her hand—she never does this, other than when seeking repayment after I borrow things from her wallet—and smiles. Mom smiles, at me.

  Ring ring.

  I take her hand, aware that my own is still sweaty with residual Reese’s Pieces; that she’ll probably get Dad to shout at me later for not being a hygienic-enough child. But no, actually. I don’t think she will. She’s looking at me in a new way.

  Ring ring.

  And call me weird (I’ve been called worse, and always will be), but Mom is rubbing my hand like it’s her own lucky rabbit foot. And then Heidi comes up behind her, and she takes Mom’s other hand. A hard-won, reunited family of lucky charms.

  Ring ring.

  “Pick it up, Natey,” Mom says, taking a deep breath. Deciding to be different this time. “Pick it up, SuperBoy.”

  And for a second, it’s almost like I don’t even have to answer the phone.

  Ring ri—“Hello?” But only for a second. “Yes. This is Nate Foster.”

  Curtain Call

  A big round of applause to the folks behind the scenes whose enthusiasm and guidance helped set the stage for Better Nate Than Ever—Andy Federle, Anne Zafian, Cheri Steinkellner, Christian Trimmer, Courtney Sanks, Dorothy Gribbin, Justin Chanda, Karen Katz, Katrina Groover, Laurent Linn, Ma
rci Boniferro, Michelle Fadlalla, Michelle Kratz, Mom and Dad, Navah Wolfe, Paul Crichton, Scott M. Fischer, Tom Schumacher, Venessa Carson, and the whole staff at Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers: Bravo!

  And an immediate standing ovation for my agent, Brenda Bowen; and my editor, David Gale. They truly deserve the final bow.

  About the Author

  © dirty sugar

  Tim Federle is the author of over seven hundred e-mails. Born in beautiful San Francisco and raised in character-building Pittsburgh, Tim discovered show tunes in elementary school, prompting bullies to discover Tim. Armed only with grit (and his father’s credit card), Tim fled to New York City as a teenager. He has since worn a Tina Turner wig at the Super Bowl, a polar bear suit at Radio City, and a big fat grin in five Broadway shows. Better Nate Than Ever is Tim’s first novel. Say hi at TimFederle.com and on Twitter @TimFederle.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Tim Federle

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