by Gae Polisner
“Not exactly. Well, sort of.”
“Great. Have fun.” He hangs up again.
I dial him back.
“Seriously, dude,” he says.
“I’m with Jaycee, but we’re in Rochester,” I blurt, before he can cut me off.
“What the heck?” I hear him shift and turn the TV volume down.
“Please don’t tell Mom,” I say.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. You promise you won’t tell Mom?”
“Depends. What are you doing there?”
I tell him the story, making it as brief as I can. Everything from how she and the Scoot were friends to the book and how Jaycee wanted to help the Scoot get it to his dad. And how she promised him we would.
“Jesus,” he says when I’m done.
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’s completely moronic, you know that, right?” He laughs though, so I laugh too.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know it is.”
“Well, good. Then what do you want from me? I mean, are you guys okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Well, no. I mean, we’re okay, but Jaycee got sick. She threw up and she’s pretty hot. Actually, she’s burning up. So I’m kind of worried about her.”
“What’s her temp?”
“I don’t know. She’s asleep. I don’t have a thermometer. I didn’t take it.”
“Dude, you gotta take it. Aren’t there stores around there? If it’s too high, you’d better call a doctor. And get her some Tylenol. And make her drink water. Jeez, you’re the fever expert. You don’t need me to tell you all this.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay.”
“Night, kid,” he says.
“Jeremy, if Mom asks, I’m at Ryan’s, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Call me tomorrow.”
I hang up. I glance at the clock again. I wonder if the gift shop is still open.
When I get down to the lobby, the gift shop lights are out and there’s a woman just locking the door. “My sister’s sick,” I say frantically. “I just need some Tylenol and a thermometer. And some ginger ale if you’ve got it. Please,” I add, “my mom just sent me down.” She looks at me oddly, but opens the door and flicks the lights on, points me to the back corner.
“Next to the Band-Aids,” she says.
I run and grab the stuff and walk to the glass fridge and call out, “Do you have ginger ale?”
“Below the Sprite,” she says.
Eventually I find it there, a large bottle of Schweppes, and pull it from the fridge. To its right are cans of Cherry RC Cola. Just like in the vending machine. And that’s when it hits me. The water tower. The cherry cola. And, now, the fever.
I should have seen it coming.
I take the stuff to the register and grab a bag of Ritz crackers and another of cashews and dump the whole mess on the counter where the woman is waiting for me.
“Does your mom want this one?” She picks up the thermometer and waves it at me.
“Yes,” I say. “And the Tylenol.”
“Okay then. Just making sure.” She rings it up and I pay and head back to the room.
* * *
Jaycee is still asleep, her breath crazy fast, her hair matted with sweat. I take the glass of now-melted ice to the bathroom, empty it, and pour some ginger ale in, then walk back over to the bed and tap her gently. She doesn’t react.
I put my hand on her cheek. Burning hot.
I shake her harder. She doesn’t wake up. I sit on the bed beside her and keep shaking her.
“Jaycee, you have to wake up,” I say loudly. “Jaycee, wake up!”
She moves a little and pulls the blanket over her head and whimpers. I lean into her. “Jaycee, you have to let me take your temp. You have to drink something. You have to take some Tylenol.” I shake her until she opens her eyes. She looks at me confused. “You have to drink something,” I say. “Please. Sit up for a second. You gotta trust me. I’m the Fever King. You’ll be okay. But you gotta drink something.”
She pushes herself up. Her eyes are so red and glassy. “What time is it?” she asks.
“Almost seven. Come on, take a sip. And we should probably take your temperature.” I hold out two Tylenol and the thermometer. “Come on,” I say. “Then you can go back to sleep.”
She looks at the stuff in my hand, and then me. And then she starts to laugh. But she’s crying too, so it comes out all mixed up. Laughing and crying at the same time. She’s delirious. I know this well. I know how a high fever can make a person delirious.
“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”
“The thermometer,” she says, but she’s babbling so it’s hard to tell what she means.
“Here it is.” I try to hand it to her, but she hangs there limply and laugh-cries some more. Finally she lifts her head and musters the energy to talk.
“It’s a rectal, Nick.”
“What?”
“The little stubby tip. It goes in a baby’s butt.” She shakes her head, then presses her hand against her forehead like the effort hurts her. “Oh God,” she says, “my head is killing me.”
I turn the thermometer and look at it. It does have a stubby tip. No wonder the gift shop lady asked me if I wanted this one.
“So you can’t use it then?” She tries to laugh her big busting-out Jaycee laugh, but it only comes out like a whimper.
“I’m sick, Nick. I’m really, really sick.”
“I know you are,” I say. “It’ll be okay. I always get like this.” I push her hair off her forehead. It’s soaking wet.
“But I never do. I never get this way.”
“It was the water tower,” I tell her. “I saw it when we got here. And then the cherry cola, remember? I should have known.” I hold the ginger ale toward her, and, gratefully, she drinks some. I hand the Tylenol to her too.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“The water tower, the cherry cola, and now there’s a fever. It’s some weird trifecta of foreshadowing. You know, like you taught me about in the book? I mean, that’s what started the whole bad chain of events at home—my dad leaving and Scooter dying—and now it’s happening again.”
“No it’s not. That’s stupid, Nick.” She puts the Tylenol on her tongue and swallows them down. “I’ll be fine. I’ve just got some bug.” She motions for the thermometer. “Come on, gimme.”
“But it’s rectal,” I say.
“I know. But it’s new. Untouched by human hand. Or anus. Just give it to me. I’ll do it under my arm.”
It takes me a minute to get it out of its case, then she puts it under her arm and we wait for a bit, and then I take it back from her. I twist it away from her in the light to read the mercury. I don’t say anything.
“What?” she asks. “Is it bad?”
“Not too bad. But if you want, we could call your mom.”
“No!” she says. I look at the readout again. The silver line nearly touches 105 degrees. Her teeth chatter and she pulls her hood up over her head. “Don’t you dare, Nick,” she pleads.
“Okay. Never mind. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
I sit on the bed next to her and she leans her head on my shoulder. My sleeve dampens where it’s resting.
“Thanks,” she says.
“No problem. Have another sip though. I’m not kidding. You have to keep drinking. A lot.”
“Promise.” She takes a few sips.
“Now, go back to sleep,” I say. She slips under the blankets and shakes. “Okay, good night. I’m sure you’ll be better in the morning.”
“I hope so.” She rolls onto her side and curls up in a ball like a baby. I rest my hand on her back for a second, then stand up and head toward my room. “Nick,” she calls.
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay with me?”
I stare through the door at my made-up bed, at my backpack with no pajamas, at my bags of unopened crackers and nuts and my Rice Kris
pies treat in a little cluster on the bedspread. I’m not even hungry at all.
“Yeah. Of course,” I say.
14
At 6:30 a.m. I awaken, groggy and confused about where I am. It had taken hours to finally fall asleep, and even when I did, I slept fitfully, on top of the covers with all my clothes on. I glance sideways to Jaycee. She’s curled up in a blanketed lump. I reach over and tap her. She doesn’t stir. I feel the heat circulating.
I contemplate calling Jeremy again, or maybe getting her to a hospital. But deep inside, I know that these things pass and that, as long as I get liquid in her, she’ll probably be okay. At least I tell myself this. Jaycee will be okay.
I force myself up, to the bathroom, then wander down the hall to get some fresh ice. When I get back, I realize I don’t want to bang the ice to bits in the room, so I drag the iron back down the hallway to the ice machine closet and bang it up in there. When I return, I hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on her door, then rouse her and place a few chips to her lips. They are dry and cracked from the fever. The chips melt on contact and slip down her chin. I pat it with my sleeve.
She falls back asleep. I lie there and listen to her breathe. At one point she moans, and I wonder seriously whether I should call her mom.
“No, don’t!” she whimpers.
“Shhh. Just sleep, crazy girl.”
Suddenly she bolts up, and looks at me with big eyes. “We have to find Scooter’s dad.” I can tell she’s only half-conscious, that her thoughts are jumbled with a feverish delirium. It’s something I happen to know well. “No, don’t,” she says again.
“It’s okay.” I pat her arm and steer her back down. “I won’t, Jaycee. Just relax.”
“But, we have to find the Scoot’s dad,” she mumbles again, as if this is even still a possibility.
As if it ever was.
She falls back to sleep.
I pace the room trying to come up with something useful, some sort of idea or plan. Then I think about what Jaycee said the book, or the mouse poem, said about how useless plans can be. I lie down and close my eyes, but as I do Jaycee jumps up, walks to her sneakers, and starts to put them on.
“Hey, where are you going?”
She looks past me with ghost eyes. I know the look. It’s the look that will lead you to a water tower.
“I’m going to find him,” she says. “Before Scooter dies.”
It kills me. It makes me want to cry.
“It’s not time yet, Jaycee.” I put a firm hand on her shoulder, guide her back to the bed, and pull her sneakers off. “It’s barely morning. I promise. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”
I manage to get her to lie down, to settle and go back to sleep.
I turn on the TV and mute it again, and watch the Sesame Street Muppets dance around some letters. Funny how, no matter how old you get, you can still remember their names. Cookie Monster. Elmo. Gordon.
Periodically, Jaycee mumbles gibberish from her sleep—something about clouds and airplanes, or, maybe, olives, then something about a golden retriever. A few more times she says Scooter’s name, then, “Dad says so. Yes, I’m telling you, he says so.” I watch back and forth between the Muppets and Jaycee, waiting and praying for the fever to burn off the delirium.
By 8:00 a.m. Jaycee has cooled down slightly and is sleeping soundly, and I’m so tired I can barely breathe. But I can’t fall back to sleep either, probably because I’m worried.
I go to my room and pull Of Mice and Men from my backpack. There’s still a Post-it in it from the bus. I walk back to Jaycee’s room and lie on the bed and open to that page.
There they are: Lennie in the barn, and Curly’s wife in her bright red dress sitting beside him in the straw. Jaycee has drawn an arrow on the bookmark to the spot where she left off with a note that says “Read Here.” As if she knew I’d come back to it without her.
“‘If George sees me talkin’ to you he’ll give me hell,’ Lennie said cautiously. ‘He tol’ me so.’”
The words sound familiar, yet all of it—the bus, Jaycee reading aloud—seems like days ago. Like a hundred hours have gone by. Can it be less than twenty-four hours since we stepped off the bus in Rochester and stood in the parking lot with the GPS in hand?
I settle myself down on a pillow, hold the book above my head and read:
“Her face grew angry. ‘Wha’s the matter with me?’ she cried. ‘Ain’t I got a right to talk to nobody? Whatta they think I am, anyways? You’re a nice guy. I don’t know why I can’t talk to you. I ain’t doin’ no harm to you.’
“‘Well, George says you’ll get us in a mess.’” I look at Jaycee sleeping and shake my head. Talk about messes.
I close the book and rest it on my stomach. The truth is I’m too tired to read and it’s so much better when she reads aloud to me.
I pick the book up again and stare at its cover. The men in the hats, the boring orange road. At least now I know which man is Lennie and which is George. I turn it over and read the little blurb about the author, then flip it open to the title page. And there it is, John Steinbeck’s signature. It is kind of cool to see it, knowing how much money it’s worth. Above his autograph is a short inscription,
True valor comes in all shapes and sizes—and often from those you’d least expect.
My throat catches. Maybe that’s why Scooter’s dad left the book for him.
I lay it back on the bed, then close my eyes and fight tears, which it seems I’ve had to do a lot lately. I try to think of something else besides the Scoot, and my mind goes to Dad. I try to imagine him so much thinner now. Mom says that he told her his sweats were falling down. He’s walked nearly two hundred miles. I wonder what finally made him want to do it, and gave him the courage to try. I also wonder if he’s really coming home, or if Jeremy knows things I don’t.
I mean, one thing Jeremy’s right about is that Mom and Dad haven’t seemed too happy in a long time. They argue constantly about stuff that makes me feel bad, like money and Dad’s weight. Or about how tired she is because she does all the work while he just lies around. Or about how maybe she wouldn’t have to if she hadn’t talked him into leaving Manhattan, since she knew how much he loved it there, and that New York City is where all the good journalism is. And about how our little hick town has never really felt like home to him.
“I didn’t talk you into anything,” I heard Mom saying one night. “We agreed Glenbrook was better for a family. That is so very unfair of you.”
And Dad yelling back, “We didn’t agree. You never asked me. You only heard what you wanted to hear.”
I pick up the book again and try to read a few more paragraphs to block out the unhappy thoughts, but suddenly I’m feeling crappy myself, and so damned tired I finally can’t keep my eyes from closing.
* * *
When I awaken, the room is gray and quiet and Jaycee is gone from the bed. For a split second, I think I’ve dreamed everything: the Scoot dying, Rochester, the fever.
I sit up, blink, and try to focus.
The shower is running.
I search groggily for the time. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:00 p.m. I’ve been sleeping for like five hours.
I push myself up out of my stupor, walk to my room, and sit on the bed there and try to regroup. The message light on my cell phone is flashing. I scan through them.
Jeremy, from 11 a.m.: “R u ok, kid?”
Jeremy, from 1:15 p.m.: “Nick, text me. All ok?”
Jeremy, from 2:25 p.m.: “Dude, seriously, in an hr I call the Troops.”
Crap.
I text back, “Yes, all ok, fell asleep, sorry,” and drop the phone back on the bed.
I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. In the mirror, I look like death warmed over. I run my hands under water and push them through my hair, and emerge as the shower turns off in the next room. A minute later, I hear the sound of her bathroom door opening. I walk quietly over to the door between our rooms and pull it shut, then sit on
my bed.
I’m suddenly starving. I open my bag of cashews and pop in a few, but they taste lousy because of my minty-fresh breath. I pick up my phone and text Jeremy again:
“Hey.”
“Wat up?” he texts back within seconds.
“Just checkg in. J is better. Wat r u doing?”
“Jerking off to heart’s content—all alone in house.”
I laugh. “Dude,” I text back, “TMI.”
“No prob,” he answers. “Btw, glad all OK.”
I stare at the phone and smile. I wish I could be like Jeremy, so comfortable with all that sex stuff. With his body and girls and all that. Even joking about it makes me squeamish and uncomfortable. Like the whole thing with kissing Jaycee. Just thinking about it makes my palms sweat and my ears burn, because how will I know what I’m doing? Jeremy says I shouldn’t worry. That when it’s time, it all comes naturally. But seriously, I think it’s more than time.
Then again, she’s been sick and puking for hours, so what is my mind doing there?
I throw my cell back on the bed, fish a clean T-shirt, underwear, and socks out of my backpack, and head to the bathroom to shower.
The shower is strong and good. Like the kind you can’t get at home anymore because it uses too much water. I shampoo and soap myself, then turn my face to the stream. The hot water is just what I need. I want to stay in here for hours, letting the warmth fall over me, but I should get out and check on Jaycee. I towel off and put on my clean stuff plus my one pair of slept-in jeans, and leave the bathroom to check on her.
She startles me, because I’m still drying my hair with the towel and when I look up, there she is, sitting right on my bed. She’s dressed in her cargos and orange sneakers, same sweatshirt, hood pulled up over her head. She looks almost normal again.
“Oh, hey!” I say. “I didn’t expect you in here. Good thing I got dressed in there.” I motion behind me to the bathroom.
“Yeah, good thing.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, I’ve seen tighty whities before.”
“Boxer briefs,” I say, trying not to blush. “So you’re feeling better?”
“A little,” she says, then, “and you got this while you were showering.”
She tosses my cell phone to me. There’s another message from Jeremy.
