by Adam Rapp
19.
The registration office at Carroll High School smelled like furniture polish and tuna salad.
The elderly lady behind the desk was performing her administrative duties with such thunderstruck slowness it was like she possessed these totally mechanical properties, like she ran on batteries or something.
She finally made eye contact with me after I cleared my throat a few times. I hate doing that, but sometimes you have to. Her makeup had been applied with such severity it was like someone had forced her to put it on.
“Can I help you?” she asked. She had one of those kind librarian voices.
I said, “I’d like to register for a summer class.”
“Well, you came to the right place. Are you currently enrolled in a local high school?”
I told her that I went to the gifted school and she said, “Well. We don’t get many of you over here in the summer.”
“I got this special offer to graduate early if I take a writing class,” I explained. “It’s sort of like a rebate.”
“Oh . . .”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I said, “Steven Nugent.”
It’s weird how I always tell elderly people that my name is Steven, not Steve. And it is Steven; it’s just that I never go by that.
“Hello, Steven,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Norton. Dee Norton. Pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.
We shook. Her hand sort of trembled and felt pretty fragile.
“You wouldn’t happen to be related to Welton Nugent, would you?” she asked.
I said, “He’s actually my brother.”
“Your brother,” she said. “Well, that’s exciting. I was at the Carroll – East Foote game last year, and I must say, he’s one of the best basketball players I’ve ever seen. He just dominated our boys.”
I said, “Yeah, he’s pretty good.”
“There was even that feature in the paper about him right after the season. The one with the picture of him and your mother.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He doesn’t play anymore.”
“Oh,” she responded. “Why not?”
I told her about all of his grueling back problems, and she made a face and told me she was sorry to hear that.
Then she started getting together all my paperwork. “I’ll just need you to fill out a few forms,” she said.
Man, I suddenly wanted a cigarette so bad I thought I was going to die.
“You can come around here and use my desk,” she offered.
I came around to the other side of her desk and put my dad’s Marine Corps bag under the chair.
On Dee Norton’s computer, there was this totally Christian-looking screen saver that read I LIKE ME in cherry-red letters. I watched it blip on and off while she wrestled with the file cabinet.
After she finally got the thing open, she placed about five pieces of paper on her desk in front of me.
“Can I see some ID, Steven?”
I reached into my back pocket, removed my wallet, and gave her my ID from the gifted school. It was all cracked and warped-looking. My mom had saved it from the dryer like nine times. I’d often find it on top of my folded laundry, looking a little more warped each time. In the photo, I still had all my hair and my skin was so white I looked like someone who had frozen to death on the highway.
“Is that you?” Mrs. Norton asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Why, you had so much thick, wavy hair,” she said, smiling her head off. I was starting to feel sorry for this woman — I really was. I wondered what she was like as a younger woman, if she was pretty and traveled and all of that.
“Now, Steven,” she explained, “I have to go down the hall and make a photocopy of your ID. Just fill these out. If you need anything, ask Rosemarie. She’s right behind you, in Dr. Derwin’s office.”
I glanced at all the forms. General Information. Current High School Status. A list of summer courses offered. And some totally random medical form. I filled everything out and sat there tapping my pen on the top of her desk for a minute.
And then, out of nowhere, I sort of grabbed Dee Norton’s phone. I dialed nine and the first number that came to mind, which was Mary Mills’s number, if you want to know the truth. After four rings, she picked up on the other end.
She said, “Hello?”
Her voice almost knocked the breath out of me.
I said, “Mary?”
And she said, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Mary,” I said. “It’s, um, Steve.”
“Who?”
“Steve,” I said. “Steve Nugent.”
“White Steve?”
“Yeah,” I said. “White Steve. The famous Mathlete.”
Her voice suddenly got all small.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was just calling to say hi.”
Man, when she asked what I wanted, I almost died from the humiliation. I could feel my one cheek blushing like crazy.
In the background, I could hear her TV again. This time it was on a soap opera. Some woman with an exaggerated British accent was begging this totally lethargic-sounding guy to stay with her.
“Steve, you shouldn’t be calling me. You really shouldn’t.”
“Why?” I said.
“Well,” she said, “my father sort of thinks you’re strange.”
“Your father doesn’t even know me,” I said.
“He knows your brother,” she said. “And that guy Dantly.”
“Oh,” I said.
“So I better go.”
“I have to talk to you, Mary,” I said with authority. “Like in person.”
“Why?”
“I just do. Will you meet me?”
“I can’t meet you, Steve.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t. Besides, I don’t think Shane would be too happy about that.”
I said, “Shane?”
“Yeah, Shane.”
“Shane O’Meara?”
“That’s his name, yes.”
I said, “Are you like back together with that guy?”
“Well, that’s not really any of your business.”
“Mary,” I said. “You can’t get back together with him. He’s a fucking mudhead, man!”
“I’m not a man, Steve.”
Suddenly I was smoking. I didn’t even realize it. Somehow my hand had started rummaging through my dad’s Marine Corps bag and found a pack of Camel Lights and a lighter. My hands lit the cigarette and I was smoking — I really was.
“I gotta go, Steve.”
“Meet me tonight, then! I really gotta see you!” I cried, exhaling a great cloud of smoke.
“You scare me, Steve.”
“I know. I know I probably totally scare you, but don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid at all. I have to tell you something.”
“Can’t you tell me over the phone?”
“I want to tell you in person.”
“Tell me now.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you now, Mary. I’ll totally tell you now. . . .”
I put my cigarette out on Dee Norton’s desk — in the potted soil of a dwarf cactus, to be exact — and cleared my throat.
Mary said, “What is it, Steve?”
I took a breath, exhaled, and told her.
I said, “I only have a few weeks to live.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ten to fourteen days, actually.”
“Why?” she asked. And she was genuinely curious — she really was.
“I have cancer,” I said.
“You have cancer?”
“Yes, Mary, I do, I definitely do,” I said. “And it feels so good to finally tell someone.”
“How long have you known?” she asked.
“It’s pretty far advanced,” I said. “In the final stages, actually.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Steve,” she said. “That’s very sa
d.”
“I guess I just wanted to tell you,” I said.
“Steve,” she said, really concerned now, “what kind of cancer is it exactly?”
“Well, brain, actually.”
“You have brain cancer?”
“Brain cancer, yes.” I took a big gulp of air, because when I lie like that, it makes me short of breath. “The center of the tumor — the like eye of it or whatever — is multiplying at a pretty alarming rate. I may only have a few more days of consciousness.”
“You poor thing. I . . .” she started to say, but she couldn’t even finish the sentence because she’d started totally crying right there on the phone. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.
“Don’t cry, Mary,” I begged.
“But that’s so sad, Steve,” she said. “I always thought something might be wrong with you. Because of how pale you are and all. But not cancer.”
“Don’t be sad, Mary. Totally don’t be sad.”
“I can’t help it,” she said, and sort of covered the phone so she could blow her nose.
“Will you meet me somewhere?” I tried again.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course I’ll meet you.”
I said, “Cool! Where?”
“I don’t know. I sort of have to sneak out. My dad wouldn’t be too happy if I told him where I was going.”
“How about the Pizza Hut on Kennedy?” I offered.
“Okay,” she said. “When?”
“In an hour.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”
Suddenly Dee Norton appeared in the doorway holding my ID and a photocopy. I hung up and drove the butt of my half-smoked Camel Light farther into the soil of her potted cactus.
Dee Norton sniffed the air rabbit-like and went, “Was somebody smoking in here, Steven?”
She stared at me.
I stared back at her.
I could hear her desk clock clipping time.
Finally I said, “There was like this man standing behind me for a moment. I was so steeped in thought, I didn’t bother to look. But I could feel him, Dee. I believe he was smoking.”
Man, once you start lying, you just can’t stop. It’s totally addictive.
“Oh, that Dr. Derwin,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s always trying to sneak one when I scoot out. Our own principal bending the rules. That habit belongs in the teachers’ lounge.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And you look great, by the way,” I offered.
“Why, thank you, Steven,” she said, picking a piece of lint off of her blouse. “I’m sorry it took me so long with your ID. The copier kept getting jammed.”
She took my paperwork off the desk and started arranging it in a file folder.
“So you said you needed a writing class?” Dee Norton asked.
“Yeah, creative writing.”
“Well, Mr. Stevens has a class that meets once a week on Wednesday mornings from nine till eleven. That’s the only one we offer.”
“That’s perfect,” I said.
“Okay, then. I’ll just need to talk to your parents to sort out the billing. Should I call your mother?”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Um. Because she’s like in the middle of this very important quilting tournament. She shouldn’t be disturbed. But call my dad. He’s probably at home right now.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name is Richard,” I said. “Richard Nugent. You can call him Dick.”
“Dick?”
“Yeah, totally call him Dick. He’s probably like watching a fucking game show or something.”
“Excuse me, but there’s no need for that kind of language, Steven.”
“I’m sorry, Dee,” I said. And I was — I really was. I had no idea what was flying out of my mouth, and it was just getting worse and worse. “You’re so right. It’s the medication, you know? I’m totally sorry, man — I mean ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
“What medication?”
It was getting so bad, I was forgetting what lie I was telling to who.
“Just this stuff I have to take.”
She looked at me suspiciously and started marking up my forms with a ballpoint pen.
“Your father doesn’t have e-mail, does he?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Dick doesn’t even have snail mail.”
“I’ll call him, then.”
She looked at me for a long moment and said, “Are you okay? You’re looking a little sleepy.”
Dr. Seuss was finally kicking in. I felt like I was wearing fluffy pajamas. Those ones with the little vinyl feet.
Dee Norton felt my forehead. Her hand was tiny and wet. Her wrist smelled like flowers and talcum powder.
“I better go,” I said, standing up. The world was suddenly a funhouse.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you around school, then.”
“See you around,” I said.
“And give your brother my best. I’ll pray for his recovery.”
I grabbed my dad’s Marine Corps bag and left.
In the hallway, this old janitor was mopping the floor.
I stood there and watched him for a minute. He rinsed the mop with such care, I thought he would start singing to it or something.
“Hey,” I shouted to him. The word just flew out of my mouth.
He looked up.
I said, “Knock, knock.”
He said, “What?”
I said, “Knock, knock, man!”
“Oh,” he answered. “Who’s there?”
He had a voice like an old rusty hacksaw.
“I-got.”
“I-got who?” he asked, playing along nicely.
“I got cancer, what about you?”
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there and looked at me.
“Brain cancer,” I added, but he just kept staring at me.
For some reason, I wanted more from him, so I pretended I had a gun in my dad’s Marine Corps bag. What I did was I put my hand in the bag and pointed my finger and lifted the bag up like I was aiming it at him.
“Put your hands up,” I commanded, and he did; he really did. He put them up and the mop dropped to the floor. We stayed like that for like a minute, and then I lowered the bag to my side and pulled my hand out.
Then for some reason I said, “My mom had this dream that my brother was at the circus and his pants kept falling down.”
He still didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at me. I was starting to feel even weirder, almost invincible, like I could take on anything, so I left.
20.
So in group today, Dr. Shays talked about the difference between humans and animals and what he called the “divine order of things,” which, in his words, starting from the bottom of that weird food chain, goes rocks, plants, animals, humans, angels, and God. He then talked about the differences between each — the like distinctions or whatever — and how making choices is the thing that separates the human from all of those forms below it. He seemed to get sort of passionate about the subject, like maybe he’s spent too much time with his rock collection or something. When he asked us to share, I raised my hand for the first time since I came to Burnstone Grove.
“Steven,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“About this whole divine order of things. I have this theory,” I said.
I looked over at Silent Starla, and she sort of half grinned at me with knowing eyes.
“A theory,” he said, sort of smiling. He wasn’t being condescending; he really wasn’t. “Please share,” he continued.
So what I launched into was this realization I’d had on the way to meeting Mary Mills. It was no doubt inspired by the tab of acid that Dantly had given me. And this was what I tried to articulate to the best of my ability: “We were all plants once,” I said. “Not apes or birds or sea creatures. Plants. Our arms and
legs were leaves. Our spines stems. God urinated on all the dominions of vegetation and the plants turned into people.”
While confirming these evolutionary and spiritual certainties, I spoke to the group slower than I ever have spoken in my life.
“We ran right out of the earth and never looked back,” I continued on. “Animals were moss,” I explained. “And fish were sort of these mushroomy things. So to be human is to be rootless,” I said. “We’re not meant to be held down by mortgage payments or microwave dinners or pets. We’re basically meant to totally like ambulate and eat a lot of hamburgers.”
Everyone stared at me sort of in awe. It was pretty cool, I must admit.
“And when did you come up with all of this?” Dr. Shays asked, more amused than stirred.
“Last summer,” I said. “After I dropped acid for the first time.”
This got a pretty big laugh from the rest of the members of the group. Silent Starla was particularly amused, and she sort of licked her lips and smiled at me.
But it was true. I did come up with all of that on my way to meeting Mary Mills. My thoughts were like giant hot-air balloons full of truths I’d never known.
As I crossed to the other side of Kennedy, the Pizza Hut’s illuminated sign seemed to expand. I had this beautiful feeling that everyone inside knew I was coming.
Welcome, Steve!
Won’t you join us for a snack and a beverage?
We have a beautiful salad bar full of crispy croutons!
When I entered the Pizza Hut, about four families stopped eating and just stared at me.
I felt like I suddenly had two million teeth and I couldn’t stop grinning.
This very managerial-looking guy was wiping down the salad bar. He was working so hard it was like someone was manipulating him with remote control. When he glanced up, this totally 3-D goldfish squirted out of his mouth and took flight over the multiplying families. It was Dantly’s goldfish. I closed my eyes and opened them again. There was a lion lounging on the salad bar and it was wearing plaid golf pants!
I said, “Whoa . . .”
The manager guy moved toward me the way one moves toward a person who has caught on fire and doesn’t know it. It must have been my record-setting grin. Or maybe it was the way I was using the Ms. Pac-Man game to keep myself from falling.
The families were multiplying at an alarming rate.
