The Kidney Hypothetical

by Lisa Yee

  My last four years had been rough. On the outside, it looked like I had breezed my way to a 4.35 GPA. In reality, I worked my ass off. Unlike my brother, or Nick, I was not a genius. But I’d be damned if I let anyone know that, especially someone like Zander Findley, who would have mocked me unmercifully had he known the truth.

  At home, I’d blast the music in my room, then put on noise-canceling headphones and dive into my books. I found no joy in studying, and getting high grades wasn’t so much a reward, but a relief at not having failed. You know what they say, “school, sleep, or socialize — pick two”? Thank god for coffee and NoDoz.

  Usually, Charlie was the one who made sure I was awake in the morning, and did so by shouting and hitting me over the head with a pillow until I got up. I suspected that she enjoyed this much more than she let on. My parents insisted I drive my sister to school. It was part of the bargain when they bought me a car. The caveat was that Charlie would inherit it when I went away to Harvard. Neither one of us was too keen on the make and model, though.

  “Volvo station wagons are the safest cars on the road,” my mother said.

  “Does it have to be red?” I moaned. “It looks like a fire truck.”

  “Precisely,” she answered. “People will give you a wide berth.”

  I knew not to press the issue.

  That day, when I awoke to my alarm clock instead of my sister, a strange sensation washed over me. It was as if I had finally managed to break free of Roo and surface after being held underwater.

  Mom was talking to Jeffrey and wearing her pink Robe of Depression, so I knew to avoid her. She had been wearing the robe more and more lately. Dad saw her standing in front of my brother’s photo yesterday and said, “Liz, maybe you ought to join a club or a gym or something. That might make you feel better. Isn’t that right, Jeffrey?”

  “I am just fine,” she told him testily. “Maybe you ought to trying coming home at a decent hour.”

  Unlike my parents, I hardly ever spoke to Jeffrey. However, on the day I learned Harvard granted me an early admission, I stood in front of his portrait and told him, “I did it. I know you couldn’t go, so I’ll go for the both of us.”

  The only one in our family who didn’t talk to Jeffrey was Charlie. She was so young when he died that she didn’t know what it was like to have a big brother you loved more than anything, and who loved you back unconditionally.

  After breakfast I ventured into my sister’s room. Every inch of wall was covered with artsy-fartsy black-and-white photos ripped out of magazines. Her bookshelves were crammed with art books and worn black Moleskine notebooks filled with her weird drawings. One shelf was devoted to small plastic Japanese monsters that, inexplicably, looked adorable and terrifying at the same time. Charlie had safety-pinned old T-shirts together to create curtains, giving the room a laundry-clothesline effect. The only thing that seemed out of place was her Disney princesses bedspread.

  I picked up a pillow and raised it above my head, ready to hit her. But my perpetually angry sister actually looked serene. I set the pillow down. “Charlie,” I said, shaking her gently. “We’re going to be late for school.”

  “I don’t care,” she murmured. “Go away, Higgs. Go away.”

  She rolled over and hugged Bunchy Bear. That was the only thing of Jeffrey’s she had. As I looked at Charlie, my heart ached. Was it possible that I was going to miss my brat of a little sister? I wondered.

  That’s when I noticed all the dead plants on her windowsill. Plants I had given to her.

  “CHARLIE!” I shouted. “You killed them!”

  “Leave me alone,” she muttered, pulling the sheets over her head.

  “You have to water the plants,” I continued yelling as I examined the dead dieffenbachia. Its broad, waxy green-and-white leaves had shriveled up and turned brown. It was nearly impossible to kill one of those, yet she did it. Next to it was a potted hibiscus — dead. A hedgehog cactus — dead. How the hell does one kill a cactus?

  “You think they’re just going to take care of themselves?”

  “Go away, Farmer Higgs,” she said, her eyes still shut. “They’re just plants!”

  Just plants? They weren’t just plants. I nurtured and grew those, just like my garden in the backyard. Even though I won almost every award in high school, the one I was most proud of was the gold medal my peaches won at the L.A. County Fair.

  “You’re on your own, Charlie,” I yelled before storming out of the house.

  * * *

  For the first time that year, I drove to school without my sister. It was weird not having her in the car criticizing me and my driving. A rusted green Kia was in my usual spot and the lot was full, so I was forced to find street parking — not an easy task when you drive a car as big as mine. I walked past a gang of dropouts who hung out across the street, got stoned, and mocked anyone who carried a backpack. If they hated high school enough to leave, then why did they still hang around?

  One of them laughed when he saw me and handed me a flyer. I didn’t even bother to read it. As I passed the old green car, I looked through the open window. Inside was littered with garbage. I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it into the Kia. What was one more piece of trash?

  It felt good to be walking onto campus. It was my place. Our school was fairly new and visitors often mistook it for a college. In stark contrast, on top of the hill, the old water tower loomed over Sally Ride High School. It no longer serviced the town of Monte Vista, CA, but preservationists, my father among them, were in a constant battle to keep it from being torn down. They insisted that it was a symbol. A symbol for what, I could never figure out.

  “Hi, Higgs!”

  “Hey, it’s the prom king!”

  I’m not going to lie. It felt great to be popular. I smiled and nodded as I strolled down the hallway. With each greeting, I felt better. Maybe there wouldn’t be any fallout from the kidney hypothetical after all.

  “Hi, Higgs!”

  “Hey, Higgs!”

  “Fart sniffer.”

  I stopped. “Excuse me?” I said to Samantha.

  “You heard me,” she said. She was no longer dressed as Yoko Ono. Instead, she was wearing her private school uniform — navy skirt, white shirt, knee-high socks, and red Doc Martens. This was Samantha’s way of being a rebel since we went to a public school. “Fart sniffer. Higgs, you are a fart sniffer and a horrible human being.”

  I really didn’t have time for that. Clearly, Samantha was holding a Roo grudge. “Thank you, Samantha,” I told her. “How is fourth grade going for you?”

  I didn’t wait for her reply. Instead, I continued toward the main gates and tried to shake off her rudeness. Still, my thoughts kept turning to Roo. I hoped she was okay. I mean, you don’t date someone for two years, four months, and seven days and not feel a thing when you break up.

  I unrolled a “Higgs Boson Bing for Senior of the Year” poster and taped it to the gate to go with the flyers that Nick and I had put up on Saturday. I knew it was overkill, but I wanted to be certain I would snag the award. It was the one accolade left for me to achieve in my high school career. Get that one, and I’d be the first student since the great Jeffrey Bing to sweep all the major awards.

  Everyone said I was going to win — either me or Zander. We had both won so many things it was as if we were getting awards for getting awards.

  As I entered campus, people stopped and stared. Some snickered. Maybe they had heard about Roo and me? I knew there would be rumors about our breakup and the barfing. I would have thought the vomiting on your girlfriend was the worse of the two evils, but apparently I was wrong. The kidney hypothetical was all everyone was talking about on the Senior Sail.

  As I made my way down the hallway, more kids broke out grinning at the sight of me. Some held up their hands for a high five, which I gave them. “Thank you,” I said each time. I wondered if Senior of the Year had been announced early. Maybe I didn’t even need the flyers or posters. I was
feeling nostalgic about high school and I hadn’t even left yet. That is, until I rounded the corner and came to a dead stop.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I ripped the flyer off the wall and stared. There were dozens of them. In place of the “Higgs for Senior of the Year” flyers, someone had taken my graduation photo, the one where I look like Dean Cain, the actor who played the lead in the retro TV series The New Adventures of Superman, and defaced it. I now had a Hitler mustache, horns, and a gap-toothed smile.

  That’s when I noticed a bunch of freshmen laughing. I shoved a geek in the chest. “You think that’s funny?” I asked.

  The boy looked frightened, like he was going to pee. “N-no, sir. Higgs, sir,” he stammered.

  When he screwed his eyes shut, I noticed that my fist was in his face. I let him go and he ran down the hall, tripping as his friends scurried after him, laughing.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  I raced along the corridor, tearing down the offending papers. Not a single “Higgs for Senior of the Year” was in evidence. Instead, the Hitler Higgs flyers lined the hallways.

  Why? Why? Why?

  The bell rang and the hallways emptied, except for me holding two fistfuls of wadded-up flyers with me looking like Hitler and a headline screaming “Higgs for Dinky Dick of the Year.”

  Hi, Higgs.”

  Mrs. Sanchez’s presence calmed me down, if only temporarily. Her gray hair was worn in a thick braid that went halfway down her back, and her smile radiated warmth even though the office thermostat must have been set to Arctic.

  As the admin office manager, nothing got past Mrs. Sanchez. “Principal Kostantino’s on an important call,” she told me. “You can wait outside her office if you want.”

  I took a seat in the wobbly orange plastic chair, but got up to help Mrs. Sanchez when she tried to carry a big box of copier paper. She was small, like my mom.

  The clock said I’d only been waiting for eight minutes, but it felt like forever. Clutching a fistful of flyers, I began pacing.

  “Higgs, Principal Kostantino’s going to be a while. What about Mr. Avis?” Mrs. Sanchez finally asked. She’d always been nice to me. Mrs. Sanchez used to work at the elementary school, and when I was going through my really bad time, she helped get me through it. There were numerous days when I just couldn’t be in class, but didn’t want to go home. So Mrs. Sanchez would let me sit next to her and staple papers or do other busywork.

  “Fine,” I said, even though everyone knew that Mr. Avis, the assistant principal, was basically ineffectual. Last year, there was a petition to get him fired after he had the sodas in the vending machines replaced with juice bottles and water. But a Mr. Avis was better than no one, and this couldn’t wait.

  “Ah, Mr. Bing,” Mr. Avis said as I entered his office. The walls were lined with photos of him shaking hands with self-important–looking people I didn’t recognize. “It looks like you’ve recovered from your vomitfest at the Senior Sail. I hope you won’t be drinking at graduation.”

  I wanted to tell him that I didn’t drink, but it wasn’t worth wasting my breath. He would have thought I was lying. People believe what they want to believe.

  “Mr. Avis,” I said, still standing. He was a big man with comically broad shoulders, making his head look unusually small, like they ran out of the proper parts at the factory.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Bing?”

  “These!” I said, dumping the flyers on his desk. “They’re all over school!”

  He uncrumpled one. “Nice photo,” he said wryly.

  “Mr. Avis,” I said, finding it increasingly more difficult to tamp down my anger, “this is slander and I demand that the school do something about it!”

  “You demand the school do something about it?”

  It was like talking to a parrot.

  “Yes,” I said. “I could sue the school.”

  “You could sue the school?” he said.

  I shook my head. “For defamation of character!”

  “For defamation of character? Sit down, Mr. Bing. Cool your jets.”

  He leaned back in his chair. I hoped it would tip over.

  After staring at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, Mr. Avis spoke. “I will ask Mr. French, our custodial engineer, to take down the flyers. However, he and the rest of us are busy getting ready for Saturday’s graduation ceremony.” Mr. Avis paused as he pressed the tips of his fingers together and locked his eyes on me. “Do you have enemies, Mr. Bing?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No,” I told him. “No enemies.”

  “No enemies? That surprises me. Clearly at least one person doesn’t care for you. Is there anyone you’ve offended recently?”

  “No. No one I can think of,” I answered.

  “No one?” Mr. Avis said. “You didn’t, say, start any petitions to try to get rid of them or anything?”

  He was baiting me, and we both knew it. So maybe I did sign the petition to get him fired, but I wasn’t alone. Zander Findley and some of the other drum-line guys started it, yet I was the one who Mr. Avis has always blamed. He was too wrapped up in himself to see the truth.

  “No petitions,” I said, tight-lipped.

  “Think hard, Mr. Bing,” he said. “Students, teachers, staff, administration, surely among them, there must be someone who thinks that you are a spoiled, arrogant, entitled weasel —”

  “Thank you, Mr. Avis,” I said as I stood. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Keep your eyes on your friends, Mr. Bing,” he said as I left his office. “They could be your enemies.”

  The rest of the morning was hell disguised as high school. Apparently word had spread beyond the senior class that my incredible selfishness caused Roo and me to split up. Girls I didn’t even know came up to me and said, “I can’t believe you did that!” Or “You are so mean, she could have died!”

  I finally gave up trying to explain that the kidney thing was a hypothetical. No one listened to me anyway since it made a better story to believe that I was the cause of Roo’s imminent death. Couple that with the flyers and it was fair to say I was miserable. I couldn’t wait for lunchtime so I could talk to Nick.

  Seniors were allowed to eat off campus. It was a privilege granted to those of us who had managed to survive three years of the school cafeteria. When Nick and I walked into Benny’s B-Burgers, I spotted Roo and Samantha, sitting in a corner booth. Both stopped talking when they saw me.

  Nick made a beeline to Samantha, leaving me unprotected. I considered running away, but stood my ground even though Roo was bombarding me with evil, stabbing glares, which I unsuccessfully tried to deflect by feigning interest in the Heimlich maneuver poster.

  It was Samantha who encouraged Roo to go out with me. Back when I was a sophomore, I would have never asked Roo out on my own. I thought she was out of my league. Roo said I wasn’t like the other guys who were jerks. She said I was stable, and she liked that I could help her with her homework, plus she said that we made a good-looking couple.

  When Nick returned, he looked grave. “It’s not safe for you to be here,” he said, ushering me to the door.

  * * *

  As we ate our pepperoni pizza, Nick wiped some sauce off his chin. He had always been a messy eater. “I have no idea,” he said when I offered up my theories on the flyers.

  Every time someone called me Dinky Dick, I cringed. How do you defend yourself from something like that? In debate, we offer evidence. Proof. However, I wasn’t about to do that in this case.

  “Hey, Higgs,” Nick said abruptly. “Samantha doesn’t want me hanging out with you anymore.”

  “What?” I took a swig of Coke. “She said that?”

  He nodded as he chewed slowly. “Samantha says that you hurt Roo, and that Roo is her best friend, and that your moral compass is broken.”

  My moral compass? I didn’t even know I had one. I started to laugh.

  “Seriously,” Nick said, reaching for his t
hird slice. “I can’t hang out with you until this whole Roo kidney thing blows over.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation!” Nick motioned to some girls from my Spanish class glaring at me from the next table. I waved to them. “¿Qué pasa?” I said before turning back to Nick and lowering my voice. “You’re letting Samantha tell you who you can be friends with? What kind of wimp are you?”

  “I’m a wimp in love,” he said in all seriousness. “Listen, I take my cues from my old lady.”

  I tried not to spew. “Nick, listen to yourself! Your old lady? How old are you? Fifty? You’re eighteen years old and you’re engaged to be married? Snap out of it! Act your age. Be yourself.”

  “Like you?” Nick asked sarcastically.

  “Hell yeah, like me,” I told him. “Feel free to use me as a role model.”

  “You’re the one who should be yourself,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I am myself.”

  “No you’re not,” Nick said. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. “You’re never yourself, Higgs, not even when you’re alone. You’re always putting on. Samantha says that you’re a phony.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Have you gone nuts? Samantha’s manipulative, bossy, and all wrong for you.”

  “She says the same thing about you,” Nick said glumly. I’d never seen him look so sad. “I’m sorry, Higgs, but I’m with Samantha for life. With you, well, you’re going off to Harvard, I’m going to USC, and who knows how often we’re going to see each other once summer’s over.”

  That’s when it hit me. College. We were going to college. I was going to college. Harvard. I was going to Harvard, all the way on the other side of the country. I was going to Harvard to become a dentist. A dentist.

  “Are you okay?” Nick asked.

  “What? Sure. Why?”

  “Because you’re drinking my Dr Pepper. You hate Dr Pepper.”

  I put it down. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sorry too,” he said.