After Ever After

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  “Um, yeah. When I was little, in the hospital, Steven used to play Go Fish with me all the time. And then when I got bigger, he and Annette taught me to play Hearts.”

  “And when the cards were dealt, did you punch yourself in the head every time you got a bad hand? Or did you just play the cards you got?”

  I thought about that for so long that Dr. G. gave me another candy heart. I still wasn’t sure whether she was completely bonkers, or a genius. But I felt a little better, like whatever had been clenched up in my chest had relaxed a bit.

  “OK, I get it. I can’t control the past. But that doesn’t solve my problems. Or Tad’s. What am I supposed to do if he’s just giving up?”

  “Support him, Jeff,” Dr. Galley said. “That’s all anybody can ever do. Find a way to support him.” And with that, she sent me off to class. Of course, I spent the rest of the day in a fog, trying desperately to find a way to show support for Tad — the one person in the world who loathed being helped in any way. I mean, what was I supposed to do, organize a group hug in English class? Bring him daisies at lunch?

  As if I didn’t have enough to think about, I didn’t get a chance to talk with Tad the rest of the day, and then he was out of school three days in a row while I sat and worried. When he showed up in homeroom on the fourth day, he just chattered away as though nothing had happened. But in gym, he got back on the treadmill. In fact, he was working out harder than ever.

  Meanwhile, something else was going on. Kids kept coming up to me and saying, “Dude, I’m totally with you,” or “I’m behind you all the way, man.” I had no clue what they were talking about, but I just kind of nodded and half smiled at them. It’s bad enough not knowing what the heck is going on, but it’s even worse to admit it.

  I should have asked somebody.

  The last few weeks before the test were a blur: of kids winking and nudging me for no apparent reason; of Lindsey squeezing my hand supportively under the table in science class, but refusing to see me outside of school; of Tad pretending everything was fine one minute, and then wheeling himself out of class at top speed to vomit the next. It was a weird time. Huge things were going wrong right and left, but nobody was discussing any of it.

  And Tad looked awful. His hair was thinning, his face was all puffed up from the flattering combined effects of the chemo and the steroids, and he had random muscle cramps that made him grimace all through our tutoring sessions. But if I asked, he’d say, N.B.D., D.A., and hand me another set of word problems.

  Then, exactly one week before the big day, I had two inspirations. Sitting in my room listening to my parents arguing over the testing, I figured out how to make a grand gesture for my dad. That same evening, as I was falling asleep, I came up with my beau geste for Tad, too. The Dad one was easy. All I did was pick a problem from my practice workbook that I didn’t understand — and believe me, it wasn’t hard to find one — grab my math stuff, and walk down to the kitchen.

  “Dad,” I said, “can I interrupt? I’m upstairs studying, and there’s this one problem I don’t get. Can you help me?” My father’s face lit up like I was handing him the keys to the Beemer he’s always wanted, while my mother smiled warmly and disappeared from the room.

  When Dad was done sharing all of his pent-up mathematical joy with me, and I was in bed, the Tad thing popped into my head. It was so simple: I would dedicate my The Moving On Bike-a-Thon to him. I don’t usually like to talk about it with people, and of course Tad said it was dorky — but he always donated. Generally I asked only relatives and my family’s friends to contribute, so I had never even mentioned the ride at school before, but maybe if I asked people to donate in Tad’s name, he would see that a whole bunch of people supported him. I went downstairs and looked at the big family calendar that my mom keeps on the breakfast bar, and realized with a shock that the big ride was scheduled for the day after Tad’s transplant procedure. Which was kind of a good thing — being out there raising money would definitely be better than just sitting around worrying the whole day.

  I figured the worst thing that could happen is I’d rake in some extra bucks for the cause. So I went to sleep feeling pretty good, for a change.

  The next day I brought my sign-up sheet to school and started passing it around. On the way, I’d gotten kind of crazy and decided to do fifty miles instead of twenty-five. By lunch, I had something like eighty kids signed up to chip in a dime a mile. The weird thing was how happy everybody was about this. One guy slapped me on the back and said, “Dude, tit for tat. That’s so cool!” I had no idea what he was talking about, but hey — his money was just as green as everybody else’s. Then in the hall before lunch, Brianna Slack marched up to me, handed me a crumpled-up twenty-dollar bill, said, “Don’t you dare tell him,” and stormed into the cafeteria.

  When I got to our table, I was the first one there. Tad wheeled up a moment later with a strange glint in his eye, and said, “So, D.A., you’ve finally gone and turned me into a poster child.”

  “Tad, I just wanted you to see that people care about you.”

  He put his hand on my arm and said, “Jeff. It’s OK. Thank you.” Then he looked around to make sure nobody could hear, leaned all the way close to me, and said, “So, how much did Brianna Slack give?”

  And that was that.

  The rest of the week seemed to go super-fast and super-slowly at the same time. All we did in every class was review, review, review, and practice, practice, practice — except in Miss Palma’s class, where we did freewriting and improvisational acting exercises to “cleanse our overloaded minds.” The endless flow of worksheets was torture, but it also had a strangely numbing effect. And by the time I knew it, I was walking out of the building on Friday afternoon, with nothing but a weekend between me and a date with the cruel hand of Destiny. Or, at least, the state board of education.

  On the steps, Lindsey rushed up, threw her arms around me, and gave me a rather bone-crushing hug. I was totally stunned. Between the smell of her hair, the feeling of our bodies being pressed together, and the fact that we just didn’t do this in public, it was too much for my brain to process. I stood there like one of those antique wooden Indians from a cigar store as she pushed me to arm’s length and said, “Jeff, whatever happens, I can’t wait until the tests are over. I can’t wait to have you back.”

  I was still frozen.

  “Uh, Jeffrey Alper? Hello?”

  “Yeah. Um, right. After the test. Back. Good.”

  Then she said, kind of shakily, “So please don’t be mad at me, all right? Everything I did was for you. Please know that.”

  “Uh, good. For me. Thanks!”

  She tilted her head as though if she angled her ears differently, she would suddenly be able to interpret my strange caveman dialect. Then she squeezed my left arm one more time, and ran down the stairs to her mom’s car.

  What did she mean, everything she did? All I knew about was the temporary dumping. Was there more? It’s amazing how many times a day I am totally baffled by the people around me.

  I went home to the longest weekend of my life. The first day of the testing was a new science section that didn’t even count, but I still spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights sweating through my covers over and over again. I kept having these crazy dreams:

  I’m chained to the wall of a dark, shadowy testing dungeon. I can tell that’s what it is because there’s a big torchlit sign on the opposite wall, next to the electric pencil sharpener. A hooded torturer with a familiar voice says, “Well, Alper, now your butt is in a pile of trouble! Only five min-utes left, and you still haven’t even started! Why don’t you get that hi-ney down from there, and start bubbling in some an-swers?” “But, sir,” I cry in anguish, “I’m handcuffed to the wall!” I shake my arm and leg irons at him and add, “Can’t you undo these?” “Sorry,” he says, “I’m only a gym teacher!”

  We’re in the school gym, which is the actual testing site. But in the dream version, there are we
ird scientific devices hanging down from the ceiling where the climbing ropes should be. Lindsey is there. She raises her hand and asks for a new number two pencil. The hair on the back of my arms stands up, and then a bolt of lightning crashes down and completely obliterates her. The kid to my left murmurs, “Harsh, dude. Harsh.”

  I’m in the gym again, but this time it’s decked out like the Death Star from an old Star Wars movie. The whole eighth grade is sitting at regular school desks, but we all have strange robes on, and some kids have green faces and/or antennae. I’m trying to use a calculator that’s shaped like the handle of a lightsaber. The ghostly form of Tad appears floating in the air before me. “Turn off the computer, Jeffrey. Use the Force. Reach out with your feelings!” I start to put down the calculator, but accidentally push the wrong button. The blade comes flashing to life, and cuts a massive hole in both my desk and my right leg. That same kid from the other dream is still next to me, but now he’s wearing a stormtrooper helmet. “Oh, man,” he says. “That’s gonna cost you some points!”

  By the time Monday came, I was almost relieved to head into the gym and get to my assigned seat. I walked in next to Tad, who actually looked more nervous than I felt. We were going pretty slowly because it’s so hard to get a wheelchair through a crowd, and every kid who passed turned to stare at us. I felt like I had a giant archery target painted on my back or something. It was as though everybody in the school was waiting for me to fail this thing. “Do you have a weird feeling?” I asked Tad. “Nah,” he said. “I kind’a have to pee, though. How long is this test, again?”

  Lindsey walked by and squeezed my shoulder. “Everything will be fine,” she said. I was like, Did somebody forget to tell her this section of the test doesn’t count? But before I could clarify, they started calling us to our seats. Just like in my dream, Flash McGrath was there, shouting out the names. When he said, “Al-per, Jeffrey,” I could have sworn the whole eighth grade turned to watch me walk to my desk. Which was just perfect, because you know how much I love it when people admire my stylish limp.

  As I fidgeted in my chair, lined up my pencils a million times, and got my calculator perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk, Mr. Laurenzano read us a long list of directions for how to bubble in our names. The kid next to me — Josh Albert, who was not sporting any robes or antennae — said, “Dude. How stupid does the state think we are?” Meanwhile, I was frantically erasing the line of bubbles I had just finished. Apparently, your name and your birth date go on entirely separate lines.

  We finally finished all the filling-in parts, and Mr. Laurenzano said, “You may now break the seal on Section One of your science packet and begin. You have thirty-seven minutes to complete this section. Good luck, eighth graders.”

  Just then, from across the room, Tad let loose with the loudest cough I’ve ever heard in my life and started rolling slowly up the aisle. Geez, I thought, how small could his bladder possibly be? But suddenly, every kid in the entire room — except me — stood up, slammed in their chairs, and started filing up the rows and out of the gym. What the heck was going on? Lindsey, who’d been sitting two rows in front of me, turned and hissed, “Come on, Jeff!” I jumped up and followed — honestly, what else was I going to do? By that point, Tad was wheeling his way across the front, leading a long line of students past all of our teachers, who were frantically putting down their coffee mugs and looking around for some kind of instructions. I guess their riot training was a little rusty.

  Well, I thought, I suppose this explains why everybody was looking at us on the way in. As Tad reached the door, Miss Palma grabbed the microphone and said, “Students! Students? What are you doing? Come back here this instant!” But when I looked at her, she actually looked semi-delighted.

  The cries of the teachers followed our procession into the hallway. I wondered for a moment where we were going, but I didn’t have to wonder for long. The front doors of the school are only about fifty feet from the gym, and the whole line was heading that way. As soon as we’d hit the hallway, a kind of instantaneous, nervous buzzing had started, like, “Where are we going, again? And why?” “Did you see Laurenzano’s face?” “My mom is so going to kill me!” But even over that, I heard the thunderous footsteps of Mr. McGrath as he pounded past us up the hallway to stop Tad at the doors. It was like a movie ad or something.

  Everybody got quiet then, so that even from fifty feet away, I could hear Tad and Mr. McGrath having a pretty heated argument. This was bad. I had to get up there and calm Tad down before things got even more out of hand. I made my way through the crowd as fast as I could, and reached Tad’s side just as he opened the door and Flash bellowed, “Ibsen, if one wheel of that chair crosses this doorway, I prom-ise you will be suspended!”

  “Fine,” Tad said. He reached down and locked the right wheel of his chair, then the left. He looked at me and mouthed one word: Surprise! Finally, he slowly, slowly stood up, hobbled past Mr. McGrath, and made his way out into the morning sunlight.

  I crowded next to Mr. McGrath, who stood panting by the open door. Tad, holding the railing in a death grip, struggled down the front steps of the school as the entire grade crowded up behind us. A few of the bravest kids started pushing their way out the doors, too, as Tad reached the bottom of the stairs and held up one hand in the V-for-Victory sign. Flash turned to me and said, “You might as well get down there before your crazy friend falls flat on his duff and kills himself.” I started out, but by the time I got down there, Brianna Slack had rushed past me, dragging Tad’s wheelchair. She put it down right behind him. He collapsed into the chair and looked up at her. “Tad,” she said. “You still stick out your tongue when you walk.”

  As Tad smiled weakly, I looked past Brianna and realized that there was a TV news van at the curb, and a camera crew charging across the lawn in our direction. The beautiful blond-haired reporter shoved a microphone right up in Tad’s face and he started talking. Then, suddenly, Lindsey was right between Tad and me. She put one hand on his shoulder, and reached for my hand with the other.

  That was when I looked down at my own hand, and realized I was still holding my calculator. I swear, I must be the lamest rioter in history.

  TO: dangerous_pie@jerseynet.com

  FROM: drum_master@jerseynet.com

  Hi Jeff —

  I don’t believe this: Annette just sent me a link to two Me-tube videos. The first one is a slick little homemade call to revolution by your friend Tad, “Produced by” some girl named Lindsey. I can’t believe he had the guts to ask every kid in New Jersey to walk out on the state tests. And I can’t believe the clip has been viewed 23,000 times! The second one is a clip from last night’s local news there. I suspect you know the one I mean.

  God, Jeff. I’ve been asking Mom about you all year, and she keeps telling me you’re doing fine. Now I find out that you might fail math and get held back in eighth grade — and Tad has cancer again. That must be terribly hard for you. Plus, apparently you’ve caused the first riot in the history of the middle school. And who’s the chick with her arm around you on TV? Is that Lindsey? If so, she’s kind of cute.

  Aww, my little Jeffy’s growing up! Do I need to fly home right away and give you “The Talk”?

  Actually, I was already sort of planning to come home again next month for your graduation. You probably don’t know this, but I had asked Annette not to contact me unless there was an emergency. Since then, I’ve spent half my time praying for an emergency. I’m sorry, that sounds horrible. But when I saw the message in my in-box today, I was almost relieved — not because of what it said, of course. I just wanted her to get in touch, even though I was the one who had told her not to. So I’ve been wondering lately why I’m still here.

  About the message itself: I thought Tad was really brave to think of that whole thing, and I’m amazed that he actually got everyone in your grade to go along with it. Organizing it through his Myface page and the first video clip was genius, too. This Lindsey girl
did a great job with all the video editing effects and all, but I think the real power of the piece was what Tad said. “They tell us to stand up for people who are weak and defenseless, and then they threaten to fail anyone who needs a little extra help?” Brilliant.

  And then when he said to the reporter, “I take full responsibility for this peaceful protest. What are they going to do to me anyway — give me cancer?” Wow. He had to know that was going to make big news.

  Please tell Tad I’m impressed. He really stood up for you. I don’t know if the school board will listen to a bunch of kids, but I do know they’re always terrified of the media.

  One last thing: Just sitting here at this moment, I decided I will come home ASAP. I still don’t know whether I’ve found what I was looking for, but I do know I miss what I left behind. Can you do me one favor? Please ask Mom to get my dark suit dry-cleaned. I want to look suitably fancy for your graduation. I know you’ll make it.

  Until I get there, take good care of my little brother, OK?

  Steven

  “Take care of my little brother”? What the heck did he think I’d been doing all year, playing with matches and smoking crack? Plus, what was up with the melodrama? “I still don’t know whether I’ve found what I was looking for, but I do know I miss what I left behind” had to be the cheesiest sentence I’d ever read in my life. It was a cheesy cheeseball, covered with Cheez Whiz and served on a bed of Cheez-Its. With a side of queso.

  And had he really been asking my mom about me all year? If so, why hadn’t he just asked me himself? I understood the part about needing space to decide whether to, like, bond for life with Annette. But I was his brother. Did he really need to be off-limits for a year to figure out whether to be related to me or not?

  The sad part was, I was completely thrilled that he was coming home.

  The rest of the statewides weren’t as dramatic as the first day. On Tuesday, when we walked into the testing room, the principal, both assistant principals, and the superintendent were all there waiting for us. You knew right away this was a big deal, because the principal never came out of his office for anything less major than a terrorist attack.