by Lance Rubin
Except that I’ll never be ordering this soup again.
27
“You really bring such wonderful levity to these announcements,” Ms. DiMicelli says moments after I flick off the switch and grab my backpack from the floor to head to English.
“Thanks so much,” I say. I wasn’t entirely sure if the bits I’d broadcast minutes ago to the whole school were funny or just weird and confusing and sad. Because the latter three are where my head is at.
Mom never came home last night. Dad and I barely talked the rest of dinner or even once we got home, other than me continually asking, “Are you worried?” and him saying, “No, Mom’s a strong, independent woman, she’s able to take care of herself. She’ll reach out when she’s ready.” To which I wanted to respond, Yes, but what if she NEVER DOES? What if she’s gone FOREVER? When she finally texted at nine-thirty that she was staying at Paige’s, it was such a relief, replaced a minute later by a suffocating sadness. My mother and my (very ill) father are in such a huge fight that she can’t even be in the same house as him.
I wanted to reach out to someone, but I was astonished to realize there was no one. Leili and Azadeh hadn’t responded to my text from Chili’s, and I had too much dignity to pathetically text again. Evan obviously wasn’t an option. And though I was starting to feel closer to improv people like Molly and Rashanda, even Jess, I didn’t feel text-them-with-my-problems close.
What was wrong with me? How could there be no one?
I lay in bed, put on an episode of 2 Dope Queens, and tried to imagine myself on it, cracking up Jessica and Phoebe with my edgy, honest material. “Lemme tell you, if your dad ever gets diagnosed with ALS, get ready for the shit storm. Because it. Is. Coming.”
That’s not even a good joke. I don’t know what it is. That’s how much of a rudderless clusterfuck my life has become.
Though I didn’t want to think about what had happened at dinner, one definite conclusion to be drawn was that Dad was keeping things from me. And, from Mom’s reaction, it was fair to assume that one of those things was the truth about what was happening to him. Banter no longer seemed like a solution, and I couldn’t feel worse than I already did. And since I couldn’t trust Dad anymore, I no longer had to keep my stupid promise.
I googled ALS.
Turns out I could feel worse than I already did.
Though ALS does manifest in many different ways, most of them involve a very bad ending. And the speedy progression of Dad’s symptoms thus far did not inspire confidence about the way his was manifesting.
The average life expectancy of a person with ALS is two to five years from the time of diagnosis.
In two years, I’ll be seventeen. In five years, I’ll be twenty.
Riluzole, the drug Dad is on, can extend life by approximately two to three months. Months.
So I’ll still be seventeen or twenty, and my dad will be dead.
As ALS progresses, driving will be discontinued. (So: my dad will be home a lot.)
Weakness in the muscles used to swallow may cause choking. (So: my dad may need a feeding tube.)
Weakness in the muscles used to breathe may cause “respiratory insufficiency.” (So: my dad may need something called a BiPAP.)
Eventually, speech may no longer be possible. (So: my dad may need a communication device.)
May cause.
May be.
May need.
(So:
(So:
(So:
I read and read and read and fell asleep with a wet face.
Now, walking down the hall to Mr. Novack’s class, I’m a shell of myself. A teacher I don’t recognize is giving me a suspicious look, so I flash my permanent late pass at her. That’s right: VIP, bitch!
I ghost past Mr. Novack’s desk and head to my seat. I accidentally make eye contact with Fletcher, who gives me a genuinely sympathetic look. I turn away because I’m worried I’ll start to feel even worse for myself than I already do.
I get through about ten minutes of arrogant, vaguely misogynistic yammering about Tess of the d’Urbervilles before my hand shoots up into the air.
“In a moment, Ms. Friedman,” Mr. Novack says.
“No, I’m sorry, I have to— You’re not talking about this book right.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Novack peers at me over his glasses. “How should I be talking about it?”
“I don’t know, not the way you are!” I’m as surprised that I’m speaking as he is, but I can’t stop. “Like, all these horrible things happen to Tess, and then she’s blamed for those horrible things, leading to more horrible things. To the point where she’s so desperate she has to murder the dude who’s been abusing her the whole book! Sorry, spoiler alert for anybody who didn’t finish, but, you know, do your homework on time. And then it ends with her being executed! And you’re going on about the way the themes tie into the Industrial Revolution, but like, obviously, it’s about how stupid and unfair it is to be a woman! Are you ever gonna talk about that?”
The classroom is silent as Mr. Novack continues to stare at me. I kind of hope he sends me to the office. “Well, Ms. Friedman, I believe I have talked about that—”
“You haven’t. You definitely haven’t. I would remember.”
He stares a beat longer before raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to the side. “Fair enough,” he says. He picks up exactly where he left off.
It’s a victory, I guess, but it doesn’t feel like one. Nothing means anything. Class eventually ends, and I’m out the door, ready to zombie-hoof it through my day, when Fletcher appears next to me, pack extended. “Fruit Stripe?”
“Nah,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Enjoyed the rant. You aight?”
Unlike much of the school, Fletcher knows my dad has ALS, so it’s easier to be around him than most. Still, though, not feeling very chatty. “Oh yeah,” I say. “Don’t I look it? I’m fantastic.”
“Not everything has to be a joke,” he says.
I can’t help but hear it as a reprimand. He didn’t even say it like that, but either way, it’s not helpful. “Well. Whatever, I gotta go.” I pick up my pace down the hall, trying to shake him.
Fletcher is unshakable. “I didn’t mean that in a dick way,” he says, somehow catching up to me without breaking into a slow jog, let alone a run. “I mean it’s okay to say you feel shitty if you feel shitty.”
“I know that.” I’m on the verge of tears. “So I feel shitty. Okay? Happy?”
“Do you wanna take a minute and come with me?”
Good god, not this again. What’s with guys needing to whisk girls off to surprise places?
“It’s not a surprise or anything,” Fletcher says as people pass us in the hallway. Weirdly, Evan walks by at that exact moment. He pretends not to see me. “There’s this spot off the A Wing that’s usually empty. My boy Terrence showed it to me last year before he moved. I chill out there sometimes.”
Hmm. “Chilling out” in some random spot in school doesn’t exactly sound tempting, but the alternative is spending gym class trying not to cry. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Cool,” Fletcher says. “This way.” We walk side by side toward the A Wing. Once there, he looks around a few times, then, with a decent amount of force, backs through a door I’ve passed hundreds of times without a clue what it led to. I follow, and it’s a random school closet, drab gray metal shelves stacked with textbooks that look like they’re from 1995.
The tone for second period sounds. I’ve never straight-up skipped a class before.
Fletcher walks farther into the narrow closet, then steps to the right and disappears. The closet is L-shaped, with a whole section you can’t see when you first walk in. This part has no shelves, so there’s slightly more space to move around in. Fletcher bends down and picks up a hardcover book called De
vil in a Blue Dress from the floor. He flips the top of it toward me, so I can see a bookmark sticking out. “Almost halfway done,” he says.
“You come here so much you leave your books?”
“Just blends in with all the other shit,” Fletcher says, smiling. “I think this is mainly a dumping ground for supplies teachers are getting rid of. And no other students seem to know about it. It feels like a locked door until you push hard enough.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” Fletcher kicks one foot up onto the cinder block wall, almost like a nervous habit.
Bizarrely enough, standing here with him does make me feel calmer. And, at the same time, part of me is buzzing with the thrill of knowing we are definitively not supposed to be here.
“So what’s your deal?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Fletcher takes his foot down from the wall.
“I don’t know. Like, I know you work at Stop & Shop, and I know you’re in Improv Troupe, and your thing is physical comedy, which you’re totally a genius at, but…” Fletcher looks down at the floor in this almost childlike way, which is unexpectedly endearing. “Oh, and I know your uncle died two years ago. Which I’m sorry about. But that’s all I know. Do you have other friends?”
Fletcher’s head snaps up, now wearing an expression like What the hell?
“Well, I don’t know!” I say.
“You think ’cause you see me in English class and improv and the supermarket, you know my whole deal?”
“No, that’s what I’m saying!” I’m backpedaling madly. “I don’t know! I—as you would say—didn’t mean that in a dick way.”
“I’m just playin’ with you,” Fletcher says, a little too proud of himself as he half smiles at me. “But yeah, I have friends. You just don’t see ’em.”
“Oh. So, imaginary friends.”
“You need me to take out my phone and show you pictures?” Fletcher starts thumbing through his phone. “I got some of my boy Chris, here’s some of Nicky—”
“Which Chris?” I ask.
“Bryant.”
“You’re friends with Chris Bryant?” I’ve never been more aware of my limited vantage point on the world than the past week. “Chris Bryant is great. I’ve known him since first grade.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve been tight with him since eighth grade. So I know he’s great.”
“Wow. I seriously don’t know anything about anything.” And just like that, I’m thinking about my parents again. I sit down cross-legged on the dusty floor.
“It’s really all good,” Fletcher says. “I don’t know who your friends are. Besides Leili.”
“No,” I say. “My mom and dad got in this huge fight last night. And my mom left dinner and didn’t come back.”
“Oh shit.” Fletcher slinks down, back against the wall, and sits across from me. “And with your dad, like, and his ALS situation, that’s pretty intense. He must have really pissed her off.”
“Yeah,” I say, openly crying now. “I think he— She said he cheated on her.”
“Whoa!” Fletcher runs one disbelieving hand over his hair. “In his condition, that’s…”
“No, it was a long time ago.”
“Oh.”
“If it even happened.” I wipe my face, but I can’t stop the tears. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess right now.”
“Nah,” Fletcher says. “That’s what this closet is for.”
He’s being so sweet about it, but I actually would prefer to not be crying. So I change the subject. “Why did you join Improv Troupe?”
Fletcher blinks a few times, like I’ve splashed him with water, before staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “To get better,” he says finally.
“At physical comedy?”
“At all comedy. At any comedy.”
“Okay.”
Fletcher senses that I want more of an answer than that. “My main thing was always dancing.”
Once again, I think he’s messing with me. Which is actually completely sexist—why couldn’t he be a dancer?—but it does seem out of left field.
“No, for real. That’s how I first learned to move. I’ve been dancing since I was, like, a baby. My mom used to be a professional dancer, and now she teaches, so I would go to her classes. And I was good at it, you know?”
Fletcher’s got my brain spinning like whoa. He’s a dancer. It simultaneously makes complete sense and no sense at all. “Yeah.”
“Anyway, after a while, being the only guy in my dance classes got played out, so I took a break from all that. But it was still in me, you know? And my dad knew that, so when I was eleven, right before he and my mom got divorced, he forced me to watch a couple of movies that changed my life.”
The way Fletcher casually mentions that his parents are divorced makes me feel like a wuss, unable to handle my mom being away from the house for even one night. “What movies?” I ask once I realize he’s waiting on me to continue.
“You heard of Breakin’?”
“Uh. No.”
“Aw man, seriously? Or Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo?”
“Oh yes! I’ve heard that title before, but I have no idea what it is. Are they good movies?”
“I just said they changed my life, so yeah, they’re incredible. They’re the best movies ever made.”
The way Fletcher is lighting up about this makes me genuinely smile for the first time all day. “What are they about?”
“Here.” Fletcher stands up, digs his phone out of his back pocket, and sits down next to me. “I’ll show you.” He pulls up a YouTube video labeled “Breakin’—Turbo (broom scene).” “This is gonna blow your mind. Are you ready?”
I nod.
Fletcher hits play. We watch a very 1980s-looking guy in red pants and white Nikes sweeping the sidewalk in front of a convenience store, underscored by an amazing instrumental track that sounds like it was played on Dad’s old keyboard. “That’s Turbo,” Fletcher says. “Actually Michael ‘Boogaloo Shrimp’ Chambers.”
But Turbo’s not actually sweeping. He’s dancing. Like, gliding along the sidewalk and moving his body in all these unreal ways, spinning the broom around, doing some incredible version of the Robot. And then he makes the broom levitate. It’s hilarious and beautiful at the same time. And it actually is blowing my mind. “Is this what the whole movie is?”
“Kinda. I mean, there’s a plot, with one break-dancing gang facing off against another, but it’s all just, like, so stupid it’s magic.”
“Ohmigod, is that why you wanted to work at Stop & Shop? So you could be like Turbo?”
“Whoa, shit,” Fletcher says, leaning his head back. “Now you’re blowing my mind. That’s truly never occurred to me.” He shakes his head back and forth, like it’s a thought too profound to fully engage with at the moment. “But check this.” He pulls up another video, this one from Breakin’ 2. In this one, Turbo is wearing all red, and a headband, and a studded belt, and showing a little midriff, and we watch as he climbs the freakin’ wall and starts literally dancing on the ceiling. It is a delight. I am delighted.
“I really love this,” I say. “I’m not just saying that.” I am also highly aware of how close our bodies are to each other. I feel a little tingly.
Fletcher shows me another clip.
And another.
And another.
And another.
“You gotta see the whole movies,” he says after we’ve exhausted the Internet’s supply of Breakin’ footage. “I’ve seen ’em literally hundreds of times. It was the moment I realized dancing could be funny.” He says it with this reverence I completely understand. “And then I spent months going down the Internet rabbit hole of what else is out there. You know, Gregory Hines, Cab Calloway from way back in the day, this dude Donald O’Connor wrestling with a
mannequin and walking up walls in Singin’ in the Rain.”
“ ‘Make ’Em Laugh’! That’s so amazing, I love that too!”
“Yeah, of course you know that one.”
It takes me a second to get that he’s saying the one clip I know has a white person in it, and then I start blushing.
“Oh. I—”
The door opens, and Fletcher and I freeze.
We hear footsteps, then a stack of books placed with a grunt on one of the shelves. The door closes again.
I am terrified. Fletcher seems chill. “They never walk all the way in,” he laughs.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “This might be the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done.”
“See, that’s funny, because onstage you’re, like, fearless.”
“I am not fearless. Trust me.”
“But it seems like you are. Which means you are.” This might be my favorite compliment I’ve ever gotten. Even more than being called funny. “Anyway, to answer your question, I joined Improv because I wanted to see if maybe I could learn how to do comedy that’s not just, you know, physical. And I’m not there yet.” Fletcher laughs at himself.
“You kidding? You’re doing so well!”
“Nah, nah,” Fletcher says, flicking a hand in my direction.
I like him.
The thought descends suddenly and undeniably. I like his deep brown eyes. I like his beanpole arms. I like the way he rescued my father in the supermarket. I like his white Nikes, and I like that I now know they’re obviously inspired by Turbo. And it’s not, like, the he-likes-me-so-I-like-him-back Evan style of liking. I just like him.
And maybe he likes me. I mean, he brought me to his spot.
“What?” Fletcher says.
I was staring. “Oh, nothing, I just—”
The tone sounds.
“We should jet,” Fletcher says, already up on his feet and extending a hand down to me.
“Oh yeah, for sure.” I take his hand. He lifts me to my feet.
The rest of the day I don’t find myself thinking about Mom and Dad nearly as much as I would have expected.
