Brett McCarthy (10 page)

dire

The actual substance of junior high is so mind-numbingly dull that people yearn for little scandals to think about. Even a falling-out between once-obscure, Pluto-circling BFFs was enough to set e-mails flying.

So when I finally returned to school after my second suspension, Diane and I provided plenty of material for the rumor mill simply by ignoring each other. Anytime we took up space in the same room, eyes focused on us, everyone waiting for a fight or a snarly comment.

But week after week: nothing. We passed in the hallways, handed test papers to each other in language arts, changed for gym at adjacent lockers: nothing. Our worlds had come crashing down—Kit told me Diane’s parents were having fights in public places, like the grocery store parking lot; she told Diane my Nonna had cancer—and we said nothing. “You’re
both
being idiots!” she complained, but I simply shrugged.

What Kit didn’t get was that Diane and I now existed on different planets. Coupledom with Bob, plus cheerleading, had launched her into stratospheric levels of popularity. You could practically hear the cameras clicking when she walked down the halls, the eager paparazzi of Mescataqua Junior High watching—and imitating—her every move. If her home life was in shambles, if she was crying herself to sleep every night, you’d never have guessed it. She seemed more beautiful, more perfectly positioned smack-dab in the middle of The Junior, than ever before.

Meanwhile, her former BFF, former Best Eighth-Grade Corner Kicker in Maine, was…bored silly. Climbing the walls every gorgeous, crisp fall day after school as my soccer team practiced without me and boarded the yellow bus on game days and headed off together in a chanting, riotous pack. Okay, so it was probably unreasonable of me to expect them to wear black armbands and go into mourning because Brett McCarthy got kicked off the team. But my girls didn’t seem to miss a beat. They even won games without me. The nerve.

To make matters worse, I had a date with the principal every day. A lunch date, that is. While Diane munched lettuce leaves at the Impossibly-Thin-Way-Popular-Girls’ table, I got treated to a daily gag fest with No-Hare. Lunch detention required that every day I drag my sorry self and my sandwich to his office, where he would sit behind his desk, eat cafeteria fried chicken, and lick his fingers.

Luckily, he didn’t talk much. I had feared a mini Lecture of a Lifetime each day, but No-Hare seemed perfectly comfortable with our companionable silence, broken only by his swallowing, chewing sounds. Usually he read while he ate. I’d wolf down my PB&J, then knock out some homework until the bell rang.

One day we had company. Walking into his office at lunchtime, I discovered Mrs. Augmentino, the school’s Gifted and Talented coordinator.

“Ah, here she is! Come in, Brett,” No-Hare said jovially, in his Company Voice, that hearty, fake voice adults always use when “company” is around. Something’s up, I thought, settling into my usual chair and unwrapping my sandwich.

“How are you, Brett?” asked Mrs. Augmentino, sounding very sincere.

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” I said. “How are you?”

“Well, actually, I’m very excited,” she replied. “Someone special paid me a visit this morning. Can you guess who it was?”

Oh gosh golly! I wanted to exclaim. Can you say, “Special Visit,” boys and girls?

Mrs. Augmentino has this really annoying habit of talking like a female version of Mr. Rogers. It sends Michael into major Mr.-Rogers-imitation mode after every Fifth Period.

“Uh, I have no idea,” I replied instead.

“Really?” she persisted. She seemed truly surprised that I didn’t know.

“Really,” I said, taking a big bite of my sandwich.

“Your grandmother, of course.” She smiled. I almost choked.

“And her friend,” Mrs. Augmentino continued, unaware of the dire effect of her words. “An elderly gentleman named Mr. Beady.”

Dire:
desperately urgent; warning of disaster.

“Why?” I sputtered, mouth full.

“Your grandmother has come to us with a marvelous Special Challenges project proposal,” Mrs. Augmentino explained. Special Challenges, a.k.a. Fifth Period. That’s what the teachers call it. I enjoy telling Michael he’s challenged.

I imagine I looked pretty challenged as Mrs. Augmentino filled me in. I think my mouth dropped open and my bag lunch fell unnoticed to the floor when I learned that Nonna and Mr. Beady had come up with the idea to set the Nerd Herd loose on the lighthouse problem. Their question: How would you illuminate a lighthouse without electricity, solar panels, lead acid batteries, a Fresnel lens…in other words, how did they do it back in Thomas Jefferson’s day, when Spruce Island light was built?

This was exactly the sort of stuff that got the Fifth Period’s mental machinery humming. It was Odyssey of the Mind, Destination Imagination, and Math Counts all rolled into one. With Michael and company on the case, I reckoned we’d see that lighthouse ablaze come summer. Take that, Maine Maritime Academy.

“Brett, you haven’t answered Mrs. Augmentino’s question,” No-Hare said, dragging me back into the conversation.

“I’m sorry…what?” I stammered.

“I said, how would you like to participate in this project?” she repeated.

“I’m not in Fifth Period,” I replied automatically. I am Brett McCarthy, I thought. Former Soccer Star, Violent, Practically Friendless
Non
genius.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Augmentino, reading my thoughts. “But we thought since this involves your family, you might like to join us. And you know, Brett, you’re quite a capable student. One of your former L.A. teachers—Mrs. LaVoie—has spoken very highly of you. I think you’d enjoy a Special Challenge.”

“I’ve already consulted the guidance counselor, who says we can easily accommodate this schedule change for you,” No-Hare said. “You’d have to switch lunchtimes. Eat with the Special Challenges class…I know, you’ll miss me. You’ll also lose your study hall.”

No more giggling Diane and Jeanne Anne passing notes in study hall? No more dining with No-Hare?

“Where do I sign up?” I almost shouted.

“Excellent!” No-Hare looked satisfied.

“Marvelous!” Mrs. Augmentino enthused. I realized it had been a long time since one of my decisions had pleased an adult, let alone two.

The bell rang, signaling my release, and as I hurried through the halls to my next class, I could feel the grin stretched across my face. Because there was no way, no
way,
he’d know I’d been invited to join their group. I laughed to myself as I sprinted toward my locker, imagining Michael’s expression when Brett McCarthy, Special Challenges Scholar, strolled into Fifth Period.

prow•ess

I wasn’t the only one who’d had no clue what Nonna and Mr. Beady were up to. My parents shared my cluelessness. But I didn’t fully appreciate
how
clueless until dinner that night.

Even though my new membership in the Fifth Period club had nothing to do with my mind (Mrs. Augmentino had carefully chosen “capable,” not “gifted,” to describe my intellectual prowess) and everything to do with Nonna’s involvement, I couldn’t wait to tell Mom and Dad.

Prowess:
extraordinary ability.

Deep down, I think my folks always wondered where they’d gone wrong. Maybe if they’d made me take Suzuki violin lessons, or played classical music while I did puzzles, or spoken Spanish to me in the womb, I would have turned out to have an IQ like Michael’s. Or like theirs. Instead, they got a poorly dressed sports nut, and while I knew they loved me, I also knew they didn’t quite
get
me.

So I figured they’d be thrilled to see me in Fifth Period. Hangin’ with the smart kids. Maybe some of it would rub off…could genius be contagious?…and instead of IM’ing Kit or watching back episodes of
Lost
on TV, I’d spend evenings discussing
po-ehms
(two syllables) with Dad.

But here’s the thing about parents: Just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they pull the rug out from under you.

They greeted my big news with: silence. The spinach lasagna steaming on our plates made more noise.

“Well, let’s get excited, why don’t we?” I finally said.

“I—I’m sorry,” Dad stammered. “Mother never said a word to me about this.”

“And that surprises you?” Mom replied sarcastically.

“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Dad said. “That’s a pretty creative bunch of kids. And with our Brett”—he reached over and squeezed my shoulder—“I bet they’ll come up with a great plan.” He smiled, but I saw worry behind his eyes.

“Did the teacher mention whether Nonna plans to attend these classes?” Mom asked.

“She didn’t say. And I haven’t asked Nonna.” The Gnome Home had been dark when I’d gotten home from school that afternoon.

“Well, great. Just great,” Mom snapped. Tossing her napkin into her full plate, she got up from the table and walked over to the sink.

“What’d I do
now
?” I exclaimed. Somehow, my marvelous news had soured.

“You haven’t done anything, sweetheart,” Dad said. “We’re just a little frustrated with your grandmother right now.”

“Because?” I prompted.

“It’s complicated,” Dad said. “She has some decisions to make about her treatment, and we’re having a hard time getting her to focus.” I remembered the forms Nonna had had with her in the hospital. She’d seemed pretty focused to me.

“Mr. Beady said you guys fought,” I said.

“Mr. Beady needs to mind his own business!” Mom burst out. Dad flashed her one of his “not-in-front-of-Brett” looks. Typical.

“Beady seems to be her partner in crime these days,” Dad said dryly. “I know he has her best interests in mind, but for a man in his seventies he can be rather immature. About certain things.”

“Such as?” I asked, a tad aggressively. For some reason, it bothered me to hear them criticize Mr. Beady.

“Such as this
ridiculous
party he’s cooked up for her!” Mom fumed. “Did he tell you about this…this Bazooka Birthday?”

I had heard. We’d started planning it during Nonna’s last night in the hospital. Instead of talking about the advance directive forms (which would upset me) or my latest suspension (which would upset Nonna), we’d planned her birthday party. Nonna would turn seventy-three in December, and she had some very definite ideas about how we should all celebrate.

For starters, no gifts. “The last thing I need is more
stuff,
” she declared. “I need to get rid of stuff, not take more on.”

“Don’t we all,” Mr. Beady commented. Nonna’s face brightened.

“Beady, you’re brilliant!” she exclaimed. “That’s exactly what we’ll do!”

“I said something brilliant?” he asked me. I shrugged.

“Instead of a gift, everyone has to bring something they need to lose,” Nonna said.

“But then won’t you get stuck with all
their
stuff?” I asked. Probably pretty bad stuff too. I had some fairly awful socks I needed to toss.

“No…we’ll blast them! From the bazooka!” Nonna said excitedly.

“What if they bring old cars? Bicycles?” Mr. Beady asked.

“They’ll have to bring small items,” she said. “Or photos of larger items. Or models. Symbols.” Nonna was on a roll. She began to think out loud. “Perhaps the things they want to lose are not material at all—what if someone wants to lose weight? Or a bad habit? The possibilities are endless!”

The whole wacky idea pleased her enormously. For the rest of that evening we talked party: from the menu to the guest list to all the stuff we imagined people bringing. We planned until the night nurse told us visiting hours were over, and as Mr. Beady and I drove home, I realized we hadn’t thought about cancer for an entire hour.

“You know, the party is not Mr. Beady’s idea,” I told my parents. “This is all Nonna. And she’s psyched.”

“The party is fine,” Dad said tiredly, as if this were a topic he’d already discussed a million times. “But we can’t let it distract us from what’s important right now.”

“Exactly,” Mom agreed. “And that means treatment. Meetings with doctors. Visits to the hospital. I know those things are not as much fun as planning parties or…building lighthouses with children…but being a grown-up means doing a lot of boring things. It means taking responsibility.”

“You sound like you don’t think Mr. Beady and Nonna are grown-ups,” I said quietly.

“That’s right. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got
three
children!” Mom exclaimed. Dad slapped his fork down loudly on the table.

“Enough,” he said firmly. “I will talk to Mother. Tonight. I’ll find out what she’s planning at the school and make sure it coordinates with the treatment plan the doctors have prescribed.”

“Fine,” Mom said, clearing away our half-eaten plates. “As long as she starts chemo next week. That’s priority number one.”

i•ron•ic

Growth is a defining fact of a junior high kid’s life.
The
defining fact.

Early growers are Royalty. Kings and Queens of the school dances. Lords and Ladies of the sports teams. Once-skinny boys who could barely heft a basketball from the free-throw line morph into broad-shouldered starters for the A team. Shy girls who only just gave up playing with dolls sprout bodacious breasts requiring hot outfits from the teen department.

Conversely, slow growers are Peasants. In a world where everyone wants to seem as high school as possible, flat-chested shortness is a curse. Lucky slow growers find a safe haven in Geek World, too busy practicing their musical instruments or attending math meets to worry about the boy-girl or sports scenes. The unlucky…those who are short, untalented, and only mildly intelligent…they kind of get lost in junior high.

It was ironic that just when everything in and around me concerned growth, my grandmother embarked on a journey of
anti
growth, a.k.a. chemotherapy.

Ironic:
given to irony; expressing something other than and especially the opposite of.

The doctors wanted to shrink the tumors they’d found on Nonna’s pancreas. So they prescribed chemotherapy. Chemo, as Mom called it. This involved Nonna going to the hospital once a week, where they fed antigrowth chemicals into her veins. The chemicals stopped the cancer cells from growing—as well as all the other cells in her body. Her fingernails. Her hair.
Bam!
No more growth. And the thing about hair is that when it stops growing, it loses its hold in your skin. And it drops off. Not all at once, but slowly. First a few extra hairs in the brush or on the shower floor. Then handfuls. And before you even realized what had happened, your silver-haired Nonna was bald.

Unfortunately, chemo also causes nausea. Which causes vomiting. Which causes weight loss. So another irony of that winter was that while I spent most of my waking hours feeding my machine with healthy foods (
not
Pop-Tarts), and waking up every morning a bit bigger, Nonna shrank. Pounds fell off her, she slept a lot, and because she didn’t feel well, she didn’t speak as much. Even her personality seemed smaller.

She had cut a deal with my parents: She’d do chemo for six weeks and see how it went. She wouldn’t skip her treatments and she’d follow all the doctors’ orders. In exchange, they’d leave her alone about participating in the lighthouse project.

My first day in Fifth Period coincided with Nonna’s first chemo treatment, so she didn’t come to school. Mrs. Augmentino said I could “intro” the project for everyone. She asked me to bring pictures of the island and come prepared to speak.

Nonna was really happy that I’d been invited to join the lighthouse project, and not just because it gave me something to talk about besides missing soccer. The night before my presentation we pulled together about a dozen of our favorite Spruce Island photos and glued them to poster board. I practiced what I’d say about each, and in what order. We figured a visual prop like that would keep me from panicking, which was a real possibility.

That’s because despite my unbelievable confidence and aggression on a playing field, I am an absolute wreck when publicly speaking.

“Don’t look at the audience,” Nonna advised me. “Pick a spot on the back wall and talk to it like it’s an old friend. Works like a charm.” She’d offered this advice after we’d finished the board and started in on the Congo Bars she’d baked. I passionately adore Congo Bars.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked, selecting a particularly large bar from the plate.

“Chemo Eve,” she replied matter-of-factly. “My personal Mardi Gras, if you will. The big pig-out before you can’t eat.” She helped herself to the next-biggest bar. I didn’t need to ask what she meant. We’d already had a family talk about her treatments.

Nonna and I sat silently chewing. Chemo Eve had turned frosty—the weatherman had predicted our first dip into the twenties that night—and she’d fired up the woodstove. The dry logs popped comfortably as we ate and surveyed our photo display.

“That one’s my favorite,” I said, pointing to a four-by-six of me, Mom, Dad, and Nonna. Each of us held live, unbanded lobsters in each hand as we posed for the camera. I must have been about five, but I was fearless when it came to lobsters. The sun shone brilliantly in that picture, and all the colors—ocean blue, balsam green, windbreaker yellow—were vivid.

Nonna nodded. “That was a happy day,” she agreed. “This one’s my fave.” She pointed to a fading Polaroid of her, Dad as a little boy, and my grandfather standing outside one of the cottages. Weeds grew high around the front steps, and the clapboards dropped paint in curling gray peels. The place looked a mess.

“Why that one?” I asked.

“It takes me back to a good time,” she said simply. “We were broke, with more work on our hands than we could handle. But we had each other and our health. With all our years and all our dreams stretching before us.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have
me
yet,” I teased.

Nonna placed one hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Oh, yes we did,” she said. “You were the dream.”

Arriving at the Fifth Period door, poster board tucked under one arm, I tried to keep my mind focused on the business at hand and not on what I imagined happening that very moment in the hospital across town. Nonna’s parting words to me on Chemo Eve kept running through my head.

“We will both be very brave tomorrow,” she’d promised, hugging me good night at the kitchen door. Not “try to be brave,” but “will be brave.” Cowardice not allowed.

I scanned the room for Michael. He still had no idea that I was joining the ranks of the Gifted and Talented. I couldn’t wait to see his expression. It was the only thing, other than Nonna’s expectations of bravery, preventing me from turning tail and running away from all those bright young minds.

Michael’s back was turned when I walked in, and there was a vacant seat behind him. I slid quietly into it, leaned forward, and whispered, “Yo, Einstein.”

Michael whirled around, his jaw dropped, and I could almost hear the well-oiled gears in his finely tuned brain screech to a halt. This does not compute! This does not compute! screamed his inner hard drive.

“Guess who’s Specially Challenged?” I said. Before he could answer, Mrs. Augmentino strode into the room.

“Good morning, boys and girls!” she trilled with enthusiasm. “I am
very
excited today. Not only because we begin a new project, but also because we welcome a new classmate. Brett McCarthy, could you come to the front of the room?”

Delight instantly turned to dread as fifteen pairs of eyes fixed on me and my poster. My feet felt like they’d been tied to lead weights as I shuffled forward. Be brave, I thought. Be brave.

“We’re beginning a unit on islands this month,” Mrs. Augmentino said. “Maine’s coast includes thirty-five hundred islands—did you know that?—and in addition to looking at the unique history, biological diversity, and extraordinary microclimates of our island communities, we’ve come up with an expeditionary project for those of you who would like to take the challenge!”

Mrs. Augmentino could have been speaking Greek. This is bad, I thought. Where were the Smoking Demigods of Dumb when you needed them? My heart raced in panic as Mrs. Augmentino went on. I looked at Michael, but he was listening intently, nodding his head with interested comprehension.

“Brett?” Mrs. Augmentino gazed at me expectantly. Fifteen pairs of eyes shifted back to me. Oh help, I thought.

“I’m sorry…what?” I stammered.

“I said why don’t you tell us about your family’s island,” she said kindly.

I unrolled the poster Nonna and I had made and clipped it to the easel Mrs. Augmentino had set up. Stare at the back wall, a little voice said in my head. But no way could I force myself to face that room full of geniuses. I turned instead to the photos, desperately trying to remember the opening lines I’d rehearsed.

It was as if someone had tossed me a rope. The smiling faces of my family and the bright colors of Spruce Island pulled me in, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about how stupid and out of place I felt. I wasn’t thinking about the hospital or Nonna’s treatments. I was smelling salt water. Listening to foghorns and seagulls. Picking wild blueberries.

“For me, Spruce Island is the most amazing place in the world,” I began. “But it’s not for everyone. There’s no electricity, so we don’t watch TV. There’s no running water, toilets, or showers, so we carry buckets from a hand pump, pee in a privy, and wash from a basin. We have propane for cooking and refrigeration, and we heat with woodstoves. But the cottages aren’t insulated, so you can’t stay there in winter. There’s no trash service, so we compost our food scraps and burn what we can. There’s no bridge, so we come and go by boat. When you’re out there, you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world. You feel different.”

After that I didn’t notice how nervous I was. I told them every story that went with every picture on that poster. About the grandfather I never knew. About the fairy houses Mom and I would build in the woods, using moss, pinecones, and twigs. About cooking lobsters and clams over an open fire on the beach, covering them with seaweed to keep the steam in. I forgot about the time or the room full of kids.

“For my family,” I said, finally out of breath, “Spruce Island isn’t just a place where we go. It’s a way to
be.
When we return to the mainland, we use TV and electricity again. But we keep a little bit of Spruce Island inside us, and it feels good to know that we’ll always go back.” The bell rang.

“Whew!” Mrs. Augmentino exclaimed. “That was more than any of us expected. But it was wonderful, don’t you all agree?” Fifteen pairs of hands burst into applause. Michael put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

“For tomorrow I’d like each of you to come up with one unique fact about Maine island life. And, for those of you who decide to take the Lighthouse Challenge…” Mrs. Augmentino’s voice rose to operatic heights of excitement. “Think up one way to light a lighthouse. Actual or imagined. As Brett told us, the Spruce Island light hasn’t been used in many, many years. And for our expeditionary project some of you may design and actually construct a functioning light.”

The final bell rang and everyone began shuffling out. I was rolling my poster when a girl approached me.

“Have you ever been to Monhegan Island?” she asked earnestly.

“Uh, no, actually,” I said. “But I’ve heard it’s cool.”

“You made me think of it when you described the fairy houses you make with your mom,” she continued. “People build fairy houses all over Monhegan. Fairy villages, practically. They’re really wonderful. You should check them out sometime.” She stood looking at me, waiting for a response.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I said. I waited for her to go away.

“Your presentation was very good,” she continued. “Your family is very lucky.”

“I know,” I said. “I mean, about being lucky. Thanks.”

She stuck out her hand.

“I’m Monique Rose,” she said. “Welcome to Fifth Period.” We shook hands, and Monique Rose departed.

Okay, I thought. I guess I made a friend. Then someone behind me cleared his throat.

“So…how’d I do?” I said as we left the room.

Michael’s smile stretched wide across his face. “Can you say ‘challenged,’ boys and girls?” he replied in his Fred Rogers voice. “Can you say ‘awesome’?”