The Mealworm Diaries (4 page)

“Oh yeah? So what do
you
think we should do?”

“Let's, let's find out what else they eat. Like, we could bring some food from home and find out what they like. An' maybe we could find something dead, like a mouse. They might eat a mouse. Maybe. We could find out how far away they have to be to smell food. Like, we could make a maze. Yeah. A maze. An'…an'…an' we could see if they can find the food at the end. Like scientists always do with rats.”

Jeremy stared. Aaron's hands were conducting his words, and he was keeping time with his feet as he spoke. He almost seemed to be dancing.
The guy was
making sense, wasn't he?
Jeremy couldn't tell anymore. He felt as mesmerized as the snake in its vivarium.

“I like the maze idea,” he said. “We can do the maze.” And for the first time he was excited about this mealworm study. On his page he wrote
: 4) Can mealworms
find food at the end of a maze?

That's when Mr. Collins stopped the class. “Go through your list,” he instructed, “and choose one of the experiments you'd like to try. We only have a little time left, so choose one that you can do in ten minutes or less. And remember to record your observations as you go along.”

Jeremy looked over his list. “What do you think we should do?” he asked. There was no answer. Aaron seemed to have lost interest in mealworms and was on his knees, tracing tile lines with his finger. Jeremy's fist thumped his desk hard enough to make Karima and her partner jump. When they saw Aaron, Karima turned up her palms and shrugged as if to say, “That's Aaron for you.” She smiled then, and Jeremy felt a little better.

He decided to try something easy so he wrote:
5) Do
mealworms like the light or the dark?
It wouldn't be much of an experiment, but at least he'd find out if Aaron knew what he was talking about.

He covered one side of his desk with black construction paper, one side with white. Then he picked Spot and

Superman out of their tins and placed them in the bare space between the two pieces of paper. The mealworms whipped around, then stopped. Jeremy prodded Spot with the eraser end of his pencil. The mealworm wriggled as if in protest but didn't go anywhere.
Now what?

From the other side of the room, he heard Mr. Collins call out, “Aaron, get back to work,” and to Jeremy's relief, Aaron came back just as both mealworms started to move. The problem was that Superman slipped under the black paper and Spot under the white. It wasn't what Jeremy had expected.

“We've got one mealworm under each,” he complained. “What does that prove?”

“It proves, it proves what I already told you,” Aaron said. “It proves mealworms don't like to lie around in the open.” He tapped a finger on the desk to punctuate his words. “They like the dark, and they like to hide.”

He frowned at the mealworms while Jeremy recorded their observations. Then he said, “I'm gonna change my mealworm's name. I'm gonna call him Darth Vader. Yeah. Darth Vader. 'Cause he likes the dark side.”

This time Jeremy chuckled.

EIGHT

“…And from Mr. Collins…” The principal's voice came through the speaker for Friday's closing announcement. “Anyone in grade four, five or six interested in joining the cross-country team, please sign up with your teacher before leaving today. Meetings will be held every Monday and Wednesday at three thirty. If you are joining, please remind your parents you'll be home late on practice nights.”

“Can I? Can I? Can I join?” Aaron called even before the announcements were done.

Jeremy heard groans from some of the kids, but Mr. Collins nodded. “I think running would be good for you,” he said, and he wrote
Aaron
on the board.

Jeremy grinned. He wondered if the teacher wanted to write
Cantwait
beside the name.

“Anybody else?” Mr. Collins asked. Karima's hand went up, and the teacher added her name, looked around and kept writing when he saw other hands waving. He soon had a long list. Jeremy's name was on it.

“Just before you go,” Mr. Collins called as the kids started to pack up, “take one of these papers home. They're order forms for new gym uniforms.”

When Jeremy got his paper, he frowned.
It is important
that all students change for gym class,
it said, and then it listed the clothing everybody could buy: socks, a T-shirt with the school logo, matching shorts. Shorts? Jeremy looked over the form a second time and then a third. Shorts. No way. He frowned and shoved the page to the very bottom of his backpack.

That night the dream came back. The happy part seemed to be shorter than ever, and Jeremy's heart soon boomed in his chest. He woke as the hallway light pierced his eyelids. He was gasping, his pajamas wet with sweat and… he groaned with embarrassment. His mother came over and wrapped her arms around his still-shaking body.

“Same dream?” she asked as she always did.

He nodded. “Sorry I woke you,” he said. “Sorry.” He gestured at the bedding.

“I wasn't sleeping,” she said softly. “I've got an assignment due tomorrow. Tell me what happened today.”

He thought about not answering. Thought about pretending he didn't know what was wrong, but there was no point. “There's a paper in my backpack.”

His mother got up, lifted the backpack from its hook by the door and brought it over.

Jeremy unzipped the center section and rooted around inside. “You have to sign this,” he said, pulling out the wadded paper.

She straightened the page and began to read. “It's because of the shorts?”

He nodded.

“Do you want me to talk to your teacher?”

“No!”

“He doesn't have to know everything,” she said softly, “If you don't want me to talk to him, why don't you ask if he'd let you wear trackpants instead?”

Jeremy thought about that. “Maybe. D'ya think he would?”

“You said he's nice. Why wouldn't he?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

They sat quietly for a while before his mother said, “You know, your scar isn't so bad anymore. It's not nearly as red as it used to be.”

“It's ugly. Everybody will stare. They'll ask how I got it.”

She nodded. “They probably will. Is it still too hard to answer?”

He shrugged. Then he whispered, “What if I cry?”

“What if you do? You're allowed, you know.”

Jeremy's head dropped. His fingers worried a piece of loose skin around his thumbnail until his mother pointed to a sentence at the bottom of the order form. “It says here that the gym clothes won't be delivered for another three weeks. A lot can happen in three weeks.”

He snorted.
Not enough,
he thought. Then he squirmed. The wet sheets were starting to cool.

His mother noticed. She patted his shoulder. “Go on, now,” she said. “Go wash up. I'll change the bed.”

He set the spray to come out of the showerhead hot and hard before he soaped a washcloth and scrubbed himself clean. The foam coursed down his legs. He watched it mound around his feet before it slipped down the drain. It wasn't until he was toweling himself dry that he took the time to examine his legs. He didn't like looking at them. The left one was fine. It looked almost like it always did, but that only made the right leg look worse. A red scar ran from the inside of his upper thigh, diagonally across and down over his kneecap, and from there it zigzagged down the outside of his leg to his ankle. He fingered its bumps and hollows and the knobby places where the screws and metal plates held the bones together. Was his mother right? Did it look better? Maybe the red didn't look as angry as it used to. No, he decided, it was still ugly. And there was no way he could hide it if he was wearing shorts.

Thomas's rumbling purr and the delicate tickle of cat whiskers on his cheek woke Jeremy in the morning. He knew that neither the sounds nor the tickling would allow for more sleep, so he sat up and pulled the cat into his lap. As he scratched Thomas, Jeremy's nose filled with the tantalizing aroma of bacon drifting up from the kitchen.

His mind flashed to another bacon morning. A morning when he woke to leafy shadows on tent walls, the sharp bite of wood smoke, sunshine wavering through tendrils of mist, a bird calling, and in the distance, water tumbling over rocks. There was laughter and the sound of his parents' voices. On that morning, it had been Henry's cold nose and wet tongue that had nudged him out of his sleeping bag. There'd never be another morning like it. He sighed.

He didn't want to get out of bed, but once his feet touched the floor, he dressed quickly and went downstairs. Milly was at the table drinking tea. When she saw him she smiled, stood up and handed him a plate of pancakes with bacon on the side. “Your Mom has the early shift at the store,” she told him as she sat back down.

“Uh-huh.” Jeremy's mouth was already filled with food. He chewed happily. “Great pancakes,” he said between mouthfuls.

Milly smiled. “My mother's recipe. My girls loved them, and Fred always said they were the best he ever ate.”

Jeremy nodded his agreement.

When he was done, he helped with the dishes. Milly washed, he dried. As they worked, she told him about Fred.

“You still miss him,” he said as he dried the last dish and put it in the cupboard.

“Sure do. For a long time I missed him so much it hurt. It's better now though. And it helps to talk about him. Sort of feels as if part of him's still here, you know?”

Jeremy was silent, thinking about Milly's words. He understood what she was telling him, and the thought crossed his mind that Milly would be a good person to talk to. Probably she wouldn't cry like his mother did. Still, he wasn't ready to talk about his dad. Not yet. Maybe never. He stood with his back to the kitchen and took a long time hanging the damp towel on the stove handle. There
was
one question he wanted to ask. Did he dare?

“Well,” Milly said, “that's that. I'm just going to sweep the floor. Why don't you go outside for a while?”

He took a deep breath. “Can I show you something first?”

“Sure,” Milly said.

He pulled up his pant leg, but when the material bunched above his knees he frowned and let everything fall back into place. Frustrated, he looked up at Milly's puzzled face; then, with a small huffing sound, he fumbled to undo his pants and let them fall to the floor. It was embarrassing, but he'd dropped his pants for doctors and nurses so often over the last six months that it wasn't as hard as it used to be.

Milly eyebrows climbed up her forehead and almost disappeared under her hair.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

There,
he thought.
It's so ugly she can't think what to
say.
Then, to his surprise, she began to laugh, a deep warm chortle that made her body jiggle.

“You're…you're asking me about the happy-face boxers? I like them. They're cute.”

“Not the underwear,” Jeremy said, his voice tight.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh.” She sucked back her laughter. “What was it you wanted to know?”

“This! What do you think of this?” He lifted his leg and placed his right foot on a chair so she couldn't help seeing the scar.

He watched her smile fade as she examined his leg from top to bottom. “It's a humdinger, Jeremy. No doubt about that.”

“It's ugly, isn't it?” he said, putting his leg back down.

“Ugly?” Milly took another long look. “I don't think it's as ugly as you think. It probably looks worse to you than it does to me. It's because you're looking at it from the inside as well as the outside.”

“It's not ugly?”

“Well, it's not pretty, but no, it's not ugly either.”

Jeremy examined her face.
Was she telling the truth?
Was it only ugly to him?
He pulled up his pants, turning away to zip his fly.

When he was done, Milly smiled but she didn't say anything else. She went to the cupboard for the broom, and Jeremy went outside, the words
not ugly, not ugly,
replaying in his mind
.

NINE

On Monday, Jeremy woke to the sound of rain drumming a steady rhythm on the roof. He knew, even before he opened his eyes, that this was going to be an all-day downpour, so he pulled the covers over his head and pretended that he could sleep a little longer.

Thomas didn't like that. He uncurled from his place at the foot of the bed, stretched and began kneading the mattress until Jeremy rolled over once, and then again, right out of bed.

“Jeremy!” It was Milly's voice.

“I'm up,” he called, running his hand over the cat. Thomas stretched, twisted and raised one paw to begin a long slow cleaning of his fur.

Milly had a bowl of oatmeal waiting for him. “My Fred loved oatmeal on a rainy day,” she said. “Do you want brown sugar or maple syrup on that?”

Jeremy gave her a sleepy smile and reached for the bowl of brown sugar. “My grampa likes oatmeal too,” he told her. “Nana makes it for him every day. He always says, ‘It's what a man needs to keep the plumbing in working order.'” The two of them chuckled, and then Jeremy ate until his bowl was empty. “What else did Fred like?” he asked when he was done.

“On cold days, he liked beef stew with lots of vegetables and potatoes,” Milly said, with a dreamy expression on her face. “And he loved apple pies, the kind with the crumbly brown sugar and oatmeal topping.”

Jeremy rested his head on his hand. An image of his dad standing by the old apple tree in their yard filled his mind. He could almost feel his father's arms hoisting him to a knobby branch, feel the leaves brush his arms. He watched himself reach for an apple, twist it free, pass it down. Saw his dad rub it against his pants until the whole apple gleamed. There was a loud crunch as he took a bite. Jeremy remembered the taste of the sweet-tart juice in his mouth when he took his own bite. He didn't try to tell Milly all that. “I like apples too,” was all he said.