Nothing Special Page 3

  Andrew had been practicing for months to do a piano solo at his spring concert.

  “Holy shit. Andrew!” I shouted.

  “What?” Cody asked.

  I looked at my phone. 7:10. There was a text from Jerri. Where are you?

  My throat clenched. “Oh no. I have to go.”

  “You need a ride?” Cody asked.

  I shook my head and jumped out of my seat. Karpinski called after me, “You still owe for pizza!”

  I ran out the door, grabbed my bike out of Cody’s truck and, angry hammy and all, pumped it like a mother all the way to the middle school (going the wrong way up Second Street for half the trip—dumbass cars honking at me).

  I was way late. I missed the whole crappy concert. Jesus, I still feel sick about this. Andrew spent half his free time last year writing feltonreinstein.com for me, and what do I do? Forget his whole concert.

  • • •

  Crap. I have to take a whiz. Someone is going to take my seat (I can see an old man eyeballing it, I swear) and I have to take my carry-on bag into the bathroom where it will absorb weenus germs. Gross.

  Okay. Going to do this.

  August 15th, 2:50 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part II

  I did not die in the bathroom. That’s good, huh? They have these crazy hand dryers in there. It’s like sticking your hands into a tiny, wicked tornado. Awesome. Your skin blows into crazy ridges.

  Some plane to Philadelphia is boarding, so there are plenty of seats for me at the gate. Woo!

  Okay. Back to the tragedy of the missed concert.

  • • •

  Andrew’s concert was getting out right when I got to the middle school. Parents were flowing out. Dorky kids in their high-water black pants and neck-choking white shirts carried violin cases and cello cases. I saw Bony Emily, Andrew’s best friend, walking next to her mom.

  “Andrew still here?” I asked.

  “No. He left right away. Nice going, Felton,” she said.

  “Crap.”

  Mr. Burkholz, the middle-school gym teacher, shouted to me while I rolled past: “Nice picture in the paper! Ha-ha!”

  My stomach twisted. Jerk. Mr. Burkholz is one of those teachers who could give a shit if jocks are beating up other kids. He treated Cody and Karpinski like they were his best friends when they were like thirteen. I remember him asking them what they did for fun. Seriously. “What do you dudes do for fun?” They were thirteen. What a chump, Aleah.

  I took off on my bike, then slowed down because I didn’t want to actually get home and have to encounter the disappointment of Andrew and the sadness of Jerri. As you know, though, it only takes a few minutes to get from BMS (Bluffton Middle School) to our house, even if you’re going super slow (which you often did on your Walmart bike last summer). I rolled down the main road hill, saw Jerri’s Hyundai parked out on the driveway, swallowed hard, and thought: I have an excuse, right? Aleah…and my hamstring hurts and someone put posters of me up in school.

  Jerri and Andrew were up in the living room, having the post-event ice cream. (This is a long tradition, as you know.) Usually Andrew is fairly chattery. Usually he is talking a lot, going over the highlights, talking about who screwed up where, how he could’ve improved his performance, etc. When I climbed up the stairs from the garage and basement, though, there was no talking at all. Andrew and Jerri sat in silence.

  Jerri shook her head at me.

  Andrew said, “You missed it.”

  “I…I had a bad day.”

  “Andrew has been talking about this concert for months, Felton,” Jerri said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “It hurts my feelings…” Andrew said.

  “I didn’t mean…” I said. “Listen. I’m just…I’m just having a tough few days, okay?”

  “Because you set a state record in track and got your picture in the newspaper?” Andrew asked.

  “Somebody made copies of that picture and put it all over the school today,” I said. “It’s terrible.”

  “As of this morning, seventy-three people have left comments on feltonreinstein.com congratulating you on your 60-meter record. Forty-three people have left comments saying that picture is terrible. Why are you having a bad week?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh…That’s awesome.” I nodded. “Thanks for telling me,” I said. “But you know that picture is really…”

  “I didn’t play very well. I was looking for you in the audience before and then when you weren’t there I…”

  “Oh crap, Andrew. I’m really, really—”

  “It’s fine. I don’t want to…I’m not like you. I don’t need stupid fans who want to kiss my nuts.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Andrew,” Jerri gasped.

  “I’m sorry for the language, Jerri.” Then Andrew put down his pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby, stood up, and walked to his bedroom.

  Jerri’s face went totally red.

  “Jerri. I didn’t mean to miss—”

  “Here’s the problem,” Jerri whispered. “Your intentions don’t matter, Felton.”

  “I’m seriously having a bad—”

  “You’re not the only person in this family.”

  “Someone put up a poster—”

  “This was Andrew’s time to shine, Felton. When does he get that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How could you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jerri stood up. She shook her head at me. Then she said something pretty bad, Aleah. She said, “Your dad always claimed ignorance too, Felton. He couldn’t be bothered to remember anything important to me.”

  “Oh shit,” I said. Then I turned and walked back down the stairs to my room. I expected Jerri to follow me, but she didn’t.

  I still maintain that it’s a low blow to say I’m like my dad. He did have affairs and he did commit suicide. That’s a pretty big thing to just throw around, you know?

  • • •

  Whoa. What time is it? Okay, I’m fine.

  Okay. The airline finally posted Fort Myers on the gate. At least I’m not lost, Aleah.

  I’m hungry.

  August 15th, 3:12 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part III

  I have eaten a fettuccine Alfredo with some cold and chewy chicken. What did it taste like? The kind of paste I ate in first grade (pretty delicious).

  Can you believe Jerri said I am like Dad? That’s pretty mean. She did apologize a few days later.

  Am I like my dad, Aleah? I’m wearing his Stan Smith shoes right now. They fit me perfectly.

  Do I sort of want to be like my dad?

  I can’t begin to even address that, because saying to me I’m like my dad is like saying twenty-eight thousand things at one time.

  I don’t know how much like him I really am (which is a good reason for me to be going to Florida again, I suppose).

  Am I just a little bit selfish and deluded (Narcissus), or am I possibly a cheater, a self-hater, a home-wrecker, etc.?

  He was a great athlete. I am too.

  He was also seriously smart (PhD). I’m not, I don’t think.

  I look like him completely.

  I act like my dad in how many ways? I don’t know, because he’s dead.

  If I won the NCAA Championship in tennis, wouldn’t I smile? Wouldn’t I be happy? There’s this picture of him right after he won his championship where he’s out the on the court with a medal around his neck, and he’s not smiling. He’s sort of staring vacantly into space with this sort of sad look on his face. Maybe I wouldn’t be happy. Maybe I walk around looking sad too.

  Because of my hamstring injury, I haven’t really won anything big, yet. We lost the semifin
al in football. Hamstring killed the outdoor track season.

  Would I be happy if I really won the big one like he did? I don’t know.

  You were happy when you got invited to Germany, right?

  Are we through? I mean, is our relationship done?

  Oh, I’m having a great time writing this!

  Screw it. No more writing. I’m going to play Skee-Ball on my phone.

  Holy nuts. I’ve written a crapload of pages.

  August 15th, 3:31 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part IV

  Skee-Ball?

  I freaking hate Skee-Ball! Yet I insist on playing it over and over and over. My finger is kind of sweaty and it keeps getting stuck on my screen, so the ball won’t roll right. I got my high score like three weeks ago, and I can’t get close to it anymore for some reason (I lost my Skee-Skills!), but I keep rolling the freaking phone balls anyway.

  While I was playing, this little like five-year-old kid came over and sat on the chair next to me and watched. I asked if he wanted to play, but he shook his head, no (really slow, with his mouth open like, “Nuh-uh,” which was pretty funny). Then after I bounced a ball off the 100 hole, I shouted, “Dick Butkus!” really loud and the kid ran away and his dad glared at me.

  Why must I screw up all the time?

  At one time, I thought I’d be a great Skee-Ball champion…

  No more Skee-Ball.

  How about this?

  Let’s just get this over, okay?

  When we finally talked on Wednesday night that week, the reason I sounded distant is because I felt distant. Andrew wasn’t talking to me. Jerri wasn’t talking to me. Gus wasn’t talking to me. Karpinski had called me a wuss for not throwing toilet paper on Gus’s yard. Reese does whatever Karpinski does, so he called me a wuss too. At lunch on Tuesday, because I was totally stewing in my own meatballs, Cody told me I better shake off this stupid crap because I’ll soon be facing a lot worse stress than just a faked porn picture of me.

  “You think Ohio State fans are gonna be all ‘Welcome to the Horseshoe, Rein Stone’ when you go in there to play football in college?”

  “What?” Apparently the Horseshoe is the Ohio Stadium’s nickname. I had no idea.

  “People aren’t nice. They don’t like success. Shake it off, man,” Cody said.

  Yeah, but it wasn’t just the porn pic, was it? I hadn’t told anyone about my hamstring. I didn’t tell anyone about you or Andrew.

  Shake it off? Not so easy.

  The reason I didn’t react at all when you said, “Should we take a break this summer?” is because I was a total basket case, Aleah. No, I didn’t want to take a break. I don’t know what a break is. But my mouth didn’t work and my chest hurt so I couldn’t breathe and I was mad at you for even saying that.

  (You know I tried calling you in May. You know I texted you a lot. You didn’t ever respond. You were already on a break. I didn’t want the break.)

  When does it end?

  Man! What a sad story!

  Shake it off, Rein Stone!

  If it makes you feel any better, you weren’t the only person I treated badly during those twenty-four hours. The next morning, Thursday morning of that bullshit week, Andrew came into the living room while I was putting on my shoes and said, “Felton. It’s okay. I forgive you for missing my concert.”

  Before you hate me for what I did to Andrew, you should know I hate me for it worse. Okay? Also, I hadn’t slept for three days and I was constantly on the edge of barfing and I hadn’t been able to run all out in track and there was a track meet that night and I was so upset about you…I just sort of went illogically mean.

  There is no excuse.

  He said, “I forgive you.”

  I said, “Great, Andrew. Thanks. You’re a bigger human than me. Happy?”

  Andrew paused and stared at me. He peered over his nerdly glasses. “I’m not trying to be a bigger human being. I would like to be nice.”

  “Stick it, Andrew.”

  He said, “What do you mean?”

  “Stick. It.”

  “Stick what?”

  I said, “Jesus. It’s no big deal. Okay?”

  “What isn’t a big deal?”

  “You. Your concert. You’re not that great at piano. You’re not like Aleah. You should probably be a pharmacist.” I stared up at Andrew. I nodded at him.

  “I was trying to be forgiving, Felton,” Andrew whispered.

  “I am trying to be truthful. Pharmacist,” I said.

  “God, Felton,” he whispered. “Why are you so mean?”

  “Shake it off,” I said. Then I got up and left the house.

  You can begin to understand why Andrew might want to run away without telling me, huh?

  • • •

  Wait.

  What’s going on? There are a whole bunch of people standing at the desk talking to the lady back there. Something’s going on, Aleah. We’re supposed to take off in like forty minutes, but there’s not even a plane here yet. I’m going to go stand in that line like a donkey because everyone else is.

  August 15th, 4:50 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part V

  Oh shit.

  My flight was canceled because of extreme heat in Little Rock. A runway buckled? I am not exactly sure where Little Rock is. Arkansas, right? I don’t understand how a runway in Arkansas can make me not fly in Chicago, but that’s what happened, Aleah.

  Stranded. Sort of.

  I’m sort of freaking out.

  Eyeballs hurt.

  Me. I have to make a choice: stay in Chicago overnight to get the next direct flight into Fort Myers or fly to Atlanta, which might get me to Atlanta with enough time to connect to Fort Myers—or it might not, because I’d have about three minutes to get off the plane and run to the other plane, which I would be happy to do, except I know it took me forever to get the sausages to ask a bagel lady for directions to find my gate here and I’m sort of not feeling that great right now, Aleah.

  Stay overnight in Chicago?

  There’s a hotel right here, but I only have that money from Jerri. If pasty fettuccine Alfredo costs like twenty bucks (that’s what it cost!), won’t a hotel room cost like $500 or something? I could ask. I should ask. Maybe I’ll ask.

  I’ll call Jerri and ask her.

  Jerri isn’t answering the phone. You know why, Aleah? She’s probably off in the woods some place making out with your freaking dad. Why won’t she carry a damn cell phone?

  Okay…I just have to ask somebody about something because I don’t really want to stay here, but I don’t want to go to Atlanta. I’ve been to Atlanta, with Gus, and it is too hot there for anyone to survive.

  Why am I writing you when I should be gathering pertinent information?

  Because I don’t know who to ask.

  August 15th, 6:28 p.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part VI (Hotel)

  Jerri gave me a credit card to use in case of emergency. I’m beginning to suspect I have a good mother, Aleah, which means I can’t blame her for my lack of humanity or my narcissism.

  Not Jerri’s fault.

  After I wandered around for a half hour, staring at knickknack shops that sell magazines and little metal models of Chicago skyscrapers and these neck pillows that look like they would strangle me in my sleep and other assorted crap, the whole time wondering what in the whole wheat world I should do, Jerri called me (because I’d left her a message freaking out about how I was stranded and didn’t know what to do). She told me to go to Atlanta, except by that time there was no space left on the flight to Atlanta. I called Jerri back, and she said that this constituted an emergency and that I could use the credit card she’d stuck in my backpack, in the very back pocket, zipped in a pocket inside another pocke
t.

  Oh yes. It terrified me to have to book a room. Mumbled and stumbled and I’m sure the clerk person thought I was mentally ill. But…

  Now I’m on the biggest bed in the entire world! In a room with a big wood desk and serious air-conditioning!

  Emergency!

  I’ve taken an excellent shower and I’m wearing a robe, Aleah! It is the whitest, fluffiest robe on the entire planet!

  There are also white slippers that say “Chicago Hilton O’Hare Airport” on them! My feet are too big to fit in them, but that’s okay. I don’t like slippers very much!

  There’s a giant TV in here!

  Emergency!

  I like credit cards.

  What else, Aleah?

  Here’s something totally weird that just happened: There I was on my giant bed, minding my own business, resting with my thoughts and a little Tosh on the TV, when this reporter called me from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. I don’t answer the phone if I don’t know the number, so I just watched it go to voice mail. In the message, the reporter said there was a rumor going around that I am committing to play football for Wisconsin, because I haven’t made any other visits and I skipped the Michigan camp.

  Uh, no. I told colleges I’d make official visits this fall. (I didn’t want to last year because I’m new to football—okay, I just didn’t want to make visits.)

  I skipped the Michigan camp for personal reasons (my brother disappeared and I don’t like people!), not because I was committing to any other school…

  No! I haven’t committed to anything. I don’t want to commit yet!

  You and I were going to try to go to school in the same area, remember? Maybe New York somewhere?

  You were supposed to come to Bluffton for the summer too. But you didn’t….

  I don’t want to commit. Should I call the reporter back?

  No.

  I like my little hotel room without anyone to talk to in it (except you, and you’re not really here).