Nothing Special Read online

  Then what? I marked the Randy Stone email as spam. Take that, Randy Stone!

  Then, because I can’t calm myself without running, I tried running even though I could barely walk. I limped into my shorts and shoes. I limped out on the driveway. I zombie-walked down the hill to the main road. Then I turned and attempted to bolt up the hill toward the house. But, holy crap, in about three steps the little man ripped me up, Aleah. I ended up lying on the lawn crying. (Oh, I am not proud.) Jerri had to come out in the yard, help me up, and half drag my ass back into the house.

  “I can’t believe you tried to run,” she said. “The doctor said not even light jogging for a month.”

  “Oh crap,” I cried.

  Who am I if I can’t run?

  Squirrel Nut.

  • • •

  Jesus. I have to go to sleep. I have to be at the gate by like nine.

  August 16th, 12:05 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part IX (Hotel)

  Are you in love with some Amadeus Vienna Weiner musician, Aleah?

  Sorry. We’re on break.

  I shouldn’t care if you’re in love with some German sausage.

  Crap.

  When I finally got my driver’s license in February, I figured we’d drive out in the country and go to the Mississippi and drive into the bottoms around Bluffton and see everything, but that never happened. Not once. We never even parked at the big M to make out.

  Maybe you were with Wolfgang Amadeus Schlong during the break, but I have not been with another girl. I stayed alone, and the rest of the school year went okay. Jerri and I watched a lot of TV. (I told Cody and Karpinski I had to rest for therapeutic reasons, which Cody accepted. Karpinski kept asking me to do stuff, but I wouldn’t.)

  It was weird to have no sport to play. It was totally, painfully, depressingly, completely awful not to be able to run. (Except when coaches visited me in May and Jerri cooked them bad dinners—I liked not running then. Unfortunately I had no doctor excuse to keep me from talking, so I had to talk, which made me sound like an idiot.)

  During track practice, while my friends all ran, I lifted weights like a crazy man, and for a month or two I sort of looked like a dude who takes steroids to model tight underpants in some gross magazine. I got so bulky that I felt kind of embarrassed. (Thankfully, when I started running again in June, I dropped a little bit of the bulky-underpants-model weight. Now I look like me but just a little bigger).

  Maybe the best thing about April and May is that I received no more email from Randy Stone. (Turned out to be the spam filter at work.) Gus didn’t want anything to do with me. I didn’t want anything to do with him. I began to think his Randy Stone stunt had sealed the end of our friendship.

  Andrew was the only weird part. He didn’t hang with Jerri and me at all. He stayed in his bedroom all the time. He read this fat book constantly (Spinoza’s The Ethics—Spinoza is some old philosopher). He stopped talking. He stopped eating with us (ate only crackers and cheese). He got sent home from school for fighting one day (crazy). And, what’s worse, he did what he always does when something is filling his little, obsessive walnut brain: he stopped showering (gross).

  Weirdo. You probably haven’t seen his eighth-grade yearbook picture, huh? Everyone else is smiling in the yearbook, but he took off his glasses and rested his hand on his chin and stared at the camera flat, like he was some kind of old man artist or something. Freak boy. But I guess Andrew looks sort of cool in that photo.

  Finally, in mid-May, while we were watching a seriously horrifying episode of Hoarders (lots of dead cats buried in piles of junk), Jerri said, “Oh crap. Does that lady remind you of Andrew or what?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. The hoarder lady had plastic nerd glasses. She was tiny and frail. She had giant stacks of fat books. She fought with the people who were trying to help her. And she obviously hadn’t showered in months.

  “Has Andrew said anything to you, Felton? I asked his teachers if he was acting strangely or writing strange stuff. Other than his weird fight, nothing seems to be up. He’s doing fine in school. What is going on?” Jerri asked.

  “I don’t know.” The truth is that I hoped his weirdness would go away. I didn’t want to open another worm can. Ten months earlier, Andrew had practically lived in the garden, you know. I wanted normalcy.

  “Shit. Do we need an intervention?” Jerri asked.

  “Should we call Grandma Berba?” I asked.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Because…” I pictured Jerri in her bathrobe, depressed out of her freaking nut. “Because, you know?”

  “I’m fine. I’m great. Don’t worry about me,” Jerri said. “Let’s have an intervention right now.”

  “Uh…” This didn’t seem like a great idea, Aleah. I did not want to go into Andrew’s room. I did think this, though: When Jerri went nuts, I tried to ignore it. That did not work. “I guess we should,” I said.

  Jerri stood fast and walked across the living room. Our new TV blared Hoarders in the background. I stood and followed her. We entered the dark hall, where just a little light was emanating from around Andrew’s cracked door. She knocked.

  Andrew said, “Who is it?”

  “Jerri. Jerri and Felton,” she said.

  “Entrez vous,” Andrew said.

  “That’s French.” Jerri nodded at me. She opened the door.

  Andrew lay on his belly on the floor. He had the big book cracked open in front of him. His glasses hung off his nose. Pamphlets with cellos and pianos and harps were scattered around him. The room smelled vaguely of maple syrup. Why? I do not know.

  He looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “This is an intervention,” Jerri said.

  “Yes,” Andrew said. “An inconvenience.”

  “Felton and I are worried about your behavior. You’re isolating yourself—”

  “And reading big books. What is that?” I asked, pointing to the fat thing in front of him.

  “Spinoza. He’s a mystical Jewish philosopher…I think,” Andrew said. “I don’t really get it all, but I’m trying.”

  “Reading doesn’t worry me,” Jerri said.

  “Thank heavens,” Andrew said.

  “You’re not playing piano, and your isolation—”

  “And not showering!” I barked.

  “I shower,” Andrew said.

  “You won’t talk to us,” Jerri said.

  “Sure I will,” Andrew said. “What do you want to know?”

  “What on earth are you doing in here all the time?” Jerri asked.

  “Lots of things.”

  “Like what?” Jerri asked.

  “Tonight I’ve called Grandma Berba and asked her for money so I can go to an orchestra camp in Door County this summer. Most of the time I’m studying or reading Spinoza, which isn’t easy, Jerri.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “The philosopher.”

  “Andrew, you called Grandma Berba for money?”

  “Yes.”

  “For a camp? What camp?”

  “Orchestra camp. Door County is beautiful.” Andrew nodded. “The camp is right on Lake Michigan.”

  “Why wouldn’t you ask me for money?” Jerri barked.

  “Grandma Berba has more money than God,” Andrew said. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Jerri.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You need my permission.”

  “Andrew makes a good point, Jerri,” I said. “You’re starting a new career—”

  “Shut up, Felton,” Jerri said. Her face had turned dark red.

  “Jerri, can I go to orchestra camp this summer? It’s eight weeks. Very intensive. I’m trying to avoid my fate,” Andrew said.

  “What fate?” Jerri asked.
/>
  “Felton thinks I should be a pharmacist,” Andrew said.

  “Oh crap, Andrew. I was in a bad mood when I said that. Don’t take everything—”

  “Yes,” Jerri said. “You can go, Andrew. I’m glad you’re being constructive. How long is it again?”

  “Eight weeks,” Andrew said.

  “Fine. Good. Show me the information and if it seems legit…just tell me where to sign,” Jerri said.

  “I’ll have the paperwork filled out by morning,” Andrew told her.

  We stood there staring at each other for a few seconds. Then Jerri said, “Thus ends the intervention.” She turned and pushed past me. I followed her. In the hall, she whispered, “Why do you have to be such a jerk, Felton? A pharmacist?”

  “I didn’t mean it,” I whispered back.

  “Is there no space between your brain and your mouth?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “If I’m supposed to talk…then there’s a big space.”

  “Backward,” Jerri said. She didn’t go into the living room. She went into her bedroom, so I had to watch the end of Hoarders by myself.

  Apparently, the camp was legit, Aleah. Jerri signed the papers.

  • • •

  Whoops. I’m blowing up here. Karpinski text.

  August 16th, 2:17 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part X (Hotel)

  Karpinski texted to tell me that practice is stupid without me and I better get the hell back to Bluffton or he’ll quit.

  He won’t quit.

  We texted back and forth for a while. He totally doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing right now. I’m not exactly sure either. What’s with me and my commitment to football, Aleah? Do I even care about it?

  Yes. Yes, I totally do, but…there’s definitely something going on.

  In February, I committed to go to the Michigan technique camp because your dad told me that Michigan might be a really good fit (good sports and really good academics).

  As soon as I told the offensive coordinator there that I was coming (he was too psyched—he wooed), I began having nightmares of giant asswipe dudes, other football players, trying to push me around. I dreamed of coaches screaming with crazy idiot voices, like South Park cartoon-freak coaches might scream. I dreamed of running through dorm hallways trying to get the hell away from dudes chasing me.

  Seriously, I got all whacked out and sleepless, until Jerri asked me what the hell my problem was one winter morning. (I totally fell asleep while eating a flaxseed frozen waffle.) Because I was weak and half asleep, I told her that visions of this stupid camp were driving me crazy.

  Jerri sat back in her chair and squinted at me. She said, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  I sat straight up in my chair, all filled with monkey juice. I spat at her, “You don’t want me to go! You hate football!”

  She folded her arms and smirked at me. “Felton, I’m trying to comfort you. Do whatever you want. No matter what, I’m firmly committed to being the mother of a dumb jock.”

  “That’s not nice!”

  “I’m making a joke.”

  Jerri has gotten in the habit of making sort of mean jokes, if you haven’t noticed. (Gus totally noticed this summer.)

  But here’s the truth: as soon as Jerri said I didn’t have to go, the dreams went away. Pressure release. I never cancelled the camp, never called to tell them I wasn’t going, but in the back of my head I sort of thought I wouldn’t go.

  I didn’t go, but not exactly because I was scared of my dreams—Andrew gave me an excuse.

  Is Andrew turning into my way out of football? Here I am, chasing him instead of playing the game.

  Karpinski texted at one point tonight: You think peyton manning would miss practice week of first game???

  I’ve been thinking about that. Do you know who Peyton Manning is? He’s like the Yo-Yo Ma of football. I don’t really know if Yo-Yo Ma is that great a musician. He is, right? Peyton is like a super great, one of the best quarterbacks ever.

  So, here’s a good question: Would Peyton Manning drop everything—drills, fitness, training camp—to go find his little brother, Eli, if little Eli were lost on the Florida Gulf Coast?

  That’s what I’m doing.

  I don’t know how to answer the question. Would Peyton leave practice the week of a game?

  He’s a serious professional football player, and that means he’s had to make serious sacrifices, like maybe not helping Eli out when he was in trouble in the past. Maybe? “Can’t save you from those bullies, little buddy. I’ve got passes to throw…”

  But, really, I don’t know. Peyton seems nice.

  Actually, my guess is that Peyton Manning would go find Eli if he were lost. My guess is that part of the reason Peyton’s such an awesome leader is that he puts people ahead of his own personal gain. That’s why everybody thinks, “Thank Gawd we got us a little Peyton in our lives…”

  He’s also not crazy like I’m crazy.

  I think I’ve got good reason to be crazy.

  Maybe I really would be like Peyton Manning, except my tennis dad killed himself and didn’t play football, like Peyton’s did, and didn’t raise me in a giant mansion with this perfect Manning-style family, so my problems are a lot bigger, much, much bigger than Peyton Manning ever had to deal with, and so I’m not crazy but actually just doing the best a totally broken dude like myself can expect to do.

  • • •

  Jesus. No way. No way I can freaking sleep.

  You know, Aleah, I’ve already been gone from Bluffton for like twenty hours and I’m still in Chicago. I could’ve driven almost to freaking Georgia by now. Haysoos Christmoos.

  I don’t want to be a football slacker. I’m going to do some freaking running. Maybe run stairs? I’m going to donkey-run my ass up some stairs.

  August 16th, 3:17 a.m.

  O’hare Airport, Part XI (Hotel)

  I just got yelled at by a man in a white bathrobe, which was sort of dangling open. “Stop your goddamn running around the halls right now, you drunk!”

  I’m not drunk. I’m weird. I said, “Sorry.”

  He squinted at me, nodded, and said, “Just go to bed.”

  “I’m not tired,” I told him.

  “Go to bed,” he said, sort of mean, so I came back to the room.

  I ran a good bit on the stairs but had only gotten in like ten hallway wind sprints before robe man put the kibosh on my training.

  Man. I want to go home, Aleah. I want to be back in Bluffton. I want to be asleep. This is happening, though. I’m in.

  Andrew.

  In June, like five days after school ended, Jerri and I drove Andrew to Madison to catch a bus for his orchestra camp. Jerri wanted to drive him all the way to Green Bay, where he was supposed to meet up with the other mighty dork campers, but he said no.

  For about a week before this trip, Jerri and Andrew argued about it. “That’s ridiculous, Andrew. Absolutely not. You’re not taking the bus. I want to drive you.”

  “It’s not ridiculous at all,” he said, “I’m fourteen and I need to learn to take care of myself. This will be a very safe adventure, Jerri.”

  “Andrew, no! I want to meet your counselors. I want to see the other campers.”

  “Jerri, please. Don’t be such a mother, okay? This isn’t about you.”

  Aha, Aleah. He played the self-reliance card perfectly. It’s one that works well on Jerri, because she’s watched a lot of the Oprah Winfrey Network. He made her believe somehow that the adventure of traveling alone part of the trip would benefit his quest to become an excellent adult. Well played.

  So we put his bag filled with many mallets and drumsticks of multiple kinds, his giant-ass book, and like one change of underpants in the back
of the Hyundai that Monday, and off we all went.

  Andrew barely said a word the entire drive. Jerri kept looking back at him in the rearview mirror. I turned around a couple of times and saw him staring out the window. His face was a little red, which might have been a clue. But if I were heading off to a scary camp among perfect strangers, I’d be freaked, for sure. (Michigan technique camp drove me crazy, for instance.)

  Of course, Andrew is not me.

  At the bus station—this place is really like a strip mall with a giant garage attached in the back—Jerri said, “Call me every day, Andrew.”

  Andrew said, “Um. Maybe. I’ll probably call you every few days.”

  Then I said, “Have a good time, Andrew. I really hope it’s great.”

  Andrew stared at me through his nerd glasses for a moment. Then he dropped his suitcase and hugged me extremely hard around my stomach (because that’s how tall he is). He said, “Here I go, Felton. This is it.”

  I nodded at him. “Good luck, man.”

  He backed up a step and squinted.

  Then he turned and threw his suitcase into the luggage compartment of the fugly Greyhound bus. Then he climbed aboard the fugly Greyhound bus. Then he sat at the window and stared out at us as other sad and tired passengers piled on behind him. A hugely fat dude with a ponytail and a pink T-shirt that didn’t cover his belly completely cried like a baby next to Jerri. He’d just put his very tiny, extremely pierced girlfriend on the bus. Then the bus honked, backed up, and was gone.

  Jerri sort of sniffled as we climbed into her Hyundai.

  “Going to miss the boy?” I asked.

  “Miss what? Your brother is a ghost.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s a complete mystery to me,” Jerri said.

  “No kidding,” I nodded.

  The house felt extremely empty without him there. Jerri and I did what Jerri and I do: watch dumb TV together. Even though he didn’t talk to us, Andrew was action. He was always really busy: computer, whispering on the phone, writing crap down, digging around in his room while classical music blared. Sort of ridiculous…what would an eighth grader have to be so busy about?