Guy Wire (7 page)

O
bviously Buzz’s nickname stuck. Not long after I thought it up, everybody was calling him Buzz. Even his own parents. Buzz and I spent a lot of time together, hanging out after school almost every day. I liked him more and more. He was always polite around adults, but around me he was funny and weird in just the kinds of ways I like. His twang got less noticeable over time, and he started calling his mother Mom like the rest of us. Every few weeks he’d call up my mom and make an appointment with her for another haircut. “Maintaining the buzz,” they called it.

For a while George’s name came up fairly often, and although I never told Buzz, it
always made me feel funny when it did. Buzz told me he felt bad about the way they’d acted toward me, but I didn’t care anymore; it seemed like ages ago. One day he told me George had written him a letter saying he had a new best friend. I didn’t tell him this either, but I was glad.

When school let out, Buzz and I went to work on a project we’d been planning together for months. A fort. We collected all kinds of stuff. We got scrap plywood from under his porch and a bunch of carpet samples from my basement, hauling it all out to a spot we’d picked in the field behind our subdivision. My dad gave us a stack of old records, which we tacked up all over the place as decoration. It wasn’t much to look at, but we loved it.

The day we nailed the roof on it, our parents agreed to let us sleep overnight out in the fort. We took sleeping bags, and my mom packed a bunch of food for us, including a big bag of snicker doodles. Mrs. Adams
contributed some juice and a package of rice cakes, which we entertained ourselves with by sailing them across the field.

That night we lay in our fort, swatting mosquitoes and talking in the dark.

“Did you ever think about that question ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’” Buzz asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, think about it. Which are you—a chicken man or an egg man?”

“Egg, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said. “Did you ever think about that question ‘How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?’”

“That’s not a question,” I said. “It’s a tongue twister.”

“It’s both; part tongue twister, part question. So what do you think, how much could he chuck?”

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?

“Mostly on what chucking means and
whether or not he can actually do it,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t he be able to do it?” Buzz asked.

“Well, remember the end of that thing goes: ‘
if
a woodchuck could chuck wood.’ That’s a big if,” I said.

“You’re a big if,” said Buzz.

“Oh yeah? Well, you’re a big gum wad.”

“Takes one to know one,” Buzz said.

Two weeks later, on July fourteenth, I turned eight. I had a party. My mother made one of her famous birthday cakes. It had a picture of me on the top, dressed as a shrub. For party favors she gave out the shamrock boxer shorts. We all got silly and wore them on our heads instead of party hats, and Buzz led us around the house in a wild bunny hop that ended with all of us laughing and rolling around on the floor. I wasn’t sure what to wish for when I blew out the candles. I came up with something at the last minute though—
Please, let things stay exactly the way
they are with Buzz and me
.

When it came time to open presents, I saved Buzz’s till last. I don’t even remember what it was. But I remember the card. I still I have it stuck to the bulletin board over my desk. There’s a picture of a fat, bald baby drinking a bottle on the front, and inside it says, “Happy BURP-day!” It’s signed—

…your best friend,
  Buzz

A
fter they took Buzz back into surgery, eventually I must have gone to sleep, because when I opened my eyes, bright sunlight was pouring in the window. At some point in the night someone had moved me into another waiting room where there was a couch. My father was sitting in a chair next to me wearing a suit and tie. He’d been away on a business trip all week. It was sort of shocking to see him dressed up like that after having just spent so much time reliving the old days in my head, back before he realized his pants were too short and white socks and loafers looked dorky.

“When did you get here?” I asked, sitting
up and rubbing my eyes.

“Your mom left me a message. I came straight from the airport.”

He gave me a big hug and ruffled my hair. I didn’t realize until then how much I’d missed him.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked, looking around.

“Actually,” he said, flashing me a big smile, “she’s at home baking a cake.”

“What?” I was wide awake now. “Baking a cake?”

“Uh-huh,” said my father, “a great big one. It’s for a certain somebody who gave us all quite a scare last night but who’s going to be just fine now.”

I looked at him carefully. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I asked.

“Buzz is going to be fine,” my father said.

I threw my arms around him and yelped with joy. “You should have woken me up to tell me,” I said.

“I didn’t see the point. Buzz is still sleeping and probably will be for a while.”

Suddenly it dawned on me why my mother was baking a cake. It was Buzz’s birthday. It seemed like a million years ago that he and I had been riding along talking about fate and birthday wishes, but in fact it had been only the day before. My head felt tired from the journey backward, but my heart felt full and grateful for the happy place where I’d finally arrived. Buzz was going to be okay.

Mr. and Mrs. Adams said it was okay for me to wait in Buzz’s room until he woke up. Finally around noon he began to stir and blink his eyes. His mother stood over him, helping him sip water through a straw and wiping his face with a wet washcloth. I held my breath and waited for him to notice me there. Would he look through me again? Was he still mad at me for all the trouble I’d caused?

It took him a while to see me, but when he did—he smiled. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen in my life.

“Hey, Guy Wire,” he said weakly.

I couldn’t help it. I burst right into tears in front of everybody, blubbering like a big baby.

“Sheesh,” I heard him say, and that just made me cry harder.

Mrs. Adams gave me a tissue, and after a few minutes I got myself under control. Over the next hour Buzz seemed to get stronger, and pretty soon he even began to sound like his old self. Mrs. and Mr. Adams went home to shower and change, saying they’d be right back. I was glad for the time alone with Buzz.

“Do you remember me coming in here to talk to you before, Buzzard?” I asked.

“No, did I say something I shouldn’t have? I was pretty out of it, I think.”

“You didn’t say anything. You just looked mad. And I don’t blame you if you’re still mad.”

“Mad? About what?” he asked.

“The accident. Remember? I told you about the wish and then—you got hit. This is all my fault.”

“You don’t really believe in that wish bunk, do you?”

“Yes,” I said seriously, “I do.”

“Well, go ahead and believe in the Tooth Fairy too if you want, but this wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“I told you to prepare to die,” I said, my eyes welling up with tears again.

“I never listen to what you say. Don’t you know that yet?” Buzz said, “Hey, why are you bawling? Does your face hurt or something?” he asked me seriously.

“No, why?” I asked, quickly putting my hands on my cheeks to check.

“’Cause it’s killing me!”

He laughed, and so did I.

Then Buzz closed his eyes and kind of drifted off for a minute. When he opened his eyes, he looked kind of worried.

“What’s the matter?” I asked nervously. “Do you need me to call the nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just remembering something. While I was out of it, I think I had
a long dream,” he said, “a weird one. Like in
The Wizard of Oz
, you know? All these people I knew were in it, only they were different. It was like pieces of the past were flying around in a sort of tornado, and you know who was in it? Mrs. Hunn. She was ringing that little bell she used to keep on her desk. Remember that thing?”

This was too weird. Had it worked? Had my thoughts really reached Buzz somehow? Why else would he have been thinking about Mrs. Hunn, of all people? What if he’d gone along with me on that journey back to the beginning of our friendship? Had he felt what I was feeling? Been able to read all my thoughts? Suddenly something awful occurred to me.

“Was I in your dream, Buzzard? You know, with that weird buzz cut I got after you got yours? And were the shamrock boxer shorts in it, and George and the fort and flying rice cakes?” I asked anxiously.

“
Rice cakes?
I said it was a dream,
goofus, not a nightmare.”

“You have to tell me, Buzz. It’s important—do you remember anything about—”

But I was interrupted by a tap at the door. A hand reached in and flipped the light switch off.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Buzz said.

The door swung open, and there were my mom and dad and Jerry and Buzz’s parents. My mom was holding a big cake with candles on top. They weren’t lit, but Mr. Adams had a flashlight pointed at it, and they were all singing “Happy Birthday.”

“I totally forgot,” Buzz said, trying to scooch up a little so he could see better.

Buzz’s mom hurried over to fluff up the pillows behind him, while his dad raised the head of the bed so he could sit up. My mother had outdone herself with the cake. There was a very realistic version of Buzz on top, with little yellow candy sticks poking up for his hair, and mini chocolate chips for freckles.

“Make a wish, Buzzy,” said my mom.

“Actually, I wasn’t planning to do that this year,” Buzz said.

“Do it,” I said firmly. “And make it a good one.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll do it for you. But in case you haven’t noticed, these candles aren’t lit.”

“Hospital rules,” Mr. Adams said. “You’ll have to pretend.”

Buzz closed his eyes and blew across the candles. My mom cut the cake, and everybody had a piece, except Buzz, who was allowed only Jell-O. And me. I was too nervous to eat.

“I need to ask you something, Buzz. Something important,” I said quietly. “In your dream, the one you had after you got hit, did you happen to overhear me talking about a birthday wish I made?”

“You’re scaring me here, Guy. You told me about that dumb wish you made right before the accident, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, but this is a different wish
I’m talking about. That was my seventh birthday when I wished for a best friend. I’m talking about my
eighth
birthday wish. Did you overhear it in your dream?”

Please. I thought. Make him not have heard the wish I made—
Let things stay exactly the way they are with Buzz and me
.

“I swear on my mother’s spit I do not know what you wished for on your eighth birthday,” Buzz said, holding his hand over his heart. “Satisfied?”

“Yes,” I said with great relief. “’Cause that means even though the first wish came undone, the second one has kicked in, which means we’re safe.”

Buzz looked at me.

“Don’t leave me hanging here, tuna brain. What was the wish?”

“Are you nuts?” I said. “Fate doesn’t go around handing out second chances every day, you know. I’m never, ever telling you what that wish was, got it?”

“Suit yourself, toe jam,” Buzz said.

“I will, hangnail.”

“Monkey rump,” he said, grinning at me.

“Takes one to know one,” I shot back.

“Okay boys, that’s enough now.” Mrs. Adams laughed. “Buzz needs his rest now.”

“Thanks for the cake, Mrs. Strang,” Buzz said.

My mother came over and kissed Buzz on the top of his head.

“You’re welcome, Buzzy. I promise to make you another one when you’re well enough to actually eat it.”

Visiting hours were over. A nurse came in and tried to hurry us out. Buzz offered her a piece of his cake and then laid a little of his old southern drawl on her. It charmed her like a snake, and she let us stay a little longer.

When it was finally time to go, I looked at my best friend and smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Guy Wire,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

Jacket art © 2002 by Patrick Faricy

Jacket design by Alicia Mikles

Jacket © 2002 by HarperCollins Publishers