Nothing Special (16 page)

Here's something I started thinking about that day, something I've been thinking about all summer, Aleah: my actions have an effect on crap. For my whole life, they really haven't, but now they do.

When I was a little kid, I couldn't really do anything. I had no power to change anything. Gus and I were always there for each other because there weren't any other choices. I had no other friends. He didn't either. He didn't have a girlfriend. We just were together. I didn't know much and I couldn't do much and whatever I did didn't matter much. (Nobody got hurt; nobody got better.)

Now I know about my dad and I have a weird brother who depends on me and I have teammates and I know that Jerri isn't remotely perfect, and all the stuff I choose to do—like miss a camp at Michigan or go to Florida with Gus or miss my brother's concert—makes all this other stuff happen or not happen.

I have all this responsibility. Seriously. It makes me want to throw up sometimes. And it isn't going away, I don't think. I'm not ever going to brainlessly ride my Schwinn Varsity over to Gus's house to watch a Muppet movie again, you know? That's all gone.

I want my family to be okay. I need them to be okay.

Action, reaction. Whatever I do makes it better or worse. It took me many weeks to figure this out. I wasn't ready last time I was in Florida.

Just like Tovi told us to, Andrew and I walked to the DQ near the pier to talk. We walked in silence.

We ordered our hot dogs (what Tovi ordered us to order) in silence.

We sat and ate our hot dogs in silence.

Finally, as Andrew was finishing his, while staring at the table in front of me, I said, “How can I help you?”

“Fail to be born,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“Disappear,” Andrew said.

“I can't,” I said.

“Go home,” he said.

“I might. I really might. But I want to know why you're so pissed. Then maybe I'll make a decision.”

“It doesn't matter, Felton. I can't get my old life back.”

“What old life?”

“The one where I don't feel like a failure just for existing,” Andrew said.

I didn't know how to respond. Nothing like that had ever come from Andrew's mouth. “Why would you say that?” I asked, after staring at him for like ten years.

“Because,” Andrew said.

“That's a lame answer.”

“You're a lame answer.”

“That's not nice.”

“You're not…”

“Don't do that,” I spat.

“Go home.”

“I can't.”

“You should. You're not wanted here,” Andrew said.

“You're not wanted here either. Tovi told me that our grandpa doesn't even know you're you.”

“I have a better chance with him than I do in Bluffton.”

“Everybody loves you in Bluffton,” I said.

“No they don't,” Andrew said. “They hate me to my core.”

“Jesus. What's wrong with you, Andrew? Not true.”

“Yes. That's what I feel. I'm claiming my emotions,” he said. “I have a right to my emotions. Big Rod said I don't have to hide behind you or Jerri or…or…

“A child detective?”

“Right. I can just be as mad as I am. And I'm very mad about how you've treated me, and I'm not just going to roll over and be happy to see you, okay? Because you're terrible to me and just being related to me isn't good enough anymore.”

“How am I terrible to you?” I shouted. (What a dumb thing to ask, Aleah.)

“Concert. Pharmacist. Tell me to get lost when I need you. Say ‘shake it off ' when I'm very worried. Don't listen when I talk. Don't thank me for working all night on your website. Run fast…”

“Run fast?”

“Run! Fast!” Andrew shouted so loud everybody in the DQ stopped eating and started staring.

“I can understand how it might make you feel pretty freaking crappy when I don't show at your concert or when I call you a pharmacist or am ungrateful and mean, but I can't really help it that I run fast.”

“Are you going to apologize?”

“For running fast?”

“For everything else!” Andrew shouted.

“Everything?”

“You're a big, fat, stupid jerk all the time!” Andrew screamed.

Then came another voice. “You two. Get out. Now. Door. Go.” It was a man in a DQ hat and apron. He also had a mustache. He walked toward us fast, shaking his finger at us. “Door! Door! Now!”

I jumped out of my chair and was out the door in a blink.

I waited for like a minute. Andrew didn't come out. I pressed my face to the glass. Andrew sat inside and shook his head at me. I opened the door and poked my head in. The mustache man was back behind the counter. He yelled, “Get out!”

“What the hell?” I yelled at Andrew.

“You just abandoned me again, Felton. Ran away without me. Left me to the dogs. But this isn't Bluffton. This gentleman is making me a Heath Blizzard.”

“Jesus Christ,” I shouted. All the people stared at me and shook their heads. “Did you tell him our business?”

“Get out,” Andrew said.

So I left. In retrospect, I failed my test by not getting Andrew out of the DQ with me.

I have no idea what he told the mustache man to get a Heath Blizzard. But I was pissed. I vowed never to go to a DQ again (a vow I have since broken sixteen times).

Then I sort of realized what I'd done by bolting so fast.

Oh yes, it was a long, sad walk back down the beach to the White Shells. Here's what I thought:
I'm not only too fast, I'm a really terrible person and Andrew has finally figured it out. Now he's gone completely apeshit in Florida, and it's my fault.

See how my actions create reactions? (A boy calls his brother a pharmacist; the brother turns Super Crazy-Ass.)

I have responsibilities, Aleah. I do.

Andrew didn't come back to the room that night.

“He's started staying at Big Rod's when I'm at Papa's,” Tovi said. “He's there, I'm sure. Don't worry.”

Gus looked worried.

Just a little more than two hours to go. I'm dreaming, Aleah. That's what it feels like. The Florida ditches are dark green pools (water is everywhere) and the palm trees are bent and the clouds are blowing up and turning and look like crazy cartoons, and the stringy-haired woman in front of me is eating a whole bag of Utz potato chips—crunch, crackle bag, smack lips—which would normally make me hungry, but now makes me want to totally barf. Whoa.

Andrew just texted that he's coming with Tovi to the bus station. Nice.

• • •

More reaction: Boy misses brother's spring concert; brother throws boy's shoes in the ocean.

Sound crazy? Yes. Crazy.

Even though Andrew didn't spend that night in the White Shells, he was there briefly, very early in the morning. I have a vague memory of him coming into the room at the cracker of dawn. I was on the floor, half asleep. Gus slept on a foldout cot Tovi ordered. Tovi slept in the bed. The door opened. Andrew tiptoed past me. He dug around for a moment, then was gone. I shut my eyes.

About an hour later, Tovi woke Gus and me up, and we went for a swim in the gulf. It was amazing in there—warm like a bath and rolling and perfect, except Tovi told us we had to shuffle our feet going in so we wouldn't step on any hidden stingrays. I asked her if she was kidding. She said, “Why would I kid about stingrays?”

Scary.

Out in the water, I told Gus that he was right. I had to deal with this crazy shit. I had to stay in Florida. “But you should go,” I told him.

He didn't really respond. He kept his eyeballs on Tovi the whole time, which sort of grossed me out because Tovi's my cousin. (Of course she looks like a tennis player in a bikini, and I look like a freaking lumberjack or something.)

The three of us didn't talk much, just floated around in the warm water.

I tried to relax but knew what was coming…a trip to Papa Stan's.

Gus
is
right. You have to deal with this shit…

Not relaxing.

When we got back to the room from swimming, Andrew was in there. He was dressed in tennis whites like for Wimbledon, except in the 1970s. He had on a collared shirt and short shorts and a red headband and red wristbands.

“I was worried about you. Why didn't you come back?” I asked him, my throat tense.

Andrew didn't respond.

“Nice outfit,” I whispered. He looked up briefly, then went back to tying his white tennis shoes.

“I wear this because Papa Stan would like me to play a classical game, like John McEnroe,” Andrew said.

“Okay,” I said.

“Those are Papa's old clothes,” Tovi said.

“He's as small as Andrew?” I asked, not believing a grown man could be so small.

“I threw your running shoes in the ocean,” Andrew said, still not looking up.

We all paused for a moment and stared at Andrew.

“Mine?” Tovi asked. “I don't have running shoes here.”

“No,” Andrew said. “Felton's.”

“What?” I stood there staring at him, mouth dropped open. I'd worn flip-flops out to the beach, so I hadn't looked for my shoes. That's apparently why he'd come back to the room briefly. To get my shoes. “What?”

“Oh crap, Andrew,” Tovi said. “Why?”

Andrew sat up. “They floated for a long time. I thought they might wash back onto the beach, but then they went out to sea. I don't really understand how the ocean works.”

“It's the gulf,” Tovi said. “You know that.”

“Whatever.”

“My shoes?” I shouted. “Why would you?” Adrenaline pulsed through my veins.

“You still have your flip-flops,” Andrew said. “You don't have to go barefoot.”

“I can't run in flip-flops, you jerk!”

“I know. You can't run and you can't play tennis either.”

“Andrew,” Tovi said, “you know Papa is going to want to hit.”

“Yes,” Andrew nodded. “This will keep Felton from looking like our dad on the tennis court.”

“Goddamn it, I love those shoes,” I said.

“They're on their way to Cuba,” Andrew said.

“You didn't have to throw his shoes,” Tovi said. “Felton wouldn't have to play.”

“If there are balls around, Felton is going to chase them,” Andrew told her.

“What are you talking about?” I shouted.

“Lots of things,” Andrew said.

“Papa should see him play sometime,” Tovi said. “Maybe not today, though, huh? Better ease in.”

“My shoes.” I walked to the door to leave, to what? Go swim around in the Gulf of Mexico to find them?

I stopped. I turned around and pointed at Andrew. “I should throw your big book in the ocean!” I shouted. Action, reaction. Bad reaction.

“Poop flinger,” Andrew said.

“You guys are so nuts,” Gus said.

“We should go soon,” Andrew said. “I can't stay for very long today. I have to be at sound check at six.”

Yes, Andrew and the Golden Rods had a gig that night on the White Shells' pool deck. (Wasn't looking forward to that, Aleah.) I exhaled and shook my head. Very confused. “I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “I can't believe this.” I sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands.

“Ridiculous, Andrew,” Tovi said.

“No, not,” Andrew replied.

I have to shower,” Tovi said. “The gulf is gross.” Then she dropped the towel she was wrapped in, and Gus almost fell on the floor. Tovi blushed because of Gus's reaction. “What's wrong with you?” she said.

“I'm sorry,” Gus said.

Then she went into the bathroom.

I almost cried about my shoes. I said, “I feel shackled.”

Andrew whispered, “Join the club.”

It just occurred to me that “shackled” is a good word for how I've been feeling ever since you stopped talking to me, Aleah. Recruiters watching me. Hamstring hampering me so I couldn't race for State or run to feel good. Worried about football camp. Worried about Andrew. Even when football practice started a couple of weeks ago, I didn't feel right.

Everything seems like it's moving faster than it's supposed to because so much crap is crammed into every moment. At practice, the ball flies out of Cody's hand, which is one thing, but at the same time I'm thinking about college and Andrew and you and Gus, and I can't just catch the ball Cody throws. I have to catch it and think about all this other stuff, and that makes everything hard.

Ultimate Frisbee in Nashville. That's the only time I've felt unshackled since you've been gone. Maybe I need to stop thinking about you, Aleah.

Jesus God, there's a little kid in the seat behind me. He's kicking the crap out of my seat. My head…my head…my head…

The poor kid who was kicking my seat got screamed at and probably spanked (hitting of some kind). If you want to feel like your life isn't too bad, take a Greyhound bus, Aleah. We should all take Greyhound buses.

• • •

Need a good friend? Call Gus.

Andrew left the room while Tovi showered that morning.

As soon as Andrew left, I turned to Gus and said, “He threw out my shoes.”

Gus said, “This is trouble.”

“Can you believe it?” I asked.

“I've decided to stay.”

“Dude, no. You have to go. This isn't your problem.”

“This is our problem. We're brothers,” Gus said.

“Your parents are going to call the cops, man. You have to drive home now.” I didn't want to take Gus down with me.

“I have to believe Teresa will understand. She's a good mom. She worries about you too. I'll call them today, okay? I'm not going to abandon you again, Felton.”

Just then, Tovi opened the bathroom door. She wore a tennis skirt, which clearly made Gus shiver.

“
Jesus
. Child abuse,” Gus whispered.

“Jesus. Thank you, Gus,” I whispered.

“What?” he asked, staring at Tovi.

“Where the hell's Andrew?” Tovi barked.

We found Andrew in the lobby playing the piano. He had a big white straw hat and a giant pair of sunglasses on the bench next to him, which Tovi had directed him to buy at the gift shop.

“Good. Here's your disguise,” Tovi said.

I put the junk on, but looked totally ridiculous. (There's a big mirror in the lobby.)

“This is crazy,” I said.

“He still looks like our dad,” Andrew said.

“It's better,” Tovi said. “It's better.”

A few minutes later, we were in the Beemer (the car Grandma Rose once drove) and were rolling over bridge, past water, into sprawl, into crap ranch homes and more sprawl and the CVS pharmacies across from the Walgreens pharmacies, and past Winn-Dixie grocery stores in giant strip malls.

And, Aleah, I was completely petrified. I couldn't not go but I totally didn't want to go, plus I had on flip-flops, which I hated because they harmed my escapability. I was dizzy. I wore sunglasses (over a black eye). I wore a big hat. (I'd never worn a big hat before.) Nobody talked. Nobody really breathed. The energy in the car was totally, wickedly foreboding, like when the teens in a horror movie know who the psycho mass murderer is and have made a plan and are on their determined way to kill him (even though they could turn the car around and just go to the beach and forget about it). Crap. Scary.

Eventually, like forty minutes later, we drove through what looks like a Florida Dangling Sack version of a California TV ghetto—lots of seriously run-down ranch homes with cars parked on the lawns, and then, out of no place, came the giant black-and-gold-painted gates of the Fiddlesticks Golf Community.

“Why is this place stuck in the middle of hell?” Gus asked.

“It's how Florida works,” Tovi said.

Tovi pulled up to security. A giant dude in a uniform leaned out the window of the gatehouse. “Morning, Miss Tovi. You know all these boys?”

“Not intimately,” Tovi smiled.

“Thank God for that,” the gate man laughed. “You kill me, girl.” Then the gate went up and we were in.

Inside, we followed a winding road past Spanish-looking mansions with those clay-pot-planter roofs (as seen on
COPS
). We rolled past fountains and swimming pools and past the tennis courts and the country club. I felt ill, like I'd throw up hard on my flip-flops, and my straw hat made my head itch and the glasses made the world dark. Gus said, “Reinsteins have some cash, I guess.”

“Hey, yeah,” Tovi said. Then she pulled up to a two-story behemoth with a Honda parked out front. “Why doesn't he park that shit in the garage?” Tovi asked. “The sun's going to melt all his gum.”

“This is it?” I asked with no voice to speak of.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“One little old man lives in that thing?” Gus asked.

“Except when I'm here,” Tovi said.

“It's like Southern Gothic with you guys,” Gus said.

I sweated great bulbous drips of viscous liquid that got hung up in the mounds of man hair on my legs.

My dad's dad. Dad.

I
don't know Dad. My dad's dad hates my dad. My dad's dad hates me. I'm in a costume. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.
Om shanti
. It's okay. Jerri, Jesus. Okay…

My very capable squirrel-nut brain began to take off on the angry hamster wheel, and I couldn't even move my body as the others climbed from the car.

Tovi leaned back in. “Come on, Felton. It'll be okay.”

“Can't we just tell him the truth and get it over with?” I asked.

“We're in process here,” Andrew shouted at me from outside the car. “Don't destroy our work, Felton. Please.”

I almost had to lift my legs with my arms.
You're a football player. You're a damn star. Every school in the country wants you. This is nothing…
I swung my big legs out and stretched up to standing, so that I towered over Gus.

“You are a big man, Felton,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You look like the white Ray Charles.”

We walked up the sidewalk. (I stumbled along in the Dangling Sack heat.) Tovi opened the front door. (I stumbled behind her.)
Mass
murderer. Why don't we turn and run?
Gus and Andrew entered before me. Cold, cold air-conditioning blasted us. We walked into a museum filled with that blobby painted art that is just colors, not actual pictures of anything. (I shuffled, my legs almost giving out.)
Phantom
of
the
Reinsteins…

Music came from a room deeper inside. It was Bach. Andrew's favorite.

“Good. Pretty music. He must be in an okay mood,” Tovi said. Then she shouted, “Hey Papa, I'm home!”

“You're here?” A voice came from within.
The
horror…

“Yeah. I have some friends with me.”

And then he came. A little old man in a pink polo shirt, a man with owl glasses slid down his nose, a man wearing shiny track pants and a very big watch, a man with wisps of white, thin, curly hair. He shuffled into the room, talking to the floor.

“Always with the friends, Tovi.” He looked up and saw us. “And they're multiplying! All boys too. Your grandmother would be very proud.”

“This is Gus,” Tovi said.

“Nice hair, you sheepdog,” the man smiled.

“You know Andy,” Tovi pointed to Andrew.

“Johnny McEnroe!” the man said.

“And this is…this is Ricky Martin.”

“Big guy. Is he Australian? What's with the hat?”

“Sun sensitive,” Tovi said. “Ricky, this is my Papa Stan.”

“Oh shit,” I whispered. I tried so hard not to tremble.

“I'm Venezuelan,” Gus blurted.

“Must be tribal hair, sheepdog. Come in, come in. Go ahead and use the pool. I'm paying my bills!” Papa Stan said, sticking his pointer finger into the air.

“We'll knock around for awhile, Papa. You want to hit some balls later?”

“Maybe, little girl. My back doesn't feel straight today. Slept funny. All right. Bills! Good to meet you all.” He shuffled back into the house.

“That was totally anticlimactic,” Gus said. “Tribal hair? That's funny, don't you think, Ricky Martin?” Gus grinned at me. “Nice one, Tovi.”

“He's in a good mood, man. Don't let your guard down. Let's look at some pictures upstairs,” said Tovi.

We followed Tovi up some brick stairs and into a large room at the front of the house. We sat down on a couple of couches. Andrew seemed relaxed. Gus was relaxed. I thought I'd vomit. Tovi pulled two photo albums off a shelf and handed them to me.

“These are pretty neat, Felton,” Andrew said. It was the first kind-sounding statement he'd made to me in months.

The first one had pictures of my dad and Evith, Tovi's mom, when they were in high school. Lots of prom and beach (Fort Myers—they always vacationed here) and messing around with friends and tennis tournaments. Dad didn't look exactly like me.

“He had a bigger forehead, huh?” I said.

“Bigger than what?” Tovi said.

“I seriously wouldn't know that wasn't you,” Gus said, looking over my shoulder. “He looks a little off, but seriously, man. That's like 1980s you.”

There was a great shot of high-school Dad holding a trophy and smiling his head off. I could see me. I could see a picture from the fall Jerri took of me, Cody, and Karpinski standing in front of the scoreboard after the Richland Center game. I could be Dad in that shot.

“He looks so happy, you know?” I said.

“He really does,” Andrew said.

“Maybe he was then,” Tovi whispered. “But not a couple of years later. Mom told me that Papa just rode him constantly. He'd pull Steve out of bed at like 4:30 and make him run. If Steve didn't get all As, Papa would ground him. If he played bad in a tournament, Papa would make him hit balls half the night. Mom said it was pretty terrible. After he left for college, Steve wouldn't come home for anything.”

“Shit,” I whispered. “Then why are we here?” I glared at Tovi.

“You saw him, Felton. You saw Papa. He's nice, okay? He lost Steve. He lost Gram.”

Andrew nodded next to her.

“You think this is good for us?” I asked Andrew.

“Don't you want to know what happened?” Andrew said.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Look at this,” Tovi said. She handed me the other album.

These were pictures of me—three-, maybe four-years-old, with Dad, Jerri, and Grandma Rose at Fort Myers Beach. There were a couple on the same pier where Andrew first photographed a pelican, me in Dad's arms, staring up at birds, me pointing at a boat on the gulf behind us. There was one close-up of Jerri and Dad cheek to cheek.

“Weird to think he was romantically with other women,” Andrew whispered.

“Shut up,” I whispered back.

There was a picture of me nuzzling my head into Grandma Rose's cheek, her laughing. “I sort of remember,” I said.

Felton in diaper. Felton stares at shells. Felton chases seagulls. Felton in surf with dead father. Felton and Tovi running into the water. Felton hugging dead grandma's leg. Felton lifted into the air by Jerri, who is right now probably holding hands with your dad, Aleah. And then, just one shot from ten steps behind:
Felton
holding
hands
with
an
older
guy
named
Stan. Felton looks up laughing. Stan looks down making some kind of goofy face. That guy, the old one, is alive but will not talk to, look at, acknowledge Felton's existence any more. That guy thinks Jerri is trash and Andrew is unworthy of attention. That guy is downstairs in this house.

“Hey,” Tovi said. “Compare this picture to that one of your dad when he was smiling after his match in high school.”

Tovi pulled an 8x10 out of the album. “Look. You can see that he stopped enjoying playing. It's from when Steve won the National Championship. He beat Guillermo Pender, see?”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Pender made it into semifinals of the Australian Open the next year,” Tovi said.

“Yeah? Okay?”

“So, Steve was like beating dudes who were amazing, like tops in the world. But look at Steve's face.”

Guillermo Pender smiled in the picture, even though he took second. My dad, though, wasn't smiling at all and was staring off into space. If anything, he looked a little mad, or maybe sad.

“He was awesome,” Tovi said, “but he totally didn't care by the time he was champ. You have to pretty much kill yourself to play at that level, but your dad didn't care.”

“Pretty much kill yourself,” I said.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Tovi said.

“I have to leave. Right now,” I said.

“Now?” Tovi asked. “Don't be dumb.”

“
Now
,” I said louder.

“No,” Andrew said.

“I want to go.” I stood and handed the picture to Tovi.

Gus said, “It's okay, Felton. It's okay, man.” He nodded at the others. “Felton found Steve hanging. Don't take this stuff too lightly. This is rough shit.”

I stood there. Gus. Man. He's as good as it gets, Aleah.

Tovi said, “You're going to be all right, Felton.”

Even Andrew nodded at me.

“Okay,” I said. “Can we do something else at least?”

“Let's see if Papa wants to hit,” Tovi said.

We all followed Tovi downstairs. Charming Grandpa Stan was eating green melon balls in the kitchen when we entered. “All these boys,” he said.

“We feel like hitting Papa. You interested?”

“Oh, my poor back.” He shook his head.

“Come on. At least you can coach Andy,” Tovi said.

“All right. For the youth!” he said. He held a fork up in the air with a melon ball spiked on it. Then he glanced over at me and paused. “Why don't you take off your glasses, Ricky Martin? I can't see your eyes. Do you have eyes?”

“Light,” is all I could get out.

“He has dilation issues,” Tovi said.

“Hmm.” Grandpa Stan shrugged. “Maybe if he stayed off the cocaine?”

“Bahahahahahaha!” Gus laughed.

“The Venezuelan has a sense of humor,” Grandpa Stan said.

Then Stan looked at my feet. I got worried he'd recognize them, so I curled my toes. “Ricky Martin is going to play barefoot?”

“I can't play,” I said. “I have leg problems.”