Nothing Special (18 page)

There is something wrong with our driver, Aleah. I'm not kidding. The bus station (like most of the stops we've made) is really a gas station and store that sells beef jerky and candy bars and pop and crap. The bus driver went into the store like fifteen minutes ago and he hasn't come out, and I can't even see him in there. The woman behind me keeps saying stuff like, “Aw, Lord, no. Come on, bus driver. Get your ass out here. Lord, no!”

At least the air-conditioning is on. Do I text Tovi to tell her I'm going to be later? Yeah. I better.

The whole big world is weird. Did you notice that in Germany? Weird stuff happens everywhere.

Want to hear weird? Want to hear about a concert?

• • •

A few minutes after I got off the phone with Jerri, Tovi got back from her chicken delivery to Stan's and found us by the pool. “He was a little weird,” she whispered in my ear. “He asked some questions about you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Tovi said. “He's asked questions about Andrew before too.”

The dudes who were setting up for the show asked everyone to get out of the “venue” for the sound check, so the three of us spent an hour or so walking down the beach and going out on the pier, just to bide our time until Golden Rods go time.

All this crap going on, Aleah. And a concert? I seriously didn't want to sit through another concert highlighting Andrew's lack of talent. I'd been there and done that enough in my life.

The sun was going down and lots of people were gathered out there on the pier. It was pretty, I guess. Lots of orange and purple. Freaky pelicans and other pointy birds barreling into the water to kill fish. I stared down and couldn't see stingray shadows (Tovi said you can sometimes see them), but I figured they were down there. When the sun hit the horizon and popped out of sight with a flash, the old folks and Germans all cheered. (Lots of German tourists in Fort Myers—maybe you know some, Aleah.)

“What's the big deal?” I asked. “Sun goes down every day.”

“Grumpy,” Tovi said.

“I don't enjoy Andrew's concerts.”

Tovi said, “You're in for a surprise, man. I'm going to run ahead and get us a table, okay? I had to stand through Andrew's first concert last week. What a pain.”

Tovi took off jogging.

“She's beautiful,” Gus whistled.

“Yeah. I suppose,” I said. I tried to keep my mind on Andrew, send him good vibes, keep up my energy for cheering for crap. I was so exhausted, though.

We wandered back slowly along the beach.

Because it was the off-season, not many people were staying at the White Shells Hotel and Resort, which is apparently how the super wily Tovi had gotten Andrew booked into a room for cheap. (Don't get me wrong, Aleah. Andrew had done most of the work—setting up the camp to get confirmations and receipts, canceling the camp, catching and shredding the cancellation letter from the camp before Jerri could see it—but Tovi did the money stuff.)

During the day, the White Shells was pretty much empty. At the tiki bar that night, however, ten million people were crammed into every damn corner of the pool patio.

“Jaysoos Chreestmoos,” Gus said, lifting up his wad so he could eyeball the place as we walked in. “Ees ay mad henhouse een heere, no?”

In the ninety minutes we'd been gone, the patio had been transformed. There were lots and lots of middle-aged women drinking drinks from ceramic coconuts and ceramic pirate heads. There were many mumbling middle-aged men wearing Hawaiian shirts and sipping cold, crisp cans of Coors Light beer. There were several soaked old biddies dipping their biscuits in the middle of the blue swimming pool. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the waving hand of Tovi, who was on the opposite side of the pool. “There. Tovi,” I said to Gus.

When we got to Tovi, she was excited. “Just got off the phone with Mom. She's coming down on Friday. She really wants to meet you and Andrew.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.” I nodded. Crazy. Evith knew the plan? And the notion I would be meeting my aunt, who knew who I really was, sent a shiver down my back. I shook my head to stay in the moment, to be there for Andrew. The drunk crowd made me nervous. They might boo him.

Then there was applause. Then cheers.

And then, out of nowhere, Andrew and the Golden Rods climbed up on the stage. They were all wearing those crazy Hawaiian shirts. The whole mumbling, middle-aged and biddy crowd cheered and clapped. I thought of Andrew last summer with his shaved his head and skull and crossbones T-shirt that he wore for like six weeks straight without showering. He sure looked healthier in that dumb Hawaiian shirt.

“Good evening, White Shells!” Big Rod shouted.

The crowd whooped and wooed.

“I know you already know that Andrew's great,” Tovi said, “But you're really gonna enjoy this, man.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“Did y'all have a good day at the beach?” Big Rod cried.

People called back, “Woooooo.”

“Let's keep the good times rolling!”

Andrew sat behind an electric keyboard aimed out at the pool. He played like a five-note chord, and all the Golden Rods hummed, including him. And then, the lowest singer started singing
Bah
bah
bah, bah bahbrah ann,
and then all the other three guys jumped in with this crazy harmony,
Bah
bah
bah, bah bahbrah ann,
and then maybe the weirdest thing I've ever seen happened.

Tiny concave Andrew stood up to the mike while the other guys
bah
bah
bah
bahhed,
and he sang this super-high part in the song “Barbara Ann.” He sang in his canary voice, which has driven me nuts in the past, you know? He took the dang melody, while the other dudes sang in harmony below him and it was perfect, Aleah. He was perfect. It was so good.

“
Holy
shit!
” I shouted.

“I know!” Tovi cried.

“Andrew sounds like a disco singer!” Gus said.

“Oh man!” And then, Aleah, I felt this pain in my chest because I am such a bad brother and I, you know, just act so terribly, and the pain sort of flowed up and out, and tears exploded from my face. I seriously lost it and had to fold over and hold my head in my hands. The song went on and Big Rod took over the vocals and then handed them back to Andrew when the super-high parts took the melody, and I just burst snot and spit and tears everywhere because I'd told Andrew he should be a pharmacist and told him the truth hurt, and he wrote all that great stuff on a website about me and I think he's nothing? And he's not nothing. He's so good singing like a canary. Oh, man. I can't see what's right in front of my narcissist face…

“Jesus, Felton! Are you okay? Are you bleeding? What's going on?” Tovi shouted.

I put my finger to my lips and made a
shh
noise. Tovi nodded.

Gus, who was a little in front of me and to my right, so he didn't see me break, sat with his mouth open, his hair wad lifted up out of his eyes. When the song ended, and the cheers and the hoots and the whistles and the screams all began to subside, and after Big Rod pointed at Andrew and said, “Andrew R., the little keyboardist who always can!” and the crowd screamed so loudly that little Andrew had to bow like five times, Gus leaned back to me and said, “I am so glad I'm here. It's worth all the beatings and berating Teresa's going to dish out. That's the best thing I've ever seen in my damn life…are you crying?”

I shook my head no, but I sure as hell was.

The whole night went like that and my love for Andrew grew and grew, and the middle-aged ladies with their coconuts whistled and screamed stuff like, “Kiss me honey,” and the middle-aged mumbling men shouted, “Hell yeah, man!” between beer swigs, and the old biddies bobbed on their biscuits in the blue pool. And I loved my little brother so much, I thought I might die.

“They're pretty good, man, huh?” Tovi punched my shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Uh-huh.” I nodded.

Middle-school orchestras aren't that great. They're not old enough to be that great. Sixty-year-old rockers can be the best thing you've ever seen, even if they're not nearly the most talented people on the planet, especially if they have a fourteen-year-old keyboard player with them, one who can still sing as high as a beautiful yellow canary.

After the Golden Rods gig, which ended in a bunch of encores—lots of drunk ladies shouting for more—Andrew slowly worked his way back to us. Gus jumped out of his chair and shouted, “Dude, I had no idea!”

Andrew smiled at him, “It's very fun.”

I stood up to hug him. He backed away. I paused and said, “You're awesome, Andrew. Seriously. You're great. You're amazing. I wish Jerri could see…”

Andrew said, “No. I just want to be here. I just like it here. That's all.”

“Okay. Okay. That's fine,” I said.

“I don't care if it's fine,” Andrew said.

“Andrew. I'm just…I'm proud of you. I want to make you a website or something, you know?”

Andrew paused for a moment and took a really deep breath. Then he shouted so we could hear him over the crowd noise, “All happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of the object to which we are attached by love, Felton. That's Baruch Spinoza. He's a philosopher.”

“Oh?” I said, very confused.

“What the hell?” Gus said.

“I don't want to love or hate what people think about me. I want to stop worrying about that. I want to play Beach Boys music now,” Andrew said.

“Okay,” I nodded. “Okay, Andrew. I get it.” And I did. I really did. I want to play Frisbee without recruiters judging me, Aleah. You know what I mean?

“Okay?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You understand, Felton?” Andrew's face was all twisted up, like he couldn't believe someone as dumb as me could possibly get it.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I'm so glad you had fun playing. It was really fun to be here,” I said.

“Okay, Felton.” Andrew smiled. “I'm glad you're here. I really am. I'll buy you shoes, okay? I'm…”

“It's fine,” I said. “It's okay. Thanks for singing so damn high.”

Andrew stepped up to me and hugged me around my middle.

“Reinsteins are the weirdest people on the earth,” Gus said. “Baruch Spinoza.”

“Dude. I know.” Tovi nodded.

Andrew let go of me and said, “You're not an idiot. You have very common problems, Felton.”

“I am an idiot,” I said. “But it's going to be okay.”

Andrew nodded. “Thanks, Felton.”

• • •

Wait. Here's a text. Tovi.

Tovi says that if it's going to be more than an hour, to let her know, because she'll drive up and get me.

I don't know how long it's going to be. The bus driver has been taken to a clinic because he broke out in hives. Allergic reaction! Action, reaction. He probably ate a bad walnut. We're all sitting on the bus, which is running, which seems kind of crazy, because it seems like any freaking yahoo could just go up there and drive it away.

The lady behind me is all, “Lord, no! Bus drivers falling over ill on a day like today…”

I totally agree with her. I will be with Tovi for like ten minutes before we have to go home. Oh well…

• • •

So, the morning after the Golden Rods concert (three of the old dudes in the band are actually named Rod—thus the porny name), I woke up to Andrew quietly digging in my bag, which was at my feet. Gus sawed logs on the foldaway. I could hear Tovi breathing in the bed. I blinked, then mumbled, “What are you doing?”

Andrew whispered, “I'm glad you're awake. Will you come with me?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

A couple of minutes later, we were walking in the opposite direction from the pier down the main road on Fort Myers Beach. (I think it's Estrada Street or Estado or something.) The sun was just coming up, the sky all orange and purple, and the air was super still. We walked, totally quiet, down the side of the road (my flip-flops flapping on that broken shell-sand kind of gravel).

Andrew carried one of my black Under Armour T-shirts, which I'd packed so Jerri would believe I was headed to football camp. I figured he would soon throw it in the ocean.

After passing another couple of resorts, we came to a stretch of sort of shacks, except nicer. I guess one-story beach houses. The third one we came to, Andrew took a left onto the property, toward the beach. I followed him, although going onto private property made me very, very uncomfortable.

“Don't worry,” he said. “This is Big Rod's place.”

I nodded.

I followed him along the left side of the house. There was almost complete silence, except for the faint sound of the gulf lapping at the beach. Then a small dog with pointy ears came tearing down the sidewalk behind me. It circled Andrew, jumping up and down, wagging its tail.

“Hi, Brian,” Andrew said. “This is Brian Wilson, the dog,” he told me. Then the dog noticed me and realized I was a stranger and began barking like crazy and growling and hopping up and down. I sort of freaked and ran from him, saying, “Shit. Good dog. Crap!” because I'm sort of afraid of dogs, especially little ones, because they're pretty quick.

I ran around the corner of the house, Brian Wilson on my tail, and right up to Big Rod, the big-assed singer from the Golden Rods. He was drinking a glass of orange juice, standing next to a round, white table with a bowl of bananas on it.

“Well, if it isn't the famous Felton Reinstein,” he said. “Brian. Calm, pup.”

Brian Wilson sat down on his dog butt and sort of smiled at me.

“Hi,” I said. “Great show last night.”

“Thank you, sir. Fun times.”

Then Andrew came around the corner. “Morning, Big Rod. You mind if Felton comes out with us today?”

“Best news I've heard in a while.” Big Rod nodded. “Welcome to my cottage, son.”

“Thanks,” I said. I had no idea what ‘come out' might mean. “What are we doing?” I asked.

“I'm trying to say good-bye,” Andrew said.

“To what?” I had a bolt of fear, because in health class we'd learned that one of the signs to look for in kids you think are suicidal is a penchant for dramatic good-byes and for giving their stuff away. Andrew was actually giving
my
stuff away…to the ocean (gulf)…but the behavior seemed kind of similar, right?

“To old ways of being,” he said.

“Oh. Okay.” Yeah, I didn't know what he meant.

“Let's do this,” Big Rod said. “I'll row. There's not much wind to work against today.”

A couple minutes later we were shoving a rowboat from Big Rod's house across the beach toward the water. Brian Wilson tailed us, occasionally barking at me as I helped. We pushed the boat into the water, climbed in, and then Big Rod rowed us through these little waves out into the gulf.

The water was fairly still and the sun was low, so that the water reflected a dark, morning-sky blue. As far as I know, I'd never been on a boat (no memory of ships, boats, paddle boats, canoes, etc.). I grasped the side of the rocking thing as hard as I could.

To be honest, it didn't seem that stable and I'm not the best swimmer.

“Dolphins to the right,” Big Rod nodded.

Holy crap, Aleah. Not more than fifty feet away, two giant dolphins bobbed up and down in the water, swimming on by. “That's real? Those things are in here?” I said.

“Man, of course. They're about the friendliest buggers around. Lot worse than dolphins out here,” Big Rod said.

“Pretty neat, huh?” Andrew said, smiling at me.

Rod rowed on in silence.

After we got out a couple of football fields from the shore, Big Rod said, “Don't have a lot of time. Might as well do it, buddy.”

Andrew pulled my Under Armour shirt out of the cargo pocket of his shorts. Looked at me. Shrugged. Then said, “I throw this athletic shirt, my big brother's stinky football shirt, into the great Gulf of Mexico to say once and for all and with complete peace: This shirt is not mine. I am not like Felton. I am not a great athlete. I am just me, Andrew Reinstein. Just some kid. And that's okay. I embrace my fate.”

Then Andrew threw my shirt into the water.

“Man,” I said.

“I'll get you another one,” Andrew said.

“That's not it. I just don't understand, Andrew.”

“Spill it, boy,” Big Rod said.

“Felton.” Andrew shook his head and paused like he didn't want to say what he was going to say. “Nobody really knew you were alive before last year. My classmates mostly didn't know I had a brother…and I liked it because I was just me, you know? I was just Andrew who played piano and was smart and kind of funny and that was very nice, in retrospect.”

“You just described yourself, Andrew. That's who you are.”

“Yes. But…not anymore, really. Kids in gym class this spring started making fun of me for not being like you.”

“What? Who?”

“Some kids, just regular kids in my grade, make crap of me because I'm not fast like you. I trip over my own feet. I can't catch. I throw, and I quote, ‘like a girl,'” Andrew said. “They mess with me at lunch…Do you understand?”

“Oh.” I nodded. Andrew always seemed immune to other kids. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. You should've told me…I'd…I'd…scare them…scare those kids?”

“No. You wouldn't have done anything,” Andrew said.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Here's the thing, Felton. This is what Big Rod and I discuss all the time. That stuff shouldn't matter, okay? I don't want to be like you. I don't want to be a jock and I don't want college sports coaches calling me ever and I don't want to worry like you worry about everything, but I've started worrying and I just don't want to waste another second of my life wondering if I'll go through a growth spurt and suddenly be another human being, like you did, so people like me…because I've become some freaky genius that I don't even want to be.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” I said. I totally understood.

“I'm not like you. I'm not going to suddenly gain more control over my fingers and play like Aleah either. It isn't going to happen, and it's not even what I want.”

“Okay,” I nodded. My Under Armour bobbed along in the ocean just like the dolphins.

“I want to like doing what I like doing, but everyone wants me to be like you or to talk about you, and meanwhile you won't even show up at my concert…”

“I know. I really know,” I said.

“So, I'm trying to let it all go,” Andrew said. “Which isn't easy because I also really like you, Felton, because you're my brother.”

“I row out here anytime I need the gulf to carry my worries away,” Rod said. “This was my idea.”

“So I threw away your shirt,” Andrew nodded.

“My shoes? Same deal?” I asked.

“Sort of,” Andrew nodded. “I worry that you like your jock shoes more than you like me.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No way.”

Andrew's face turned red.

“I don't want to worry about you not liking me or about what people think. I just want to be with my family and to…to be happy…”

“You boys got some trouble,” Big Rod said.

“I'll help you, Andrew. I'll be a good brother. I'm just beginning to understand all this…”

“Thanks, Felton.”

“It's so complicated, huh?” I said.

“It's not really, but it seems like it,” Andrew nodded.

“Say it,” Big Rod said. “Be a man and say it.”

“I love you, Felton. My happiness is not your responsibility. My happiness is up to me. I love you.”

“Uh, I love you too,” I said.

“Breakthrough.” Big Rod nodded.

When we got back to the beach, Andrew hugged me and I hugged him back. My poop-flinger self wanted to go beat up his classmates. I don't think that's what Big Rod meant by a breakthrough, though.

Andrew thanked me again on our walk back to the hotel.