Nothing Special (4 page)

Dear Aleah, I have eaten an amazing chicken quesadilla.

I ordered it.

A man delivered it.

I tipped the man because I'd looked up tipping on Google and I knew how to do it.

I am a man.

(Who can order room service with his mom's credit card.)

Here's something pretty funny I was just thinking about: in eighth grade, whenever I was having a lot of trouble (and, holy ballz, I had trouble in eighth grade), Mr. Faherty, my language arts teacher, would pull me aside and say, “Journal it, Felton. Make some sense,” and I would start journaling in my brain.
Abby
Sauter
shoved
me. Karpinski told me I smell like shit. Kirk Johnson knocked me off my bike. My elbow hurts for no reason.
I'd just start listing crap in my brain and then I'd repeat it over and over, but I didn't do the main thing: write it down, make any sense. I just listed the shit.

Not now. Feels like I'm journaling for you. Am I not a good enough person to journal for myself?

“Journal it!”

Okay, Mr. Faherty. I will.

• • •

Saturday, March 31st was the first day of the rest of Andrew's life. Overnight, something big happened to him and he will never be the same, I'm sure. I think. Makes me miss the old Andrew a little. He was a wonderful, innocent boy!

Me? That morning?

I comfortably watched beach volleyball on ESPN2 while icing my blown-out hamstring. It was the first day of what I assumed was going to be total isolation and relaxation for several months, and I was in no mood for interaction.

Andrew has a habit of getting in my business at exactly the moment I crave his attention least. He sort of stumbled down the stairs wearing ratty boxer shorts and his Mozart T-shirt, which he's had for about ten years (one of the few pieces of clothing he didn't torch last summer when he decided to dress like a pirate), so it is gross. He said, “Felton?”

“I can't talk to you, Andrew.”

“What if our dad…”

“I can't talk to you.”

“…contacted you from beyond the grave?”

“
What?
” I sat up and turned to him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Upstairs, out of no place, Jerri sang,
This
is
the
dawning
of
the
Age
of
Aquarius…

Andrew flinched at the sound of our mother's voice.

“What, Andrew?”

“Why can't you talk to me?” he asked. He had big bags under his eyes.

“Because I'm in recovery. Did you have a bad dream?”

“I didn't sleep last night.”

“Join the club, man. You're a Reinstein. We don't sleep. Shake it off.”

Jerri called from upstairs, “Felton, do you want a grilled cheese?”

“Yes! Yes, I do, Jerri!” I called back. I smiled. This felt like the good life to me, Aleah. “Andrew,” I said, “take a nap, okay? Enjoy your Saturday. Dad didn't contact you from beyond the grave.”

“Okay. He didn't,” Andrew said. He turned and slowly loafed back up the stairs.

I felt great. A few minutes later, Jerri brought me down a glass of milk and two grilled cheese sandwiches on wheat. (Fine—I prefer white, but I can't push Jerri too far off her whole-grain, granola base.) While she was downstairs, she asked, “Did Andrew tell you what's bothering him?”

“No.”

“He's really behaving strangely.”

“Oh?”

“I hope this isn't the start of something.”

Suddenly I pictured Jerri last summer when she was going crazy—her hair all snaggly and gross, her skin so pale. I pictured Andrew with his shaved head and pirate outfit, which he wore because he was crazy. I thought about what Andrew had just said:
What
if
Dad
contacted
you
from
beyond
the
grave?
My heart accelerated. My forehead got sweaty. A chill wind blew… “He had a bad night's sleep,” I said.

“Poor guy,” Jerri said. “Maybe I'll get him some peach yogurt at the store.”

“He'd like that,” I nodded.

• • •

It was the start of something new, Aleah.

Man. I think I should stop now and watch some TV.

Journal it!

TV is boring.

Have you ever received an email from Randy Stone, Aleah? Maybe?

He smokes cigarettes.

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Because I have been on the news and stuff, and Andrew had a link to email me from feltonreinstein.com, I sometimes got weird emails (mostly from like ten-year-old boys). I opened them, because they always made me feel good about myself.

(Stuff like this: Dear Felton, That run you had against Richland Center was awesome. I just watched it on YouTube. You are very fast. You are awesome. Keep kickin' butt!!! Sincerely, Jared)

So when, during the evening of that same Saturday that Jerri made me grilled cheeses, the same Saturday Andrew said that weird thing about Dad, something arrived from [email protected], I clicked it without thinking twice, even though I didn't recognize the name. This is what it said (cut and pasted from the actual email):

The very brilliant child detective Randy Stone lit a cigarette. It flamed up and scared him. Then he smoked and coughed, because he doesn't smoke and thinks cigarettes are stupid. He threw the cigarette into Felton Reinstein's closet and the closet went up in flames, because Felton smells like a big sack of cow manure and cow manure is highly flammable. There were big manure flames that burned the detective's eyes.

Good work, detective.

This was the break in the case Randy Stone needed. “This Felton character has serious problems. This Felton Reinstein cannot be trusted.”

Randy Stone left the basement bedroom, turned to the garage door, and walked into the garage and out onto the country drive.

Where is he? Where should he be?

Our boy must go.

That was it. Detective Randy Stone?

My heart pounded. I read it again. It seemed sort of threatening. Before that moment, I'd sort of recovered my sense of ease (which I'd momentarily lost after Andrew's weird question). I was just lounging in bed. But after that email? I sat upright and braced myself against the wall. My feet got cold. My sweat went cold. I had to breathe deep to not hyperventilate.

I emailed back:
Who
is
this?

I waited—staring at the laptop screen like a hypnotized rabbit—but received no reply.

Then I considered calling the cops.
I
smell
like
cow
manure? I can't be trusted. Our boy must go?

I printed out the email and crawled upstairs to talk to Jerri. (Blown-out hamstring hurt.) At the top of the stairs, I pulled myself up on the railing and limped over to her in the living room, where she sat reading by the light of a single lamp. She looked up. “What's going on, Felton?” she asked.

“Jerri, let me read you this email.”

“Okay. Something interesting?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess.” I nodded. “Check this out…this is a personal email, Jerri. To me, okay?” I switched on the overhead light and read her the email.

“Hmm. Wow. Pretty goofy,” she said.

“Goofy? I don't know who Randy Stone is.”

“Really? You don't?”

“I don't. Seriously, Jerri.”

She paused. She smiled. “Sure you do. One of your friends, don't you think? They know the layout of the house.”

“A friend?”

“Gus, probably.”

I imagined the dwarf mouth of Gus, anger and ridicule pasted there underneath the chronic hair wad that always hides his face. “Maybe,” I said.

“Of course.”

Gus. Gus who would not look at me. Gus who I suspected made porn pictures of me and hung them around the school. Gus.

I stood balanced on my poor left leg for a moment longer. Jerri looked at me and shrugged. She smiled bigger, trying to be comforting.

“But what if it isn't Gus?” I asked. “What if it's a crazy person who saw my picture in the paper? Do you think I should call the cops? Just in case?”

“No.”

“Better safe than sorry, Jerri.”

“I don't know, Felton.”

I stared at her, images of her craziness from last summer dancing through my memory. Then I said, “Jerri. Is it reasonable? After what we've been through? To not take strange behavior seriously?”

She squinted back at me. The smile left her face. She said, “Okay. Seems like paranoia, but sure. Why don't you call Cody's dad, if it will make you feel better?”

Yeah. Cody's dad. That made my desire to call a cop a little less attractive.

“I'm being harassed by a child detective, Officer Frederick! Help! He thinks I smell like manure! Help!”

If I called the cops, Aleah, I'd be notifying Cody's dad.

I stayed down in my room the rest of the night, my hamstring throbbing and awful. At a certain point, I figured, “Why not?” and called Gus to accuse him of being Randy Stone. He didn't pick up.

I left a message:

“Screw you, Randy Stone.”

He texted back:
?

I texted:
Screw
you, Randy Stone
.

I waited for a reply but received none.

Late that night, because I couldn't sleep at all, like around 2 a.m., I got fearful for Andrew and how if Randy Stone wasn't Gus, maybe somebody was coming to get all of us. I rolled out of bed and crawled my way up to Andrew's room. Even though it was so ridiculously late, he was awake. A little light flowed out from under his door. I pushed it open, which caused Andrew to turn away from his desk where he was working on his computer.

He stared down at me on the floor.

“Can I help you, Felton?” he whispered (so as not to wake Jerri).

I whispered back, “Hey, Andrew, will you keep your eyes peeled for weirdos? I'm a little worried that someone is stalking me. Like maybe a psycho fan or someone.”

Without a pause he whispered, “Shake it off.”

“Come on, Andrew. Don't be a jerk.”

“Me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Felton, I don't have time for you.”

“I'm trying to protect you.”

“No need.”

I glared. Clenched my jaw. “What, are you some kind of super ninja now? You can take care of everything?” I asked, my voice rising.

“Shh.”

“Ninja?” I whispered.

“Necessity is the mother of all invention,” he said.

“Fine. Whatever,” I said.

I crawled back down the stairs (backward) and went to bed, not even thinking for a second about what the crap Andrew was doing working on his computer during the wee hours of the morning.

I didn't sleep a damn wink, Aleah. I heard Andrew walk around a little. At one point, I heard him go out the front door then come back in. Apparently he couldn't sleep either.

I was seriously spooked by that email, and my monkey brain totally took off with it.
Our
boy
must
go…Our boy must gooooo…What is Andrew's problem?
Do you know how I regulate my monkey brain in times of unease? Running. But I couldn't run. Hamstring.

Early the next morning (April Fools' Day! Appropriate), me all dizzy and gross and totally mummified by the freaking sweaty sheets that were wrapped all around me, I opened my email to find another dispatch from Detective Randy Stone.

Oh
shit!

Detective Randy Stone, the most brilliant child sleuth in America, hunts through the Yellow Pages of Fiddlesticks, Florida. He finds a business. The perfect business. A carpet-cleaning business that specializes in parrot poop, because he knows the dirt has been building up for too long.

In Fiddlesticks, there's a cleaning business, Happy Halpen Cleaners, that can restore this carpet to its most gigantic beauty, and maybe one day it will carpet the floor next to presidents or great tennis stars or old men sitting alone in their dens listening to music because they think there is nothing else left, but maybe a good, reasonable carpet can help. That's what carpet does!

The poor boy Randy Stone lights another cigarette, which flames up very high, and he totally chokes, because cigarettes are so dumb. After he is done hacking up his tender lungs and dousing the flames, he nods and says, “Mmm. Sweetie. Oh lord, yes. That's good cigarette flavor.”

What
the
hell?

I read it twice. Heat rose in my face. My hands started to shake. Oh, yeah, I got incredibly mad. I knew exactly who was behind this crappy writing. I recognized the freakiness. No doubt Jerri was right.
Gus
. He was hell-bent on torturing me. Even though it was like 6:30 a.m., I called him five times. He didn't answer.

I waited ten minutes, then called again.

He didn't answer.

I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, anger bolting like Jamaican Kangaroo Juice through my body.

I called him again.

He didn't answer.

I called again, then again.

On my tenth or fifteenth call, he answered.

“You must stop buzzing my phone immediately.”

“
Randy
Stone!
” I shouted.

“Cease and desist.”

“
Randy
Stone!
”

“Felton, Jesus. Somebody better be dead.”

“Whatever, Randy Stone.”

“Is this how you wish me a happy birthday a day late?”

“What?” I asked.

“My birthday,” he said.

“Randy Stone?” I asked.

“Are you on drugs, Felton?”

“Randy Stone might be.”

“What?”

“Dirty carpets, Randy Stone.”

“Shut the hell up, Felton.”

“It was your birthday yesterday,” I said.

“I went to Steve's with Maddie and Peter Yang.”

“What about Randy Stone?” I asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Is there an emergency of some kind, Felton?”

“No.”

“Worst April Fools' joke ever?”

“No.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Um…”

“It's like dawn on Sunday, man. It's not enough that we're not friends? You want to torture me too?”

“That's not what I…”

“Screw off.”

Gus hung up the phone. He clearly hated me, which seemed reasonable since I'd just missed his birthday for the first time in our lives. But still, there was no doubt in my mind that he was Randy Stone, Aleah. I just didn't know how to deal with it, so I tossed and turned in that stupid bed.

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.