o 0df2dc86c31d22a8 (4 page)

Cool. Good idea.

You kind of wish YOU had thought of a toast too. But you had a lot on your mind.

After dessert, when Mom, Dad, and Ted went into the den to watch the tube, YOU went to the phone to call Sunny’s house, then Alex’s.

No answer at either place.

You left a message on their machines, asking them to call back.

It’s now 10:47. Neither called.

It’s probably too late to call again.

Mrs. Snyder and Paula are probably asleep. Mr. Winslow too.

Chill, Ducky.

Try again tomorrow.

TOMORROW

Also Known as Friday

You call Alex. He’s home. And the conversation goes like this:

D: “What’s up?”

A: “Whatever.”

D: “Everything OK?”

A: “I guess.”

D: “Coming to school?”

A: “I have to.”

D: “I’ll take you.”

A: “Mom’s driving me.”

D: “Cool.”

That’s what you love about talking to Alex. The repartee. The crackling wit.

Oh, well. At least he’s not skipping school.

In Which Ducky Sees

a Light at the End of the Tunnel

Very faint. A SUGGESTION of a light.

You spot Alex after homeroom. He’s walking down the hallway slowly, slumped over, his

shoulder practically pressed against the wall, his hair hanging down over his face.

The usual.

You catch up. Say hi. Talk a little.

Then, as you’re about to part ways — here it comes, drumroll, please — he says, “What are you doing after school?”

“Nothing,” you said. “You?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Want to hang?”

“Sure.”

Ta-da.

You never thought a question like that would MAKE YOUR DAY.

But it does.

You Have Seen the Mountaintop

and It Looks Like the Pits

After school you wait for Alex by his locker. You haven’t seen him since lunch.

Miracle of miracles, he comes shuffling along. Still in school after a FULL DAY.

You call out to him. “So, where do you want to go?”

He looks a little confused.

“To hang out?” you remind him.

“I don’t know, drive around, I guess,” he said. “The park.”

“Cool beans.” You pack up your books. Alex isn’t even bothering to touch his locker.

“No homework?” you ask.

“No.”

OK. Fine.

You walk out together.

The moment you get through the door, you hear a loud quacking sound, followed by, “It’s the Duckster!”

You turn to see Jay grinning at you. His arm is around Lisa Bergonzi. Marco Bardwell and Mad Moose Machover are there too. They’re both snickering and communicating with each other with some prehistoric Cro Mag mutterings.

You say hi and turn away.

“Hold it!” Jay’s running toward you now, looking all excited about something. “Hey, Duckboy, you remember LeeAnn?”

At the sound of Jay’s voice, you see Alex’s face tense.

You are NOT thrilled, because the name LEEANN brings back a certain horrifying BLIND

DOUBLE DATE you would much, much rather forget.

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have set you up with her, OK?” Jay says. “But listen. She has this cousin, she’s visiting from Sweden for a week during Christmas vacation — SWEDEN,

Duckington — and she’s just like you, sort of shy and smart, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend —

”

“I don’t believe you’re telling me this,” you say.

“Why? I’m letting you know in advance!”

“I DON’T LIKE BEING SET UP AT ALL, OK? Let Moose ask her out.”

“Not my type,” Moose mumbles.

“Not DUCKY’S type either,” Marco cracks, and they both start guffawing as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

“Alex?” Jay says hopefully. Like he’s auctioning off the girl to the highest bidder.

“Huh?” Alex replies.

Jay rolls his eyes. “Forget it.” With a big sigh he swaggers back to his group.

“Ducky and Alex are happy just as they are,” Moose says.

The laughter creeps under your skin as you walk toward the parking lot.

“I use to like Jay,” Alex mutters.

“He can be OK.” You don’t know WHY ON EARTH you’re defending Jay.

You get in the car and cruise away from school. Alex is in a foul mood. Not numb, not spacey, just foul. His arms are folded and he’s glaring straight a head.

“Where do you want to go?” you ask.

“No place you can take me,” he grumbles.

What does THAT mean?

You have no idea. You don’t want to know.

You’re driving toward Las Palmas County Park, but you know that Jay and his friends are likely to show up there, so you switch directions and head for the Alta Mira Hills.

As you approach the lot, Alex suddenly sits forward. “Let’s go rock climbing,” he said.

You’re so stunned you nearly agree on the spot.

But you think of all the stuff you NEED for rock climbing, and if you head home to get your pitons and ropes and friction shoes, you’ll be another half hour closer to darkness.

“It’s kind of late,” you say. “How about just a hike? We can go climbing on Sunday. Mom and Dad are taking Ted and me somewhere tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” Alex replies.

The Alta Mira lot is almost empty. You park near the trailhead, and soon you and Alex are hiking up the trail.

You go side by side, silently, until the path narrows. Then you pull ahead.

Far ahead. So when he cries out, “Ducky!” you can’t see him.

You race down, nearly tripping over a root.

He’s standing in the middle of the path, pointing into the woods.

A coyote is loping among the bushes, sniffing and poking its snout between the rocks.

The trace of a smile flickers across Alex’s face. “An earthling,” he says.

You can’t believe this. He remembers. It’s EXACTLY the kind of stupid thing you used to say as Sirhc and Xela, Alien Life-forms on Their Ever-Recurring Search for Signs of Human Life.

(YOU WERE NERDS, DUCKY!)

Now the coyote is walking away with a Snickers wrapper in its mouth. “See how tenderly it cares for its young?” you say.

Alex lets out a little laughlike [sic] exhalation through his nose, and you realize this is the CLOSEST he’s come to expressing an EMOTION in ages.

You realize the good mood may not last long. This may be an opening.

D: “Alex?”

A: “Yeah?”

D: “So. Feeling better today?”

A: “Better than what?”

D [deep breath]: “You seen different. In a GOOD way, I mean. More like YOU.”

A: “I’m always me.

He starts hiking away. You follow.

D: “You know what I mean. The YOU before — all the stuff happened. The stuff that made you have to go to Dr. Welsch.”

A: “People change.”

D: “Alex, just out of curiosity — what do you DO when you stay home from school?”

A: “Sleep.”

D: “Don’t you sleep enough at night?”

A: “I guess not.”

D: “Because if you did, you would go to school more often.”

A: “Why should you care about that?”

D: “Why shouldn’t I?”

A: “No one else does.”

D: “Not true. Ms. Krueger does.” [Cringe, shrink, melt — really, REALLY dumb, Ducky.] “I mean A LOT of people probably do.”

A [turns to look at you]: “Like who? Who else besides you and Ms. Krueger?”

D: “Your friends. Your teachers. PROBABLY. I mean, it’s a big deal. You could be left back

— not that you WOULD, but I wouldn’t be too happy about that — ”

A [holding up his hand]: “Stop, OK? Stop lecturing me.”

D: “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to — ”

A: “EVERYBODY lectures me, Ducky. I don’t need you to join in.”

D: “I’m just trying to be a FRIEND, that’s all — ”

A: “Friends leave you alone. I thought YOU re a friend. You were the only one who let me be, Ducky. Up until now.”

D: “OK. OK. I’ll stop.”

Alex walks away. You follow.

And you feel like a total wimp.

10:21 P.M.

Still Wimpy

After All These Hours

Sleep.

That’s what Alex does when he’s cutting school.

HOW CAN A PERSON SLEEP SO MUCH?

Does he NEED it? Does he have some kind of weird sleep disorder? Is THAT the problem?

Maybe he can’t help staying home from school.

So go ahead and open your big mouth, Ducky. Tell him how to lead his life. Like you know everything.

He was just starting to feel better. You could SEE it.

And you set him back.

NICE.

WORK.

11:47 P.M.

You’re nuts.

Alex doesn’t have a sleep disorder.

YOU’RE the one with the sleep disorder.

Your mind is so full of nonsense that you can’t think straight.

You did not say TOO MUCH.

The truth is, you didn’t say ENOUGH.

He WANTS you to be silent, he LIKES it because it doesn’t CHALLENGE him, it lets him

think: Hey, it’s ALL RIGHT to cut school and flunk out because DUCKY doesn’t mind, HE

doesn’t think it’s so bad, and he’s my BEST FRIEND.

What you did was the OPPOSITE of friendship. You backed down. You apologized. You

promise to keep all this to yourself.

You were afraid to get him angry. You were afraid to let him yell and scream. Maybe he NEEDS to be shaken a little, by someone he TRUSTS. Someone who’s not an authority figure.

You let him stay right where he was. In a rut.

THAT’S what you did wrong.

12:58 A.M.

But he’s shaky. Unstable. If you yelled at him TOO much, maybe you would push him over the edge.

What’s the difference?

Either way, you messed up.

You always mess up. You always choose the wrong thing to do.

THAT’S what they’ll call the movie of your life:

DO THE WRONG THING.

Something A.M.

WHY CAN’T I SLEEP?

You know why you can’t sleep.

You’re an idiot.

You think you can handle this on your own.

You can’t.

TALK to someone. Mom and Dad.

No. They wouldn’t be any help.

Or Ted.

Uh, right.

Sunny? She has enough problems.

Maggie’s busy all the time.

Jay? Ha-ha.

Maybe Dawn or Amalia. But they hardly KNOW Alex. They don’t need to hear all this.

Guess what?

You’re all alone on this one, Ducky boy.

No one to talk to.

Just like Alex.

No, not really.

Alex has YOU.

But you don’t have Alex.

Greetings

from the State of

Disbelief

You can barely open your eyes. The sun is killing you.

But you have to wash up, eat breakfast, and get dressed.

Your family outing is about to begin.

To Disneyland.

They have GOT to be kidding.

In the Car

Don’t know how long you’ll be able to write. Dad’s driving and you forgot to bring Dramamine.

When you were TWO, you loved Disneyland. SIX. Even TEN. You must have gone there

about 7.000 times before you hit your teens.

It’s not that you HATE the place. You don’t.

But it’s OLD now.

YOU’RE old.

You tried to give them a hint. Subtle little facial clues. Body language. Finally you just said,

“Mom, we’re not kids anymore.”

“Of course not,” Mom said pleasantly. “We wouldn’t leave KIDS home alone while we were in Ghana.”

Ted called you an old fart. He LOVES the idea.

Dad said, “Come on, Ducky. For old times’ sake.”

Then you knew. It’s some kind of retro ironic nostalgia thing.

You can understand that. Sort of.

OK, attitude adjustment, McCrae.

You can do it.

Yippee.

Main Street, U.S.A.

In line for “Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln.”

Ted was the one who suggested this.

He’s regressing.

So’s Dad. When we passed the old fire engine, he called out, “Ducky! Fah-oh tuck!” Like you’d find it SO CUTE to be reminded of what you said as a child, in front of five dozen tourists who are probably wondering what TWO GROWN SONS are doing in Disneyland with their

parents.

You smiled and walked away. You sent him a telepathic anti-humiliation warning.

You forgot to send them to Ted. Soon you were watching the barbershop quartet and he began SINGING ALONG. Loud.

While you backed away in horror, Dad egged him on and Mom pulled out her videocamera [sic]

to RECORD him — all the while telling everyone in earshot about his upcoming show in

college.

Endure, Ducky. Endure. Abe Lincoln had it worse at your page.

He’s about to tell you how.

For the hundredth time.

Waiting outside

the Enchanted Tiki Room

Another line.

Screaming, squirming kids.

Now Dad is pulling Ping-Pong balls out of his pocket. To do MAGIC TRICKS.

Why?

WHY?

WHY?

In Which Ducky Eats Humble Pie

OK, you have to admit it.

He isn’t bad.

No David Copperfield, but not bad.

The kids loved him. They asked for autographs. Their parents took pictures.

Then he gave you the Ping-Pong balls. So YOU started doing tricks. The way he taught you.

What else could you do?

Hey, it made the wait easier. Always did, even when you were a kid.

The Enchanted Tiki Room was an anticlimax.

Maybe they should put some feathers on Dad and make him part of the act.

The Tale of Wild Woman Mom

(Written Aboard the Disney Railroad)

She’s brave. She’s smart. She remembers what EVERYONE likes, and she won’t waver in her path to each ride in the right order. “No, Herb. Ducky hates that ride. We have to go to Frontierland. … Ted has to see the sailing ship. … Save your appetites for the Blue Ribbon Bakery, guys!”

Not only that, folks, she remembers EVERY event from EVERY family trip. She’ll tell you things you’ve forgotten:

 You once threw a tantrum in the penny arcade.