Authors: Alan Sitomer

The Downside of Being Up (18 page)

BOOK: The Downside of Being Up

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I caught Allison's eye and we grinned at each other. Then Gramps came into the room carrying a piping hot pie, fresh out of the oven.

“Who's ready for dessert?” he asked in a big, excited voice. “It's boysenberry!”

Hill's jaw practically dropped.

“Just kidding,” Gramps said to my sister. “It's apple. Just good ol' fashioned apple pie.”

Hill laughed. Yep, Gramps was a wacko, but he could also be one heck of a sweet guy, too.

It was a fun night, and life, I had to admit, was finally good. Even if I did have to go back to correctional erectional therapy the following Tuesday.

Dr. Cox, however, had flown the coop. When I showed up at her office, that's when they broke the news to me.

She'd vanished. Maybe to Africa? Maybe to Argentina? No one knew for sure. But she left a note that I was allowed to see.

Moved to a country that starts with an A. Need to resolve some feelings about yellow dolls. Throw out whatever supplies you don't want to keep because I am not returning till the hair on my head grows back to at least shoulder length. I shaved it as a symbol of starting new.

The bad news, however, was the last part.

P.S. Change the air-conditioning filters because I think there are dust mites in the air, there's a virus on the computer and Bobby Connor still owes this school eighteen hours of therapy.

Ah jeez, is she serious?

In fact, that's what I told my new therapist.

“Ah jeez, is she serious?”

“I'm afraid she is,” said the lady standing in front of me. A moment later, she stretched out her hand.

“I'm Mrs. Roberts, the new school guidance counselor.” Mrs. Roberts looked more like somebody's aunt than she did a psychologist. She had shoulder-length brown hair, fingernails painted red, and ruby earrings and necklace.

“Hey,” I grunted.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You seem a little upset.”

“Well, wouldn't you be?” I said. “I mean how long will it be before you ask me if that telephone reminds me of a ding-dong?”

“Excuse me?”

“Or maybe you have a shopping bag full of vegetables underneath your desk and you want me to identify all the perverted pieces of cucumber.”

“Bobby,” she said. “You have me all wrong.”

“I do?” I said. “Are you telling me that all people like you aren't twisted freakazoids who see ding-a-lings in trees and museum paintings and armrests?”

“Armrests?”

“Yeah, armrests,” I said. “I mean I'm just a normal kid. Why is that so hard for you people to see?”

“I agree,” she answered.

“You . . . what?”

“I agree,” she repeated. Her voice was calm and even. “I read your file, looked at your grades, talked to your teachers and have come to the conclusion that, yep, you seem pretty normal.”

“I do?” I was still waiting to be asked about something wacky like lamps that looked like nakedness.

Mrs. Roberts smiled again.

“Yep, more or less normal,” she said. “It's just puberty, Bobby. That's all it is. And every young boy and every young girl in this world goes through it.”

“So what's the, you know,” I asked, sort of looking down at my pants. “The solution?”

“Solution? There's no âsolution,'” she replied. I dropped my head in despair. “But there's nothing wrong with you, either. At least nothing that requires counseling, as far as I can see.”

“So, um . . . ,” I said. “Why am I here?”

“I really don't know,” she answered. “Unless, of course, there's something that you do want to talk about?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Fine. But if you change your mind, just let me know, okay? I'll be the permanent replacement here.”

She scribbled down a few notes in a thin black leather notebook, but I couldn't see what she was writing.

“So, that's it?” I said. “I can go?”

“Well, we still have to figure out a way for you to get credit for those eighteen hours you owe,” she told me. “I talked to the vice principal, but I can't get you off the hook for those.”

“I knew it,” I said. “I knew there was a catch.”

“Slow down, Bobby, we have some options,” she replied. “Option one, we can continue therapy.”

“No way,
bzzpt,
” I said. “What's option two?”

“You can transfer to another school,” she offered.

“I can make the paperwork read so that it doesn't look like an expulsion.”

And leave Allison. No way!

“And option three?” I asked. I was expecting I'd have to stand with no clothes on in the middle of the playground or something.

“You can write your story.”

“Write my story?” I said. “I don't know what that means.”

“Well,” she explained after pausing to make another notation in her leather book, “it seems to me you have had quite a saga as of late. Why don't you write your adventure, turn it in to me and I'll consider that good enough to cancel out the rest of the therapy hours you owe to the school.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

She nodded. Her smile was warm.

I thought about it for a moment.

“Just write my adventure and that's it?” I said. “And I can go?”

“Yes, Bobby, you can go,” she replied. “Of course, you might just find that writing all about it helps, too. Sort of a way to get it all out of your system, if you know what I mean.”

I decided to go for option three and ya know what? My new therapist was right. It did sorta get it all out of my system.

Except for my boners. I still get about eighteen weenie pipes a day.

Some things, I guess, I'll just never understand.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With great appreciation to the incomparable Al Zuckerman, who supported this project from the moment it “popped up,” and the fantastic Stacey Barney, who has now enduredâand unintentionally createdâmore penis puns than any editor should ever have to endure . . . and done so with a smile at every juncture of the journey.

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BOOK: The Downside of Being Up

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