Sorta Like a Rock Star

Page 13

Prince Tony smiles sorta sadly, and says, “You’re a good kid, Amber. And you are going to be a great woman someday.”
“Why does everyone say that to me? Like I’m a bottle of wine or something.”
“Someday you’ll understand.”
“That’s such a BS answer.”
“And someday you’ll give that same answer to someone younger than yourself.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Better get to class, Ms. Appleton,” Prince Tony says, and then he starts opening his mail, like I’m not even there anymore, and I wonder if anything we did last night meant anything at all.
CHAPTER 9
Lex Pinkston actually brings his football buddies down to The Franks Lair during lunch, my boys merrily play Halo 3 with the enemy, and—to make matters even worse—under Franks’ supervision, everyone seems to get along, which pisses me off, so I go back into the lunchroom and read The Crucible by Arthur Miller.
Now, John Proctor was a man I can admire. Going to the gallows instead of giving up his friends to the witch hunt. Proctor was a man of principles, unlike Prince Tony and my boys, who jumped at the first chance they got to play video games with the cool kids—the same kids who called me a disgusting single-syllable word for a woman and made Ryan Gold cry less than forty-eight hours ago.
It’s all so depressing.
Confusing.
Messed up.
After school I collect Ricky at his locker and go to Franks’ room. Franks usually has to pick up his kids after school—because his wife isn’t a teacher and works regular adult hours—so Franks doesn’t stick around too long after the last bell, but I catch him in the hallway just before he is about to leave for the day.
“Did you even hear about what we did for you last night?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” Franks says, his hands full of folders. “Principal Fiorilli filled me in.”
“And?”
“And?”
I try to shrug off his lack of gratitude, but I can’t control the shocked expression on my face, which says, Aren’t you even going to say thanks?
“I appreciate your speaking on my behalf, Amber. And you too, Ricky.”
“Mr. Jonathan Franks is Ricky Roberts’ favorite teacher.”
Franks gives Ricky a quick but heartfelt high five.
“So why aren’t you like—more touched by our gesture?” I ask.
“Well—I’d like to think I’m keeping my job because I’m a good sales and advertising teacher, and not because you threatened the school board without bothering to ask how I felt about your doing so. Maybe the school board voted the way they did simply because they think I am a good teacher.”
I can’t even believe that he isn’t thanking me properly and freaking out with happiness. I thought Franks would hug me for sure. I really thought this was going to be our moment.
Something inside me snaps.
“What?” I say. “We saved your job, Franks. We did it. Us. Franks Freak Force Federation. Are you even serious with that good teacher crap? You play video games all day and offer kids easy electives so they can pad their GPAs. We saved your butt. Don’t you understand that? They would have fired you if it weren’t for us.”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I am sorry.
“Why did you really go to the school board meeting, Amber? For me, or for you? I don’t need saving. Do you?” Franks says very coolly. Then he adds, “If you need help, I’m willing to help you here at school. Anytime between 6:30 AM and 3:15 PM. Just ask. My door will always be open to you. But stop coming to my house. It crosses the line, Amber. It crosses the line.”
And then Franks walks away from us.
“Amber Appleton is crying. Why is Amber Appleton crying? Where is Amber Appleton going? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”
I cry raging tears all the way to Donna’s house with Ricky trailing me.
“Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”
He only stops repeating the question when he opens his math workbook and sits down at the kitchen table.
I let BBB out of his room; he pisses for a full minute—making a yellow river—and then jumps up into my arms.
I give him a long squeeze before I mop up the river with paper towels.
Before I leave, I give Ricky a bowl of pretzels and a can of mandarin orange seltzer, and then I’m on Donna’s bike, BBB in the basket.
“Stop crying,” I say to myself. “You have old people to cheer up. They believe in your ability to keep the tears at bay. They are depressed enough already about being old. Buck up, Amber! Buck up! You can’t battle when you’re crying. You need to defend your title. Stop crying!”
At the last second I remember to stop at Alan’s Newsstand and buy a large cup of hot cocoa and a Snickers bar, and when Alan asks if I have been crying, I say, “What?” and laugh crazily, so he won’t ask me again. Then I finally pull it together as I pedal the last few blocks to the Methodist Retirement Home.
I got this Wednesday gig here after I saw an ad stapled to one of the big old trees in front of the retirement home. I was walking by after work and the hot pink paper of the ad caught my eye, so I took a closer look. The ad read something like this: “Today is the perfect time to make a new friend. Seniors have wonderful stories to tell and are always ready to share their grand array of life experiences. If you want to be a senior pal, if you want to be regaled by stories of olden times, please inquire within. Make a new friend today.” I’m totally down with making friends, I’m a very good pal, and I absolutely love being regaled, so I inquired within and signed up for the program. I became a regular at the Methodist Home once Rita’s closed for the season and I stopped scooping water ice after school.
When I first went to the old folks home, I was told by the staff that I was simply to talk with the old people in the common room—do puzzles, listen to stories about grandchildren, the Depression, the cost of milk seventy years ago, all of which started to make me feel really depressed. These people didn’t need someone to listen to their crappy stories; they needed a spark, something to remind them that they were still alive. And it was pretty obvious that the staff paid them little to no attention, especially since people die here, like every day. Every week I come back someone’s missing. But for the longest time, I wasn’t sure what I could do to liven up the joint.
Then I met Joan of Old, who—on the outside—is the meanest person you ever met, but on the inside, she’s actually pretty philosophical, which you have to discover by breaking through the meanness by being mean yourself, so she will respect you. I discovered this by accident one day when I told her I wanted to go to Bryn Mawr College and she said I’d never get in because I wasn’t smart enough.
Her rudeness surprised me because old women are supposed to be really grandmotherly and nice, so I lost my cool and cursed her out really badly, calling her some pretty nasty things, which made her smile, which was weird, but led to my having a kick-ass idea: turn the common room into a word-battle arena where hope dukes it out with despair once a week, which sounded crazy loopy at first, but I’ve always trusted my visions, so I pitched my idea to some of the older men—who were always putting their arms around me and squeezing my shoulders—and they ate the plan up and made it happen.
Because she loves being evil, Joan of Old agreed to play her part right away, and it has really improved morale at the home very much—or at least that’s what the residents tell me anyway.
The front of the Methodist Retirement Home has these huge slavery-times plantation columns and a porch with wooden rocking chairs that look out over a big old rolling lawn, but I use the back entrance, where you have to sign in and pass through security, which—on Wednesday afternoons—is pretty much Door Woman Lucy.
So I park Donna’s bike behind a bush—hiding my ride, so it won’t get stolen—grab BBB, and then walk into the visitor’s entrance with my pup in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other.
“Ain’t no dogs allowed in this building,” Door Woman Lucy says from behind her desk, shaking her head slowly, staring into my eyes. “You know the rules, Ms. Appleton. I don’t make ’em, and I need to get paid, so that funky little rat’s gonna have to stay outside.”
“DWL.” That’s what I call Door Woman Lucy to her face, and I think she likes the nickname, because she always smiles when I say it. “It’s cold out.”
“Sure is.”
“Too cold for a dog to be outside.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Bet it gets cold every time that door opens.”
“Sure does,” Door Woman Lucy says, lifting one eyebrow.
“I just bought this hot chocolate here, but I’m not really feeling much like drinking a delicious wintertime beverage right now. But it would be a shame to throw it away. I’d really hate to chuck a fresh cup of hot chocolate.”
“Ms. Appleton, as you know, I’m not allowed to accept bribes from visitors, but if you left that drink on my desk, knowing that it won’t change the fact that that dog of yours must stay outside the building, I’d maybe see it don’t go to waste.”
Very slowly, I place the cup on her desk, lay the Snickers across the lid as an added bonus, sweetening the deal—because I really do dig Door Woman Lucy—sign the clipboard with all the lines and names of people who have visited today, record the time of my visit, and then I step away slowly, making my way into the building, BBB under my arm.
“Thanks for leaving that dog outside, Ms. Appleton. I’m sure you understand that rules are rules,” Door Woman Lucy says.
“Oh, I understand,” I say.
BBB barks once to convey that he understands as well.
And then B Thrice and I both walk through a second door and into the home.
We make our way through some depressing hallways with dusty fake plants in the corners, but we don’t see any staff members.
There is a great cheer when I walk into the common room.
I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m sorta like a rock star to these people.
I slip BBB to Knitting Carol, who hides my pup in a lap full of yarn. B Thrice loves to sleep in yarn, so no worries. Knitting Carol loves dogs, so it’s a match made in heaven. With B3 in her lap, she’s smiling like a little girl on Christmas morning. True? True.
“All right, kid,” Old Man Linder says to me, massaging my shoulders from behind. “The old broad has been mumbling nasty things about you all week. She’s coming at you hard today. Don’t let her rattle you with any low blows, because the wrinkly bag’s brimming full of ’em, as you are well aware.”
Old Man Linder is my manager. He’s something like a hundred and fifteen years old and has to drag around an oxygen bottle that pumps pure air through these clear tubes that are stuck up his nose. His breath stinks and he has spots all over his face, but he is a kick-ass manager, and he hasn’t thrown in the white towel on me yet. He’s tough as nails, so I trust him to manage my corner.