Mom orders me an omelet, hash browns and fruit cup, but I can’t eat.
All I can do is picture Bob being taken down branch by branch and not being able to do anything about it. I decide I don’t need to see the stump pulled from the ground Monday. In fact, I don’t need to walk anywhere near the area for a long time, which means I won’t be able to go to the library—my other sanctuary.
Our ordeal doesn’t seem to inhibit Dunkin’s appetite. He eats a huge pile of pancakes, scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes. I’m shocked to watch Dunkin down not one or two, but five cups of coffee.
“You must be really tired,” I say.
Dunkin turns over his other shoulder and says, “Not right now.”
“Dunkin?”
He looks at me, startled.
“Is everything…okay?” I’m still so grateful he joined me up in the branches of Bob for the last time.
“Sure. Of course. Great. Terrific!”
Dunkin’s talking fast, but five cups of coffee will have that effect on a person. I know I don’t have to, but when Mom and Sarah go to the bathroom, I whisper, “Are you sure my secret’s safe with you?”
He reels back. “Of course. I can be trusted one hundred percent. Why would you even ask?”
I nibble one small chunk of honeydew. “Just checking.”
“No worries.”
“Hey, how was your mom when you asked about joining us for breakfast?”
Dunkin grins. “I lucked out. She didn’t answer—probably still sleeping—so I left a message that I went out to breakfast with a friend and would be home soon.”
I nod and poke at my fruit. I decide I’ll bring the rest of my breakfast back for Dad, since he had to go to the shop, and I feel like I’ll never be able to eat again anyway. I can’t get the images out of my mind of my tree being dismembered, perfectly healthy pieces of a majestic tree in great heaps on the ground. I try to think of something else.
“Dunkin?”
“Yeah?”
“You know that dance? The big eighth-grade dance before the holidays?”
He nods.
“Well, I was wondering. Are you going?”
“Are you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m definitely going.”
“Cool,” he says, grabbing a piece of cantaloupe from my bowl and popping it into his mouth. “Then I’ll go, too.”
I think about what it might be like. “Perfect.”
THINKING
I like Tim’s family, especially his mom and sister. His dad scares me a little, but I’m not sure why, and I really don’t want to think about it. I’m so hungry and the ache in my head tells me I need coffee stat. Lots and lots of coffee loaded with lots and lots of sugar.
While I’m eating and drinking, I think about what Tim told me last night. I don’t mean to, but I keep staring at his face, at those electric blue eyes. He kind of looks like a girl, except for the hair—not short, but much shorter than when I first met him. I wonder if this is why Vasquez calls Tim “fag” all the time. Does Vasquez know about Tim being transgender? But if he does, “fag” isn’t the right word anyway. One thing has nothing to do with the other. Besides, I hate the word “fag.” Kids at my old school used to call me “fag” sometimes or use the word “fag” to mean “weird.”
The more I think about it, the more I don’t like Vasquez…or the guys on the team. Too bad because I’m going to be playing with them all the way to the state championship, so I’d better get along with them, at least until then.
I know Tim’s the real deal because he trusted me enough to share that secret. And he shouted when Coach was reaming me out, and gave me a thumbs-up when everyone else was booing. That’s what a real friend does—sticks by you when no one else will.
I’ll bet I could trust him with my secret. Secrets.
I look over and watch Tim not eating breakfast. I want to do the disappearing saltshaker trick for him—to cheer him up—but I don’t have any magic in me today. And Tim probably wouldn’t be in the mood anyway. I’m sure seeing his favorite tree get cut down hit him hard. It’s tough to lose something you love and know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s unbearable to realize you couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what—
Stop thinking!
But—
Just stop!
Did He Tell?
Monday, I’m in the locker room and Vasquez comes over. “Where’s your nail polish, fag?”
I don’t answer, but a panicked part of me wonders: Did Dunkin tell him?
“I don’t see any,” Vasquez says. “Want me to borrow my sister’s to give to you?”
I say nothing, but I tremble involuntarily and hate myself for it. Vasquez hasn’t really bothered me too much lately. Why is he doing this now?
“You people make me sick,” Vasquez says, and shoves me into the locker.
The back of my head smacks the metal of a lock. There’s an explosion of pain, so I reach back, expecting to feel the warmth of blood, but my fingers come away dry. With each pulse of pain, I see Vasquez’s dad’s face interchange with Vasquez’s. I remember how angry Vasquez’s dad got when Dunkin scored a basket for the other team, and I understand where Vasquez gets his meanness. His intolerance. A long time ago, Mom taught me that when someone makes you suffer, it’s because his own pain is spilling over. But that glimmer of understanding doesn’t make the back of my head feel any better. It doesn’t help me forgive Vasquez’s constant cruelty. And what did he mean by “you people”?
During my next class, I have a dull, throbbing headache.
But worrying that Dunkin might have told Vasquez my secret makes my heart hurt even worse.
A QUESTION
At lunch, Tim comes up to our table. He stands right behind me. I want to push him away, send him back to the safety of his table with Dare, who is watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, and some other girl, who’s sitting close to Dare.
“Can I talk to you?” Tim asks.
My stomach is clenched. My mouth frozen midchew. I can’t believe Tim came over here; it’s so dangerous.
“Yeah, Dorfman,” Vasquez says. “Why don’t you talk to your girlfriend?”
I try to think of something smart to say to Vasquez, but I can’t, so I grab my tray and get up. As I walk away, my tray gripped tightly in my fingers, I feel something hit me in the back. But I don’t turn and look. I’m sure it’s just somebody’s orange or something. Vasquez is unoriginal in his meanness.
I think we’re going to the table with Dare and the other girl, but Tim keeps walking. So I keep following. I can’t believe I’m doing this—walking away from Vasquez and the guys on the team.
We stop at the farthest table in the cafeteria when Tim turns and says, “You told him. Didn’t you?”
“What?”
“You told Vasquez what I told you Friday night in the tree.”
I slam my tray down, feeling people watching us. “Are you serious?” I whisper-shout. “You pulled me away from the table for that?” I wish Tim trusted me, but apparently he doesn’t. “Of course I didn’t tell him.” I get right in his face, which requires me to bend way down. “I didn’t tell anybody. Why would I?”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why?”
“Vasquez said some stuff to me in the locker room.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Stupid stuff.” Tim shakes his head. “I guess it wasn’t anything nastier than usual. I’m probably just being paranoid.”
I glance over. Vasquez is watching us. He looks pissed. “He’s an idiot,” I say.
“Hey,” Tim says, tilting his head. “Since he’s such an idiot, do you want to sit with me and Dare and Amy?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. A part of me has wanted to sit with them since after the first few days of the school year. “But I’d better go back.” I feel like a traitor. “Just for now,” I say. “Till basketball season is over.”
Tim nods. “Thanks for not telling.” And he goes back to his table.
I’d better get this over with.
When I return, Vasquez says, “What did she want?”
I shrug, like it’s nothing. “To borrow money.”
“Did you lend it to him?” Birch asks.
“Course not,” I say, and stuff a roll in my mouth so I stop talking.
“Well, I can’t stand that kid,” Vasquez says. “Total freak. Stay away from her.”
“Sure,” I say, but don’t mean it.
Tim is the only real friend I’ve made since moving to Beckford Palms.
The only real friend I’ve ever had.
HE’S BACK
It’s a home game.
I’ve gotten a total of six and half minutes of playing time this entire season. Coach had better play me tonight.
Besides…
I.
Can’t.
Sit.
Still.
Anymore.
The starting five barely do the tip-off and I’m up and pacing.
“Dorfman. Sit!” Coach says.
I sit.
In my race-car mind, all the cars are crashing into each other. Too many cars. Too much noise. I put my hands over my ears and close my eyelids, but it won’t stop. The noise. The colliding thoughts.
I pace again and consider bolting out of the gym into the cool night air.
Coach grabs my jersey and sits me down. “I’ll play you in a little while,” he whispers. “But you’ve gotta sit.”
He’s going to play me. I pump my leg.
I look to my left.
“You’re back!” I say.
“Who’s back?” one of my teammates, Jackson, whispers. “Who are you talking to?”
I ignore him, like he’s not even there, and glance over my left shoulder. “It’s been hard. I’m glad you’re here.”
I’m glad I’m here, too, Dunkin.
“How’d you…know my nickname?”
“Dorfman, get out there!”
I feel so much relief. He’s back. He knows my nickname. All will be well.
Get out there! Coach just called your name.
“He did?”
“Who are you talking to?” Jackson slides his chair away from me.
Is everyone crazy? Can’t they see?
I charge onto the floor. I wonder which player I’m going in for.
Show me your moves, Phineas says.
“Okay.” I pretend to dribble in a circle, then down the court. I look up and see Coach at the score table. I forgot to check in. Oops.
That’s great. Show me more. Your very best moves.
He’s laughing. And I feel fantastic. I run up and down, up and down, talking to Phineas. The other players are so afraid of my moves they get out of my way. There’s a clear line to the basket. But which basket?
Shoot! Phineas calls.
And I want to shoot. I want to show off for Phineas.
But I don’t even have the ball. And I don’t know which basket I’m supposed to aim for. I whip around to look for the ball, to figure out which way I’m supposed to go, to find Phineas, to check in at the score table. There are so many things I have to do. But where’s the ball? Where’s Phin? My hands tremble. I’m walking in tight circles. “What am I doing? What am I doing?”
I’m trying so hard to remember.
How long have I been standing here? Why is everyone looking at me like that? I wish I could perform the ultimate magic trick right now…and disappear.
Mom’s standing near me, her hand over her mouth. And Bubbie’s here, too. Why are they on the floor with me? They should be up in the bleachers. Coach Ochoa’s near me. And other people I don’t know. I’m still walking in circles.
I ask Phin, “What’s happening?”
I guess the game stopped. Maybe someone got hurt. But why is everyone staring at me? Vasquez. Birch. All the guys on the team. Even the coaches and guys from the other team.
Everyone’s.
Staring.
At.
Me.
“What’s happening?” I ask Phineas again. I cover my eyes because I can’t stand the way everyone is looking at me.
It’s okay now, he says, calm and assured.
“Norbert!” Mom says.
I look at her, then do a few wild basketball maneuvers to show her I’m okay. “See? See?” I tell her. “See?”
She’s crying and reaching for me, but she’s not close enough. Bubbie’s strong arm is around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” I tell Mom. “I’m okay.” Then I smile and look to my left. “Phineas is back. Everything’s okay.”
I hear a gasp, and then someone is pulling my hands behind me. Snapping something cold and hard around my wrists.
I try to wrench free. “I’m okay!” I scream. “Can’t you see?” I thrash about wildly to show everyone, but a couple men are holding me now.
Mom stands watching as they drag me out of the gym, out of the school and into the back of a car. A police car. I’m in the back of a police car!
Mom’s face is at the window. She reaches her fingers out to me like you’d see in a bad movie, but this is for real.
“I’m okay,” I tell her, tears streaming down my face.
I’m not sure she hears me, though, because her face looks so sad.
As the car speeds away, I’m so glad I’m not alone.
Phineas is beside me.
TRAPPED
I’m taken inside a dull building, and a loud door clangs behind me. I know what this place is. I’ve been in a place like this once before.
“We’re trapped,” I tell Phin, my heart thud-thud-thudding.
Don’t worry.
They put me in a room. My arms are still cuffed behind me and there’s a man standing next to me.
“Hello, Norbert,” another man near the door says. “I’m Dr. Carter. I’m here to help you.”
You don’t know that he’s a doctor, Phineas says. He could be with the FBI. He’s probably here to hurt you.
“Don’t hurt me!” I scream. “I won’t let you hurt me!”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” says the man who doesn’t look like a doctor.
I’m afraid he might hurt you, Phineas says. Get away!
I charge to the door. But realize I can’t open it anyway because my hands are behind me. The man grabs me and pushes me down on a mattress on the floor.
And sticks a needle in my arm.
“Don’t let them do this, Phin! Stop them!”
I’m doing my best here. But you have to help, too. You have to—
“Who’s Phineas, Norbert? Are you…hearing…voices, son?”
Son? Dad?
Don’t listen to him, Dunkin! Run! R…u…n…
“Norbert, I’m here to help…”
The man’s voice gets quieter and then vanishes.
Phineas’s words go away, too.
And suddenly I’m so…sleepy.
THE ROOM
I wake in a tiny room.
I’m lying on a mattress with no sheet. The mattress is in a wooden box on the floor. There’s drool coming out of my mouth. I wipe it away and realize my arms are free. There are red marks on my wrists where the handcuffs were, so I know I’m not crazy. Last night happened.
You awake?
“Yeah, I’m up,” I tell Phin, glad he’s here.
We’ve got to get out of here, buddy.
“I know. I know.”
There’s a door, Phineas says. But I’ll bet the bastards locked us in last night. That was crazy, eh?
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my wrists. “What happened?”
You were a beast on the basketball court, my friend. I think there were scouts from the NBA. I’d be surprised if they didn’t want to draft you.
This makes me smile.
You’re a superstar.
Phineas always makes me feel good. Well, almost always. I look down and see something different about my sneakers. “Why are my laces missing?”
You know why.
And I do.
Suddenly, I remember exactly where I am.
“We have to get out of here,” I tell Phineas.
Tell me about it, buddy.
THIS PLACE
I stare at the fluorescent light overhead for a long time.
Finally, someone unlocks the door to my room, and a big guy in green scrubs saunters in. I remember him from last night. He’s the man who gave me the needle that made me so tired. I don’t want another needle, so I back up on the mattress. Away from him.
“Hello, Norbert,” the man says.
“How does he know my name?” I ask Phineas.
Phin doesn’t answer, which scares me.
“Okay, then,” the man says in a false cheery voice. “Time to see Dr. Carter.”
Even though I’m scared, I follow the man out of my room. My feet slip out of the backs of my sneakers a little because there are no laces, but I’m able to keep up with the guy. The hallway smells bad. People here look weird. Too thin or too heavy. Vacant, glassy eyes.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
The guy doesn’t answer. He takes me to a room and opens the door. “Dr. Carter, your patient is here.”
“Sit down, Norbert,” he says.
The green-scrubs guy closes the door, but stays in the room, with his arms crossed.
I sit.
“Norbert, you had an incident last night. Can you tell me what happened?”
I remember showing off a little on the court for Phineas. I remember the worried look in Mom’s eyes. I remember being put in that small room, and Phineas warning me that this guy might not be a real doctor.
I don’t share any of these thoughts with the possibly/probably fake doctor.
“Norbert, are you hearing voices?”
I shake my head no.
He marks something on a piece of paper.
I can’t hold back something that’s been on my mind since they took me to this place. “Can I ask you a question?”
The possibly/probably fake doctor folds his hands. “Of course.”
I clear my sore throat. “Could you check to see if my father’s in here?”
The pseudo doctor looks through a file in front of him, and I notice his eyebrows arch. “Your father?”
“Yes,” I say. “My dad’s in a psychiatric facility, too. That’s why we moved here.”
“Is he?” This guy is doing a good job of pretending to be a real doctor. He even asks questions instead of answering them, like real doctors often do. Maybe Phin was wrong. Maybe this guy actually is a doctor. I kind of hope he is, because then he’ll be able to help me find my dad.
“Yes,” I say, hopeful. “I was wondering if he’s in this one. That’s what this place is. Isn’t it?”
“Yes, Norbert,” the maybe fake, maybe real doctor says. “You are in Beckford Palms Mental Health Center. But I’m wondering why you think your father might be in here.”
“Because my mom put him in one.”
He’s quiet, then says, “Norbert, for right now, I’d like to talk about you. Would that be okay?”
“Okay,” I say, but inside I’ve decided I’m going to find a way to look around. Maybe when that big guy in green scrubs isn’t nearby. If my dad is in here, I’ll find him. He’s probably missing me so much. He’s probably dying for some doughnuts.
I’ll find him. And Phineas will help. “Won’t you, buddy?”
You betcha, Dunkin.
“What was that?” the fake, not fake doctor asks.
I look over my left shoulder.
Say “nothing,” Phineas tells me.
“Nothing.”
