When Bubbie knocks on my door, I bolt upright. I must have fallen asleep.
“Hi, bubela,” she says, marching in. “Did the heat wear you out?”
Her Bodies by Bubbie T-shirt, which is supposed to be light gray, is now a dark gray because it’s drenched in sweat.
I lift my arm in a lame wave. “Nope. I’m good.” But really, I’m beat. The heat definitely wore me out.
Bubbie makes guns with her biceps, then shakes her short, curly hair. “Since I’m warmed up from my run, want to do a little weight lifting with me?”
A little weight lifting? There’s no such thing as a little weight lifting with Bubbie Bernice of the famous Bodies by Bubbie franchise. My bubbie is an exercise guru/maniac/freak.
“Maybe later,” I lie. There will be no later. If I wanted every muscle in my body to hurt, I’d go ahead and get run over by that Mack truck. It would be quicker than working out with Bubbie and much less painful. Besides, my ego would be crushed if I were bested by a short woman with tattoos of the words “You are stronger than you think” running down her left forearm and “Get out of your own way” running down her right.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Bubbie says, coming over and kissing me on the forehead. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I glance at her tattoo. “I know.”
“Well,” Bubbie says, clapping her hands twice. I almost expect the lights to switch on and off, but they don’t. “If my favorite grandson in the whole world won’t lift weights with his old bubbie, I’ll lift them by myself. Those things aren’t going to lift themselves, you know.” She makes guns with her biceps again. “Then I need to get ready for my date with Mr. Matthesen. We’re going to the early bird special at the Golden Trough. I’d rather have a nice piece of fish somewhere, but he likes to strap on the feedbags at that place. Well, I’d better continue my workout and hop in the shower.”
“Bubbie, maybe you’d better stand in the shower. Wouldn’t want you to slip from hopping.” I raise my eyebrows so she knows I’m joking. I can’t believe Bubbie has a date. She’s got a better social life than I do. Maybe if I were super strong like her, I’d have a better social life, too. I secretly glance at my right bicep muscle and flex it. It looks exactly the same as before I flexed.
“Nonsense,” Bubbie says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll burn more calories if I hop in the shower.”
She winks and jogs down the hall.
Being around Bubbie makes me feel happy. She’s one of the few good things about coming to Florida.
Don’t think about the bad things.
When I was younger and we’d visit Bubbie Bernice, she’d be out front playing catch with me and some of the boys in the neighborhood. Bubbie would be the first one leaping into the pool when we were having a barbeque. And she’d always make popcorn and cuddle with me to watch movies at night. I got to choose which movies we watched every time.
Maybe being here won’t be so bad.
Yes, it will. You know it will.
Stop. Thinking.
It’s hard to sit still with all the energy Bubbie brought into the room, so I get up and finally change into shorts. My legs are too long. And hairy. How can I have legs this hairy and be going into eighth grade? Everything developed early on my body—like in fifth grade—including the mutant extra hair, my protruding Adam’s apple and a deeper voice.
I put the corduroys back on. Better to be hot and sweaty than be mistaken for a gorilla recently escaped from the Palm Beach Zoo. Bubbie took me to the zoo once. I loved the naked mole rats. She let me stand there and watch them burrow in and out of their dark tunnels for nearly an hour. They seemed frantic as they raced here and there, often running over on top of each other. That’s what my thoughts feel like at times. Frantic. And other times it feels like they’re making their way through sludge.
I head downstairs to find Mom reading the newspaper at the same table where we had eaten our doughnuts. “Hey, Norb.” She smooths the paper out. “Want to go shopping for school clothes now? Only six more days till you’re a big eighth grader.”
“I wish I weren’t so big.” I hate being taller than everyone. I shake my head, feeling like I’m disappointing her. “Heading out to explore,” I tell her. I don’t tell her the particular address I plan to visit.
Mom stands on her toes, but I still have to bend down for her to kiss my forehead. “Don’t get overheated, Norb. Remember to drink lots of water. And eat something substantial.” Then she stuffs a few dollar bills into my palm.
“Whew,” I say. “I’m tired just thinking about all those things.” I hold up the money. “Thanks.”
Mom reaches up and ruffles my already ruffled hair.
She’s always reminding me about the heat and drinking enough water, even when we lived in New Jersey. Even when it wasn’t that hot outside. Possible dehydration is a risk from one of the medicines I take—my mood stabilizer. My antipsychotic medicine has other possible side effects—worse ones—but I try not to think about them because I have to take it. I’ve been taking those two medicines for a couple years now—ever since my diagnosis. But the good thing is that Mom made a deal with me. She promised that when we came to Florida, I’d be in charge of taking my medicine myself. Mom said I could keep the medicine in my room instead of in the kitchen, and she wouldn’t nag me about taking it, like she used to do in New Jersey. She said I’ve been doing a great job and she trusts me. I won’t let her down. I won’t pull a Dad.
“I’ll be careful,” I say, but I don’t promise to drink water, because honestly, I hate the taste of water. I’d much rather drink soda or sweetened iced coffee or juice.
Mom kisses me again. On my cheek this time, which she can reach when standing on her toes, without my assistance. “Take care of yourself, Norbert. Call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mom. I will.” And I go to the sink and drink some lousy-tasting water because I know it will make her happy.
The minute I step outside, a wave of heat whacks me in the face. I inhale it into my unsuspecting lungs and feel sweat prickling in my hairy pits. “Terrific,” I say to no one as I walk along our block, turn the corner and head down Lilac Lane. There’s a dog in the window at 1205, but no blue-eyed girl in a red dress. For a moment, I wonder if she was real. I think of her smiling at me, of her waving. I remember her blue eyes. She was real.
I consider going back to Bubbie’s and letting Mom take me clothes shopping, but I’m not ready to be cooped up in the car with her, then dragged through a bunch of stores. School clothes shopping would remind me of Dad and the time he bought me about ten times as much stuff as I actually needed and Mom had to return most of it the next day. And that will remind me of—
Stop thinking about him!
I walk out of Beckford Palms Estates and down a few blocks, all the while trying out different names for myself, to see which one might fit. Bernie. No. Mitch. No. Julian. No. Jacob. Maybe. Andrew. Maybe. Kyle. Perhaps. Nicholas. Possibly. Charlie. I’m not a Charlie. But then again, anything’s better than Norbert. A girl will never say, “Hey, I want you to meet my boyfriend, Norbert. We’re going to make out now.” Not. Going. To. Happen.
I see the Beckford Palms Public Library ahead and think I’ll go inside to cool off. Maybe I’ll even take a sip from the water fountain, because if Mom were here, she’d want me to. And I really appreciate that she’s finally trusting me and letting me handle my own medicine every day.
“Hey!”
As I look up into the twisty branches of an enormous tree, a bunch of leaves rain down on me. At first I think it’s birds swooping and I make embarrassing jerking motions to swipe them away from my head, but then I realize it’s only a bunch of stupid leaves.
“Hey!” someone calls again from one of the lower branches. Legs dangling, long hair obscuring the face. I feel like I know the boy, but that’s crazy because I don’t know anyone here, except Bubbie and Mom. Maybe I met him during one of my visits to Bubbie a long time ago. Maybe he was one of the boys I played ball with in the street back then.
The boy in the tree pulls his hair away from his face and I see them—blue eyes. “Want to climb up here or are you heading to Dunkin’ Donuts again?”
What? Is it the girl I saw earlier today? It looks like a boy. But how would this boy in this tree know I might be going to Dunkin’ Donuts…again? I’m totally confused and probably being a jerk because I’m staring, trying to figure it out. Maybe the dosages of my meds need a little tweaking. Mom said we’d find a good psychiatrist down here to make sure I stay on track.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
Sounds like a boy, but not real deep, not like my voice. I shield my eyes. Maybe it’s the sun playing tricks. Say something, Norbert. “I, um, don’t climb trees.”
“Come on,” he says in this warm, welcoming way.
I shake my head.
The boy shoulders a backpack and climbs down the wide trunk, landing on the ground in front of me with a thud.
Now I can get a good look. Definitely the same blue eyes as the girl this morning. Maybe it’s her twin brother or something. Maybe…“Aren’t you—”
“Where you headed?” he asks, cutting me off.
I stare at those blue eyes and tilt my head. “I just thought—”
“I need a drink,” he says.
“Me too.” My throat is sandpaper dry.
Inside the cool, oily, doughnut-smelling air, I reach into my pocket and touch the money Mom gave me. Another iced coffee would be great now. And some answers.
Those would be nice, too.
