Sons of the 613 Page 4

  I lay there for a bit, considering that statement. “The tent,” I finally said.

  “Yes,” confirmed spirit voice Josh.

  “Okay. That’s what I thought you said.”

  “And we have to get the fire going.”

  “Fire?”

  “For your dinner.”

  It was at this point that I began digging a fire pit, had my delirious phone call with Danny, and watched Josh dispose of my cell phone in the creek.

  The fire pit I made is about a foot deep and three feet in diameter, and it’s tastefully ringed with stones that I lugged up from the creek. I’m sure my parents will love it.

  While I was gathering firewood, Josh disappeared into the house. He returned carrying a raw whole chicken, and I realized what he’d meant about dinner.

  “No no no no no,” I started saying, waving my hands.

  “Catch,” he said, tossing it at me while I shrieked and leaped backwards. The chicken landed on the lawn with a hollow thump, rolled a few times, and came to rest, covered with bits of grass and twigs and dirt.

  “Josh! What am I supposed to do with this thing?”

  “Cook it and eat it.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “If this was a real rite of passage, you’d have to hunt it and kill it, too.”

  “A chicken?”

  “You get the point.”

  “I’m not cooking this whole thing.”

  “No, you don’t have to,” he said, and sent his big survival knife cartwheeling through the air to land point down in the turf about two feet from me. “Just cut off the parts that you want.”

  I looked at the nauseating, yellow-pink carcass lying in the grass, the body cavity gaping obscenely toward me, felt the bile rise in my throat, and knew that I had reached my absolute limit.

  “I’m not touching that,” I said. “I’m not. I’m done. I’m not touching it, and I’m not cooking it, and I’m not going to sleep in this stupid tent!”

  “You’re done?”

  “Yes! This is all completely retarded! I’ve had it! Running around the block, cleaning the stupid house, mowing the lawn, this stupid face paint. You can do whatever you want—I’m not doing this stupid Quest.”

  Josh was silent for a moment, then nodded gravely.

  “I understand. I respect your choice.”

  “Good. I’m going inside.”

  “Of course.”

  “Stupid tent. Frigging chicken,” I muttered, detouring around the carcass as I started walking up toward the house. “Can’t friggin’ believe this. Sleeping in a tent. Campfire on the stupid lawn. Friggin’ ridiculous . . .”

  “Isaac,” called Josh from behind me.

  “What,” I said, still walking.

  “Will you be explaining to Mom about Yoel? Or do you want me to take care of that?”

  I stopped walking and closed my eyes.

  By the time I found a stick, sharpened it, skewered the tattered chicken limb I’d hacked off, and actually started roasting it, it was nearly dark. Lisa came out and stood a few feet away from me, watching in silence and eating an ice cream cone.

  “Can I have some of that?” I asked.

  “Josh told me not to give you any. He says you can’t have any sugar.”

  I slapped at a mosquito and did some muttering.

  Lisa turned her attention to the half-blackened, half-raw chicken at the end of the stick.

  “Are you really going to eat that?”

  “Yep. Want some?”

  I extended the stick toward her and she shied away, making a face.

  “Gross! Josh!” she squealed, and ran back to the house. I slapped at a few more mosquitoes and continued my low-volume carping.

  Mr. Olsen came out as well, a can of beer in hand, watching me from his yard.

  “Doing a little camping, Isaac?” he asked.

  “It’s for my bar mitzvah,” I said.

  “Huh,” he said, nodding, looking somewhat perplexed.

  “It’s a Jewish thing.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding some more. “Huh.” He took a sip of beer. I could see him filing this all away along with the other highly unusual things about the Kaplan family, like us being the only ones on the block with the Obama sign on the lawn. “Huh,” he repeated. He watched for a little while longer and went inside.

  It’s now 12:07 A.M., meaning it’s Monday.

  Here are some of the diseases you can get from mosquitoes in Minnesota:

  La Crosse encephalitis

  Equine encephalitis, both eastern and western

  West Nile virus

  My father had an otherwise healthy fourteen-year-old patient who contracted encephalitis, probably during a camping trip. He presented with a headache and high fever, and then the delirium started and he was dead in a few hours. Those sorts of stories tend to stick in my mind.

  I will admit that I’ve been crying.

  Next time my parents call I could tell them. I could tell them, confess everything, and that way Josh wouldn’t have anything over me. Except if I did, they’d know I had been lying—one of the most egregious, stupid lies I’d ever told, and they’d be furious and know they’d wasted all that money. Plus, Josh would be right—I’d just be running to them.

  There’s another noise outside, something rustling around. My heart starts pounding like it does with each new noise, which happens every few minutes. This is my first time sleeping in a tent, and I’m desperately wishing that I wasn’t, and that I’d never watched Blair Witch on cable.

  I’ve done some research on the web and diagnosed myself with an anxiety disorder. When I announced this to my parents they just laughed. No, said my mother, you’re just Jewish.

  More rustling. I hold my breath.

  No, said my father, you’re just a person who sees consequences. That’s not a bad thing.

  No, says Josh, you’re just a pussy.

  He’s right. I’m a pussy. I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of noises outside in the night, and I’m afraid of my bar mitzvah, and I’m afraid of Kevin Nordquist and Tim Phillips, and I’m afraid of Patty Morrison, and I’m afraid of getting a hard-on in the shower during gym, and I’m afraid I’ll never touch a girl, and I’m afraid if I do, I’ll throw up or something, and I’m afraid of getting older and of getting sick and dying and of my parents getting sick and dying and of being left alone and of global warming and epidemics, and I’m afraid I’m as weak and useless as Josh says I am and that everyone knows it.

  I unzip the tent and crawl out. The grass is damp under my hands, the air cooler than I expected. I half run up the slope of the lawn, afraid to look over my shoulder, scurrying to the door under the deck. Making as little noise as possible, I try the handle. It’s locked, but I expected that.

  I go to the rock under the bush near the rear picture window. I pick it up and pull out the spare—

  Wait a second. Where’s the stupid key! No! I feel around in the dirt, searching for it, until my fingers encounter an unseen spider web and I jerk my hand back, shuddering.

  I straighten up and nearly let out a scream as I spot the face pressed against the glass. It takes my brain a few seconds to realize it’s Josh, cackling at me from the other side of the window.

  “Asshole!” I hiss at him.

  He doesn’t answer. He just holds up the spare key—the one that should be under the rock—and grins, and then points in the direction of the tent.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MY PEEPS ARE INTRODUCED, MY COWARDLY SHALLOWNESS IS MADE MANIFEST, AND A FANTASTICAL PLAN IS ENVISIONED

  “Turn you into a man?” says Danny.

  “That’s what he says, yes.”

  “You?” says Steve.

  “Yup.”

  “Good luck with that,” sniggers Paul.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  It’s the first lunch period, the lunchroom loud with jabbering seventh- and eighth-graders and silverware and thick plastic trays clattering on the hard
surface of the long tables, cell phones blooping and ring-toning as everyone takes advantage of the one time during the day when we can call and text. I’m sitting with Danny Wong and Steve Wilton and Paul Schoener in our usual spot among the patchworked territories of students, the Jocks and popular girls and Sk8ters and Happies and so on grouped with each other and talking about whatever it is they talk about. In our four-seat patch we’re discussing the Quest. Or at least they are, and I’m grunting answers to them.

  “So what else is he making you do?”

  “I don’t know. It just started.”

  I’ve got my elbows on the table, and I’m gingerly massaging my sunburned temples with my hands. It turns out that camouflage paint doesn’t have a very high SPF rating. I also have several attractive welts on my face from mosquito bites. Every layer of my body hurts, from my skin to my skeleton.

  “Maybe he’ll make you get a tattoo,” suggests Steve.

  “Yeah, of some pubes,” says Danny.

  High-fives and giggling.

  “C’mon, dude, that’s funny!” insists Danny, punching me in the shoulder. It’s excruciating, but I still can’t avoid a weak laugh.

  Danny Wong: skinny, clear braces, zit patches on both cheeks. Paul: average build, forehead zits, his expression set to Friendly Dog, able to reenact almost every scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Steve: taller than all of us, taller than most everyone in seventh grade, but with a pudgy face that makes him look eight years old.

  My peeps.

  We’ve known each other and shared the same gifted classes since third grade. I know we’ll be solid until that far-off time when college does us part, and maybe beyond then. We’re the Not-Thems: not Jocks or Stoners or Sk8ters or Happies or Rockers or the popular crowd or anything, really, other than four guys clinging to each other as we tread water desperately, trying to avoid being bashed against the rocks of the popular crowd or sucked into the nerd whirlpool that’s always threatening to engulf us. They can give me all the crap they want, because in the end there’s no one else I’m closer to, maybe not even my parents, and that will never change. Ever.

  “Maybe he’ll get you a prostitute,” says Steve.

  Excited discussion among the three of them of that unlikely event.

  “He’ll probably make you eat dog shit,” says Paul.

  “What?”

  “Dog shit. That’s what my uncle had to do when he joined his fraternity.”

  Danny puts down his fork. “Okay, he did not eat dog shit.”

  “He did.”

  “No. That’s not even remotely possible.”

  Animated debate between Paul and Danny regarding whether that could be even remotely possible. That’s what Danny keeps repeating: “That’s not even remotely possible. Not even remotely.” This morphs into a discussion of whether at some point during the Quest I’ll have to take a midnight crap in the creek, and whether it would be worse to be bitten in the balls in the middle of the night by a snapping turtle or by some sort of snake.

  “Oh, dude, that would suck! Could you imagine, you’re, like, squatting in the creek, and—”

  I close my eyes, lay my head on the table, and tune out.

  Yesterday was the worst Sunday I’ve ever had. Today looks to be making a strong effort to be the worst Monday.

  Josh woke me early again and dragged me out of the tent for some predawn sadism. At least this time I got to skip the war paint and headband. Another call from my mom, again asking if I’d called Eric Weinberg.

  “Yes, I did,” I said.

  “You didn’t, did you,” she said. “Call him. How’s the haphtarah going? Josh helping you out?”

  “Mom, you wouldn’t believe everything Josh is doing.”

  And then it was time to go to the bus stop, which brings us to the Assholes Who Afflict My Life and Josh becoming aware of their existence, which is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

  When it was time to leave, Josh announced that he was going to take the unusual step of walking me and Lisa to the bus stop.

  Panic.

  “Josh, you don’t have to. I think I can manage to put Lisa on her bus and get on mine. I do it every day.”

  “I want to.”

  “There’s no reason.”

  “Is there some reason you don’t want me to do it?”

  “No, fine, whatever.”

  Do not be waiting for me. Do not be waiting for me, I prayed as I trudged toward the bus stop, hunched over from the weight of my backpack, weaving a bit, my legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti. Josh and Lisa were walking ahead of me, holding hands and singing songs.

  Do not be waiting for me.

  Which of course they were, because they do it every day. We were a full block away and I could see them, Kevin Nordquist and Tim Phillips, dawdling by the open door of the bus, lying in wait for me while pretending that they weren’t.

  I do not like being bullied, but I can live with it. What I really didn’t want was Josh to see me being bullied, because I knew exactly how it would play out—Josh would witness whatever was about to happen, and the stone gears would start to churn inside his thick, scarred skull, and he’d get ideas: Isaac being bullied = Isaac needing to stand up for himself = a perfect challenge for the Quest: to confront the bullies.

  I do not want to confront the bullies.

  But then, about a hundred yards away from the bus, Josh stopped.

  “You’re on your own from here. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a pussy,” he said to me, and kissed Lisa on the cheek. I breathed half a sigh of relief, which turned into an explosive huuuuuuh when Josh gave me a whack on the back to send me on my way.

  “I’ll see you when you get home. Be ready to study.”

  Please go home now, I thought, beaming the request out of the back of my head at Josh as I hobbled toward the bus. Please turn and go. Don’t stay and watch.

  “Hi, Isaac,” said Kevin as I got close enough, saying it like my name is Ass Hair. I stared at the ground and tried to move past them into the door, but Tim shoved me into the door frame and I banged my knee on the first step, which set off a chain reaction of me stumbling forward and my heavy backpack flopping over my head and jerking me further off balance, and then I tried to recover and instead ended up in an awkward, crunched, half-squatting position at the base of the bus entrance. Kevin and Tim skipped up the steps, cackling. I pulled myself up, my face burning, and reflexively turned to see if my brother was still there.

  He was, his body half-turned to me as if he had started to walk home and then stopped to watch. He was too far away for me to read his expression, but I knew he was disgusted with me. Then, without a wave, he turned and walked off.

  Since then the day has had a veneer of normalcy: furtive passing of dirty homemade manga drawings between me and Paul in homeroom; furtive sidelong glances at Ellen Healy’s growing boobs in English; similar behavior in social studies. The only difference between today and other days is I can’t properly move my limbs, and I can’t stop worrying about what surprises are waiting for me when I get home.

  “Dude, you all right?” Danny is gently shaking me by the shoulder.

  “Mmm?” I sit up, wiping the drool off my mouth and the table.

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No. Maybe.”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “You look like shit, dude.”

  “You look like if shit could take a shit.”

  My peeps.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  “Dude,” says Paul, “what if during your bar mitzvah you throw up and crap your pants?”

  “Would you please?”

  “Oh, man, do you remember the YouTube thing with Weinberg?” says Danny, as if we haven’t been discussing that very thing every day since it happened.

  “Oooooh!!” say Paul and Steve, reacting to the memory with renewed horrified glee.

  “The way he’s, like, blaarrgh!” says Steve, acting it out, “and the
n he’s, like—” He hits the table with his open hand to illustrate Eric’s now-legendary faint.

  “Yeah, he’s totally like, bleeehh,” starts Paul.

  “Baaarrrff!!” adds Danny.

  “RRraaaalph!!” retches Steve, everyone getting into the act.

  “Dude, that would totally suck if you did that!”

  “That’d be the worst!”

  “In front of all those people like that?”

  “Heeaaavvve!!”

  “Haarrrrrrgghhh!!”

  “Bllaarrrggggaaahh!!!”

  “Could you just—”

  “Rrraaaaaaaaaahh!”

  “Huuuurrrrggg!”

  “Booooooooorrrhhuhuhuh!”

  “ALL RIGHT ALREADY!!” I shout.

  “Geez, dude, you have to chill out.”

  As we’re walking out of the dining hall we spot Eric Weinberg and fall silent. He’s sitting alone near the windows at the end of one of the tables, a pallid, solitary example of how cruel life can be, his gaze fixed on the tabletop as if wandering lost inside the dense, squiggly, bacteria-like pattern on the surface. No one is within a dozen seats of him. If you squint, you can just about see the poisonous cloud of doom above his head.

  “Man, look at him,” whispers Danny.

  “You know what he should do? Move. Move to another state,” says Paul.

  “I think I’d just kill myself,” says Steve.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” I say. They’ve all slowed to a crawl, and I try to urge them forward, fearful that Eric is going to notice me. And just as I’m thinking it, his head turns slowly toward us and his eye line floats up from the table, unmoored and unfocused, as if searching for a dim, distant light in a dark cave, some promise of hope in the endless night, and what he finds is me. I can see the stages unfolding: his eyes acquiring me and focusing up, the moment of recognition, his eyebrows raising and lips parting as he draws in a breath to call out to me—and then I’m looking away, rejecting him and his desperate neediness.