Tiger Eyes (15 page)

The nurse shakes her head. “Last night,” she says.

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Davey. We all felt the same way about him.”

I choke up and clutch the stem of the rose so hard a thorn goes through my skin. I cry out, half from the pain in my finger and half from the pain of losing Mr. Ortiz.

“His son asked me to give you these,” the nurse says, opening a drawer. She pulls out the dancing bear and an envelope and hands them both to me. I open the envelope.

Tiger
,

He wanted you to have the bear. Remember
him as he was—full of life—full of love. I’ll see you
cuando los lagartijos corren.

Wolf

I put the note back in its envelope and hold the dancing bear to my face. I can’t stop crying. I am crying harder now than when my father died. Then, I was just numb. Now I feel everything.

I go downstairs, to the volunteers’ office and explain to the director that I have to go home. I tell her I have a headache, which is true. My head is pounding. The director tells me to go home and take two aspirin. She thinks I am probably coming down with the flu.

I run all the way home, sweating inside my down jacket.

When I get there Jason is in the kitchen, wearing an apron.

“What are you doing?” I shout.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“And why are you wearing that faggy apron?”

“So I don’t get messed up,” he says.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s not home yet.”

“Where’s Bitsy?”

“She went to Safeway. Ned’s coming to dinner.”

“That nerd!”

“He’s nice,” Jason says, and he keeps on cutting out gingerbread man cookies.

“God, Jason … just look at you!” I yell. “Is
this how you’re going to spend the rest of your life?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like this … baking cookies? I can’t stand what’s happening to you! I can’t stand what’s happening to us!”

“What are you talking about? I like baking cookies.”

“That’s
not
what I’m talking about!” I go upstairs, throw myself down on my bed, and wind up the dancing bear. I hang over the side of the bed and watch him turning circles on the floor. Why did I have to take it out on Jason? I ask myself. He’s just a little kid. What does he know? Besides, what happened to my fantasy of Jason Wexler, Cookie Specialist? Just thinking about that sets me off crying again.

“I want to go home,” I say aloud. “I want to go home to Atlantic City.”

L
ater, I decide to write a letter.

Dear Wolf
,

I’m really sorry about your father. I liked him a lot, as you know. Thanks for remembering about the bear. I’m going to keep him on my bedside table. He will remind me of your father and of you, not that I need reminding, but you know what I mean
.

I told you that my father died suddenly. Well, that’s true, but it’s not like you think
.
He was shot in the chest during a robbery last summer. I couldn’t tell you the truth before. I couldn’t tell anyone. Here’s the thing, Wolf—your father was ready to die. Mine wasn’t. You were prepared for your father’s death. I wasn’t. After it happened I was afraid. I was so afraid! Of everything. Of going to school. Of just going to sleep at night. I was afraid of you, that first day in the canyon. I was planning to bash in your head with a rock, if you made a false move. Lucky for you, you didn’t
.

I don’t want to go through life afraid. But I don’t want to wind up like my father, either. Sometimes I think about dying and it scares me, because it’s so permanent. I mean, once it’s over, it’s over. Unless there is something that comes after. Something that we don’t know about. I like the idea of an afterlife but I can’t bring myself to really believe in it. Do you?

Here is something I found in a magazine:

Each of us must confront our own fears, must come face to face with them. How we handle our fears will determine where we go with the rest of our lives. To experience adventure or to be limited by the fear of it
.

I think about that a lot, especially in this town, where so many people seem afraid
.
Does building bombs make them feel afraid, or is it the isolation from the rest of the world? Have you figured it out? If you have, please let me know
.

I have to go now. I will remember your father as you asked me to, full of life and full of love. I will see you
cuando los lagartijos corren …

Love
,
Tiger

I take the letter to school the next day and look up the address for Cal Tech in the guidance office. I mail it at lunchtime.

THIRTY

My letter to Wolf is returned on the same day that my first semester grades come in. The envelope is stamped
Moved—No Forwarding Address
. Where is he? I wonder. What is he doing? I put the letter into the trunk next to ones I have received from Lenaya, who writes to me on the first day of every month. In the spring, I will personally hand my letter to Wolf. In the spring, when I see him again.

I show my grades to my mother, who is getting ready to go out to dinner with The Nerd. She says, “Very nice, Davey … especially since you missed more than a month of school. I’m sure you did your best.”

“How come you’re going out on another date with
him?
” I ask.

“It’s not a date,” Mom says. “We’re having dinner together, that’s all.”

“Sure,” I say.

Mom turns away from the mirror, where she has been brushing her hair. “I need the adult companionship.”

“I thought you had that all day at the Lab.”

“No, this is different,” she tells me.

“Well, have a good time,” I say, but I don’t mean it and Mom knows that I don’t. Then I go downstairs to feed Minka.

Later, Walter asks to see my grades, and when I show them to him he hits the roof.

“They’re not
that
bad,” I say. I got a C in American Cultures, a C in Geometry, a B– in French, a B in English and an A in Typing. “Mom thought they were fine, especially since I missed the first six weeks of school.”

“With a little effort you could have had all A’s and B’s,” Walter says. “You don’t apply yourself. You don’t work up to your full potential.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “I do plenty of studying in school and plenty in my room, at night.” This is not exactly true. I almost never study at school, except for geometry. I do my geometry homework with Reuben, because he’s very good at math. I used to be, but I guess missing all that school really did matter. And at night, I do only what is absolutely necessary. “Besides,” I say, “what difference does it make? It’s what you learn that counts, not what grades you get.”

“Who told you that?” Walter asks.

“My father.”

“I should have guessed.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“You want to wind up like
him?
” Walter says, raising his voice. “With no education … 
working in a 7-Eleven store … a wasted life …”

“How dare you say that my father had a wasted life! You don’t know anything.” My stomach is all tied up in knots. I am on the verge of tears. “And I’m going to tell Mom what you said about my father. He was a better man than you. In every way.”

“Fine!” Walter booms. “You tell your mother. Or maybe I’ll save you the trouble and tell her for you. Because if your father had been a
better
man she wouldn’t be where she is now.”

“That’s not true!” I shout.

“Your mother is another example of a wasted life.”

“What?” I say. “What did you say about my mother?”

“Pregnant in high school and destitute at thirty-four.”

“Shut up … just shut up …” I rush toward him, calling him every name in the book, and pound on his chest with my fists.

He grabs me by the wrist and smacks me. Hard. Right across the face.

“I hate you,” I yell. “I’ve always hated you.” I turn and run out of the room and as I do I see that Bitsy and Jason have been in the kitchen the whole time, listening.

Upstairs, I get into bed and when I have calmed down enough, I write another letter to Wolf. Even though I have no address for him
and can’t mail it, I have to tell someone what is happening. I have to tell someone how my life is falling apart. Someone who will understand.

An hour later Walter knocks on my bedroom door. “Davey, can I come in for a minute?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” I tell him.

“But I have something to say to you.”

“Suit yourself.”

He opens the door. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I certainly didn’t mean to insult your parents.”

I don’t take my eyes off the dancing bear, which I am holding in my lap.

“I just hoped you’d realize how important education is.”

I still don’t look at him but I say, “I might want to be a professional singer.”

“I had no idea,” he says. “I’ve never heard you sing. Are you any good?”

I don’t answer.

He lowers his voice. “I’m sorry I slapped you. That was uncalled for and unplanned. I don’t believe in violence.”

Very funny, I think. All those bombs and missiles but he doesn’t believe in violence.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks.

Without speaking I put the dancing bear on my night table, snap off the lamp, roll over in bed and close my eyes.

After a minute Walter leaves. I hear him walking down the hall.

THIRTY-ONE

Jane has promised to try out for
Oklahoma!
with me. We are to meet outside the auditorium, after school. I get there first, and watch groups of kids file inside. So many people are trying out. Do I even have a chance? I begin to feel anxious and after ten minutes, when Jane still hasn’t shown, I think about chickening out and going home.

But then Jane comes staggering down the hall. “Hi …” she says, all bright-eyed. “Here I am. Ready and willing.”

I smell the booze on her breath. “Have you been drinking?” I say. Of course she has. Why do I bother to ask.

“Just a teensy-weensy bit,” Jane says, giggling.

It is not the first time that Jane has gotten drunk in school. But I can’t believe she would do this today. “You can’t try out drunk,” I tell her.

“Then I can’t try out … because I’m not getting up there sober … that’s for sure.”

I look at her a minute, shake my head, then say, “Come on … let’s go.” We walk into the auditorium and find two seats together.

Mr. Vanderhoot is directing the play, with Ms.
Dersh, the head of the music department. She announces that she will call three names from the beginning of the alphabet, then three names from the end, until everyone who has signed up has had a turn.

We go through Abel and Ackerman before Ms. Dersh says, “Jane Albertson.”

“Here I am,” Jane calls.

“Tell them you’ve changed your mind,” I whisper, grabbing hold of her sleeve.

“No,” she says, shaking me off. She walks up the aisle to the steps, leading to the stage. I expect her to trip and fall flat on her face, but she doesn’t. When she is on stage she announces her song, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” and Ms. Dersh plays a brief introduction. Jane begins to sing. “
Oh what a beautiful morning … Oh, what a beautiful day
 …”

She is terrible. She is not only off key, but off tempo, too. I am so embarrassed for her I want to crawl under my seat. I wonder what Mr. Vanderhoot thinks of his prized pupil now?

“Thank you, Jane,” Ms. Dersh says, after one chorus.

Jane doesn’t take her seat again. Instead, she walks by me and whispers, “I’m going to throw up.”

I am torn between going to help her and staying for tryouts. I decide to stay. I am too angry at Jane to feel sorry for her. She made her bed, now let her lie in it, I think, and then I hate
myself because that is exactly what Bitsy would say.

Next, Zeigler is called, then Wright, then Wexler.

The palms of my hands are sweating. I wipe them on my skirt. I want this part so badly. I go up on stage and announce my song. I listen as Ms. Dersh plays the introduction, then I begin to sing. “
I’m just a girl who cain’t say no … I’m in a turrible fix
 … 
I always say come on let’s go … just when I ort-a say nix
 …” I pretend that I am in the shower, singing loud and clear. I let go and smile, actually enjoying myself, as I move around the stage acting out the part of Ado Annie. I’m good. I know it. I can feel it. I release all the energy I’ve got. When I finish there is silence. Then Ms. Dersh says, “Thank you, Davey,” in exactly the same way she’d said,
Thank you, Jane
.

T
hat night Jane calls. “Did I make a fool of myself?”

“Yes.”

“What did Ms. Dersh say?”

“She said,
Thank you, Jane
.”

“Really … that’s all?”

“Yes.”

“And what about Mr. Vanderhoot … what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“God … I’m so embarrassed.”

“You should be!”

“I thought you were my friend,” Jane says.

“I am. That’s why I’m telling you.”

T
wo days later the parts are posted. Jane and I go to the board outside the music center together. She sees my name before I do. “Oh, Davey … you got it!”

I can’t believe it. I stare at my name. It’s true. I got the part. “Congratulations!” I hear, over and over again. I don’t even know the kids who are congratulating me.

Jane didn’t even make the chorus. Neither of us is surprised.

When I get home from school Jason is in the kitchen with Bitsy, decorating cookies. “I got the part. I made it! I’m Ado Annie.”

“Davey … that’s just wonderful,” Bitsy says.

I pick up Jason and dance across the room with him, singing “I Cain’t Say No.”