Lily and Dunkin

When Dad finally comes out of the doctor’s office, his eyes look glassy.

Mom gets up and grabs his hand. I hear her whisper in his ear, “You okay?”

He nods—barely—but he doesn’t look okay. He looks like his body’s here, but his mind is far away. What happened to him in there?

Dad glances over at me and tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out who I am. Like he’s never seen me before.

The doctor follows Dad into the waiting room. “How about if you come back in two weeks, and we’ll see how everything’s going?” she asks. “I’ll need to see only Lily for that appointment, unless, of course, there’s something you feel you need to tell me.”

I check Dad’s face to see if he’s angry that the doctor called me Lily, but his face doesn’t change. He still looks like he’s somewhere else. Dazed. I’m not sure he even heard her call me Lily.

The doctor hands Dad an envelope and says, “You’ll need this where you’re going.”

I’m dying to know what’s in that envelope. I hope it’s something better than what was in the envelope I received earlier today from the mayor.

Mom shakes Dr. Klemme’s hand, and I do, too. I hope she knows the handshake means “thank you.” I’m grateful to have someone who understands me, someone I’ll be able to talk to who isn’t Mom or Sarah or Dare. Another person on my side.

My whole world feels bigger.

As soon as the three of us are in the car, Dad says, “Go to the endocrinologist’s office,” and hands Mom the envelope. He looks straight ahead when he speaks. “The address is on the front. We need to give them the letter inside.”

Mom doesn’t start the engine.

“Let’s go,” Dad says. He waves his hand forward. “Before I change my mind.”

I know what this means because I read all about hormone blockers on the Internet. If my parents say it’s okay and a psychologist or therapist writes a letter saying it’s okay, I might be able to get the blockers. Go, Mom. Go! Before Dad changes his mind.

“I think we need an appointment to go there,” Mom says. “Don’t we?”

In the backseat, I bite my fingernail. I’m listening hard and hoping harder.

“Well, we’re already out, so let’s go and see if they can take us,” Dad says.

Mom starts the car and drives. “Well, okay, then.”

At the endocrinologist’s office, they manage to squeeze us into their schedule.

The endocrinologist asks me a million questions about how my body’s been changing and how I feel about those changes and even about some of the things I did when I was a little kid, like wore Sarah’s dresses and played with dolls. My heart thrums as I answer each question. All the while, I’m thinking please, please, please let this happen. It would almost make up for the bad news about Bob. Almost.

I don’t even mind the pinch from the needle for the blood test, because I know if everything goes right, I’ll finally be able to start getting hormone blockers.

I can’t believe Dad actually agreed to this. Mom and I watch him sign the form that gives permission for me to get them.

What did Dr. Klemme say to him?

THE DECISION

When I blink awake, I see Bubbie walking into my room, carrying a tray.

I think I’m still dreaming, but when she says, “Breakfast in bed for my new basketball star,” I know I’m awake. And I feel terrific again. Mom must have told Bubbie the good news about my making the team.

I sit up, lean back against the headboard and rub my eyes.

“I told you,” Bubbie says, setting the tray over my legs on the bed. “You’re going to be the next Jordan Jordache! Look what treats I made for you. I was so excited when your mom told me the great news last night.” She points at the things on the tray. “Here’s a delicious egg-white omelet with spinach and mushrooms. You’ll need the egg whites for protein now that you’re a big basketball star.” Bubbie squeezes the bicep of my right arm. “Hmm. Lots of protein. And maybe some weight lifting, too, Norbert.”

It feels nice that Bubbie is making a fuss, like I wish Mom had done yesterday. I still have energy, but it’s muted. Probably from taking the meds yesterday. That’s what they do—dull my energy, creativity and drive. I know they do some good things, too, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.

“Okay,” Bubbie says, still pointing at things on the tray. “There’s half a grapefruit. The vitamin C helps your body absorb protein from the omelet. And a green drink full of nutrients and minerals. Don’t you feel healthier already?”

I sniff the green drink. It smells like cucumbers. I hate cucumbers.

Once when I was little, I threw up after eating a bunch of cucumber slices and that was the end of that. Turned out I had the flu, but I always blamed the cucumbers. Dad knew never to give me cucumbers again because when I threw up, most of it landed on his sneakers.

“Where are the doughnuts and coffee?” I ask Bubbie. “Breakfast of champions!”

She makes a fist. “Breakfast of chump-ions! You’re in training now, mister.”

I take a few bites of the strangely white egg thing to make Bubbie happy. Healthy food and I go together like cucumber vomit and Dad’s sneakers.

“I’m proud of you, Norb,” Bubbie says, leaning forward and kissing my cheek.

After Bubbie leaves, I eat most of the breakfast and pour the green drink down the bathroom sink. Then I sit at the white desk in the guest room. My pill bottles are in front of me, like two tiny soldiers. I feel like knocking each of them over, just to show them who’s in charge. Instead, I stand and pace, then sit again.

I have a decision to make before I go to school. Mom’s still trusting me to take the meds on my own. I don’t want to disappoint her, but…

If I take the meds, I’ll be foggy, slower and potentially unable to do what I need to for the team. I don’t want Vasquez to think I’m letting him or the other guys down.

If I don’t take the meds, I’ll have tons of energy and will feel more like myself. But…well…sometimes there’s too much energy. Too much everything and my brain sort of short-circuits. And there’s a chance I could end up in a hospital again. But I could monitor myself really carefully and keep that from happening. Can’t I?

Mom told me she set up the blood test for two weeks from today. It will show whether I’ve been taking the meds or not. It measures the level of one of the medicines in my bloodstream. The other pill I take can’t be detected by a blood test—just through my behavior. And if the mood stabilizer level is too low in my bloodstream…the doctor will know I’m not taking it. And then if he doesn’t like how I’m acting or how Mom tells him I’m acting, he might put me in the hospital, where they’ll make me take them. And that would suck. I wouldn’t be able to help the team at all then.

I need my levels and behavior to be good for the blood test, which means taking my meds for the next two weeks. Consistently. No missed doses.

I swallow my pills and wash them down with water from the bathroom sink. It tastes gross, and I feel like the pills are already making me duller, which is ridiculous because I just swallowed them.

“Happy now?” I say to no one, except my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

My reflection doesn’t reply.

I consider this a good sign.

ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE

In the crowded hallway at school, Tim and Dare stand at Tim’s open locker. They look happy, leaning against the row of lockers, talking. I wish I were standing with them. I remember how comfortable I felt talking with Tim at Dunkin’ Donuts that day before Vasquez and the guys came in. I remember how it felt like we had so much in common, like we could become good friends. He had been so nice to me right from the very first time meeting him. Vasquez and the guys are great to hang out with and all, but it’s not like I could tell them anything—not anything that matters. They don’t really listen or care about anything that’s serious. If I tried to tell them how I felt about something important, they’d just make fun of me. We only talk about basketball and girls and, to be honest, make fun of other people. I haven’t had a truly good friend since Phineas. But he’s not here now…so I head toward Tim and Dare.

Just to say hi. To see what happens.

Vasquez and a few of his friends suddenly rush through the crowd of kids. Vasquez slams Tim’s locker closed and screams, “Score!”

While Vasquez and the guys rush off, it feels like a stone is sinking to the bottom of my stomach. Why does he do things like that? Tim and Dare weren’t doing anything to them. They were just talking. And now they look miserable instead of happy. What if Tim’s fingers were in that locker when Vasquez slammed it? Or his head?

Dare calls after him, “Neanderthal,” which I think is a good comeback.

Tim, I notice, looks down and says nothing.

I can’t go over and say hi now because they’ll lump me in with the basketball guys, even though I’d never do anything mean like slam his locker.

So I steer a wide arc around them, looking at the floor the whole time.

—

At lunch, Vasquez and some of the guys throw fat red grapes at Tim. The guy whose lunch they’re taking them from, I notice, gets to eat only a couple of his own grapes, so I bet he’s not too happy that Vasquez and the guys decided to use them as ammunition. And I know Tim can’t be happy getting pelted with these abnormally large grapes. They must hurt, especially with how hard Vasquez is throwing them. Why isn’t there ever an adult around when this stuff is going on?

Dare is glaring hard at our table. Her eyes are like laser beams. If she could, I’ll bet she’d make our whole table burst into flames. And I wouldn’t blame her. She’s just sticking up for her friend. She’s not a stupid coward, like I am.

This must stink for Tim. I could get up right now and sit at their table. That would show Vasquez what I think of how he treats Tim. But I can’t. No way can I throw away something as amazing as making the team. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. Maybe when the season’s over, I’ll find a way to sit at Tim and Dare’s table. Maybe when the season’s over, I’ll be able to walk away from this table.

“You ready for the first practice?”

“Huh?”

“Dorf,” Vasquez says, “I asked if you’re ready for our first official team practice.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Totally.”

But am I? I feel so worn-out and sluggish.

Vasquez throws another grape, and it hits Tim in the ear. “Booyah!”

Tim reaches up to touch his ear, but he doesn’t turn around.

Even when most of the guys at our table are cracking up loud enough for him and lots of other people in the lunchroom to hear, I’m silent. But being silent doesn’t feel like enough.

—

After school in the locker room, the guys change fast, like they can’t wait to get into the gym and start practicing.

I change fast, too, not because I can’t wait to get to practice, but because I hate locker rooms. I feel so uncomfortable with my abnormally tall and hairy body, but it doesn’t feel quite so bad here with the basketball team. At least a lot of the guys here are tall, too—not quite as tall as I am, but I don’t feel like a complete freak among them.

Vasquez whips his T-shirt at the back of my legs.

I jump forward and bang my knee on the bench.

“How great is this?” he asks, ignoring the fact that I looked like a klutz and banged my knee.

“Great,” I say, but actually I’m nervous. What if my decent playing during tryouts was a fluke? What if I get on the court today and embarrass myself? I should have practiced yesterday. Plus with the meds, I’ll probably be a little slower than normal. “Great,” I say again.

“You bet it is,” Vasquez says, tying his sneakers tight. “This is going to be the most awesome season yet.” He smacks me in the chest with the back of his hand. “We’re eighth graders, with a couple good years under our belts, and now we’ve got you—our secret weapon. You’re probably going to be a famous basketball star one day.”

“Dorf. Dorf. Dorf!” the guys chant, and I can’t believe how good it feels. Like the opposite of the laughter at Tim in the lunchroom.

“Best. Year. Ever,” Vasquez says, as though this is college ball or the pros, instead of an eighth-grade basketball team.

But really, it does feel like a big deal, especially when we all run out onto the court together and Coach claps. “Here come the future state basketball champions!” he shouts, and we hoot and holler and dribble and shoot.

Like anything and everything is possible.

Like everything is right in the world.