Mike: “I asked you what happened. If you don’t understand me, just say so.”
Amber: “I understand you better than you think!”
Mike: “Huh?”
Amber: “Drop dead.” She stands. She nearly falls over.
Mike grabs her by the arm.
Mike: “You okay?”
Amber: “Let go of me!” She leaves the cafeteria.
Amber is emotional and she feels things deeply. All the most interesting people are like that.
Mike cleans up after her: the saltine wrappers, the crumbs, the soggy noodles.
Tamio’s in the hall—the last person Mike wants to see.
Tamio: “Look at this.” Tamio has his cell phone open. There’s a picture. It’s a guy, hunched over, in a jacket that’s too big for him. He looks old and wasted. Homeless Mikor something.
Mike: “Um, okay. What is this?”
Tamio: “That’s you.”
Mike: “No way.”
Tamio: “Look again if you don’t believe me.”
Mike: “I don’t need to look. I already know it’s not me.”
Tamio: “See, it’s your black North Face jacket—”
Mike: “Everyone has a jacket like that.”
Tamio: “Maybe, but nobody else is wearing theirs yet.” He starts waving at the air. “What’s that smell?”
Mike: “FireBalls.”
Tamio: “What’d you say?”
Mike is stunned. Tamio always understood him, or so Mike thought.
Tamio: “I only took your picture so you could see for yourself. You look terrible. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”
Ha. If Tamio only knew how many hours Mike spends in front of a mirror. Anyway, Mike only looks in his mirror at home, which tells him all he needs to know. He doesn’t trust other mirrors.
Mike: “I look fine. What’s your problem?”
Tamio: “What’s my problem? What’s wrong with you?”
Tamio’s jealous. You’re getting yourself together, without his help.
Mike: “You wish you were me, asshole.”
Tamio: “What?”
But Mike can tell—Tamio heard him that time, all right.
After school Mike wants to run, but it’s raining.
You can run in the rain.
Mike runs. The rain is exquisite, the way it’s highlighted against the streetlights, a spray of glistening drops against silver-white light.
See what you would’ve missed if you stayed home?
Mike works out in his room. Seventy-five crunches, fifty push-ups. When he breathes in, he can feel his ribs.
Strong body, strong mind. Infinitely strong.
Amber calls. Mike thinks maybe she’s still mad, but she says, “I’m so happy! I lost four pounds. I hated being in the hundreds.”
Her voice drops to a whisper:
“I love that there is less of me.”
CHAPTER 18
IT’S ALMOST HALLOWEEN, TRICK-OR-TREAT TIME. Kids at school are talking parties and costumes. Not Mike. He has far more important ways to spend his time. Speaking of trick-or-treat, Mike’s mom is full of surprises, and none of them good.
Mom: “I made an appointment for you this Friday. You’re going to my doctor.”
Mike: “What for?”
Mom: “You need to see a specialist.”
Mike: “Why?”
Mom: “You’re too thin and you know it.”
Mike: “I’m not. I got on the scale—”
Mom: “I don’t care. You’re always dressed like it’s snowing in here while it’s hot as hell in the house.”
Mike yanks off his jacket and sweatshirt. Unfortunately his shirt slides up too.
Mom (breathes in): “Oh, my God.”
Mike: “What?”
Mom: “Your chest… it’s caving in on itself.”
Mike knows she’s seeing it wrong. When he looks in the mirror, he sees results from his hard work.
She’ll never understand the way you’re fine-tuning your body. She can’t appreciate it.
Mom: “You’re going to the doctor and that’s final.”
Of course Mike can’t stuff his dad’s paperweights into a paper gown at a doctor’s office. He feels a stab of panic.
Call Amber.
Amber’s right there, as always.
Amber: “Drink lots of water before you go, and I mean lots. In the waiting room, drink even more. You can put on a good five pounds that way. Temporarily, of course.”
Mike: “What if this doctor can, you know, tell? Take one look at me and figure it out?”
Amber: “Doctors are idiots. They’re so easy to manipulate. Just tell them what they want to hear.”
Mike: “And what’s that?”
Amber: “They practically tell you what to say. It’s like being in a school play and they’re feeding you your next lines.”
At the doctor’s office, Mike’s mom paces in the waiting room.
Mom: “My doctor’s not here. She has a family emergency. You have to see someone else.”
Mike drinks another paper cup of water. It’s shaped like a cone with a sharp needle point at the bottom.
Mike: “It’s fine.”
Mom: “It’s not. I don’t have a good feeling about it. I don’t know this doctor.”
It could be Dr. Seuss, for all Mike cares. He really has to go to the bathroom. He drank a gallon of water at home and he’s gulping down another gallon here.
Mike and his mom are called into the doctor’s office. The desk is covered with piles of papers. Mike’s mom stiffens at the sight of it.
Doctor: “I’m Dr. Steiner.” He’s over six feet tall with deeply lined skin and black hair that curls over his forehead. He probably dyes his hair. “Hello, Michael, nice to meet you.”
That’s good. Michael is an adult, mature name. Mike sounds too curt and abrupt, or like the object you talk into so your voice can be heard.
But Mike’s mom has to put in her two cents: “Nobody calls him that. It’s Mike.”
Mike: “It’s okay. Nice to meet you, too.”
Doctor: “Do you mind, Mrs. Welles, if Michael and I speak privately?”
She minds, all right, but she leaves the room. She even closes the door behind her.
Doctor: “Your mother’s very concerned about you, Michael. Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
Tell him what’s going on, how your mother can’t cope.
Mike: “My parents just split up. It’s really hard on my mom. She can’t leave the house. I mean, she left today, but not usually. She sleeps a lot during the day. She takes baths that last for hours.”
Doctor: “I see.”
Mike gets a stab of guilt. I try to tell him to ignore it, but he says, “Lately she’s better. She goes to a therapist. She’s working again.”
Doctor: “Mm.”
No matter—the damage is done. The doctor thinks Mike’s mom is unhinged.
Doctor: “Now, Michael, I want to ask you a few questions. Just between us; your mother will not be privy to the answers. Do you take drugs?”
Amber was right. The doctor is practically shaking his head as he asks this.
Mike: “No.”
Doctor: “Are you sexually active?”
Mike: “No.”
Doctor: “No trouble at school? No failing grades?”
Mike: “I’m getting all As.”
Doctor: “Excellent. You’re not dieting, are you, Michael?”
Mike: “No.”
Doctor (grinning): “You seem fine so far. Let’s check you out, shall we?”
Dr. Steiner leads Mike to a cold room with a doctor’s scale and a metal table covered with crinkly white paper. The doctor tells Mike to put on a paper gown and discreetly waits outside the door. Mike badly needs the bathroom. Dr. Steiner comes i: &n and tells Mike to stand on the scale.