Guy Wire

  “Is he okay?” I asked, jumping up and running over to them. “Is he okay?”

  Buzz looked awful. Tubes were running up his nose, and there were needles taped to the backs of his hands. Some sort of machine beeped and hissed, and bags of clear liquid hung from poles on both sides of the gurney. At first I thought his eyes were shut, but then I saw that they were open just a slit, and I could see them moving back and forth.

  “He’s awake!” I cried. “Look, Mom, he’s awake. Buzz, can you hear me? Buddy, it’s Guy. Can you hear me?”

  “They’re taking him to surgery,” Mr. Adams said quietly, putting his hand on my arm and pulling me away as the nurse continued down the hall with Buzz.

  “Surgery?” my mother said, coming over and putting her arm around Buzz’s mom.

  “Some of his ribs were broken by the impact, Lorraine, and there’s internal bleeding,” she said. “They said there’s no guarantee. Can you believe that’s what they said about my child? There’s no guarantee.” Then she began to sob, and Mr. Adams took her away down the hall to try to calm her down. The fact that she was still wearing the Mother’s Day apron just made the whole thing even sadder somehow.

  “Mom, what does it mean?” I said. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” she told me.

  “Do you mean too early to tell what’s wrong, or too early to tell if he’s going to be okay?”

  “It’s just too early to tell, Guysie,” she said. “Listen, baby, I need to call Jerry and fill him in. And I’m going to try to reach your dad too. He’s probably midair somewhere between San Diego and here, but I’ll leave him a message on his cell. Wait for me here, okay? If there’s any change, come find me downstairs.”

  She went off to find a phone, leaving me by myself. I counted the tiles from one side of the waiting room to the other. I pulled on my eyebrows and blew wishes for Buzz as the second hand traveled impossibly slow circles around the clock. Finally I closed my eyes, willing myself back into the only safe place Buzz and I could be together.

  Chapter Fourteen

  We rehearsed the play for about two weeks. During that time my mother came and went, causing a stir whenever she appeared with some new ridiculous thing she expected someone to wear.

  “Princesses are supposed to be pretty, you know,” the girlie-girls complained when she showed up with dresses she’d made for them out of newspaper and brown twine.

  “It’s part of the theme,” my mother explained. “What appears to be common is in fact extraordinary and vice versa.”

  There were tears shed and some foot stamping until it was decided that the theme wouldn’t be sacrificed if the princesses were allowed to wear nail polish and red lipstick.

  Lana’s plunger scepter was exchanged for one made from my mother’s old twirling baton from high school covered with glitter and topped with a tinfoiled tennis ball. Kevin was too busy making fun of our shrub costumes to make a stink about his crown.

  “You look like green boogers,” he hooted.

  We all agreed that it would have been even worse if we’d been wearing the boxers instead of the sweatpants my mother got for us.

  The afternoon of the play everyone was pretty nervous, including my mother.

  “I hope the audience will appreciate the underlying message, and not just think I was trying to cut corners by using recylables,” she said as she adjusted the paper dresses on the princesses, who had secretly conspired to wear not only nail polish and lipstick for the performance but bright-blue eye shadow, rouge, and a lot of sparkling jewelry as well.

  My father came to help out backstage, which was probably not the best idea in the world. He has bad eyesight, and he can’t see very well in the dark.

  When the curtain opened, the first thing the audience saw was Lana’s scepter flying through the air as my father tripped over her big feet, sending them both sprawling onto the stage.

  My mother was on the opposite side of the stage when it happened, and I guess her old reflexes kicked in, because she caught the baton perfectly in midair and, spinning it over her head like a majorette, marched across the stage to help Lana and my father untangle themselves.

  And that was only the beginning.

  Kevin got a horrible case of stage fright and completely lost his voice. Mrs. Hunn told him to just move his lips, and she asked my father to read his lines loudly from backstage. Because of my dad’s poor eyesight and the bad lighting, a lot of King Kevin’s lines were a little off.

  “My dear queen, however shall our poor son find happiness?” came out as “My dreary queen, however shall our poor son find hamburgers?”

  Bob-o didn’t miss a single one of his cues, but he would probably have been beheaded anyway for nose picking while on duty.

  The biggest surprise was that the shrubs were the absolute hit of the show. The first time we came out in our costumes, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. All that attention ignited the hidden ham in the six of us, and instead of being the quiet little bushes we’d been during rehearsals, we suddenly turned into the dancing, entertaining bushes Mrs. Hunn had so fervently hoped for.

  Fennimore was the ringleader. At first I thought he’d lost his mind. He was absolutely outrageous.

  “Follow me,” he’d whisper at each of our entrances. And that’s exactly what we’d do. Follow him around the stage doing whatever he came up with—wiggling our behinds, leaping and spinning, and doing something he later told me his mother had taught him, called the bunny hop.

  When the curtain fell to thunderous applause, King Kevin slunk off in embarrassment while Queen Lana fumed. “That moronic audience missed half of my lines, they were so busy being amused by a bunch of hammy little crudballs in bathing caps.”

  My father whisked my mother away for a celebratory lunch when it was over. I stayed behind for the cast party, and afterward Fennimore and I walked home together.

  “Can you believe Brudhauser lost his voice?” I said.

  “Forget about him teasing us anymore,” Fennimore said. “We’ve got something good over him now.”

  “Man oh man, Fennimore, you sure are funny,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely. The shrubs would have stunk without all that stuff you came up with.”

  “You know, I think your mom might have been right about those green boxer shorts, though. If we’d worn them, we probably would have gotten even more laughs,” he said.

  “Could be. But Lana would have had a royal cow if we’d been any funnier.” I laughed.

  “You know what else your mom was right about?” Fennimore said. “This haircut. Believe it or not, I kind of like it now.”

  “Really?” I said. “I mean, yeah, actually, I guess it does look pretty cool in a way.”

  “Okay, no offense, but you, on the other hand, look way better with hair,” Fennimore said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Believe me, I’m growing it back as fast as I can,” I agreed.

  “Hey, you want to come over now and see that blue-footed boobie I was telling you about before?” Fennimore asked when we got to my corner.

  “You know there’s no such thing,” I said. “You just made it up ’cause you like the way it sounds.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you. One thing though. There isn’t anything good to eat at my house. No snicker dillies or anything like that.”

  “Snicker doodles,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  Turns out Fennimore was telling the truth about the boobie, and about the snacks too. There was plate of rice cakes waiting on the table when we got there.

  “These are only good for one thing,” he said, picking up a rice cake. “Watch this.”

  He held it like a Frisbee and sailed it across the dining room all the way into the living room, where it skidded to a stop on the top shelf of the bookcase.

  “Cool,” I said.

&n
bsp; “Wanna try?” he asked, handing me a cake. “Ten points for the top shelf, five for any of the others.”

  I threw it across the room toward the bookcase, but as it sailed through the archway, Fennimore’s mother came around the corner and it hit her square in the forehead.

  “What in the world!?” she cried out. “Guy, you’ll have to forgive me if I lose my temper in front of company now.”

  I felt my face turning bright red. I was in trouble now.

  “Whoops! Sorry about that,” Fennimore said quickly, as he got up and retrieved the rice cake. “It was my fault. By accident the little rascal slipped right out of my hand.”

  “Fennimore Adams, don’t you try to fool me. That was no accident. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times not to throw those rice cakes. I certainly appreciated your shenanigans onstage this afternoon, but I won’t stand for funny business in my home. Understood?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” he said, hanging his head.

  Mrs. Adams rubbed her forehead and continued toward the kitchen.

  “Fennimore, you didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m the one who hit your mom with the rice cake.”

  “I know, but I owed you one,” he explained.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you buzzed your head for me,” said Fennimore, “That was a pretty cool thing to do, Guy Wire.”

  Suddenly I felt like I was flying. Had I heard him right? I knew I had. He’d just called me Guy Wire again. A person doesn’t take the blame for misfired rice cakes, or call someone by a nickname like that, unless he wants to be your friend. Good friend. Maybe even—But I didn’t want to jinx it by saying it, not even to myself.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot, you said you don’t really like that name, right?” he said.

  “No, actually I like it just fine now,” I told him.

  “Really? ’Cause I can come up with another one if you want.”

  “No, it’s perfect. And since you gave me a nickname and everything, do you mind if I have for one you too?”

  “Depends on what it is,” Fennimore said. “I’m not real partial to Southern Fried Chicken Boy, for instance.”

  “I was thinking since it looks like you’re going to be sticking with that haircut, how about Buzz Cut for a nickname? Buzz for short.”

  He ran his hand over his bristly head. Then he smiled at me.

  “Cool,” he said.

  “Jumbo cool,” I added with a big smile of my own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Honeylamb? Guysie?”

  “Huh?” My head snapped back, and I tried to lift my heavy eyelids. “What’s the matter?” I said groggily. “What time is it?”

  “It’s two in the morning,” said my mother.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked at her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Buzzy’s out of surgery, and they say if we’re really calm about it, we can see him.”

  I jumped out of my chair and started talking a mile a minute.

  “Is he okay then? Did they say how he is? He’s awake? That’s a good sign, right? Where is he? Let’s go.”

  “Sweetie pleat, did you hear what I said?” my mother asked. “If you can be calm, you can see him. Calm. Okay?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “I can be calm,” I said.

  My neck was stiff from sleeping sideways in the hard plastic chair, and one of my legs was sound asleep, but none of that mattered. I was going to see Buzz.

  We took the elevator up to the third floor. Buzz was in the last room on the right. His mom and dad were standing by the bed. His mom was stroking his arm and talking real softly to him. His head was bandaged, and he still had the tubes and needles in him.

  “Look who’s here, honey. It’s Guy. Guy’s here to see you.”

  Buzz turned his head toward me.

  “Hey, Buzz,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything at first; he just gave me a look that went right through me. Then he turned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “He’s not himself yet,” Mrs. Adams said. “I’m sure he’s glad you’re here, Guy.”

  But I wasn’t so sure. That look he’d given me. Was I crazy, or was he trying to tell me he was mad at me? I needed to talk to him alone.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” I said, “but could I be alone with Buzz for a minute?”

  “I don’t know, Guy. He’s only been awake for a little while. He’s still very weak,” said Buzz’s mom.

  “Please, just for a minute,” I asked. “There’s something I need to tell him.”

  Mr. Adams nodded and took Buzz’s mom by the arm.

  “Come on, Barb, we’ll get a coffee downstairs and come right back. Let the boy have a minute with his friend.”

  My mother went with them. As soon as the door closed, I went over to the side of the bed.

  “Buzz, are you mad at me? ’Cause if you are, I wouldn’t blame you. This is all my fault.”

  Buzz coughed a little, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Buzz. Sorry for what I did. Sorry for what I said. I don’t want you to die. You know that. I would never do anything to hurt you on purpose. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re my best friend, Buzzy. My best friend.”

  Buzz opened his eyes, moved his head back and forth on the pillow, and groaned a little. Then he held his hand out over the edge of the bed. I thought he wanted me to hold it, which would have meant he forgave me, but when I touched him, he jerked his hand away and started grabbing at the covers and groaning louder.

  I ran to the door and started shouting for help. Nurses came running, and then Buzz’s parents came back. My mother and I were sent back downstairs to wait.

  “Mom, I’m scared,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “I am too.”

  Buzz’s dad came down later to tell us that they’d taken Buzz back into surgery. There were complications, he said. Complications, and they wouldn’t know anything until morning. We should go home, he said.

  “I don’t want to leave,” I told my mother.

  “We need to get some sleep, honeybunch. We can come back in the morning,” she said.

  But I refused. My mother called home and had Jerry bring over our toothbrushes and a change of clothes, and she stayed with me that night. She sat in a chair, and I lay with my head in her lap. She didn’t say anything about my tears soaking her skirt; she just patted my back while I cried. And she didn’t talk about positive energy anymore. I think we both knew it was too late for that now. “You can’t fight fate,” I had said to Buzz. “It’s a losing battle.” Whatever was going to happen to Buzz was going to happen, whether we wanted it to or not.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Obviously Buzz’s nickname stuck. Not long after I thought it up, everybody was calling him Buzz. Even his own parents. Buzz and I spent a lot of time together, hanging out after school almost every day. I liked him more and more. He was always polite around adults, but around me he was funny and weird in just the kinds of ways I like. His twang got less noticeable over time, and he started calling his mother Mom like the rest of us. Every few weeks he’d call up my mom and make an appointment with her for another haircut. “Maintaining the buzz,” they called it.

  For a while George’s name came up fairly often, and although I never told Buzz, it always made me feel funny when it did. Buzz told me he felt bad about the way they’d acted toward me, but I didn’t care anymore; it seemed like ages ago. One day he told me George had written him a letter saying he had a new best friend. I didn’t tell him this either, but I was glad.

  When school let out, Buzz and I went to work on a project we’d been planning together for months. A fort. We collected all kinds of stuff. We got scrap plywood from under his porch and a bunch of carpet samples from my basement, hauling it all out to a spot we’d picked in the field behind our subdivision. My dad gave us
a stack of old records, which we tacked up all over the place as decoration. It wasn’t much to look at, but we loved it.

  The day we nailed the roof on it, our parents agreed to let us sleep overnight out in the fort. We took sleeping bags, and my mom packed a bunch of food for us, including a big bag of snicker doodles. Mrs. Adams contributed some juice and a package of rice cakes, which we entertained ourselves with by sailing them across the field.

  That night we lay in our fort, swatting mosquitoes and talking in the dark.

  “Did you ever think about that question ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’” Buzz asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, think about it. Which are you—a chicken man or an egg man?”

  “Egg, I guess.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Did you ever think about that question ‘How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?’”

  “That’s not a question,” I said. “It’s a tongue twister.”

  “It’s both; part tongue twister, part question. So what do you think, how much could he chuck?”

  “That depends,” I said.

  “On what?

  “Mostly on what chucking means and whether or not he can actually do it,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t he be able to do it?” Buzz asked.

  “Well, remember the end of that thing goes: ‘if a woodchuck could chuck wood.’ That’s a big if,” I said.

  “You’re a big if,” said Buzz.

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a big gum wad.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Buzz said.

  Two weeks later, on July fourteenth, I turned eight. I had a party. My mother made one of her famous birthday cakes. It had a picture of me on the top, dressed as a shrub. For party favors she gave out the shamrock boxer shorts. We all got silly and wore them on our heads instead of party hats, and Buzz led us around the house in a wild bunny hop that ended with all of us laughing and rolling around on the floor. I wasn’t sure what to wish for when I blew out the candles. I came up with something at the last minute though—Please, let things stay exactly the way they are with Buzz and me.