There Will Be Bears (4 page)

No. I cannot deal with this now.

Mom opens my door. “Time to get up.”

“Don’t you guys ever knock?” I put Jar Jar’s body back in the tank, sling my backpack across my shoulder, and storm past her.

“Aren’t you going to change and take a shower? That’s the same outfit you wore yesterday.”

“I don’t care.”

“What about breakfast?”

I hate eating breakfast in the morning. Cereal is for after school, dinner, after dinner, and before bed only.

“Tyson, your coat!”

I slam the door, and jeez, I really should have grabbed my coat. Snow is falling in wet, heavy clumps and soaking into my shirt, but I can’t go back now. I’m making a point. And that point is — just everyone shut up and leave me alone.

I arrive at the front doors an hour early, and the janitor Mr. Colby is mopping the floor. He smiles and lets me in.

“Thanks.”

I feel bad because my footsteps leave muddy slush on his clean floor. I go to the cafeteria and toss my backpack on a table. Except for the occasional echo, this place couldn’t get more quiet. This is the perfect opportunity to cram for my test.

I grab my phone and check Bright’s status.

Last night he posted:
I kicked two field goals! Still lost tho :(

And then a bunch of girls in our grade left a comment about how he’s such a good kicker or how cute he looks with his buzzed hair — it’s all so lame. They think kicking field goals is impressive? Whatever. I’m going to Wyoming to be a hunter. That’ll prove I’m a more dominant male than Bright. While I’ll be providing meat and fur for Karen, what will Bright have to offer Mika? An extra three points?

So after third-period art — we’re working with charcoal, and I did a drawing of a bear kicking a football — my clothes have finally dried off and I’m starting to feel normal again. Then I enter Ms. Hoole’s class and right away something feels different.

Even though Brighton’s been dating Mika since the first week of school, he still always sits next to me. We don’t have assigned seats, but after a while we assigned our own. Today he’s sitting by Mika. Her smile is so big that her braces glisten from four rows away.

I don’t want to care. I drew the football-kicking bear for him.

In the middle of the regular pre-class commotion, Timmy, one of Bright’s lamer football buddies, snatches the drawing from me, unfolds it, and looks at it with a scrunched face.

“Gay,” he says.

“Give that back.”

“You have a crush on Bright.”

My insides burn with rage that he would even think that. I have to make the best comeback ever.

“That’s totally stupid,” I say.

“This bear . . . Look, it even has Bright’s number on the jersey.”

“So? Give it back.”

I swipe and get a fistful of ripped drawing when Ms. Hoole enters.

“Tyson,” she says, singling me out even though practically everyone is acting up. My face gets warm. “Take a seat.”

She stands in front of her desk, a stack of tests in hand.

I see Bright glancing over, rolling his eyes. Ashamed of me.

Whatever. Just focus on this test, and get out of here as soon as possible.

The entire test is multiple choice and fill-in-the-blanks. Questions about names and places I won’t remember a year from now.

Why can’t Ms. Hoole test me on which years Gramps served in the military?

1951 to 1952. He was part of the U.S. Second Infantry Division
.

In which battle was he shot in the thigh?

The Battle of Chipyong-ni, located in the South Korean province of Gyeonggi-do
.

I hand in my test. I already know I failed.

Snow is still falling on my walk home, and my hands are stuffed in my pockets. It’s not that cold, but since I’m not wearing a jacket, the wind bites through my wet long-sleeved shirt. Mika’s mom offers me a ride, but Bright’s in the car and I know he thinks I’ll embarrass him. So I say no. Besides, I like being the first to make tracks in the snow.

It’s also Friday. Yay.

When I get home, Gramps’s truck is gone. There’s just a pair of tire tracks in the snow.

I stomp my shoes clean on the welcome mat. “Mom? I’m home.”

Mom is sitting on the sofa, staring at the television, but the television isn’t on.

“Where’d Gramps go?”

“Tyson, I need to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry about last night. I know I shouldn’t have gone —”

“It’s about your grandfather.”

I pause. My mind starts going crazy, and my breath gets real short. “Did he die?”

Her eyes get big and she does these quick little head shakes. “Oh, no. He just — no, he’s getting older, and you know, people his age sometimes need a little help.”

I get ahold of my breath, but my heart still races. “Is he sick? He looks different.”

She clears her throat. “It’s just with your father finally getting more shifts at the Hampton Inn and me getting my nursing degree, we need someone to take care of him. This is a very normal thing.”

“You’re getting your degree online. You’re home all the time. And what does ‘this’ mean?”

“Your father and your gramps went to this really nice place up in Rock Springs. The Sunrise Village Nursing Home.”

“A
nursing
home? What? Why — why did they go up there?”

Tears fill her eyes, and then she says, “He’s moving there.”

I don’t want to cry or yell at Mom. I don’t want to punch a hole in a wall or have a hug. I just want to know why Gramps didn’t tell me something was wrong with him. Does he think I can’t handle bad news?

The truth is, I do want to cry my face off, yell all the bad words at Mom, punch
five
holes in the wall . . . and I desperately need a hug. Gramps moved three hours away, and he didn’t even tell me.

Frustration and sadness build up behind my eyes, but I can’t cry. That’s what little kids do, and little kids are told Santa Claus flies in a magical sleigh and his elves build us Nintendo Wiis in their workshop. They’re told babies come from a stork. They’re told Gramps isn’t dying; he’s just feeling a little under the weather.

It’s one thing for Mom and Dad to treat me like a kid — they’re stupid. But Gramps couldn’t tell me?

Mom pulls me in for a hug. With my teeth clenched, I shove her away. “Get off.”

The front door closes. Ashley’s in the hallway, hanging up her jacket and kicking off her boots.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Tyson,” she says.

I go, “Mom and Dad put Gramps in a nursing home.”

She comes in, wearing old jeans and a University of Colorado sweatshirt that aren’t cooperating with her growth spurt. She makes a sad face, and it’s so fake. “That’s awful. Mom, what are we having for dinner?”

“Chicken stir-fry.”

I can’t stand the way Ashley pretends like she’s some angsty teenager even though she’s only eleven. She really doesn’t care that Gramps is sick?

My hand squeezes into a fist, and I punch the wall. I imagine the drywall crumbling down with my unstoppable force, but I don’t even make a dent.

Pain explodes inside my knuckles, and I let out a sound that’s half roar, half screech.

“Tyson!” Mom yells. “What has gotten into you?”

I’m so angry! It’s like someone is feeding me electricity through a wire connected to my chest.

I breathe through my nose. “When are we going to see Gramps?”

“Next weekend. Your father is working tomorrow and Sunday, and I have a test to study for. Will you please settle down?”

Completely unfazed, Ashley says, “Can we have something else? We had chicken last Friday. I’m so sick of chicken.”

“I could pick up McDonald’s.”

“Get me a ten-piece Chicken McNugget with barbeque sauce and a Coke.” Ashley vanishes upstairs. She doesn’t care that we just lost a member of the family. She doesn’t care about
anything
. Ever since we moved here, she’s just been hiding in her room.

“Whatever,” I say. “I’m going sledding.”

“What about dinner?”

“Get me the nothing with a side of nothing.” As Mom is hurling more questions at me, I just say my “uh-huhs” and my “yeahs” and play the role of the kid who doesn’t care.

“Tyson, come back here. Don’t you want to talk about this?”

“No.”

I go upstairs, get my phone, and message Bright.

Want to go sledding?
I say.

Within seconds he messages back:
Going to steamboat
.

Right.

Karen’s online, but I’m not friends with her yet, and my heart speeds up just thinking about sending her a message.

Everyone thinks I’m a kid? Yeah, well, does a kid message a girl?

With the blinking cursor, I write into the box by her profile picture. She’s with her two older brothers at a Houston Astros game. She’s holding a red snow cone.

I type:
Hey its tyson . . . im in choir class with you first period. I like snow cones too
.

That’s stupid. What’s she going to say back?
Yeah, snow cones rock!!! You’re cute ;)

I delete my message and turn off my phone. No one ever gives me winky smiley faces. Girls like boys who are cool. They like funny boys or boys who play football.

I’m invisible to girls.

Whatever. Who needs winky smiley faces? Who needs friends or girlfriends? Everyone else gets in the way of what I want to do — Bright would rather play football and do the whole “normal” thing. He thinks we’re too old to be sledding. It’s just parents and little kids at Snowshoe Hill.

I fish Jar Jar’s body out with my little green net, put him in a Baggie, and carefully stuff him in my jacket pocket. He deserves a proper burial.

I’ve had Jar Jar Newtingston for five years. Brighton got him for me as a birthday present in third grade, and he named him Jar Jar because he was all into Episode 1 of the Star Wars movies and Jar Jar Binks was his favorite character. But if anyone asks him now about Episode 1, he’ll say it’s stupid, just because that’s what everyone says.

All dressed up in my gear, I get my sled from the garage.

“Mom? Can you drive me to Snowshoe?”

She dabs the corner of her eye with a tissue. “Okay.”

She backs the minivan out of the garage. The snow is already starting to melt. By tomorrow, it’ll all be gone. By Monday, it’ll probably be warm again.

The drive is deathly silent — we don’t speak, and Mom has a habit of keeping the radio off.

The snow over at Snowshoe isn’t that good. The sun has turned it into a slushy, muddy mess, but at least there isn’t a soul out here. All I want is to be outside and alone.

“I’ll be back at six to pick you up.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as she disappears, I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the plastic Baggie with Jar Jar in it. This isn’t just the death of a pet; it’s the end of an era.

I scoop out a clump of mud with my hand, place him in the hole, and pat the mud on top of him.

Maybe I should move on like Brighton did. Join the drama or the outdoor club. Find new friends. It can’t be that hard. People gain and lose friends all the time.

With my sled tucked beneath my arm, I huff up to the top of the hill, struggling to keep my balance, because the ground is really slippery and the soles of my boots are caked in mud that looks like chocolate frosting. I have on three layers of clothes right now, and it’s complete overkill. But Mom always says that since the weather changes every five minutes, I need to dress prepared.

I bust out of my winter clothing and end up in just my long-sleeved shirt and snow pants. I leave my stuff on top of the hill, sit Indian-style in my plastic sled, and with my hands in the snow, I give my best push. Halfway down the hill, my sled stops.

If I were a year younger and hanging out with Brighton, we’d be laughing about how we’re stuck in the mud. But now he’s in Steamboat Springs with his cool new friends, and they’re probably laughing and talking about boobs or backflips as they soak in a hot tub.

Is he really happy he’s not hanging out with me anymore? Will he ever invite me into his new group? Would I even want to be in it?

I lug my sled back to the top.

“You think we’ll get our six-point this season?” I say out loud, but I already know the answer. Gramps is seventy-seven and in a nursing home.

Wow, I can’t believe he’s already that old. Are everyone’s lives on fast-forward?

What does he have? Alzheimer’s disease? Nah, can’t be. He’s totally with it. Maybe he’s got some kind of cancer. If he told me he had cancer, I wouldn’t cry. Would I?

God, I need to stop thinking about this.

I shove off. For a second, my hands are up. I’m getting some serious speed, and when I hit an unexpected bump, I clutch onto the sides of my sled, but I go tumbling out. Dizzy and laughing, I get to my feet. Four high-school kids in the distance point at me and laugh.

I gather my sled and my hat and do one last run. It sucks not having any friends.

I should get Gramps something so he knows I haven’t forgotten about our bear swear. I’ll get him a card and a stuffed elk. And maybe I can put some red food coloring on its temple, as if it got shot in the head.

When Mom picks me up, I throw out the idea, except for the fake-blood part.