Sunny(9)

Yeah, I got you. You scared Darryl gonna be mad about it?

He always mad.

True, true. He be so mad I wonder if maybe it just feels like happy to him.

Probably, but it don’t feel like happy to me. Happy to me feels like tweep tweep, beedy bip bip booyow. That’s happy. Not this blah blah he’s doing. Not this urrrrrrrgh, derrrrrrr, burrrr crap. That’s mad. And maybe sad.

Was that scatting? Did you just scat? Do you wanna do jazz? You could probably be a jazz singer. You got the right name.

I think that was jazz. But I’m not sure. Just sound. But if sound is jazz, then yeah. I’m Sunny the Jazz Man.

Relax, Sunny the Jazz Man, be Sunny the Discus Man first.

Or the Disco Man.

No. The Discus Man.

Okay, but after that, I’m scatting on the world, like a scoobidee doo day deeeee.

Yikes.

Whatever. You think maybe they got jazz dancers?

You the one who should know!

I know, and I do know. They do have a kind of dance called jazz. But it don’t really remind me of flippity flap flam zingalee zay weee. But I bet I could make a new kind of jazz dancing that goes better with scat.

Sounds like a plan. Then you’ll still be tickboom, except now you’ll be tickboom scat, which if you ever wanted to change your name, would be a good one to consider.

Tickboom Scat? But why would I want to change my name?

Because your father don’t seem like the type to have a kid named Sunny.

But maybe my mother was. Aurelia said she was fun. She was even a dancer. But not a good one.

Just like you.

No, just like YOU. I’m a good dancer. Even excellent, sometimes.

Of course. What was I thinking? You are none other than Alvin and the Chipmunks Ailey.

I don’t get it.

You wouldn’t.

Whatever. She also said Darryl could dance too.

Ha! That’s hard to believe. Maybe he was the real inventor of the Running Man.

I don’t get that one either.

Forget it.

Forgotten.

Rotten.

Cotton.

Patty.

Patty?

Patty.

Okay.





Dear Diary,

Sorry about that last one. But talking to you is talking to you, and sometimes I need to talk to me. I don’t know if that makes sense, but you know how I feel about making sense.

Good night.





5


Tuesday


Dear Diary,

It’s Tuesday, and Tuesday is my favorite day until Thursday, because Tuesday is when me and Aurelia go to the hospital and Thursday is when we go again. I know what you’re thinking. Hospitals are places people don’t like to go, which is exactly the reason I love them. My grandfather works there, and we have a thing we do to bring some happy to the people who don’t want to be there, but have to be.

Aurelia always brings me breakfast on these days—sausage sandwiches. So we skip the pancakes with all the cooking and measuring, and jump to the eating—by the way, sausage sandwiches are always a quadrillion times better than TV dinners, that’s for sure.

At the hospital we never have to sign in. Ever. It’s like we’re VIP people or something. VIP. Not VIP people. That would be Very Important People people. And even though I consider myself kind of a people person, I’m not a very important person person. Just a VIP. Actually not even a VIP. Just a kid who doesn’t have to sign in at the hospital because everybody, especially Ms. Melinda, who sits at the front desk, knows I’m Dr. Lancaster’s grandson.

Me and Aurelia sat down in the waiting area. There are always other people waiting, some possibly even waiting for their grandfathers too, but for different reasons. Many people’s faces look like water. Like if you poked their cheeks, their skin would ripple forever. A lot of times they sit in the chairs in an uncomfortable way. In a way that makes me feel like they feel like they don’t have arms. Like they can’t quite turn. Can’t adjust. Can’t feel normal until that grandfather they’re waiting for comes walking through the double doors.

Then my grandfather came walking through the double doors. More like he came strutting out. He always struts. The old dude walks like walking was made just for him. Like, ooh, yeah, ooh, yeah, you see me, walking walking wallllking. He walks like he’s holding back from dancing.

Diary, do you remember Gramps? You remember him, right? Well, he’s still as good as he was the last time you heard about him. He’s still helping people, still bouncing back and forth from the waiting room, to his patients’ rooms, to his office, which is kind of like a tattoo shop. The only difference is the tattoo shop had posters of the outside of people’s bodies, and my grandfather’s office had posters of the insides of people’s bodies.

His office is where he always takes us first. Which is where I told him Darryl was mad.

Gramps asked why.

And I told him because I quit running.

And then Aurelia shouted, FREEDOM!

Gramps ignored Aurelia, asked me why I quit, since I’ve been running my whole life.

I told him, I’ve only been running because of my mother. Because of my father. Because of my mother.

He said because my mother was a runner.

Duh. (I didn’t say that, but I thought it.) What I said was: And she was also a dancer. So, I’d rather move.