Sorta Like a Rock Star(26)

“And?”

“And?”

I try to shrug off his lack of gratitude, but I can’t control the shocked expression on my face, which says, Aren’t you even going to say thanks?

“I appreciate your speaking on my behalf, Amber. And you too, Ricky.”

“Mr. Jonathan Franks is Ricky Roberts’ favorite teacher.”

Franks gives Ricky a quick but heartfelt high five.

“So why aren’t you like—more touched by our gesture?” I ask.

“Well—I’d like to think I’m keeping my job because I’m a good sales and advertising teacher, and not because you threatened the school board without bothering to ask how I felt about your doing so. Maybe the school board voted the way they did simply because they think I am a good teacher.”

I can’t even believe that he isn’t thanking me properly and freaking out with happiness. I thought Franks would hug me for sure. I really thought this was going to be our moment.

Something inside me snaps.

“What?” I say. “We saved your job, Franks. We did it. Us. Franks Freak Force Federation. Are you even serious with that good teacher crap? You play video games all day and offer kids easy electives so they can pad their GPAs. We saved your butt. Don’t you understand that? They would have fired you if it weren’t for us.”

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I am sorry.

“Why did you really go to the school board meeting, Amber? For me, or for you? I don’t need saving. Do you?” Franks says very coolly. Then he adds, “If you need help, I’m willing to help you here at school. Anytime between 6:30 AM and 3:15 PM. Just ask. My door will always be open to you. But stop coming to my house. It crosses the line, Amber. It crosses the line.”

And then Franks walks away from us.

“Amber Appleton is crying. Why is Amber Appleton crying? Where is Amber Appleton going? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”

I cry raging tears all the way to Donna’s house with Ricky trailing me.

“Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”

He only stops repeating the question when he opens his math workbook and sits down at the kitchen table.

I let BBB out of his room; he pisses for a full minute—making a yellow river—and then jumps up into my arms.

I give him a long squeeze before I mop up the river with paper towels.

Before I leave, I give Ricky a bowl of pretzels and a can of mandarin orange seltzer, and then I’m on Donna’s bike, BBB in the basket.

“Stop crying,” I say to myself. “You have old people to cheer up. They believe in your ability to keep the tears at bay. They are depressed enough already about being old. Buck up, Amber! Buck up! You can’t battle when you’re crying. You need to defend your title. Stop crying!”

At the last second I remember to stop at Alan’s Newsstand and buy a large cup of hot cocoa and a Snickers bar, and when Alan asks if I have been crying, I say, “What?” and laugh crazily, so he won’t ask me again. Then I finally pull it together as I pedal the last few blocks to the Methodist Retirement Home.

I got this Wednesday gig here after I saw an ad stapled to one of the big old trees in front of the retirement home. I was walking by after work and the hot pink paper of the ad caught my eye, so I took a closer look. The ad read something like this: “Today is the perfect time to make a new friend. Seniors have wonderful stories to tell and are always ready to share their grand array of life experiences. If you want to be a senior pal, if you want to be regaled by stories of olden times, please inquire within. Make a new friend today.” I’m totally down with making friends, I’m a very good pal, and I absolutely love being regaled, so I inquired within and signed up for the program. I became a regular at the Methodist Home once Rita’s closed for the season and I stopped scooping water ice after school.

When I first went to the old folks home, I was told by the staff that I was simply to talk with the old people in the common room—do puzzles, listen to stories about grandchildren, the Depression, the cost of milk seventy years ago, all of which started to make me feel really depressed. These people didn’t need someone to listen to their crappy stories; they needed a spark, something to remind them that they were still alive. And it was pretty obvious that the staff paid them little to no attention, especially since people die here, like every day. Every week I come back someone’s missing. But for the longest time, I wasn’t sure what I could do to liven up the joint.

Then I met Joan of Old, who—on the outside—is the meanest person you ever met, but on the inside, she’s actually pretty philosophical, which you have to discover by breaking through the meanness by being mean yourself, so she will respect you. I discovered this by accident one day when I told her I wanted to go to Bryn Mawr College and she said I’d never get in because I wasn’t smart enough.

Her rudeness surprised me because old women are supposed to be really grandmotherly and nice, so I lost my cool and cursed her out really badly, calling her some pretty nasty things, which made her smile, which was weird, but led to my having a kick-ass idea: turn the common room into a word-battle arena where hope dukes it out with despair once a week, which sounded crazy loopy at first, but I’ve always trusted my visions, so I pitched my idea to some of the older men—who were always putting their arms around me and squeezing my shoulders—and they ate the plan up and made it happen.