Wink: Chapters 21–30

At lunch, I head to the cafeteria and get in line, overjoyed at the prospect of slimy Salisbury steak and peanut-butter-filled celery sticks.

People in the cafeteria can be pretty territorial.

Why is my head itching so bad? The spot is up under the edge of my hat. Maybe it's some kind of subconscious thing trying to distract me from my embarrassment.

Then Denise and Angie step up, in matching Taylor Swift shirts. I'd really hoped this interaction could be done before they arrived.

Denise chimes in. "That is so nasty." She puts a hand to her chest. Like she might barf.

"That's great! Thank you! I'll remember that, Linda, as me and my temporary ABNORMALNESS wallow around tonight on our HAIRY FREAKIN' SHEETS!"

"Maybe, Linda—just maybe—we can ride along in SILENCE now, so I can contemplate my IMPENDING RETURN TO NORMALCY in a few short months!" I'm bolt upright in my seat, and it takes all I have not to rear back and kick the dashboard.

"You have no idea what I'd give to be normal. Like, a normal kid with a normal hatless head, and a goopless eye, and a normal life, and friends who aren't moving away and...and hair and..." I taper off, realizing I'm whining.

"And I'm not sure what my point is, either. Look at me trying to be the magical old man who dispenses wisdom like he's some kinda...I don't know."

He tapers off. Shakes his head and laughs. "Sorry about that. Went off on a tangent there, didn't I? Not sure what my trumpet dreams have to do with your situation, but..."

I nod for a second, and I know it's stupid and petty before it's even out of my mouth, but I say, "Oh, is your hair falling out too?"

"Oh. Interesting." I start picking at the sole of my Converse. "And did you humiliate yourself in front of the entire school today?"

Her chin is starting to jut out, which means trouble.

"Do you realize my whole life is about to change? Everything! I'm being uprooted! Why am I even bothering with homework? It's not like anything matters. It's so stupid...."

"Aren't I—y'know, since I have cancer—aren't I supposed to have some big epiphany?"

I just look at him and give him the smallest perceptible shake of my head.

I vaguely remember slogging down the stairs to eat a fourth of my dinner at some point.

"Also, never trust a guy in pleated pants. That's not related. It's just good life advice."

It just keeps coming. Like word barf. Once I start, the floodgates open.

After my rant, the room feels extra quiet.

With Frank and his giant tattooed drummer looking on, I kick in the compound's front portal and lay gory, violent waste to mountains of hostile bug-faced alien freaks, a fine mist of blood and entrails in my wake.

With Frank and his giant tattooed drummer looking on, I kick in the compound's front portal and lay gory, violent waste to mountains of hostile bug-faced alien freaks, a fine mist of blood and entrails in my wake.

Denny makes a dismissive sound. "Whatever. He's all bark. I'll set him straight if he—GYYAAAAHHHH!!"

Frank and Denny take us down to the basement. It's unfinished, and they've covered the walls with blankets and tapestries to muffle the sound.

The first time through, the chords are kind of sloppy. But then I click into the beat. And it feels great. Like two cogs in my brain have finally synced up.

Frank has yet another new mix, and we figure out that I'm a fan of the Pixies, the National, Parquet Courts, and the Ramones—a punk band from the '70s and '80s, he tells me.

I straighten my back, defiant. "I do not."

It felt loud and dangerous and gritty and totally 100 percent right, all at the same time. At one point, Jimmy and I both started laughing—just at the sheer volume of it—as Denny cranked my amp up to ten and told Jimmy to play harder.

"Ross. I have a serious question to ask. Can I make fun of you and draw on you and stuff when you're all groggy on painkillers?"

Little does he know his surgeon is actually his arch nemesis: The Butcher!!

Batpig recognizes him, just as the anesthesia is making him sleepy and goofy.

"Can we just erase the past week? Let bygones be bygones and all that?"

She makes an impressed face. "Interesting. The boy evolves. Is this New and Improved Guitar God Ross talking?"

Then it happens. She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. I know it's just a gesture, but my heart speeds up. And right then, at that crucial moment, Ms. Bayer decides to start class.

I sit back and slowly pull my hand to myself. Let it rest in my lap like some kind of cherished relic.