Wink: Chapters 31–41

Frank strolls into the lobby that next Monday waving a piece of paper at me. It has an address scrawled on it.

I ask who Miles Davis is, and it gives Jerry another (longer) coughing fit. "Frank, ya ignoramus. If you're gonna teach the kid about music, you needs to include some Miles, for God's sake."

Frank leans back and puts up his hands. "My bad. I'll take the heat on that. Merely an oversight."

Jerry watches as I open the book and take out the drawing I carefully cut out earlier. "A true Renaissance Man, this one."

After a few fumbles, we make it all the way through the Eagles song. It feels amazing, and Frank jumps off his stool to give us a standing ovation.

"Listen." Frank holds his hands out to Denny in an I-get-it gesture. "There's a reason. I've done some thinking about this. Our objective here is to win a talent show, right? Not set the rock world on fire."

It's weird to see Jimmy accept a critique without throwing something or stomping around like a mad little kid.

I close my good eye, and the edges of my face look...melty. Or warped. Like I'm looking at a wet painting that got smeared.

Jimmy's eyes change, and I see something that looks like...caring? Compassion?

It's like all of the emotions are having a four way tug-of-war in my brain, and it's a standstill.

"Everything is miles from okay. I can't..." I taper off, again fighting to keep the water out of my eyes and the shake out of my voice. "You know, on top of all this, my eye chose today to start going haywire too. Vision-wise."

Poor Batpig has been duped! He’s blinded by her charms.

Batpig uses his anti-hungry-wolf-eye-blasters and subdues his former crush.

I barely speak while Linda drives me to treatment, and when I get there, I'm a sullen mess.

I don't yell a specific word or anything. It's just a weird, primal scream.

FATIGUE: The radiation has me so tired I feel like I could fall over asleep on the floor at any moment.

When I get home, I go to the basement and slam all the rage and self-pity straight into my guitar.

"Look, son. Fathering is not an exact science. Maybe I should have just let you keep playing. Keep yelling, okay? Scream into the void. It lightens the load."

Wait. Is that it? Have I been hoodwinked? Am I not really mad?

That morning, Sarah—looking all sheepish—starts to come up to me in the hall, and I just shake my head and walk away.

Friday. December 19. That fateful day, to quote some song. A big day. Last day of school before break. My final treatment. The talent show.

Somehow the case means more than any of it, with its stickers from other bands and venues and its dents and scraped-away parts.

Batpig starts with a few super-deep breaths to calm the fiendish insects.

Jimmy is looking at her with real contempt. Like something he dragged in on his shoe.

A few minutes later, I hear Sarah's voice, amplified but muffled through the cracked door.

Denise the Unpleasant is giving me the most exaggeratedly bored look she can muster, and I feel my back teeth clench.

I look back over at Denise, whose nose is scrunched up in a disgusted look—and it cracks me up so bad, I flub the next few words.

I look at Jimmy, who's high-fiving with Denny, and realize his parents aren't there. He doesn't seem fazed by it, but I notice.

"Good for you, Ross. Good for you." He takes a slow, labored breath. "Not so good for that poor guitar, but good for you."

"Ross? You're a good egg. Stay that way, okay? Don't become a jerky teenager."