4

CHAPTER FOUR

WE’RE SITTING IN THE WAITING room, the three of us: Jersey, Mick, and

I. Any other doctor would probably punish us for being so late and either turn us away or make us wait until the last person left the place, but not this guy. Doc Harper is the most righteously awesome medical person I’ve ever met. He’s been treating Jersey since he was born and I hope he never retires. I’ll probably just show up at his house if he tries.

Mick is sitting across the room from me, taking the chapstick from Jersey over and over and pretending to put it on and lick it off right along with him. I want to keep hating him for being nice and sexy at the same time, but that makes no sense. I’m not so confused that I don’t realize that. I also want to be mad about him being here, but he’s made that impossible. I’m starting to seriously doubt that he was mocking us earlier. What kind of guy bonds with a kid like Jersey and then goes to the doctor with him off the cuff like that? I pray he’s not a pervert, because damn. He is too hot for LA, if that’s even possible. I will kill him with my bare hands if he’s playing me or my brother, though. No amount of hotness is going to save him from that.

“Tastes good, huh?” Jersey asks.

“Yep. Tastes good.” Mick hands him the chapstick and glances at me before going back to looking at my brother.

I think I scared him earlier with my bitch attack. He hasn’t talked to me since we were on the front lawn of my house. I sigh heavily, thinking how much I hate having to apologize for my mouth. It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened, with me jumping to the wrong conclusion where my brother is concerned. But no one who’s lived a year in my shoes would blame me.

Jersey’s been bullied, harassed, and even physically hurt by guys who don’t get him or his issues, so I’m hypersensitive to it now. It’s the main reason I give him so much shit myself. I guess it’s my way of helping to toughen him up for the real world.

 

My mom has this irrational need to get Jersey self-sufficient and supporting himself by the time he’s twenty-one. She’s convinced she’s going to die young and leave her poor baby alone in the world to fend for himself, and no assurances on my part will sway her from thinking otherwise. It might have something to do with the fact that I threaten to put him in a home on a fairly regular basis, but she knows I’m kidding. I’d cut off my right arm for Jersey, that’s a fact.

“Doctor Harper Harper Harper,” Jersey says, getting off the ground and standing up to meet the main man.

“Jersey, Jersey, Jersey … how are you doing today?” “I got chapstick.”

“I can see that. What flavor is it?” Doc Harper gestures for us to follow him into one of the exam rooms. He knows better than to have us wait in there. Jersey is pure hell to keep out of the tongue depressors and cotton balls; the waiting room is safer for everyone until the doctor is ready to see him.

“Grape. It’s very grapey. Come on, Mickey Mouse, come with us.” Jersey holds out his hand for Mick.

Mick hesitates, looking from the doctor to me to Jersey.

“You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” Doc Harper says, giving me a knowing smile.

“He’s not with me,” I say, holding up my hands at my chest and waving them back and forth. “He’s Jersey’s new BFF.”

The doctor stops and frowns at all of us.

“Nah, man, I know her,” says Mick, his face going a little red. “It’s not like that. I’m with her too.” He glares at me.

“What?” I say, mystified as to why I’m on the shit list now.

“That’s fine,” says the doctor, walking again. “If Jersey wants one of his sister’s friends to join us, I’m okay with it.”

“I can wait out here, that’s fine,” Mick says, backing up towards his chair. “No! Come on, Mickey Mouse.” Jersey leans over and takes his hand,

pulling on it really hard.

Mick stops his retreat.

I thank the stars that he knows enough not to fight Jersey on this. When the little turd gets something in his head, there’s not a whole lot that will get it out until he’s good and ready. There are times when we put our foot down and tell him no and then deal with the fallout, but the doctor’s office is not one of those places.

I mouth the words, Thank you, at Mick as he walks by, but he doesn’t acknowledge me at all. I grit my teeth together to keep from following up my

 

gratitude with a little F-U action. How dare he not be under my spell, forgiving me for everything I do wrong with just a bat of my long black eyelashes. What’s up with that?

Once we’re all in the room with Jersey on the exam table, Mick standing in the corner of the room, and me in the chair, the doctor begins his examination.

“So, Jersey, what’s new?” He feels Jersey’s skull through his hair. I have no idea why he always does that. Maybe he’s checking for bumps. The kid is pretty klutzy.

“I got a chapstick and I’m not an asshole so I don’t eat it. See?” He holds it out in front of him, waiting to make sure the doctor is giving him his full attention. “I put it on …” He smears it all around his mouth. “….And then I lick it off.” His tongue comes out and gives the lower half of his face a bath.

The doctor is used to Jersey’s b.s., so he doesn’t even crack a smile. “Interesting. Can I see that chapstick?”

“Yes. And you can use it too.” Jersey hands it over.

The doctor squints as he reads the label. “I’m not sure using too much of this chapstick will be a good idea for you, Jersey. Do you want to know why?” He hands the chapstick back.

“Yes. I want to know why. I always want to know why.”

“Because it has a lot of ingredients in it that might eventually irritate the skin on your face. And when you put it on your lips, it gets on your face too. Do you understand?”

Jersey sits there silently, and I tense up when I see the mutinous expression begin to appear on his face.

“Oh, man, that’s not good,” says Mick. “I got a rash from a chapstick once. I stayed awake all night scratching it. When I woke up the next day, I looked like a clown with a big red mouth.”

Jersey whips his head sideways to look at Mick, his expression now closer to terror. “I hate clowns.”

Mick nods. “Yeah, man. Me too. They freak me out.”

“Clowns freak me out,” says Jersey, turning back to the doctor. “Here.

You take it.” He gives him the chapstick.

Doctor Harper puts it in his pocket. “I’m going to give you a special chapstick that you can use one time after each meal, okay? Three times a day. That’s all. If you only use it three times a day, there will be no rash.”

“Does it taste good?”

“Not really,” the doctor says, frowning. “Is that a problem?”

Jersey sighs. “No, I guess not. I like to lick things that don’t taste that good sometimes.”

 

“Is that so?” asks the doctor, looking in Jersey’s ears and then checking his eyes. “Like what?”

“I licked cat food once.”

Mick looks at the ceiling, visibly controlling his laughter. I roll my eyes, knowing we’re about to get a list of all the times Jersey was left unsupervised. My mom leaves cat food out on the back porch for a couple strays. I wonder how many of these taste-tests happened while I was supposed to be watching him.

“Cat food’s okay. I wouldn’t recommend you eat it very often, but it won’t hurt you.” The doctor turns on his little flashlight and shows it to Jersey. “Open wide.”

Jersey opens his mouth and waits about two seconds before revealing more awful stuff. “I licked the floor in the kitchen. Mom said Sister has to make it so clean you can eat off it, so I did.”

I drop my head into my left hand, knowing he had to have licked some seriously gross crap that day since I never clean as well as my mom wants me to. Time to up my game in the floor-cleaning department, I guess.

“I don’t recommend any more floor-licking. Lots of germs on the floor being tracked in by dirty shoes,” says the doctor, banging Jersey’s knees with the little rubber hammer.

“My turn!” Jersey yells, startling all of us.    He holds out his hand for the mallet.

“Just one time.” Doc Harper hands it over and waits. We all wait. Mick even stands still, not knowing what’s about to happen but obviously interested in finding out.

Jersey holds up the tiny hammer in front of his face and turns slowly around the room. “Who needs their flexes checked?”

“Reflexes,” I say. “It’s reflexes, not flexes.”

“Mickey Mouse!” He slides off the table and walks over to where Mick is standing. With one fell swoop, he leans down and hammers the shit out of the poor guy’s knee.

“Holy shii….” Mick says, leaning down and putting his hand on his leg. “Ha! Your flexes are working!” Jersey yells, smiling as he returns to his

former spot. He puts the hammer in the doctor’s waiting hand and gets back up on the exam table.

“We all good?” Doc Harper asks. “Yeah. Mickey Mouse is very healthy.”

I cannot look at Mick. My stomach is burning with the pain of not laughing at him. He totally asked for it, offering to come to the doctor and lick

 

chapstick all day. This’ll teach him to think before he acts all nice next time. “Okay, now it’s time for the questions,” says the doctor, taking a clipboard

in hand. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.” Jersey nods and focuses on the floor. “Go, team, go.” “What day is it today?”

“It’s the day after Wednesday and the day before Friday which is Thursday. It’s Thursday all day long until midnight.”

“Very good. Who are the people in this room with you today?” “Sister, Doc Harper Harper Harper, and Mickey Mouse.”

“Is Mickey Mouse a person or a cartoon?”

“Mickey Mouse is a cartoon in Disney and he’s a man over there in the corner and he likes my sister. I saw him looking at her with sparkling eyes.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper. I stare at the floor, knowing there’s no way I can stop this freight train. When Jersey gets on a roll, no one can stop him. No one who doesn’t want a giant tantrum on their hands can, anyway.

I can hear the doctor’s smile in his voice. “Sparkling, huh? Sounds serious. Tell me how old you are.”

“I’m twelve. I’m in the sixth grade. I’m very smart in a special way. I’m different, not less. Sister says I have half a brain.”

My face flames red. I have the slight urge to explain but I don’t bother.

This will just go down in the records as me being a questionable influence, once again. I’m used to it.

“Uhhh … okay. And what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I don’t know for sure about anything except for one thing.” “What’s that?” the doctor asks.

“I’m not going to lick that chapstick or that floor anymore. I don’t want a rash.”