Visible

One

Ain't-Got-No-Best-Friend Blues

Life had been going a little too well.

I didn’t want to jinx anything by saying it out loud but I was enjoying the good times while they lasted. I had a great summer job lined up. I was in the homestretch of eighth grade. Middle school had only caused minor traumatic damage. Even though I wasn’t one of the popular kids, I wasn’t getting shoved face-first into any lockers either. I got a free pass because I’d painted a mural of my principal laying an egg. It got whitewashed after a week, but kids were still giving me props for it months later. It felt good to be known for my talent. Barely anyone remembered that I had a horrible hidden disease.

My Crohn’s disease didn’t let me forget it, though. He still loved finding ways to irritate me. It sounds weird, but I was kind of getting used to living with a devil who was hell-­bent on ruining my life.

Norm and I seemed to have reached a mutual understanding. Whenever he got testy, I’d pay him a compliment, something like “What did I do to deserve a total nightmare like you?” He’d blush a deeper shade of purple and leave me alone, satisfied that I’d made him feel seen. In return, when I had something important going on, like a big test or a sleepover with my best friend, Norm restrained himself from meddling. Sure, he’d grumble and threaten to wreak havoc but his bark was usually worse than his bite. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t delusional. I knew the good times wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, disaster would strike. What I didn’t know was when or just how catastrophic the disaster would be.

“What have you done to my room?!” Norm said as he stormed into my room, not his. The walls, which used to be covered with my drawings of superheroes and cartoon characters, were now plastered with posters of old blues musicians.

“Did your parents rent out the room to a ninety-­year-­old bluesman? Because last time I checked, it belonged to a fourteen-­year-­old comic book nerd from Canada!” My disease was never one for subtlety—he went straight for the jugular. “You’ll be over this in two weeks—­a month tops.”

I begged to differ. My obsession had started after my best friend, Hot Lips, and I stumbled across a blues festival downtown a few weekends ago.

“Hot Lips . . . ,” Norm grumbled. “Figures.”

My disease was still jealous that I had a best friend and he didn’t. Norm wasn’t wrong, though. Ever since Hot Lips and I had started hanging out last year, quite a few obsessions had come and gone. There was Ed the Sock, a foulmouthed sock puppet who had his own late-­night talk show on cable TV. And a bizarre fascination with the weatherman on the local news who could never get his map to work properly. We were in hysterics watching him sweat while the screen behind him went berserk, reporting temperatures in the low six thousands.

This thing with the blues was different, though. I immediately bought a harmonica and started taking lessons from one of the musicians I’d seen. He lived above a vacuum cleaner repair store downtown. Each week, he’d make me a mixtape of songs by different artists, then have me pick out the licks I wanted to learn. As I played along to the music, Norm scrunched up his face in disgust. He was completely baffled by it all.

“This music is depressing. Every song is about hard times and struggle and pain,” Norm said. “Don’t you get enough of that from me?”

He was completely missing the point. The blues was also about resilience and finding hope, even joy in times of trouble. Plus, those bluesmen had the coolest names, like Lightnin’ Hopkins, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Muddy Waters, and Howlin’ Wolf. I couldn’t stop drawing them with their shades, fedoras, matching suits and ties . . . They held their guitars like gunslingers and looked into my soul as if to say, “We got your back, child. Don’t you be worrying about a thing.”

Norm brightened with an idea.

“We should start a band!” He whipped out a flaming electric guitar and unleashed a blisteringly terrible solo.

“Hot Lips and I already started a band,” I told him.

“I thought he played the flute,” Norm snickered. “Worst instrument of all time, by the way.”

“Agreed but he only plays it in orchestra at school. He’s taking guitar lessons on the side.”

Norm frowned and chucked his guitar out the window.

“Hey, I just tricked out the sidecar on El Diablo. Wanna go for a ride?”

El Diablo was Norm’s custom motorcycle. I can’t think of anything he loved more—­except torturing me.

“Hard pass,” I said. “Last time you took me out, my stomach was rumbling for days.”

There was a knock on my door.

“Your mom’s ready when you are, J.J.,” Francie said.

My mom had Crohn’s, too, and Francie was her disease. Because Crohn’s is an invisible disease, my mom and I were the only ones who could see Norm and Francie. I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist, or “gassyologist,” as I liked to say. I grabbed a notebook from my desk and headed out the door.

“Want company?” Norm asked.

“No,” I replied. “I prefer to talk about you behind your back!”

My mom was by the front door, rummaging through her purse for her glasses.

“They’re on your head,” I said.

She slid them down over her eyes and took a breath. My doctor’s appointments always made her anxious. They weren’t exactly relaxing for me either, even when things were going well.

“Got your notes?” she asked.

I held up my notepad and we headed out to the car. Norm and Francie tried to follow us but I spun around and stopped them.

“Nice try,” I said, and shut the door.

Chronic diseases. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them!