Schooled

by Gordon Korman

  “You know, if you’re looking for party music, my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah had this deejay—the guy was amazing! Even the blue-hair crowd was getting down with the hip-hop moves.”

  I frowned. “How about the people with regular hair?”

  “Kids were going nuts!” Trent assured me. “They loved it!”

  I thought of something Rain once said. Back in the sixties, when Garland was a working commune, the biggest jobs went to the people who were best qualified to handle them. Why should I make decisions about a party when I’d never been to one?

  I faced Trent. “You should look after the music.”

  He was amazed. “You’re putting me in charge of hiring a deejay?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Not ‘in charge.’ Authority is a power trip. A community thrives when each member does what he or she is best at. Your strength is the music.”

  Trent nodded. “But how do I pay the guy?”

  “It’s a shame that money has to enter into everything,” I lamented.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Caitlin jumped in. “The school must have a budget for the dance.” She turned to me. “Right?”

  I had absolutely no idea. Rain used cash to buy supplies for the commune, but I’d never even held a dollar bill in my hand. We believed that the money-crazy mind-set was a big part of what was wrong with the world.

  So I said what Caitlin and Trent seemed to expect to hear: “Right.”

  I hoped it was the correct answer.

  13

  NAME: SOPHIE DONNELLY

  The freakazoid just might be my good-luck charm. A few days after my first driving lesson, Dad resurfaced. His job involved a lot of traveling, but this time he said he was going to be around for a few months.

  “So now we can see about turning you into a licensed driver.” He beamed at me.

  My mother gave him the Look. “Sophie was really disappointed when you didn’t show up last week.”

  “Mother—” I said warningly. I didn’t need a trained social worker nagging interference for me.

  Dad chose not to pick up on the vibe. “Well, I’m here now,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

  And we did. I have to say, I wish he was as patient as Cap. But now that our houseguest was on the cops’ A-list for grand-theft school bus, it would probably be too risky to go out driving with him anymore.

  Cap was doing his tai chi under the weeping willow when I maneuvered Dad’s Saab into the driveway.

  “God bless America!” Dad was astonished. “That’s the stray your mother brought home?”

  “The very same,” I sighed.

  “Does he have to do that right out in the open in broad daylight?”

  “He used to stick closer to the house,” I admitted. “I persuaded him not to. Three buckets of water did the trick.” One thing about Cap—it did take a brick building to fall on him.

  Dad laughed. “You’re a saint to put up with it, Soph. This is cruel and unusual.”

  We agreed on that, especially the part about me being a saint. That was another advantage of having Dad around. Mom was so nice, so kind, so understanding that she made the rest of us seem like insensitive jerks. But Dad took one look at Cap Anderson and instantly understood my side of the story. Moments like this really made me miss him when he was away, which was most of the time.

  Dad waved to our houseguest as he walked me to the door. “Nice moves, kid. I used to do a little kendo in my younger days.” He could make conversation with a brick wall—part of his salesman DNA.

  Cap looked disapproving. “That’s with swords, isn’t it? Rain would never teach me anything that uses weapons.”

  Dad nodded in agreement. “We trained with padded sticks so no one got hurt—purely ceremonial. It was all about pressure points and energy flow. I’ll show you, one of these days.”

  To me, he said, “Gotta run. But first—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. “—belated birthday present.”

  Yeah, seven months belated.

  I took it from him, thrilled. It was a silver bangle, set with multicolored stones. “Love it. Thanks, Dad.”

  I was about to try it on when he snatched it back. “Not so fast. I just wanted to make sure you like it before I have it engraved.”

  Cap stared at the bracelet, hypnotized. “That,” he said in a hushed voice, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Leave it to him. The kid grew up surrounded by wooden planks and fertilizer—the shiniest object in his life was probably an old pitchfork. No wonder he took a few rhinestones for the crown jewels.

  Dad tried to make it into a joke. “I guess you don’t get out much.”

  “I didn’t get out at all until I came here. We never left Garland except to lay in supplies.”

  Dad looked profoundly interested. “I forgot—you’re from Garland. Sophie’s mom grew up there. What’s it like these days?”

  There followed a description of this year’s turnip crop that would have put a Tasmanian devil to sleep. Dad was classy. He looked totally fascinated by the whole thing. But every now and then he would shoot me a smirk that had me thinking sad thoughts just to keep from cracking up.

  Oh, it was great to have Dad back again!

  14

  NAME: CAPRICORN ANDERSON

  It was true that I now knew 129 people. But in a school of 1,100, that hardly made a dent.

  Rain always said, “Don’t give up, and don’t give in.” Of course, she was talking about civil rights or protesting a war or something. But I was sure it counted for this too.

  The good news was that more students were coming up to me, which was a chance for me to ask their names. Usually, they wanted to talk about the time I drove Mr. Rodrigo to the hospital. I was amazed that people seemed less interested in Mr. Rodrigo’s recovery than the details of how he got to the emergency room.

  Rain explained it to me the last time I spoke to her on the phone. “That’s society for you, Cap. Following rules is more important than living your life. The law says you can’t drive until you’re sixteen. So if somebody does it, it’s a huge deal. You should feel sorry for these poor kids. They’re prisoners, and they don’t even know it.”

  “That explains why Sophie is so obsessed with getting her license,” I concluded.

  “Exactly. What’s a license? A piece of paper. That’s the real story, Cap—that we’ve allowed ourselves to be enslaved by our own laws.”

  She was so sensible. I wish I could have talked to her twenty times a day. It was almost like I was piloting a ship through a blinding fog, and Rain was an experienced captain. I wished I could have asked her how to play every wave. But it just wasn’t possible.

  “Are you feeling better? When can we both go home?”

  “Soon, Cap,” she promised. “And in the meantime, you stay true to yourself. Don’t change because everybody around you is spiritually handicapped. I don’t know this Sophie girl, but her mother, Floramundi—well, let’s say that she wasn’t one of Garland’s bigger successes. They say the apple never falls far from the tree, you know.”

  “Rain,” I reminded her gently, “that sounds like a negativity trip.”

  Rain taught me that when people are negative, they’re trying to put duct tape on their own damaged souls. And while we were all for using duct tape on a drainpipe or a fender, it could never hold together something as important as a soul.

  “You’re right,” she admitted with a sigh. “It’s hard to stay positive when you’re surrounded by psychic zombies. I find myself slipping back to the Dark Ages before Garland. Yesterday I made a hand gesture to one of the so-called doctors—let’s just hope it was muscle memory from my taxi-driving career.”

  It made me feel weird to hear Rain speaking ill about Sophie without even meeting her. Of course, I was partly to blame for that. I’d told Rain some of the mean stuff Sophie had said and done. I had to tell her the good about Sophie, but it was hard to nail down. Like when Soph
ie smiled, just for that instant, there was almost no such thing as sadness. Would Rain even understand that? I wasn’t sure I did myself.

  Everything about Sophie had a kind of shine to it. After years of studying art with Rain, I still couldn’t remember a color as intense as the glitter polish Sophie painted on her toenails. Even her shelf in the bathroom was a wondrous sight—a skyline of bottles, tubes, and jars of all shapes and hues. And the names! Passion Fruit Heel Softener with Volcanic Pumice; Bird of Paradise Exfoliating Scrub; Honey-Infused Moisturizing Lotion with Ylang Ylang. I used her Pomegranate Shampoo with Giga-Volumizing Power once, and when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hair was standing up straight in all directions—a huge sphere of blond fuzz surrounding me like a giant halo.

  I tried brushing it down, but all it did was crackle and stand even stiffer. Somehow this Giga-Volumizing Power filled your hair with static electricity as if you’d stuck your finger in a light socket.

  To make matters worse, there was urgent pounding, and Sophie snarled, “Get out of there! You’re hogging the bathroom!”

  When I opened the door, she stumbled back three steps and gawked at me. “I’ve heard of bad hair days, but wow! You look like your head exploded!”

  “I tried your shampoo,” I confessed.

  She was disgusted. “If you’re going to use the Giga-Volumizer, you’ve got to use the conditioner that comes with it. Otherwise you might as well be pumping ten thousand volts through your hair.”

  I must have looked completely helpless, because she took pity on me. She grabbed a bottle, marched me to the kitchen, and shoved my head in the sink. As she wet me down with the vegetable sprayer, I could feel my hair collapsing from its planetoid shape.

  “When was your last haircut?” Sophie marveled.

  “I’ve never had one,” I replied.

  “Never?”

  “Well, there was the time I whacked my head on the pump handle of our well. Doc Cafferty shaved part of my scalp so he could put in stitches.”

  She poured on some sweet-smelling stuff and started to massage it in. “Who’s he? Your pediatrician?”

  “No, the vet.”

  The massaging hands froze. “Do me a favor,” she said finally. “What you just told me—never repeat that to anyone. Especially if they have Child Services on their name tag.”

  My hair was fine after that, and I never again used anything from Sophie’s beautiful bathroom shelf. But it wasn’t because she said I couldn’t. She even gave me some advice about cream for oily skin. I never touched it, though. I know when I’m playing with fire.

  I think she was in a better mood because her father was in town, and her driving lessons were going well. Mr. Donnelly was a really nice person, although whenever he was around, his ex-wife looked pained and squinty, like she was trying to read something off a sign that was very far away.

  Mr. Donnelly even took the time to teach me some of his kendo positions. I couldn’t wait to show them to Rain when we got back home.

  Another reason more people were speaking to me at school was this Halloween dance.

  Luckily, there was a dance on Trigonometry and Tears, so I sort of knew what to expect. It looked a lot like Rain’s description of riots back in the sixties—hundreds of people crammed belly to belly, waving their fists and shouting. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to do that for fun. But they did. It was all they talked about.

  “I don’t know what kind of food to get for the dance,” I said for at least the tenth time. “I didn’t even know people ate at a dance. I thought they danced.”

  “Yeah, but you need snacks and drinks and desserts,” said Holly van Arden (No. 130). “My neighbor goes to St. Andrews, and at their last prom, they had Create-Your-Own-Pizza. You design the pie, toss the dough, add the toppings, and it cooks while you’re dancing. People are still raving about it.”

  “Well, I think we should have that,” I decided. “Go ahead and set it up.”

  “It’s not cheap,” she warned. “They have to bring in these giant ovens on wheels.”

  I told her what Rain told me when I asked what would happen if we weren’t able to afford our monthly trips for supplies. “When you spend your life worrying about money, pretty soon money becomes your life.”

  “Cool!” she exclaimed. And she took on the job.

  In the identical way, people volunteered to handle drinks, desserts, posters, and decorations.

  The next morning when I arrived at school to do my tai chi, Holly van Arden asked if she could join me. Naomi was already waiting for us.

  15

  NAME: HUGH WINKLEMAN

  Cap’s best friend.

  I was surprised when I overheard someone calling me that. Not that I had a problem with it. When people discussed me, the sentence usually began with “The biggest dork in the whole school is…” Friend had to be a promotion from that.

  And it was true. Well, true-ish. If anybody was his friend around here, I was. We spent a lot of time together, but only at school. For all I knew, he stepped off that bus every afternoon and was whooshed into Dimension X—which might have explained a thing or two about his personality.

  I tried to take the friendship further a couple of times, but he didn’t want to join the chess club—he gave me a whole speech on the evils of competition. And when I invited him over to my house, he just said no. He wasn’t being rude; he was just being Cap. Obviously, I couldn’t invite myself to the place where he was staying, since that wasn’t really his home.

  Okay, I figured, how about neutral territory? Maybe I could coax him into a trip to the mall.

  “That’s a really cool shirt,” I told him. “Where did you buy it?”

  Another dead end. “Rain and I do our own tie-dyeing at the community.” Then he caught me off guard. “Do you want me to teach you?”

  Breakthrough.

  We reconvened the next morning in the art room before classes. I brought a couple of plain white T-shirts, and Cap showed me how to scrunch, twist, and tie them up, securing them with rubber bands. Then he rummaged through the cabinets and took out enough chemicals to create a small nuclear bomb. Well, not really, but it was a lot of stuff—mostly paints and dyes, and solutions to make the colors permanent.

  We were dipping the first shirt in a tub of purple when Miss Agnew came in to get ready for first period. Uh-oh, I thought, we’ll be finishing this job in detention.

  “Hugh Winkleman, I hope you’ve got permission—” Her eyes fell on my partner in crime. “You’re Capricorn Anderson! I heard about what you did for Mr. Rodrigo. You’re a hero!” She peered into the sink. “Wow, tie-dyeing! I haven’t done that since college!”

  When Miss Agnew’s first period class showed up at the bell, they found the three of us up to our elbows in color and wet fabric. She sent them back to their lockers for T-shirts and gym shorts—anything that would take paint.

  “But I thought we were drawing the human figure in motion,” said one seventh grader.

  “Tomorrow,” Miss Agnew promised absently. “Today we tie-dye.”

  She even called down to the office and got Cap and me excused from period one so we wouldn’t get in trouble. But I guess the conversation didn’t stop there, because a few minutes later, an announcement came over the PA:

  “Those students interested in tie-dyeing with eighth grade president Capricorn Anderson should report to the art room.”

  Well, what self-respecting middle school kid would turn down a free pass to get out of work? We were mobbed in there. People were lined up with their towels, socks, underwear, and any canvas bag that was supple enough to be twisted and tied. Miss Agnew was in her glory. Never before had her art room seen such enthusiasm.

  The star of the show was definitely Cap. He was demonstrating, helping, mixing colors, and hanging up finished work. This was more than just Tie-Dye Palooza. Kids were asking him about the bus-driving incident and the Halloween dance, and hanging on his every wor
d. It hit me then—everybody had seen Cap at the assembly, and around the halls here and there, but no one really knew him. Today had started out as my attempt to get a couple of shirts tie-dyed and hang out with Cap in the process. Yet before my eyes, it had turned into the eighth grade president’s coming-out party. There must have been eighty students in that room, and I’ll bet ninety-five percent of them approached him at some point.

  True to character, he asked all their names and wrote them in his notebook.

  For the rest of the day, the halls were ablaze with color as the artists proudly wore their creations, most of them still wet. It was a carnival atmosphere, with lots of pointing and laughing and high fives.

  Which might explain why I almost didn’t notice something else that was different about today: there wasn’t a single spitball lodged in Cap Anderson’s hair.

  Not one.

  16

  NAME: CAPRICORN ANDERSON

  I knew something was wrong the minute I got off the bus and walked to the Donnellys’. The Saturn was in the driveway, which meant that Mrs. Donnelly was home early. And the TV was off, even though T & T would be on in a few minutes.

  Sophie and her mom were in the kitchen. I heard Mrs. Donnelly’s voice first:

  “Oh, honey, don’t feel bad. You know how he is.”

  I hurried into the room. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

  An empty Dasani bottle missed my ear by inches. “Get out of here!” Sophie shrieked. “Mind your own business!”

  “Sophie!” her mother exclaimed in horror. “You apologize to Cap!”

  In answer, she leaped out of her chair and raced for the stairs. “Mother, don’t you dare tell the freakazoid anything about this!” She pounded up to her bedroom and slammed the door.

  I looked at Mrs. Donnelly. “What did I do?” It was a silly question. What did I ever do? Nothing. And Sophie still treated me as if I’d crawled in from the septic tank.

  “Please forgive Sophie,” Mrs. Donnelly begged. “She’s just had some bad news.”