Ethan was smart, yes; he had a certain independence of mind, yes, and he still asked “Now what?” instead of “So what?”
When Mrs. Olinski decided that Ethan should be a member of her team, she did not tell Margy or, for that matter, anyone else either.
The commissioner of education of the state of New York smiled as he read the next question. “The following places in New York State are associated with women famous in American history. I shall name the place; you are required to tell me why it is important and name the woman associated with that place. You may choose three of the four places. If you answer all four, you will receive an extra two-point credit. If you choose to answer only three, the other team will have an opportunity to answer the fourth, and if correct, will receive one point.
“The place names are: Seneca Falls, Homer, Rochester, and Auburn.”
Ethan rang in as the last syllable sounded.
Yes.
Ethan Potter would know all four parts.
Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
ETHAN EXPLAINS THE B AND B INN
I am always the longest rider. I live farther from school than anyone else on my route. I board the bus first and get off last. I always have. The bus ride is the worst part of the school day. It always has been. Going is bad; coming home is worse.
On the first day of the new school year, I boarded the bus as usual, nodded to Mrs. Korshak, the driver, and walked to the back of the bus. All the way to the back. It was an unwritten rule that the seat you chose the first day became your assignment—unless you were so unruly that Mrs. Korshak made you change. I chose the last double seat on the side opposite the driver. I placed my backpack on the seat next to me, and as nonchalantly as I could, placed my leg over that. If luck held—as it had for the past two years—when the other kids boarded, they would choose seats that appeared to be less occupied, and I would not have to share my seat for the rest of the school year.
I knew every stop along the route. I knew every house, every tree and shrub, every pothole in the road. My father is proud of the fact that there have been Potters in Clarion County since before Epiphany was a town.
There is a fuzzy, faded picture of my great-great-great-grandmother in the Clarion County Museum. The museum is located in the main room of an old schoolhouse that the local historical society saved from the wrecker’s ball by having it declared an historical landmark. My ancestor is marching behind Susan B. Anthony who is leading a group to the polls in Rochester. In the picture, my ancestor is wearing bloomers, which was what they called the trousers that were invented by Amelia Jenks Bloomer of Homer, New York, and suffragette is what they called the women who were fighting for a woman’s right to vote. Instead of getting to vote, my triple-great-grandmother got arrested.
There is no picture of her at the first convention for women’s rights, but she was there. In the family archive, which my Grandmother Draper passed on to my mother when she moved to Florida, there is a letter from her, postmarked Seneca Falls and dated 1848.
There have been farmers and educators on both sides of my family ever since there have been tractors and blackboards, and there have been strong women on my mother’s side for just as long.
Last August when I was visiting my grandmother Draper in Florida, notice came that my homeroom teacher for grade six would be Mrs. Olinski. Unless she proved to be someone who had changed her name because of marriage or some other legal procedure, she would be new to Epiphany Middle School. I hoped she was. Having a teacher who didn’t know I had an older brother would be a welcome change.
There is nothing wrong with Lucas, and that is what is wrong with him. He is a genius, a star athlete, and is always doing something wonderful and/or record setting. Half the population of Epiphany is convinced that Luke Potter will become so famous that his name will become a noun like Kleenex or Coke. The other half is convinced that Luke Potter will become a verb like Xerox or fax. And if someday, someone says, “Luke me that information, please,” that information will be organized, memorized, and set to music.
Luke is six years older than I. He is in college now, but that has not put an end to his reputation. He has become a myth like Paul Bunyan or Davy Crockett. Because my name is Potter but not Lucas, I have been a disappointment to every one of my teachers during my previous six years—kindergarten counts.
The bus swung through the winding streets of The Farm, the subdivision that was made out of the Sillington place. The last of the Sillington sisters died and left their land to Clarion College. The college didn’t want a farm, so it sold all the surrounding land to a developer who put in roads, sidewalks, and sewers, divided it up into lots, and sold it to builders. Every subdivision has a name. They named this one The Farm. It is no more a farm than the Aquarium at Epcot is the Atlantic.
None of the historical residents of Epiphany liked the idea of having the Sillington place parceled off for a subdivision. My parents, for example, hated it. My mother says that if people want to live in a place where every tree and shrub is put in place by a landscape architect, why don’t they go live in a theme park? Mother avoids the subdivision as if it were a toxic waste dump. She refers to the people who live in The Farm as them. In her mind, there is a big difference between them and us, between living on a farm and living in The Farm. To them farming is a lifestyle not a livelihood. The fact that milk comes from cows has probably occurred to them, but they prefer to think of it as recycled grass.
The way I see it, the difference between farmers and suburbanites is the difference in the way we feel about dirt. To them, the earth is something to be respected and preserved, but dirt gets no respect. A farmer likes dirt. Suburbanites like to get rid of it. Dirt is the working layer of earth, and dealing with dirt is as much a part of farm life as dealing with manure: Neither is user-friendly but both are necessary.
When the bus picked up the last passengers from the last stop in The Farm, I lifted my leg off my backpack. My foot had fallen asleep, and it felt heavy as I lowered it. I rested it on the floor and allowed the pinpricks of blood to tease their way back up my leg. I shook my leg a little—not wanting to draw attention to myself—and turned my back to the aisle and gazed out the window. I am very good at gazing. I am also very good at listening. Gazing and listening are all right for church, but they sure kill a lot of conversations.
Instead of making its way back to the state road that parallels the lake, the bus took a left turn and started down Gramercy Road, the road that borders The Farm and the last within the two-mile radius that allows free bus transportation. Was I the only one who noticed that the bus was making an unscheduled stop? The only house there is the Sillington place. No one lives there. The house, which was given to the college along with the farm, was in a state of disrepair, and the college wanted to tear it down, but since it was the oldest farmhouse in Clarion County, it was saved by that same group that saved the schoolhouse. It is a huge old farmhouse that has had so many add-ons it looks like a cluster of second thoughts. About a hundred years ago, someone added a wraparound porch with enough ginger-bread trim to look like a lace collar. The main feature of the first floor is the dining room, which stretches from the front of the house to the back because in the days when the Sillington place was a working farm, Mrs. Sillington used to feed all the itinerant farmhands breakfast and supper. They ate at long trestle tables that stretched the length of the room. There is a picture in the museum. When the Sillingtons first settled in Clarion County, before there was a state road parallel to the lake, they owned all the land down to the water’s edge. The house itself is perched atop a knoll, and from the upstairs windows you get a good view of the lake.
I continued to stare out the window as the bus rolled down Gramercy Road. The Sillington house came into view. Standing at the edge of the drive was a man and a kid. The man was wearing a long navy blue apron and a white turban. A turban. A white turban. Like an illustration from The Arabian Nights. Equally strange: The kid was wearing shorts and kne
e socks. No one in Epiphany wears shorts on the first day of school. Even if it is ninety-five degrees in the shade—and sometimes it is—no one wears shorts on the first day of school. And no one—ever—wears knee socks with shorts. No one. Ever.
The kid was holding a leather book bag. Ever since backpacks were invented, no one—ever—in the entire school system, grades K through twelve, carries a book bag, especially a leather one.
The kid boarded the bus, the dark man wearing the long apron waved, and the kid stopped at the top of the steps and waved back. Even first graders on the first day of school don’t do that.
The kid started making his way to the back of the bus. Before I could resume my seat-occupied sprawl, the kid was standing in the aisle next to my seat.
“Is this seat occupied?” he asked.
No one ever asks. They just stand in the aisle until you move and make room for them. Even if he had asked if the seat was taken instead of asking if it was occupied, I could have told that he had a British accent. He didn’t look British. His skin was the color of strong coffee with skim milk—not cream—added; the undertones were decidedly gray. His lips were the color of a day-old bruise. He had more hair than you would think a single skull could hold. His hair—blue-black, thick and straight—did not have the hard sheen of the hair of a Chinese or Japanese but had the soft look of fabric.
“Julian Singh,” he said, extending his hand. No one (a) introduces himself and then (b) extends his hand to be shaken while (c) wearing shorts and (d) knee socks and (e) holding a genuine leather book bag on (f) the first day of school.
I extended my hand. “Ethan Potter,” I said. I did not smile. How could I? For a single moment of neglect, I would be stuck with having this kid as a bus partner for the rest of the school year.
I didn’t want to set up any expectations. I wanted to ignore Julian Singh for the rest of the ride, and I managed to say nothing until the bus had turned left off Gramercy and was back on Highway 32, but then curiosity got the best of me. “Did you buy the Sillington house?” I asked.
“Yes,” Julian replied. “The purchase was completed several weeks ago. There were quite a few delays in arranging the permits.”
“Permits?” I asked.
“Yes. Permits. Father is converting Sillington House into a B and B.”
“A B and B?”
“Yes. A bed and breakfast inn. Rather like a small hotel. Except we will not be responsible for dinners, and thus we will support only a limited menu. Actually, the kitchen in Sillington House is quite remarkable. It is as large as many full-service restaurant kitchens. We must make Sillington House handicap accessible before we are ready for occupancy. Mrs. Gershom was most helpful in getting permits for the conversion.”
“I’ll bet she was,” I said. “Is your father a cook?”
“Yes.” Julian smiled. “A chef. He was chef on board the Skylark, the cruise ship. Father decided that we needed to settle down. He has always wanted to own an inn, so he purchased Sillington House. That is what we will call it.”
“That is what it has always been called.”
“Yes. So Mrs. Gershom informed us. Father believes that with the college nearby, many visiting parents will welcome such a place.”
“Indeed,” I said. I don’t think I ever said that word before. What is there about an English accent that makes people seem more intelligent than they maybe are? And was it catchy?
I turned to the window and rested my forehead against the pane. How did he come by his English accent? Where did he go to school before? Was he really unaware of being weird? How did he get to be so weird? But enough was enough. If I didn’t pocket my curiosity, I would be giving away more than a bus seat.
When the bus stopped, in a feeble attempt to postpone the inevitable, I pretended to be looking for something. Mrs. Korshak waited, watching in her rearview mirror. At last after everyone else had left, I walked the length of the aisle and stood for a second at the top of the steps.
There was Julian Singh waiting for me.
I knew he would be.
Julian said, “I am assigned to Mrs. Olinski, Room Twelve. Are you nearby?”
“I guess so,” I replied, holding up my room assignment notice.
“What a stroke of luck,” Julian said.
“Indeed,” I replied.
Mrs. Olinski was the first teacher Epiphany ever had who taught from a wheelchair.
She sat, waiting, until we were all seated. Then she introduced herself. “I am Mrs. Olinski. I am one of those people who gets to use all those good parking spaces at the mall.” She turned toward the blackboard and wrote in big, block letters:
MRS. OLINSKI
PARAPLEGIC
As she wrote paraplegic, Mrs. Olinski spelled it out, “P-A-R-A-P-L-E-G-I-C. It means that I am paralyzed from the waist down.” Her voice was steady, but I noticed that her hands were not. The O of Olinski was not round or smooth but nervous. I don’t know what made me look at Julian Singh at that moment, but I did. He sat upright in his chair, not looking at Mrs. Olinski or the blackboard but staring into the middle distance, as if looking at the word paraplegic or the paraplegic herself was too painful.
Mrs. Olinski told us that she had become paralyzed in an automobile accident. Confined to a wheelchair as she was, she could not reach the top portion of the blackboard, so, stretch though she would, the words were written in the middle of the board—eye level for most standing sixth graders.
Hamilton Knapp, who had taken a seat in the very last row, farthest from the door, stood up and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Olinski, but I can’t see what you’ve written. Could you write a little higher on the blackboard, please?”
Mrs. Olinski smiled. “Not at the moment,” she said.
Ham sat down and said, “Sorry.” She didn’t mean that smile, and Ham Knapp didn’t mean that “sorry.”
The remainder of the morning was taken up with bookkeeping matters such as passing out supplies and assigning seats. We were seated in alphabetical order, and as luck would have it, Ham Knapp ended up way back in the room, in the very seat he had chosen for himself.
Nadia Diamondstein was seated three rows over and two rows forward. I could see her red hair. Nadia and I were almost related. This past summer, her grandfather had married my grandmother. In August when I visited them, Nadia was visiting her father. We often walked the beach together. And one day after a storm, we rescued a batch of hatchling turtles and took them out to sea.
The light from the window shone on Nadia’s side of the room. When she moved her head, the morning light caught in her hair the way the sun had when she turned her back to the ocean. Fringes of her hair framed her face in a halo. Whenever that halo effect happened, I wanted to stare at her until the sunlight stopped, but my heart stopped before the light did. Then there was a period during my vacation when Nadia chose not to walk with her father and me. I waited for her to catch up, and when I did, she slowed down, and I missed seeing the light in her hair. I never told Nadia how much I liked seeing the halo the sunlight made of her hair. Sometimes silence is a habit that hurts.
Noah Gershom sat in back of Michael Froelich and in front of Hamilton Knapp. His father is our family dentist. His mother sells houses—a lot of them in The Farm—and for reasons too complicated to tell, Noah Gershom was best man at my grandmother Draper’s wedding early last summer. It was pretty funny the way it happened, but my mother, who was maid of honor, was not amused. She cannot forgive Mrs. Gershom for selling houses at The Farm. I think she would change dentists if there were another one as good in Epiphany. Potters have always taken good care of their land and their teeth.
Julian Singh sat in the row to my right and two seats back.
At lunchtime, I sat on the end of the bench. Noah took a seat next to me. Nadia came from the food line carrying her tray and found no vacant seat at any of the girls’ tables, so she sat next to Noah. Julian, who had brought his lunch, was seated at a table at the far end of the room, all
alone. He finished eating and left the cafeteria without waiting for the bell or asking permission. When Mrs. Olinski saw him leave, she followed. She must have wanted to tell him the rules without calling him out to embarrass him. It took her a while to maneuver her wheelchair between the tables, so Julian had a head start. Shortly after Mrs. Olinski made her way through the door, the bell did ring, and we all left, and were just behind Mrs. Olinski as she made her way down the hall.
When we entered the classroom, we saw that someone had erased PARAPLEGIC and written CRIPPLE instead. Julian was the only person in the room. He was facing the blackboard, holding an eraser. He turned around, looking startled when he saw us file in, led by Mrs. Olinski in her wheel-chair.
Mrs. Olinski approached him wordlessly. She held out her hand, and Julian silently handed over the eraser. Mrs. Olinski turned from him to the blackboard and slowly and deliberately erased the word CRIPPLE.
The question was: Had Julian erased PARAPLEGIC, or was he in the process of erasing CRIPPLE? I glanced back at Hamilton Knapp and saw him exchange a look and a slight smile with Michael Froelich, and I knew the answer.
Julian Singh quickly took the trophy for being the strangest person to ride the bus. It took only two days for the other kids to make his life miserable. They stuck their feet into the aisle of the bus to trip him as he made his way toward the back, but even though he seemed to have his eyes focused straight ahead, he managed to stop just short of the protruding feet and say in his perfect British accent, “Beg your pardon. Would you mind?” And he would patiently wait in the aisle until they pulled their legs in. They had to pull their legs in because Mrs. Korshak would not start the bus rolling until everyone was seated. When they tried again, they met with the same result. Again. The same.
No normal person would continue to be cheerful and wear short pants.
The View From Saturday Page 6
