by Arthur Slade
Students exchanged curious glances and murmurs. Mr. MacBain led them to the Highland Courtyard. They followed like a tartan amoeba. Newton worked his way to the front of the pack.
Mr. MacBain stopped before the Orator’s Perch, a large bench-like stone a farmer had found sixty years ago. “Now! It’s poetry time. Since we appreciate the arts so much here at Jerry Potts, one of you lads or lassies will do the honor of reciting my favorite Scots poet, Robbie Burns. And no ‘Auld Lang Syne’ that makes me eyes all watery. Whoever is brave enough to stand up here will receive extra marks in my culinary class.”
Here’s my chance! Newton searched the sky for cumulonimbus clouds, then jumped up to the flat part of the stone, his hand holding his kilt. In eighth grade he had memorized “A Red, Red Rose.” He began, “O my Luve’s like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June.” Everyone was staring at him, some bored; others, he assumed, envious. Maybe he would impress the girls. He put his heart and his lungs into the recitation, bringing it to a dazzling conclusion by lifting both his hands and practically shouting, “And I will come again, my Luve, tho’ it were ten thousand mile!”
Something hard struck his left kilt buckle. He turned to see who had thrown it and briefly locked eyes with a tall Asian girl. She was giggling and pointing, standing right next to Mr. MacBain, who looked grim. It was obvious to Newton that the girl had been the catapult. He opened his mouth to point out that she was being rude just as his left buckle unsnapped and his kilt dropped.
Newton had worn bright green undershorts. The students’ laughter roared like a thundercloud.
“’At’s why we tighten our buckles!” Mr. MacBain shouted. “Ya canna meet the queen with a kilt obscene! Leave the lad to fix it. On to the mess, you ugly mob.”
Newton pulled up his kilt and tried to reattach the buckles, while everyone else followed Mr. MacBain toward the old armory.
“Do you want advice?”
Newton, startled, turned to see a brown-skinned, blue-eyed boy smiling up at him. His eyes swam behind thick spectacles.
“Advice? This kilt is broken.”
“Oh, they’re all rather tricky. You’ve got to fasten the right apron to the left buckle.” He pretended to do up his own kilt. Newton followed his lead. “That’s it,” the boy said. “The left apron attaches to your waist and hip buckles! You’re stylin’ now.”
Newton was surprised at how tight and sturdy the kilt felt. “How do you know how to do this?”
“I’m Scottish.”
“Huh?”
The boy laughed. “Part Scottish. And part Mi’kmaq, and African Canadian, too, but it’s a long story.” He reached out his hand. “My name’s Jacob.”
Jacob’s Story, in a Nutshell
* * *
Jacob Edward Clarke was fourteen and from Halifax, Nova Scotia. His mother was from the Mi’kmaq First Nations tribe; his father was black. In 1857, his father’s ancestors had escaped slavery and come to Canada via the Underground Railroad. His grandmother had been Scottish. He wasn’t certain with which bloodline he should identify, so he chose to honor all of them.
The Hall of Heroes
* * *
The moment Jacob and Newton began shaking hands, Jacob got a shock. “Ouch!”
“Oh, sorry,” Newton said. Jacob looked at his hand as though he expected a few fingers to be blown off. “I store a lot of static electricity. It’s part of my condition.”
Jacob stuck his hand out again, this time to help Newton down from the Orator’s Perch. There was no shock. Newton jumped down.
“Condition?” Jacob asked.
“It’s a long story. I’m Newton Starker.” He paused. Jacob didn’t react. Maybe they didn’t get tabloids up here in Canada.
“How about we have some breakfast?” Jacob said. They walked toward the hulking armory, where the doors were gulping up the last of the ninth-grade crowd.
“So, what brings you here?” Newton asked.
“My father wants me to toughen up.” Jacob pushed his glasses back up his nose. “And I need to work on my writing. The academy has a great arts program.”
“Oh, you write?” Maybe he’ll want to write my life story. “What kind of writing?”
“Fantasy.” Jacob reached into his backpack and pulled out a book. He pressed it into Newton’s hand. “Here, read my latest. It’s called The Brilliad. I published it myself.”
The leather-bound book was heavy as a brick. On its cover was a square maze.
“Wow.” Newton flicked it open. “Yeesh, that’s tiny print.”
“To keep printing costs down, I had to use a smaller font. The ideas were just bursting out of my head. And I’m almost finished with my next one.”
“That’s great!” He must be a genius. Newton hoped Jacob would ask why he’d come to the academy. When he didn’t, Newton said, “I came because I’m very much into surviving, but I’m also a chef. Or, at least, that’s what I’d like to become.”
“A chef ? Cool. I like eating.”
They walked into the armory, passing through a long hall with glass cases on either side. A group of kilted seniors marched by, looking like Celtic deities, their cheeks rosy. The guys laughed with deep voices; the girls’ laughter was light and tantalizing. Soon I’ll be as confident as them.
“This is the Hall of Heroes,” Jacob said. “That’s what I read in the pamphlet, anyway.”
They stopped at a display case featuring photographs of those who had graduated and had gone on to worldwide acclaim, including scientists, actors, generals and explorers. The largest photo was of Wilhelm Duggs, the lion tamer.
Next to the pictures hung a shield-shaped bronze plaque listing the students in each grade who’d had the highest year-end mark for the past eighty years.
“That’s where I want my name to be,” Newton whispered. He stared at the plaque as if trying to etch his name with laser vision.
“Ah, the mighty always aim high,” Jacob replied.
Was Jacob making fun of him? Or maybe he just talked like that because he was a writer. He thinks I’m mighty.
Next to the plaque was a long corkboard with several notices pinned to it about basketball, boxing and extracurricular community activities. A list of students’ marks from the previous year was tacked up, right in the middle.
They turned left into the mess and lined up for their “slop.” The cook had a glass eye, and her hands were yellowed with nicotine stains. She muttered and grumbled. Newton decided he’d never discuss recipes with her.
He sat at one of the many folding tables. The porridge tasted like five-week-old haggis cooked in a bagpipe. Clearly the Potts cook had failed to call upon her inner chef. Even a few raisins would have piqued Newton’s gastronomical interest. They would have been a raisin d’être. He chuckled to himself. If only the world could see inside my brilliant brain.
Jacob slid into the chair across from him, an orange, a muffin and a cup of tea on his tray.
Newton felt a sudden and, for him, mostly unfamiliar feeling: He was sure he and Jacob were going to become friends.
The Starkers’ Friend Policy
* * *
Newton wasn’t good at making friends. For one thing, he was rather quiet. For another, people sensed his inner oddness a light-year away. His lack of friends was thanks, in part, to Delilah. She had constructed a special lightning-deflecting tinfoil hat and made him wear it throughout all the junior grades. (He’d left it at home because he knew how important first impressions would be at a new school.) Many of the girls at his former middle school thought he was “the quiet cutie who was most likely to turn into an ax murderer.” Why else would his eyes be two different colors?
The guys just found him weird. Newton had been taught it was his social responsibility not to make friends. It was dangerous for others to get too close to a Starker; sometimes lightning struck those nearby. His mother was proof of that.
Seven years ago Delilah officially instituted the Starkers’ Friend P
olicy. One day Delilah and her best friend, Margaret, had taken a few steps outside one of the antiques shops in Snohomish, when Delilah looked up to see clouds unspooling in the sky. A bolt struck her and she spent a week unconscious in Seattle’s Northwest Hospital.
Margaret was killed. Not by the lightning; it just knocked her out. But when she fell, she struck her head on the post of a streetlamp and died instantly.
Delilah had always been bubbly and eager to laugh, but after Margaret died, Delilah would slip into long periods of grumpiness and glare out her home-office window. “It should have been me,” she would whisper. She drew fewer and fewer medical illustrations and eventually stopped taking assignments altogether. Even some of the delectable dishes Newton made didn’t seem to cheer her up. They had always cooked together. And the Starkers did have especially sensitive taste buds.
After Margaret’s death, Delilah decided it wasn’t safe for Starkers to have friends. They could die. And besides, friends were a lot of work. Friends expected you to leave your dome and shop for antiques. Or attend their parties.
“It’ll be better for you, Newton, if you don’t make friends,” his mother had said. “You’ll always, always have me. I promise.”
Add Nauseam
* * *
Newton left his porridge uneaten. “This is nauseously bad.”
“Right. Good word, too,” Jacob said.
Across the room the Asian girl stood up. “Who’s that really tall girl?” Newton asked, pointing discreetly.
“Violet Quon. Miranda, the girl with the pink hair, knows her from summer camp. She said she’s a cannibal.”
“What?”
“I assume she was joking. I think she meant she’s a carnivore. Miranda’s a vegan.”
Newton shot an angry glance at Violet. “She’s the one who made my kilt fall. She threw something at me.” Jacob scratched his temple. “Really? I didn’t see that. But, if you’d like my advice, it’s best to rewrite these experiences in your mind. I reimagine them turning out well. You should just visualize that kilt staying up.”
“You’re right. Visualization! I’m visualizing my revenge right now.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.”
Without another word Newton picked up his tray and carried it toward the collection cart, crossing Violet’s path. At exactly the right moment, he flipped his tray, and his porridge landed on her kilt, sticking like glue.
“Nice move, clumsy,” she said, wiping the crud from her kilt. She was a good six inches taller than Newton.
“Ha!” He laughed. “It’s payback.”
“For what?” She squeezed a handful of porridge, and Newton prepared to duck.
“Don’t play innocent,” he said. “I’m not to be messed with.”
“You’re confused. Maybe your green undershorts are too tight.”
“Shut up about my shorts!” This he said a little too loud. Kids started laughing.
Violet stepped closer and looked down her nose at him. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I know who you are, Newton Starker. I read up on all my classmates. You’ve flipped porridge on the wrong Quon.”
“Hmmmph.” What a lousy comeback. “Yeah, right.”
She gave him a withering glare, then stalked off to the washrooms.
He put his tray away, trying to act calm, in case other students were still watching. He breathed through clenched teeth. I should have counted to ten! His hands balled up into fists.
“Don’t let the Starker anger get the best of you,” his mother had said a million times. “Count to ten. Wait. Master it.”
He let out his breath. It was okay. This little incident was nothing.
Sheep’s Pluck and His Very Own Sgian Dubh
* * *
That evening there was a short ceremony after dinner, which was haggis. Newton swallowed several small bites. Mr. Dumont, the headmaster, stood on a platform at the far end of the mess hall. He wore a lumberjack shirt, his chest big as a whiskey barrel. Several lash like scars lined his bearded face. “Welcome to Jerry Potts Academy of Higher Learning and Survival.” His voice was so deep and strong, it could have split atoms. “Tonight we especially welcome our newest batch of survivors into grade nine. I’d like to call them up to the platform.”
“What’s this about?” Newton whispered to the boy next to him.
“We’re getting our sgian dubhs.” When Newton gave him a blank look, the boy said, “Knives. Traditional Scottish knives. Your parents must have signed the consent form.”
“I guess so,” Newton replied.
Three senior pipers piped the ninth grade to the stage. Each student was called up to receive a sgian dubh and a sheath. Newton took his carefully, pulling the dark blade an inch from the sheath. It was serrated on one side. He couldn’t imagine any school in the United States that would actually arm its students. Jerry Potts Academy was cool!
Mr. Dumont looked down at them all. “This sgian dubh is entrusted to you and is to be worn upon your person at all times. If any of you misuse it, especially in a threatening manner, you will immediately be expelled. You are now officially members of Jerry Potts Academy. Sleep well. Tomorrow you will learn how to use it correctly. Until then, knives remain sheathed. And remember—always keep your knives sharp.”
From: [email protected]
Date: August 28, Thursday
Subject: Start of First Quarter
To: allgradesaddresses
Dear Students,
Welcome. Tomorrow classes begin. You are expected to arrive on time and to be properly dressed in your school uniform. Anyone who does not meet the standards will receive demerit points. Be prepared to learn. This is an intense educational experience. Each quarter is only ten weeks long.
The following are messages of importance:
1. Mr. MacBain reminds the grade nine students that next Tuesday, in Culinary Arts and Survival class, you will create a main dish from the surprise meat that he will provide. You are responsible for an original recipe, seasonings and any other items needed. It will be worth 15 percent of your culinary mark. Purchase your own materials in town (preferably at the co-op), or ask for them from Mess Cook Norquay.
2. Grade ten students are entailed with stable duty this quarter. The manure truck arrives on Saturday at 1000. Bring your rubber boots. There will be plenty of pitchforks and shovels available.
3. Books borrowed from the library must be returned on the due date. If you are late you will be assigned stable duty.
4. The first-quarter Outdoor Expedition will begin on September 18. It will be an arduous forty-eight-hour survival challenge that will test all that you’ve learned in your first weeks. Not every student has been able to complete the expedition. Those who fail are sent home. It counts for 25 percent of your total mark. Begin visualizing success now.
I am pleased to have so many returning students, as well as new faces. Remember, we are a community. Work together, learn together, survive together.
Sincerely,
Mr. Dumont, Headmaster
PS. Our bell ringer this week will be grade-eleven student Arden Henry. Arden decided the dress code didn’t apply to him during our dinner meal. Learn from Mr. Henry’s mistake. The staff at Jerry Potts Academy are extremely observant. We see everything.
Newton’s First-Quarter Classes
* * *
Mercantile Fitness and Survival 9
Six weeks of intensive study of financial matters, including starting a small business, combined with outdoor survival training concentrating on observing habitat and building survival shelters. The survival training will mold you into an enterprising CEO or entrepreneur.
Biology and Survival of the Fittest 9
Students will study biology that is relevant to their lives. Curriculum will follow the nature of life, ecology, cells, evolution, microorganisms and fungi, plants, invertebrates, chordates and the human body. The survival aspect will include a study of how to av
oid predators and how to become a predator.
Literature and Communication 9
This intensive study of communication will include analyzing propaganda, understanding advertising, examining the structure of the novel through in-depth reading of To Kill a Mockingbird and Lord of the Flies, writing, public speaking and debating. You will be taught hand signals, Morse code and smoke signals to be used in a survival situation.
Culinary Arts and Survival 9
This class is designed to debunk the taboos regarding food that civilization has instilled in you. In a survival situation your only goal is to consume the number of calories needed to maintain life. This class will teach you which animals and animal parts are edible, as well as which insects and plants should be consumed and which are poisonous. Outdoor activities will include practicing techniques for trapping, gathering and cooking. No matter what materials are used, you are expected to approach cooking with artistry and imagination.
Ethics of Survival 9
This half-credit course is mandatory for all students. This class is about the taboos and misconceptions that surround survival. Is it survival of the fittest? Is it every woman for herself? If one mountain climber has slipped and is pulling down several other climbers, do you cut the rope? Here we will ask the hard questions.
Boxers or Briefs?
* * *
The following morning the bell in the belfry tower bonged at six-forty-five. Newton shot out of his cot and splashed water on his face. He carefully fastened the right apron of his kilt to the left buckle, then attached the left apron to his waist and hip buckles. He’d practiced before going to bed. His stomach was fluttering. I’m nervous, he thought. I, Newton Starker, am nervous.
