Jolted

by Arthur Slade

  It was August 30, the first day of classes, and from this moment forward he wanted to perform perfectly. He’d gotten off to a bad start on orientation day, but he could turn the Good Ship Starker around. He had graduated from Montessori with distinction and had repeated this feat at Centennial Middle School. But here at Jerry Potts, with students from across the world, he was among the best of the best.

  “Ya canna meet the queen with a kilt obscene!” Mr. MacBain had shouted at him. It was now Newton’s mantra. I can’t have another kilt drop.

  Today Newton wore silk boxers, just in case. Boxers, at least, were cool. And they were monogrammed NGS—Newton Goddard Starker.

  He adjusted his sporran so that it hung three fingers below his waistcoat.

  The last item he attached to his person was his sgian dubh. He slid it into the sheath belted around his right sock.

  A buzzing echoed in Newton’s ears, like that of a thousand mosquitoes hovering a few microns away. Oh, it’s gonna be one of those days. Sometimes he could actually hear the electricity zapping its way through the wires in the walls. The University of Washington scientists had told him it was his imagination, but Newton knew different. It was a Starker thing.

  “We’re plugged into the universe,” his mother used to say, “whether we like it or not.”

  At least it was a low hum. Newton knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything bad was on the way, but he glanced outside. The arrow-slit window revealed the sun rising into an innocent blue September sky. No lightning today. Not trusting his eyes completely, he flipped open his MacBook and surfed to the weather page. Sunny. Safe! He could dare the outdoors.

  A flashing icon appeared on his iChat. He clicked it and his father’s face filled the screen. Geoffrey Slights smiled. “Newton. I was hoping I’d catch you. Just want to wish you luck on your first day of school.”

  “Thanks, Dad. But I don’t need luck—I need good grades.”

  Newton could tell that his father was at the Millennium Domes office because he was sitting in front of the massive poster of a monolithic dome he’d designed and built.

  “Hey, don’t forget to have fun, too!” Geoffrey’s cell phone chirruped in the background. “I’ve got to go. We’re putting up another dome in Marysville. It’s going to be a school.”

  “Congrats! Oh, and thanks for the pep talk, Dad.”

  “No prob, homeboy.” It always irked Newton when his father tried to sound cool. “And don’t forget to visit your great-grandmother. Your mother would’ve wanted you to.”

  Newton rolled his eyes. “I will. I will.”

  Out of habit, he checked the weather again. Still safe. He resisted the urge to check it a third time. He thought of his father, sitting in his office, not one bit worried about the weather. Would my life have been different if I’d been given his last name?

  Why Newton’s Dad’s Last Name Is Slights

  * * *

  It’s his family name. Newton’s father didn’t pass his last name on to Newton because when he got married he’d respected the Starker tradition requiring anyone with Starker genes to keep the surname. Some had changed it, hoping to avoid being struck. They died by lightning anyway.

  The Starkers were stubborn. They were proud. Let the universe try and wipe them all out. It couldn’t obliterate the Starker name.

  Newton’s dad was allowed to choose Newton’s given names: Newton, in honor of Sir Isaac Newton, and Goddard, in honor of Robert Goddard, forefather of rocketry.

  One final point about Geoffrey Slights: He loved eggs Benedict. And the best version he’d ever had was made by his son.

  Newton Goddard Starker’s Amazing Eggs Benedict

  * * *

  Eggs Benedict (or eggs Benny) is the only civilized breakfast/brunch for a Sunday morning. First separate 2 eggs. Break the yolks, and add a cup of milk, 1⁄2 teaspoon of salt (be precise!) and 1 1⁄2 cups of flour. Add a tablespoon of melted butter. (Real butter! I mean it! You’ll be disappointed otherwise.) Beat it like crazy. Then add 2 tablespoons of baking powder (not baking soda!) and fold it into the well-beaten whites. Bake on a griddle in large muffin rings.

  Broil some good ham. Make a sauce hollandaise (I use tarragon vinegar—that’s the old way), and cut up a truffle (preferably plucked from the fertile ground of France), and poach the required number of eggs.

  Pop the muffins from their rings. Place a square of ham on each, then a poached egg, and cover with sauce hollandaise (be generous). Dust with truffle and serve immediately.

  This dish cannot sit around. There is no better egg recipe.

  Proof That Two Objects Cannot Occupy the Same Space at the Same Time

  * * *

  Newton smiled. His hair was particularly staticky today, and it took a goopy load of gel to keep it down, but that aggravation didn’t affect his mood. He was going to get a perfect mark in his Culinary Arts and Survival 9 class on mystery-meat day.

  He’d gone through his massive list of recipes, and a truffle quiche had leaped out at him. Of course, it required real truffles. Only Newton would be able to pull it off. Others would try Szechuan something-or-other or lasagna. Ha. How unimaginative! I’ll put the scrump in scrumptious.

  Newton imagined his classmates’ awe when he pulled the dish from the oven. They wouldn’t point and say, “Isn’t that the kid whose family gets hit by lightning?” but instead, “There’s that guy who made the best dish I ever tasted. The world owes him.”

  Once Mr. MacBain tried Newton’s quiche, he’d never eat haggis again.

  Newton slung his backpack over his shoulder, ran down the dorm steps, opened the door into the Great Hall of Chief Piapot, all the while dreaming of his brilliant recipe.

  A dark shadow flitted in his peripheral vision, but before he could react, he felt a sharp blow in his side and he was knocked to the floor, with his papers fluttering around like giant moths.

  A girl lay beside him. She unfolded, spiderlike, and pushed herself to a sitting position. The moment she saw Newton, her eyes narrowed.

  “Nice hip check, Rod,” Violet growled, her small teeth sparkling between thin lips. Her long, dark hair was in a tight, stiff braid, her dress shirt was crisp and her kilt fit perfectly. She stood up holding one of Newton’s papers, then dropped it as though it carried the plague. “When you grow up you could become a speed bump, Rod.”

  “Why are you calling me Rod?” Newton demanded. “I’m Newton.”

  “You’ll figure it out someday, Rod.”

  Newton gathered his papers, crushed them to his chest and launched himself to his feet. He stood on his tiptoes and shot Violet his meanest look. He spat, “Your bow tie is crooked.”

  “Your eyes are crooked.” Violet grinned, spun on her heel and strode across the Great Hall.

  Newton was slightly cross-eyed. He glared, wishing a piano would fall out of the sky and crush her into sauce de Violet.

  A Few Unimportant Facts About Violet

  * * *

  1.She is a third-generation Chinese Canadian. Her great-grandfather was a semi-famous photographer who took pictures of prospectors and saloon girls in the Yukon during the gold rush.

  2.She brushes her teeth after every meal and before bed. She carries the toothbrush in the pouch of her sporran.

  3.She plays the oboe.

  4.Her father is a Mountie stationed in Nanaimo, British Columbia.

  5.Her twin brother, Vernon, who goes to school at Nanaimo Central High School, is spoiled. In her opinion. He always got higher marks. Always got the better slice of steak. Always got on her nerves. That’s why she asked to go to Jerry Potts Academy. And because she wants to be a Mountie, just like her father.

  6.Her father graduated from Jerry Potts. His name is listed in the Hall of Heroes.

  7.Violet intends to see her name on the same plaque.

  The Odyssey Across the Square

  * * *

  Newton pushed open the doors to the Highland Courtyard and looked up. Three clouds hov
ered above him, white and wispy cartoon characters with a shade of darkness on their lower edges. Death is waiting in our bowels, they whispered. By their shape he knew they weren’t even rain or lightning bearing, but he still hated them. It was something in the way they just floated there, taunting him. He sniffed in a noseful of air. Not enough moisture or crackling in his ears to worry. He was safe.

  He strolled along the sidewalk next to the junior girls’ dorm, his kilt fluttering in the breeze. The building was yet another three-story brick fortress, with arrow-slit windows that looked over the prairies on one side and, in the opposite direction, Moose Jaw.

  Gargoyles along the roof gazed out at the horizon, waiting for winter.

  Newton examined the lightning rods on top of the building. Headmaster Dumont told Newton’s father that the academy had invested in several new ones after accepting Newton as a student. He turned back to look at the massive boys’ dorm, where the rods stuck out of the heads of two wolf statues. They had already been blackened from lightning that had tried to get in while he’d been sleeping. The rods were connected to a cable that carried the lightning away from the building and down into the ground.

  Newton carried on past the stone statue of Jerry Potts. He admired the man for surviving on the harsh prairie wearing buffalo skins and a derby hat. If that didn’t deserve respect, then nothing did.

  The Amazing Life Story of Jerry Potts

  * * *

  Jerry was a wild Canadian West character. His Scottish father, Andrew Potts, worked for the American Fur Company in 1836 at Fort McKenzie, on the Upper Missouri. He married Crooked Back, a Blackfoot woman, and Jerry the Métis was born. Sadly, Andrew was shot by a Piegan Indian who thought he was shooting a different white man (white men do tend to look the same). Jerry was only two years old at the time, so after a couple of stepfathers came and went, he was raised by the manager of the fort. He became a crack shot, picked up several Indian languages and returned to his Blackfoot tribe to learn to track and hunt. He was given the name Kyi-yo-Kosi (Bear Child). He avenged his father’s death and his mother’s death and his stepbrother’s death. This is what historians refer to as his Revenge Period.

  Later in life he guided the North West Mounted Police across the prairies and scouted for the Canadian army during the 1885 Riel Rebellion. His tracking abilities became legendary. He could adapt to any situation, and nothing could kill him. Well, almost nothing. Throat cancer got him in 1896. Apparently smoking was bad for you in the old days, too.

  Leaving aside his tobacco habit, and love of whiskey, he was the perfect person after whom to name a Canadian private school. He had survived by virtue of his fierce intelligence. Potts had never worn a kilt, but that didn’t prevent the masters of the school from insisting that every student wear one. He had been half Scottish, after all. And there is nothing tougher than a Scot in a kilt.

  Meanwhile, Newton Has Moved On to the Breakfast Table

  * * *

  “Struggling through your morning brekkie, I see,” Jacob said as he sat down with a bowl of steaming goo on his tray. “Cogitated any brilliant thoughts lately?”

  Newton ran this question around in his brain a couple of times and considered the possibility that Jacob might be mocking him. One look at Jacob’s friendly face laid that worry to rest.

  “Yes!” Newton said, so loud that Jacob jumped. Newton bit his lip, deciding it might be wiser to keep his recipe a secret.

  “Yes, what? You sound excited!”

  “I am!” In fact, exuberance fizzed up inside him like bubbles in a bottle of well-shaken pop. “I came up with something completely and utterly original.”

  “A vision from beyond, the great gleam,” Jacob said, as though quoting poetry. “What was it?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.” Newton leaned forward and spoke low. “I’m going to make a truffle dish for culinary-arts class. Truffles!” He waited for Jacob’s jaw to drop in awe. “Isn’t that an amazing idea?”

  “Truffles? Chocolates and mystery meat?”

  “No! No! The fungus! France’s greatest export. Black truffles! They sell for hundreds of dollars an ounce.”

  Jacob raised his hands. “Hold your horses, Newton. I know what they are. They use pigs to find them, right? It sounds like a good idea.”

  “Good? Truffles are brilliant! I tell you, this could be one of those real pivotal moments in my history.”

  “You sound like Caesar. ‘I came. I saw. I truffled.’”

  “Exactly!” Newton beamed. “Though I do tend to model myself more after Napoleon, before Waterloo. Caesar bloomed kind of late. Anyway, all I have to do is order the truffles.”

  “Go for it!” Jacob reached across and gave Newton a celebratory slap on his shoulder. Newton found himself suddenly teary. No one other than his parents and a fencing coach at Centennial Middle School had ever given him a sincere pat on the back. Everyone else was too worried about getting a shock.

  “I—I can’t wait,” Newton said. “As a writer, you may want to document this early part of my career. I was born to be a chef.”

  “Uh . . .” Jacob rubbed his jaw as though searching for stubble. “Your life story does have a certain appeal, but I’m a little busy. I’ve got to get my second fantasy novel out to the publishers. I’ve entitled it Phantasmic Armies.”

  “Wow,” Newton said. The previous night, he’d read part of Jacob’s other novel, The Brilliad. The whole book was one sentence that lasted one thousand pages. It had hurt Newton’s brain. Say something positive about his writing, Newton told himself, but nothing came to mind.

  Luckily, at that moment, a low, ominous dong filled the room, and Newton exclaimed, “Better get moving. Time for class.”

  How Newton First Discovered Truffles

  * * *

  When Newton was eleven, his family was invited to Michael Skrypuch’s brand-new house. Newton’s father had designed and built the home, which was composed of four interlocked domes and a dome garage. It looked like a moon base.

  An elderly butler lowered a plate of hors d’oeuvres before Newton. There were seven star-shaped crackers on the plate, each spread with a film of truffle butter. When he placed one in his mouth, his taste buds exploded with joy.

  “What. Is. This?” he asked.

  The butler smiled and whispered, “Monsieur, c’est heaven.”

  Later that evening they were served sweetbread with Jerusalem artichoke, brown veal sauce and slivered black truffles. From that day forward Newton was in love with a fungus.

  He begged to meet the creator of the dish and was introduced to Chef Lacombe. They talked for half an hour. Unfortunately Chef Lacombe only spoke French, so Newton’s peppering of questions about truffles went mostly unanswered. But he was pleased when the chef said, “Vous êtes un jeune homme selon mon coeur.”

  We have the same heart.

  Newton knew if there was anyone in the world who could get him truffles quickly, it was Chef Lacombe.

  Newton’s Essay About Truffles

  * * *

  Taken from Literary Arts 8, at Newton’s former middle school the previous year.

  Many people think that truffles are chocolates that most often appear at Christmas. Those people are dumb. People who are slightly smarter will say something like, “Aren’t truffles a type of mushroom?”

  Intelligent people know that truffles (family Tuberaceae, subdivision Ascomycotina: Tuber and other genera) are an underground fungus with a heavenly smell. The best type of truffle is the black truffle (Tuber melanosporum). People shouldn’t be prejudiced against fungi.

  Truffles grow in the soil within the drip lines of hazel and oak trees. They emit a steroid similar to the pheromone that male pigs produce. This is a brilliant plan, because when female pigs smell that truffle scent, they go absolutely crazy. They have to have it. So they dig in the ground, believing they’re about to experience a romantic encounter. Trufflers train these pigs to find large stores of truffles.

  Th
e Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Greeks and the Romans all bowed down before the flavor of the truffle. In the late nineteenth century, two thousand tons of truffles were harvested. But two world wars ruined the land that the people required to tend their truffles. Oh, and killed a lot of the truffle-gathering peasants, too. Today only two hundred tons are harvested in France, which means truffles are now extremely rare and worth as much as sixteen-hundred dollars a pound.

  In my humble opinion truffles are worth every penny.

  Une Porcine, Elle Est Ordered

  * * *

  After studying propaganda in Literature and Communication 9, Newton hurried back to his room. He checked the weather on his laptop (no change), then phoned Chef Lacombe.

  “Bonjour.”

  Newton’s brain usually froze when he had to speak French. “Bon-bonjour. C’est Newton de Starker. Je désirer une porcine truffle pour mon recipe, vitement.”

  He was surprised at how well the words had flown out of his mouth.

  “Vous voulez commander un cochon qui fouille les truffes? Vous êtes certain?”

  “Am I certain? Oui! Oui!”

  “Combien est-ce que vous êtes prêt à payer?” Chef Lacombe asked.

  “How much? How much?” Newton said automatically. Then he came up with a number. “Umm. Cinq cents.”

  Chef Lacombe sniffed. “Peut-être.”

  Newton gave him the school address, and after a profuse au revoir, he smiled broadly. He’d just ordered the perfect truffles. His smile faltered. He was pretty sure that was what he’d done, anyway.