And they don’t grow out of it, either. As proof, I will offer up my own mother.
When she dropped us off at Pelican View Elementary after Sarah’s practice, she said: “I’m heading back to the rink. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty. Oh, and Franklin, I hope you don’t mind. I borrowed your dishwashing gloves.”
“My dishwashing gloves? For…?”
“Uh…washing dishes?”
This was an obvious lie, but she shooed me out of the van before I could interrogate her further.
I sighed. We all had our secrets. My mother’s fascination with the ice rink, Sarah’s insistence on wearing pants, my feelings for Glynnis…
“It seems smaller, somehow,” Sarah said as we walked to the front entrance.
“And quiet,” I added.
School had dismissed an hour earlier, so we entered through the door by the office. Behind the plate-glass window, we could see Mr. Putnam on the phone. He gave us a cheerful salute. Sarah waved back and we continued down the hall.
“Hey, I’ve never done this before! Look, Franklin. It’s Ms. Linski’s room.”
“Never done what? Been in the building after school?”
“No. Seen my last year’s class. Look, that’s where you sat, remember, on the end, so you didn’t have germs comin’ at you from both sides?”
“Well, that’s not exactly the reason I sat there….”
“And I wanted to sit in back, but Ms. Linski made me your partner.”
Sarah stared through the window at the empty classroom. Peeking in really did bring back memories. There were Ms. Linski’s motivational posters, and her timeline of American history made of cereal-box toys she’d collected on eBay (all carefully sealed in plastic to protect their value). And the wall-mounted hand-sanitizer dispensing unit inspired by yours truly. We cut the incidence of cold and flu outbreaks nearly in half, I might add. And the door to the restroom. I sighed happily, remembering. Yes, every classroom at the elementary school had its own private bathroom.
“…and you hung your backpack on your chair, and every time you got your calculator or a pencil out of it, you looked over at Glynnis Powell.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s pretty obvious you got it goin’ on for Glynnis, Franklin.”
“Really? How so?”
Sarah managed to pull herself away from Ms. Linski’s door. She leaned back against the door jamb.
“Every chance you get, you’re moonin’ over her. In health class for sure. In the lunchroom. I don’t know…it’s just obvious. Like I-like-skating obvious. Like Mr.-Spansky-spits-on-the-table obvious…”
“All right, fine. I understand what you’re saying.”
We continued down the hall. “It doesn’t really matter, now that I know she’s a cheerleader….”
“Why?”
“Why? Because cheerleaders hang out with football players, basketball players, soccer players…in short, athletes, Sarah, in contact sports. Cheerleaders do not fraternize with QuizBowl finalists and Mathletes.”
“How do you know? Did you ask her?”
“Ask her? I can’t even get within shouting distance without all my blood rushing to my face.”
Sarah shrugged. “Jeez, Franklin, you give up awful easy….”
“That’s not true!” I wanted to tell Sarah that if she measured the amount of time I thought about winning Glynnis, the girl would be neck and neck with Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the length of my arms and legs, and keeping my hands clean.
“I wouldn’t let anything come between me and skating,” Sarah said quietly. “Nothing. You hear that, Franklin?”
This last line sounded faintly aggressive. As if I would suggest such a thing.
“Well, excuse me for confiding,” I said, dragging my steps so that Sarah could be the first to reach Mrs. Boardman.
“I could maybe help, you know…with you talkin’ to Glynnis.”
“Thank you…,” I said slowly, imagining possible Sarah Kervick techniques for getting up close and personal. “But I already have a plan.”
“You do? What is it?”
I explained to her that I intended to gradually spend more time in the vicinity of Glynnis, with the goal at the end of three weeks of waving to her without turning red in the face.
“Jeez…at that rate, you’ll be a geezer before you get a kiss.”
I thought about telling Sarah that love takes time, but then, what did I know about it?
“Have my two helpers arrived to rescue me from this pile of unshelved books?” came a little-old-lady voice from around the corner.
Sarah took off. “Grace!”
“Sarah…and Franklin.” They stood together as I came into the room, Mrs. Boardman’s two hands pressed around Sarah’s one. “We’ll have to catch up as we work, dears. I’m afraid I am behind my time. Franklin…”
Mrs. Boardman gave me a crinkly old-lady smile. “I saved the folktales for you.”
I am very familiar with the Dewey decimal system and therefore did not need much direction. I managed to reshelve my entire stack, from the Grimm brothers to stories from 1001 Arabian Nights, while Mrs. Boardman and Sarah worked side by side in nonfiction.
“Oh dear, Extreme Bicycle Maneuvers,” Mrs. Boardman chuckled, inserting her ruler between two books on the top shelf. Sarah Kervick pressed the book into place. “What will they think up next? Here’s Surfing in CyberSpace. That would be right…here, I believe.”
Sarah fit another book in the space Mrs. Boardman created with her ruler.
“Now, tell me how that lutz is coming….”
Mrs. Boardman had grown up in Norway, where people skated into town down frozen rivers, so she was very interested in Sarah’s skating activities. She even knew Debbi, Sarah’s skating coach, from church.
“Has Debbi taught you the Scandinavian stop? It was all the rage at the ’64 Olympics, you know.”
“Not yet, we just do the T and the L so far. She says I shouldn’t go too fast.”
I agreed with Debbi—when I could understand her Swedish accent—that Sarah should get a complete grounding in fundamentals before she attempted more difficult moves.
After we finished the shelving, Mrs. Boardman gave us a snack: Oreos for Sarah and Tree of Life organic garden vegetable crackers for me.
“And, Franklin, I have some very nice organic lemonade to go along with it.”
We sat there, eating over napkins and flipping through our favorite books. It was very peaceful.
Sarah looked up from one of the glossy skating books Mrs. Boardman had ordered for her through interlibrary loan.
“Remember when you used to read to me, Franklin? When you were teaching me?”
I nodded.
She sighed. “We should do that again sometime. You could read that story about Pandora that we got out of the library.”
“It was Gloria who said you should read it.” Long ago, when I’d hardly known Sarah, Gloria told me to show her the story of Pandora from Greek mythology. It was about a beautiful and curious girl who opens a box and lets all the evil things out into the world: sickness, hate, pain, jealousy, all of it. But she also frees the little winged creature called Hope, who gives heart to all who suffer.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that story lately…,” Sarah said, drawing her finger across the table, “and I’m wondering this: How does she know where to go? Hope? With all the problems in the world, how does she choose?”
CHAPTER SIX
Filling in the Blanks
That evening, as I sat alone on my bed, tape measure in hand, I made a shocking discovery. My logbook, in which I’d recorded the varying lengths of my arms and legs on their mismatched journey to adulthood, was missing two entries. I had forgotten to measure for two straight days in a row! I needed no one to remind me that those days were gone forever.
Measuring my arms and legs was just a normal part of my day. I’d been doing it for years, ever since I noticed the different rates at which t
hey grew. You see, despite an exhaustive search on the Internet, I had discovered no journal articles devoted to this subject. What if I had a rare and previously undiscovered growth deficiency? Could I be ushering in an age when asymmetrical children struggled with balance? Was all this due to my mother’s sinister love of the game “Airplane,” in which children are swung around and around by their developing limbs until their predisposition to motion sickness causes them to empty their stomachs?
It was up to me to collect the data. I had three leather-bound journals in which I’d faithfully recorded my measurements over the last five years. The only other entry I’d failed to make was during the influenza outbreak in my ninth year, when I’d been wracked by a 104-degree fever for three days.
I stared at the blank spaces as if they could tell me where I’d gone wrong.
“Franklin!” My mother broke into my thoughts. “I’ve been calling you for ages. Gloria’s on the phone.”
Gloria? Calling me? At this hour of the night?
Me: Gloria? This is a surprise.
Gloria: So, how did it work? My advice about the faucets?
Me: Oh. Fine.
Gloria: Good. You know, I was about your age when I got that trick with the faucet from William. Worked every time.
Me: William?
Gloria: My brother, Franklin.
Me: I didn’t know you had a brother, Gloria.
Gloria: That’s because we rarely stray from your morbid preoccupations. I had four brothers, Franklin. William was the oldest.
Me: You had…
Gloria: But…to the reason I called. Your mother and I have been discussing Sarah, and I wanted your opinion.
Me: Uh, okay.
Gloria: How are things going at school? Is she keeping up? You know, sixth grade is a pivotal year in terms of retention. Students can slip through the cracks when they begin middle school.
Me: Well, her grades aren’t what they could be if she just tried—
Gloria: Speak up, Franklin.
Me: She’s keeping up, barely, but…well…I think there is something bothering her. Just today she was asking about that story you told me to read to her last year. She was asking what happened to Hope.
Gloria: Really?
Me: And there’s something else going on. At the rink. She won’t wear a skirt in practice anymore.
Gloria: I know. Your mother told me. (big sigh) I’m going to tell you something personal, Franklin. Is that okay?
Me: Of course, Gloria.
Gloria: I’m thinking about Sarah tonight because she reminds me so much of William. My brother. They shared the same single-minded passion for sport. Only for William, it was football.
Me: Why do you keep talking about him like he’s in the past, Gloria? You keep saying was.
Gloria: Because William is from the past, Franklin. He died.
Me: Died?
Gloria: Yes. In Vietnam. Today is the anniversary—
Me: He died in Vietnam? Your brother was in combat?
Gloria: It creeps up on me every year. I’d almost forgotten today was the twelfth…. (long, snuffly pause…Gloria was blowing her nose.) All right, then. The security people are shooing me out. Can’t work late these days. So you’ll watch over Sarah for me?
Me: Sure, Gloria. (though I was not at all sure what this entailed)
Gloria: Because she has to skate, Franklin. It’s her passion. When William didn’t get a football scholarship, he seemed to lose all hope. And we can’t let that happen to Sarah.
Me: Gloria?
Gloria: Yes, Franklin?
Me: I’m sorry about your brother…about William.
Gloria: I thought you might understand what I was feeling tonight, Franklin. Every once in a while, you stretch out and touch the world. It gives me hope. (another long Gloria sigh) Well, let’s call it a day, shall we? My voice gets a little hoarse when I put in so many hours. Don’t forget, Franklin, I’m expecting pictures of the big day. A video would be even better. I know you won’t let me down.
Me: Bernie’s bringing his camera.
Gloria: As for Sarah, she needs you more than ever. As I said, this could be a critical year. I don’t like to think of it, but Sarah could be in danger.
Me: Sarah…in danger?
Gloria: Yes. Good night, Franklin.
Me: Gloria…
I was about to ask her to specify the danger when she disconnected. Certainly, I wanted to ask her how in the world a girl like Sarah Kervick could be in danger when she didn’t even acknowledge that such a thing existed. But then I was distracted by thoughts of William. My own experiences of war were limited to old newsreels on the History Channel and the novels from the Accelerated Reader lists I’d gleaned off the Internet, like All Quiet on the Western Front and For Whom the Bell Tolls.
It was when I started to comb these books for the database Bernie and I had created on characters most likely to die in preventable accidents that I realized just how dangerous—statistically—it is to be a character in a book. Characters in books are more likely to be injured or killed or just plain die at a far greater rate than the general population.
I should have gone to bed directly, for it was a full twenty minutes past my bedtime. But as I was laying out my clothes for the following morning, I thought about what FDR said during the Second World War: “As a nation, we may take pride in the fact that we are soft-hearted, but we cannot afford to be soft-headed.”
Was that why Gloria was working late on such a sad night? Shouldn’t she be surrounded by brothers, going through scrapbooks and dabbing at her eyes? Who was comforting her now? If I knew Gloria, she was going home to microwave a Healthy Choice (probably Cajun shrimp), watch the news, and read work-related papers in bed. How would that ease her feelings of sadness?
I went over to my computer and put “William Nelots” into my search engine. I was surprised to find it was quite a common name. I added today’s date and found my way to a Web site called thewall-usa.com. I’d stumbled onto a Web site for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, which listed the soldiers—more than fifty-eight thousand of them—who died in the war. Because the number was so large, soldiers were featured only if it was the anniversary of the day they died, or their birthday.
William Nelots was a single Marine Corps regular from Roanoke, Virginia. He arrived in Vietnam on April 10, 1967, on a nine-month tour of duty. He died two weeks before his twentieth birthday in Quang Nam, South Vietnam, in a hostile conflict using guns and small-arms fire. His body was recovered. He was Protestant.
Statistics have never felt so cold.
At the bottom of the page, there was a button labeled PERSONAL COMMENTS. I clicked on it and discovered several messages had been posted since the Web site went online in 2002.
“I met Willie in September ’68 in Okinawa. Willie, or ‘Judge,’ as we called him, had been with the unit in Khe Sanh, so he tended to take us ‘new guys’ under his wing and help us get ready for what was to come. Him and another vet stopped me from writing to Mom about how helpless and scared I felt on the eve of our first operation. Judge said, ‘They don’t need to hear that back home.’”—Manny Singleton, Langley, Washington “Here’s to you, Judge. It’s a bit belated but I want to thank you. You have been missed probably more than you ever expected.”—fellow marine Rex Trammer, Two Rivers, Wisconsin
“As a vet, I visit the Wall each day through this Web site. If you are here, it is because you have loved and lost. I am always very gratified to see that a man who made the ultimate sacrifice lives on in the memories of his loved ones. God bless Willie and those who served with him.”—Robert Roth, Bountiful, Utah
All sorts of people put comments on William “Judge” Nelots’ personal-comments page. Some didn’t even know him. There were notes from his fellow marines, his football buddies, and his family. I scrolled through the pages until I saw this:
“William, I never called you different. Your shoes were too big. In fact, growing up I swore your feet wer
e on the ground even as your hand was being kissed by the angel Gabriel. I am bitten by sadness every day I wake up and realize my big brother isn’t here to take care of me anymore. Langston said it best in ‘Poem’:
I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began—
I loved my friend.
“Rest easy, William. You were a true hero, not just in ’Nam but for Mama, Duane, Paul, David, and me every day you walked this earth. Love, your dearest little Go Go.”
Go Go?
I went to bed thinking about all the parts of Gloria that I had never known.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Feeling Faint at Fiona’s Fashions
The following morning, I observed that Miss Mathews’ ruffled lavender blouse was missing a button. I did my best not to focus on the mole on her collarbone and took my assigned seat next to Sarah Kervick. She appeared to be getting a few extra winks, her head on her desk, her eyes closed.
Miss Mathews cleared her throat to gain the attention of the class. As she began to speak, I noticed one of Mr. Herman’s dollies—loaded with a stack of cardboard boxes—up against the whiteboard.
“Due to an unfortunate infestation of miller moths in the kitchen, I was asked this morning to rearrange our health units.” At this point, Miss Mathews paged furiously through her class notebook, raising it up until her face was hidden from view. “Adolescent attraction and sexual reproduction will now follow teen pregnancy.”
“Hey, isn’t that backward?” Tommy Williams asked.
Miss Mathews lowered her notebook to reveal a face that was, well, slightly flushed. Could it be that even college graduates fell victim to undesired social attention? Ignoring Tommy’s comment, our teacher produced a dagger-shaped letter opener and sliced through the tape on the topmost box. With admirable speed, Miss Mathews piled its contents on the top of her desk.
Marvin Howerton was the only member of our health class willing to give voice to what we saw in front of us.
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