I was swimming!
But not for long. Within another few seconds, the last air left my swimmies, and I realized I was super tired and super freezing. I kind of lunged sideways for the wall, which scraped my left armpit as I threw my hands up over the edge. Then I hung on with all my might.
Suddenly, my mom was there. She grabbed my hands and pulled me straight up out of the water. Then she planted my feet on the ground and started yelling at me. “Are you okay? What were you doing? I told you to stay on the steps! And look at you—your lips are blue!”
My lips always turned blue when I went swimming. That was usually my mom’s clue that it was time to make me get out of the pool and wrap myself in my Superman towel.
“Mom,” I said, “I’m okay! I know how to swim!”
I thought this was incredibly excellent news, but all it got me was more yelling. Then my mother made me sit on our blanket in the sun for what felt like a million hours while Lissa played round after round of Sharks and Minnows.
Some people don’t appreciate the courage of a great explorer.
* * *
This summer at camp, I learned to water-ski on the lake. It wasn’t easy. Before you were even allowed to try waterskiing, you had to pass the quarter-mile swim test, which involved swimming almost halfway across the lake and back behind a counselor in a rowboat. I knew I was a strong swimmer, but the lake water was cold. In fact, it was so cold that it made the boy next to me freak out. That was why he grabbed my neck and dunked me a couple of times before the counselor could reach over the back of the boat, catch one of his arms, and yank him up and in.
After surviving that, I knew I wasn’t going to let myself fail the test, even though the welts where the boy had scratched me with his fingernails burned the whole time.
Anyway, the toughest part wasn’t the swim test. The toughest part was figuring out how to get up on skis without getting my arms pulled out of their sockets or being dragged a hundred feet with my face underwater. At my first waterskiing class, a counselor named Louise Boily (who was super nice and had a cool French accent because she was from Quebec) told me all the steps I would have to take.
“Number wan: You put on zis life jacket. You pull all zee straps tight. You zeep zee zeeper.
“Number two: When it is your turn, you throw zee skis into zee water. You zhump from zee dock into zee water. You sweem out past zee girls’ float, pooshing zee skis een front of you, and wait for somewan in zee boat to throw you zee rope.
“Number ta-ree: When zee rope is in zee water next to you, you poot on zee skis. You lean back in zee water and bend your knees so zee tips of your skis are steeking straight up. You take zee handle of zee rope, and get it so zee rope goes right between your skis.
“Number four: Zee boat driver weel slowly move zee boat forward until zee rope is pulled straight een front of you. When eet ees pulling you a leetle bit forward, you straighten your arms, bend your knees, lean back, and yell, ‘Heet eet.’ Zen zee driver weel push forward on zee gas, and zee boat weel zoom forward and pull you up out of zee water. You weel be skiing!”
She asked me whether I understood, and I said yes, even though I didn’t know why I was supposed to yell Heat eat!
When my turn rolled around, I found out that waterskiing wasn’t as easy as Louise seemed to think. The smallest life jacket was big on me, which meant it rose up around my neck and shoulders as soon as I hit the water. That made it hard to stay upright without doggy-paddling, but I couldn’t paddle and get my skis on at the same time. Plus, once I did manage to get the skis on, I still had to grab the handle of the rope.
You can’t doggy-paddle while your feet are strapped to water skis and you’re holding a handle straight out in front of you. Even getting the rope lined up between my knees was tricky, and when the boat pulled the slack out of the line, I accidentally tipped over sideways.
Twice.
On the third try, I succeeded in getting everything lined up at once. Then I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say to make the boat go. “Um, go,” I mumbled.
Nothing happened.
I said it a little louder, but the people in the boat didn’t hear me.
Finally, the driver shouted, “Do you want us to hit it?”
Ah, that was what Louise had been saying!
“Hit it!” I exclaimed. The boat jumped forward, and the pull on the rope was so hard that I flew forward and my feet got yanked out of my skis.
This happened two more times before the counselor in the boat said, “Okay, that’s all for today. We’ll get you up next time.”
I swam back to the dock in defeat as Robert Falcone jumped into the lake.
He got up on the first try.
* * *
The next time I went to waterskiing class, Louise got in the water with me. She helped position me so my knees would be bent just the right amount, my arms would be straight, and my ski tips would be up. She even pulled down on the back of my life jacket so I could see a bit better. Then she said, “When I say ‘HEET EET!’ I want you to hold on super tight to zee rope, oh-kay? Super tight. And don’t let go.” She whispered it in my ear again: “Don’t let go. You are brave and strong. You are not zee kind of boy who lets go of zee rope!”
I liked that. I was brave. I was strong. And I was not zee kind of boy who lets go of zee rope!
So when Louise shouted “HEET EET!” I hung on to that rope like a cowboy riding a bull. I held on as my arms and my whole upper half flew forward over my skis. I held on as my ski tips went under the water and the skis got ripped off my feet. And then I hung on as the boat pulled me, face-first, through the water at thirty miles per hour. I didn’t let go until the boat stopped moving and Louise swam out to where I was floating in the deep part of the lake, maybe a hundred feet away from my starting position.
As she pushed my skis toward me through the water, she said, “You have to let go of zee rope when you fall!”
I wanted to cry. I coughed up some water and said, “You told me not to let go of zee rope! I mean, the rope. I was doing what you told me!”
But then she made up for everything when she looked me in the eyes and said, “Eet is oh-kay. Zees time you are ready. Zees time you will keep your knees bent, your arms straight, and your tips up! And zen zee rope will pop you right up out of zee water!”
I turned halfway around in the water and looked at her. She smiled at me and gave one last downward tug on my life jacket. I looked back toward the float, where Robert Falcone was waiting to start his second successful ski tour around the lake. I took a deep breath.
This time, I was the one who yelled, “Hit it!” After a scary half second when I thought I was going to fly over my tips again, I leaned back with all my might, and POP! I was up! From behind me, I heard a whooping cheer from Louise.
What my life has taught me so far is that sometimes disobeying orders can nearly drown you. Other times obeying orders can nearly drown you.
But at least I am the kind of boy who doesn’t let go of zee rope.
This year, the Yankees are in the World Series for the third time in a row! I have barely been able to concentrate in school the whole first half of October. On top of that, my asthma is super bad right now, so every morning I have to take Theo-Dur, which is the worst medicine of all. When I am on it, I can’t stop shaking all day and I can’t sleep at night. So I get in trouble at school, and then I have the whole problem with not being able to sleep, especially on nights when my mom has class.
I also have a new distraction. Last week, the heat got turned on in P.S. 35. Because the radiators are right behind my seat, my back is now getting roasted all day. After a few days of this, Robert Falcone and I got an idea. We decided to see what would happen if one of his 256 crayons got put on top of the super-hot radiator. Robert carefully selected a white one, because clearly white crayons are mostly useless. I mean, what are you going to do with a white crayon—draw ghosts on black construction paper? Anyway, Robert peeled
the paper wrapping off, and then, when Mrs. Fisher wasn’t looking, I reached back and placed the crayon carefully across the metal-grid top of the radiator.
Britt Stone’s eyes got pretty big, but she didn’t say anything. I think maybe she has a crush on Robert.
For the rest of the day, the crayon melted down through the grid and into the radiator. It was so cool—just like when the Vision passes through solid objects in my all-time favorite comic book, The Avengers!
Since then, we have been melting a new crayon each day. The wax has started to drip out of the bottom of the radiator and onto the floor, but Mrs. Fisher still has no idea. I almost feel guilty for this, but it’s Mrs. Fisher’s own fault for being boring and mean. Besides, the smell is excellent. Our whole room is starting to smell like my house does after we’ve lit the candles for Hanukkah.
I stay home sick for a few days at the end of the World Series because I have a really big asthma attack. I have to go get another adrenaline shot and everything! The good news is that I get to stay up late and watch the ends of the games, because my parents know I’m going to be absent the next day anyway.
My sitter when I am absent is Mrs. Engel, the nicest and most interesting old lady in the world. She tells me incredible stories of what Staten Island was like before there were even cars. She remembers when the whole island was basically nothing but a forest, with deer and everything! And she grew up in a big mansion in the middle of the island that had a special little elevator called a dumbwaiter just to send food upstairs to her room from the kitchen. If she wanted something, a servant would put it in the dumbwaiter and send it up to her by pulling on a rope. Her parents never knew it, but her older brothers also used the dumbwaiter to send her up and down!
I like to dream about what it would have been like to live back then, with nothing but nature all around me, servants to send me food, and fun adventures awaiting inside the walls of my mansion.
Anyway, just as the World Series ends, Dr. Purow says I am healthy enough to go back to school. On my first day back, I get in my first Real Trouble of the year with Mrs. Fisher. Even though it isn’t my fault and I am only doing something she has done a million times herself.
When I first get to the room, Robert, Steven, and everybody else want to know why I have been out for so long. I think they are kind of jealous that I got to watch the ends of all the Yankee games, including the clinching sixth game. I don’t tell them that I was actually a bit sad at the end of that one, for two reasons. First of all, now there won’t be baseball again for half a year. Second of all, my dad is a huge fan of the Dodgers, so when the Yankees finished beating them for the second year in a row, he almost looked like he was going to cry. When he congratulated me, I didn’t know what to say.
So that was kind of terrible. I felt guilty. But on the other hand, THE YANKEES WON THE WORLD SERIES AGAIN! It’s kind of weird to be happy and sad at the same time. Kind of like the time I fell off the jungle gym at my fifth birthday party and cried in front of all the guests. I mean, on the one hand, it really hurt. On the other hand, then we all went inside for ice cream cake.
Back to my point! Mrs. Fisher! Real Trouble!
The problem is that Mrs. Fisher is always correcting people’s grammar. In fact, she even tells us we need to be on the lookout for grammar mistakes—like maybe they hide behind the bushes on the playground or something. She is definitely on the lookout. A couple of weeks ago, Anthony DeFazio raised his hand and said, “Can I go to the restroom?” She got kind of a snotty look on her face and said, “May I go to the restroom?”
The last time that happened, I whispered to Robert, “Why is she asking him? She’s the teacher. I’m pretty sure she can go to the restroom whenever she wants!” Then we got in trouble for laughing.
Today when the dismissal bell rings, I get on the bus line in the hallway. The aide who walks us to the bus, Miss Janet, says, “Can yous straighten out that line?”
Well, I figure the right thing to do is correct her grammar. That’s what my family does at home when I make a mistake. And that is definitely what Mrs. Fisher does in school. So I raise my hand and say, very politely, “Excuse me, Miss Janet, but you should say you, not yous.”
She puts her hands on her hips and asks, “What?”
I need to explain so that she won’t make this error anymore. I try to say it in the fancy way my dad or my great-aunt Ida, who is a middle school English teacher, would. “The plural of you isn’t yous—it’s you. I thought you would want to know.”
Miss Janet might not be the best at grammar, but she is extremely fast on her feet. Before I know it, she has charged from the very front of the line to where I am, near the back, and has her face right in mine. “Are you correcting me?”
Well, duh. Of course I am correcting her. But I am starting to realize she doesn’t appreciate the grammar tip. All I say is “Umm …”
She grabs me by the arm and marches me back to Mrs. Fisher’s room at the end of the hallway. Great, now I am going to miss the bus for being helpful. When she explains to Mrs. Fisher what has happened, Miss Janet says I am “snotty” and “obnoxious.”
Mrs. Fisher agrees. “JORR-dan, why would you do such a thing to your elder?”
This is one of the worst things about being nine. Let’s face it: Pretty much everybody is my elder. Which seems to mean that everyone can do whatever they want to me, but I am not even allowed to fix Miss Janet’s speech, even though saying yous instead of you makes her sound like a gangster.
I say, “Well, you correct us all the time. I thought I was supposed to correct people who make mistakes, too.”
Her eyebrows shoot up even higher than usual. They are practically sticking up over the top of her head like devil horns as she growls, “Adults correct CHILL-dren. CHILL-dren do not correct adults. Do you understand me?”
I understand that she is unfair. I force myself to nod, but only the very tiniest bit. And I stare at her the whole time so she can tell I am mad.
“Now, JORR-dan, you will tell Miss Janet you are sorry.”
I turn to Miss Janet, and it’s hard to talk without my voice shaking. “I’m sorry I corrected your grammar.”
Which is true. I have gotten dragged down the hall in front of everybody, I have gotten yelled at, and I have probably missed the bus, too. I am extremely sorry I corrected her grammar.
“Well, the next time, you should show some respect!” Miss Janet says.
While I am waiting in the office for my mother to come pick me up, something hits me. If adults correct CHILL-dren, why didn’t any adults correct Miss Janet when she was a kid? Then she wouldn’t sound like some guy named Mugsy who wears striped suits and carries a machine gun. Once again, the grown-ups are the problem.
This reminds me of that time with the waterskiing. Mrs. Fisher said to be on the lookout for bad grammar. But then, when I found some, I got in trouble for pointing it out.
Once again, following the rules has almost drowned me.
I am super excited for my second drum lesson. I have the brand-new drumsticks that my mom took me to Febb Music to buy. They are Fibes 5As, with nylon tips. Mr. Stoll said that was what I should get, because 5Bs would be too heavy and 7As would be too light. He didn’t say anything about whether the sticks should have nylon tips or wood ones, but Mr. Jimmy Febb Jr., who manages the store, told me that nylon tips would last longer. Then he even let me sit down at the drum set that was set up in the store and try a pair with each kind of tips. “See how they feel,” he said. Of course, I had no idea what I was supposed to be feeling for, but playing the drums felt amazing. They were even cooler than Mr. Stoll’s set. These were made of something see-through and bright yellow. I felt like a rock star sitting on the throne in front of them.
By the way, that’s what the stool a drummer sits on is called: a drum throne. I don’t know what could possibly be cooler than sitting on a throne every time I play my new instrument. Saxophone players don’t have sax thrones. Peter Friedman p
lays the trumpet, and he just sits on a plain gray metal folding chair to practice. And guitarists have to stand all the time.
Like peasants.
Anyway, I hit all the drums and cymbals with the wooden-tipped sticks first. Mr. Febb Jr. asked me, “How do they feel?”
How do they feel? I don’t know what they’re supposed to feel like. They feel like chopsticks, only rounder and fatter, but I am smart enough to know that would be the wrong answer, so I just nod and say, “Pretty good.” Then I pick up the nylon-tipped sticks and hit everything again. These sticks actually do feel different. When I hit a cymbal, they bounce off it better, and make a sharper PING! sound.
“I’ll take a pair of these,” I say firmly. From now on, whenever I am discussing the drums with one of my fellow musicians, which I hope will happen a lot, and the topic of sticks comes up, I will be able to nod wisely and say I am a nylon-tip guy. “The Fibes 5A is my preferred stick,” I will add. “I find the 7A too flimsy. And the 5B is a bit weighty for my taste.”
Now that I have a taste in drumsticks, I am practically ready to tour the world with KISS.
I also leave the store with a brand-new music stand, because Mr. Stoll has told me I need one. And my mom says I can get the other item on his list, a metronome, for Hanukkah if I am really good about practicing every week. I don’t even know what a metronome does yet, but it looks like a very professional piece of gear. There’s a whole row of them on a shelf behind the counter. There are some that look like small radios, some that look like miniature old-fashioned grandfather clocks with pendulums on the front, and even some with digital displays on them, like tiny computers or something.
I vow right then and there that I will earn a metronome. Then I will be able to say stuff like “I was just using my metronome the other day, when …” And if a non-musician hears, he will be like, “What’s a metronome?” I will raise one eyebrow and reply suavely, “A metronome is an important piece of equipment for a drummer. I never go to a gig without my trusty metronome! I keep it right next to my Fibes 5As.”
The Boy Who Failed Show and Tell Page 4
