Brendan Buckley's Sixth-Grade Experiment

by Sundee T. Frazier

  “Hey.”

  “Why’d you ignore me at school?” I said.

  “I didn’t ignore you.”

  “Why didn’t you call me back Saturday?”

  “I didn’t have anything to say.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “So, some girls wanted to dance with me?”

  “All the girls. Even some eighth graders!”

  I smiled a little. “That was crazy, huh?”

  Khal rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway, who cares?”

  Khal’s lips scrunched up on one side of his face. I guessed he did.

  Master Rickman came to the front of the room. Khal and I would have to finish this later. We bowed to our teacher. “Shi jak!” Master Rickman called out.

  The first few hyungs were no problem. I’d been doing them for the last couple of years and basically did them on autopilot. The next couple were a little sloppy. When I got to Toi-Gye, though, I choked. Like on-a-chicken-bone choked.

  Khalfani kicked and punched with precision and confidence. I could tell I was slipping behind and even needed to watch Khal out of the corner of my eye to remember what to do next. I glanced at Dad standing in the back of the room. He was scowling. I punched when I should have blocked. I turned hot all over, like one big exothermic reaction.

  We ended with our ki hap—“Ha!”—and bowed to Master Rickman, who bowed in return. I went back to my place and sat, feeling Dad’s disapproving stare boring into my back. I glanced at his reflection in the big mirror. Yep, still frowning.

  At the end of practice, all the students recited together the five tenets of Tae Kwon Do. “Courtesy! Integrity! Perseverance! Self-control! Indomitable spirit!” I shouted the words as loud as I could, hoping Dad could hear my voice above the others.

  “Good work, everyone,” Master Rickman said, walking over to two younger boys who were horsing around. They reminded me of Khal and me when we had started out two and a half years ago. He put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling them without words to quiet down. He made a few announcements, including reminding us about our annual Friendship Tournament coming up in a month.

  Afterwards, Khal and I walked over to Dad. I kneaded my shoulder as if it were sore, even though it felt perfectly fine.

  “Looking good, Khalfani,” Dad said.

  “Thanks, Detective Buckley.” Khal looked around. “Did you see my dad?”

  “He forgot something at his office. We’re taking you home tonight.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Master Rickman walked over. “Good to see you, Detective Buckley. It’s been a while.” He and Dad shook hands.

  “I’ve been a little busier than usual.”

  Master Rickman nodded, then turned to Khal. “Excellent work tonight, Khalfani. You look ready for the next promotion test.”

  Khal bowed slightly. “Kam sa ham nida, nim,” he said. Thank you, sir.

  “Keep it up and you’ll have your black belt by summer.”

  Khal beamed. “Really?” Then, just as quickly, his face got serious. “What about Brendan?”

  “What do you think, Brendan?” Master Rickman asked. “Are you ready for your next promotion exam?”

  Dad stood with his arms crossed, staring down at me like the big statue of Paul Bunyan I’d seen online when I was researching my fifth-grade report on Minnesota.

  The way I’d fumbled my hyung, the answer was obvious. I was far from ready. “No, sir,” I mumbled.

  “Speak up, Brendan,” Dad said.

  “No, sir.”

  Dad spoke to Master Rickman. “Unfortunately, between work and going back to school this fall, I haven’t been staying on Brendan about practicing.” Dad’s eyes locked onto mine. “Starting today, however, that will be changing.”

  “Maybe you’d like to come in Thursday. Put in some extra time,” Master Rickman suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” Dad said. “I’ll see if your mom can bring you.” Dad had class on Thursday nights, too.

  “I can’t!” I said quickly. “That’s our monthly rock club meeting. I already told Grandpa Ed I’d be there.”

  Dad’s jaw clenched. “We’ll talk about it at home. You might need to miss the rock club this month.”

  I scowled, even though I knew it would only irritate Dad more if he saw my face.

  “Thanks,” Dad said to Master Rickman, “and again, my apologies. Come on, boys, let’s go.” Dad turned toward the door.

  Khal and I pulled on our shoes and headed to the car. Khal called shotgun. I sat in back. Dad’s disappointment pressed down on me—heavy as the bulletproof vest he’d once let me try on.

  As we drove to Khal’s house, Dad and Khal talked nonstop—about the Eastmont football team and a case Dad was working on and Dwight David’s flexible eyebrows. Dad laughed when he heard what Ms. Manley had done with her eyeballs. I sat there quietly, feeling a million miles away.

  Log Entry—Monday, October 8

  Morgan called tonight to talk about the experiment. I was glad she didn’t bring up the dance. Hopefully now we can get back to focusing on what matters—science.

  The next day, I sat at my desk in World Civilizations class, wiping the sweat from the sides of my face. My shower had gotten cut short after PE because of Dwight David. He’d launched a pee stream that went at least six feet and almost hit Herbie Stiles in the head. He had us scrambling to get out as fast as we could—before I had time to rinse my face. So, I was wiping my sweat with my hands.

  Morgan waved as she took her seat a couple of aisles away. I waved hi back.

  More kids rushed in, including Khal, trying to make it to their seats before the bell. A couple of the guys in the back were entertaining everyone around them with a description of Dwight David’s “performance” in the shower. Dwight David sat a few seats to my right, a satisfied smile on his face.

  Mrs. Simmons got up from her desk and started to write on the board. Dwight David grinned.

  I looked where he was staring. Mrs. Simmons wore a clingy brown dress. She wasn’t an overly large woman—just a little plump in her rear end, and just plump enough that the clingy brown material, once it had gotten lodged in her crack from sitting, wasn’t coming out again without a little help.

  Even as Mrs. Simmons was reaching for her behind, I saw Dwight David’s mouth open and his tongue poke out. The moment she pulled on the fabric, he let loose a loud raspberry. A few kids laughed.

  She turned with a scowl, but it was directed at all of us, not specifically at Dwight David. Lucky for him she didn’t assume he’d made the sound, although she must have known he was the most likely culprit. “All right, settle down. Time to get started.” The bell rang and she walked to the door to close it. “Today we’re starting a unit on the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. But first, some review.” Mrs. Simmons pointed her yardstick to the question on the board: “What are the five components of civilization?”

  Lauren stuck her hand up first.

  “Yes, Lauren,” Mrs. Simmons said.

  “Specialized workers.”

  Mrs. Simmons nodded. She turned to write the answer on the board. Apparently, walking from the door to the board had pulled in the dress again. The wedgie was back. And this wasn’t just the rolling hills variety. This was canyon country. A serious taco wedgie.

  A few of the boys were snickering.

  “Cities!” Khal called out. He was holding back a laugh.

  “Was there a raised hand to go with that answer?” Mrs. Simmons looked over her shoulder.

  Khal raised his hand.

  “Yes, Khalfani?”

  “Cities.”

  Mrs. Simmons wrote “cities” on the board. “Excellent. What else?” she asked.

  Dwight David raised his hand, looking very serious.

  “Yes, Dwight David?”

  “Advanced technology.”

  Mrs. Simmons smiled. “Very good, Dwight David.” She turned again to write, quickly pulling her dress from her butt
, as if she hoped no one would notice if she did it while she was moving.

  Dwight David noticed. He blew another loud, wet raspberry.

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. So did most everyone else.

  Most everyone else with the exception of Mrs. Simmons.

  She scanned the classroom with narrowed eyes. “Who did that?” Her gaze landed on Dwight David.

  No one moved. I don’t think anyone even breathed. Her eyes continued to roam our faces as if she was waiting for someone to fess up.

  I glanced at Dwight David. I could see Khal frowning in my peripheral vision. I looked over my shoulder at him. He pushed out his lips like he was shushing me and shook his head.

  Mrs. Simmons suddenly sounded a little too much like the character in a horror movie who turns out to be the psychopath. “I said, who did that?”

  A few of us squirmed in our seats. She glared at us from behind her desk. “All right, since no one wants to take responsibility for that rude display of behavior, I will hold you all responsible. You will all be receiving a negative interim report for gross lack of respect.”

  My palms turned clammy. My heart rammed against my rib cage. A negative report for not showing respect? No explanation I could offer would get me out of trouble for that criminal offense. Dad would be totally ticked!

  I glanced around again. Everyone’s lips were stuck shut, except Morgan’s, whose mouth hung open as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  This was so totally wrong! But if I spoke up, I would be permanently labeled a sellout or a narc or worse. I kept my lips together like everyone else, but I was feeling really hot. I was so hot that if I did open my mouth, I was sure flames would come shooting out. And I would shoot them right at that dork, Dwight David.

  “Even in the middle of talking about civilization you can’t be civilized,” Mrs. Simmons said crossly. “Everyone open your books to page sixty-four and read the section on the Roman Empire. Silently. If I hear so much as a peep, you’ll be reading your book in the principal’s office.”

  Mrs. Simmons swept her dress beneath her as she took her seat. She nodded toward someone behind me.

  “Yes, Morgan?”

  I craned my neck. Morgan looked nervous, but sort of angry, too. Oh, no … She wouldn’t, would she?

  “It was Dwight David,” she said softly. She glanced at him, then back at the teacher. Dwight David slumped in his chair.

  Mrs. Simmons’s chest expanded as she drew in a breath. She exhaled through her nose. “Thank you, Morgan.”

  Didn’t Morgan know what this would do to her reputation? Probably not. She was new to the whole public school thing, after all. I felt sorry for her. But honestly, I was grateful, too. She had just saved all of our skins.

  “Let’s go, Dwight David.” Mrs. Simmons stood and walked Dwight David out the door. I don’t think any of us dared to glance below her waistline.

  Kids whispered and giggled around me. I looked back at Morgan, but she already had her nose in her book, no doubt reading about the rule of Caesar Augustus. When I looked at Khal, he glanced in Morgan’s direction, shook his head, and gave a thumbs-down. I shrugged, trying not to look too glad that I wasn’t going to be in trouble with Dad. Even though I was. Superglad.

  And I’m not exactly sure, but I think I felt happy that Morgan hadn’t tried to protect that little goofball. Maybe she didn’t like him after all.

  Wednesday was our big meeting with the social worker—our “home study”—to make sure our house was clean and safe and that we’d make a good family for some child.

  Mom and Dad had already been to the adoption agency’s office for one interview, and Mom had had to go to the police department to get fingerprinted for an FBI check. The adoption agency had even run a background check on Dad—it didn’t matter that he was a police detective. Gladys and I had wanted to get fingerprinted, too, just because it sounded cool, but Dad said that wouldn’t be necessary.

  When I got home from school, Gladys was already there. She had insisted on being a part of the in-home visit. “I want that social worker to know this child is going to have a strong, independent black woman as her grandma.” Mom had expressed a lot of enthusiasm. Dad had just rolled his eyes and warned her to watch what she said.

  “Hi, Gladys,” I said, dropping my backpack onto the love seat and plopping down beside it.

  “Hello, grandson. How was school?” Gladys sat on the couch with her feet on the coffee table. She wore her fuzzy orange socks and sipped Mountain Dew through the straw in her metal stein. She said the metal kept it colder, which it probably did. I’d have to do an experiment on that sometime.

  “Good. Where’s Mom and Dad?” I pulled out my lunch leftovers and started munching on tortilla chips.

  “Your mom’s running around like a turkey with its head cut off, trying to make everything perfect.” Gladys pointed to some chip crumbs I’d dropped on the floor. “Better watch out. Last time I saw her, she had the vacuum. You might lose your fingers if you’re not careful.”

  Mom had already vacuumed the night before, every square inch of the house—even the curtains! And she’d asked me to dust, which is my usual chore, but this time I was supposed to dust everything and anything—even the houseplants! She’d promised me an extra five dollars of allowance if I did a really good job, but I would have done a really good job anyway. I didn’t want anything, especially not some stupid old dust, to stand in the way of us getting a baby.

  I was on my knees picking up crumbs when Mom rushed in. “Gladys, I hope you’re prepared to be sonless, because I’m going to kill him!” Mom towered over me, choking a vacuum hose with her hand. Her chest and neck were red and the color was spreading quickly. The Momometer was registering a temperature of about semi-livid.

  I checked the love seat for crumbs and stood. “Where is he?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. I’ve texted him at least ten times and haven’t gotten a response.”

  I slipped into the kitchen and dumped the crumbs and my crumpled lunch bag into the trash.

  Mom’s phone chimed. She checked for the message. “He just left the courthouse. That’s twenty minutes still—at best. Jeez-o-pete!” She yelled at the phone, as if Dad could hear her, “It’s going to take you a long time to make up for this one, buster!”

  The doorbell rang. The red drained from Mom’s face. She stood there, pale and frozen, like an ice pop that’s had all the juice sucked out of it.

  Gladys sprang into action. She grabbed the vacuum from Mom’s hand, shoved it in the closet, and patted Mom’s cheeks. “Everything’s going to be fine, Kate. Just leave it to me!” Gladys hopped down the stairs to the landing, where she yanked off her fuzzy socks and slipped on her black shoes. Gladys can move when she wants to.

  Mom suddenly came to. She hurried down the stairs, getting there just as Gladys opened the door.

  “Hello, Mary!” Mom said without a hint of the anger from the minute before. She smoothed her blouse. “Please, come in.”

  Mary was an older white woman, tall and thin like Gladys, with poofy graying hair that curled away from her face and looked as if it was held in place with about a gallon of hair spray.

  “This is my mother-in-law, Gladys Buckley.”

  “How do you do?” Gladys said, taking the woman’s coat and hanging it on the hooks behind her.

  “Very well, thank you.” Mary looked to where I stood. “You must be Brendan,” she said, climbing the stairs.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I shook her hand, firmly so she’d know I was confident enough to handle a new baby, but not so firmly that she’d think I was too rough for him or her.

  “It’s a pleasure finally to meet you.” Mary looked around. “What a lovely home.”

  “Thank you,” Mom said, rushing to join us. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink—tea, cranberry juice?”

  “Mountain Dew?” Gladys added, moving to the coffee table and raising her stein.

  A
t least the social worker would know Gladys wasn’t drinking beer through that straw. I grabbed my backpack from the love seat so Mary could sit.

  Mary smiled. “I’m fine for now.” She glanced around and drew her briefcase onto her lap. “Is Sam here?”

  Mom’s face tensed. “Um … no. I’m really sorry. He got caught up in court.” Mom motioned me to the couch. “But he’ll be here shortly,” she added quickly.

  I set my pack inside the entryway to the kitchen and went and sat between Gladys and Mom, who perched stiffly with her hands clasped between her knees.

  “No problem. Things happen.” Mary pulled out a clipboard. “We can start with the home inspection.” She made a note of something. Was she writing down that Dad was late? Mom’s nervousness must have been catching, because I was starting to feel it, too.

  Mary rose and went to the front window. She checked behind the curtains. “Good. Cords are safely stored away.” She looked down at the wall. “Covers on the outlets … You have these in every room, I take it.”

  “Yes,” Mom said. Her leg had started to jiggle. She stood and followed Mary into the kitchen.

  “All knives are being kept in secured cabinets?” Mary opened and shut a drawer.

  “Absolutely,” Mom said. Dad had spent several hours the previous week installing specialized latches on practically every cabinet in our house. They could only be released with this one magnetic key. I had started off helping him, but after the second one he’d told me he’d better just do it himself. I heard him cursing the things from my room.

  Later, he told Mom the instructions hadn’t said anything about needing an engineering degree. Really, the latches didn’t require intellect to install as much as patience, which Dad can be short on. He’s plenty smart, even if he sometimes talks as if he’s not.

  We trailed along like tourists getting a tour of our own house. In the bathroom, Mary turned on the hot water in the tub. She flushed the toilet.

  “If you’re concerned about backups, there’s no need to worry,” Gladys said. “I’ve seen that toilet handle some hefty loads.”

  I laughed. Mom pinched her lips tightly and gave us both a good stare.