by Larry Buhl
Mrs. Bates, the administrative assistant, called Creative Soul “a hybrid of games and interactive techniques to tap the wellspring of creativity.” When I pressed her for more information she said it was “a mishmash of music, acting, visual arts, and writing.” That sounded awful, and I still didn’t understand what soul had to do with creativity. At least the class could be taken pass/fail. I didn’t have time to make a cost/benefit analysis, so I made the decision on the spot.
I had a bias against anything creative. On more than one occasion, my BiMo responded to a put down—be it from a boyfriend, her own mother, or a kid at a supermarket who made fun of her orange hair and wooden clogs—by saying “I’m not crazy, I’m creative.” In my mind, creativity and craziness, or whatever afflicted my BiMo from time to time, were the same.
The Creative Soul teacher didn’t seem crazy at all. Ms. Gurzy had an unruly dark perm and wore enormous peasant skirts over ample hips. She made exaggerated O sounds, which made her seem Canadian. After a week, her good humor grew strained with the barrage of questions about our required daily journals. What is maximum length of the entries? What should not be included? How personal should we be? Will you read them or skim them? Do we have to write on Saturdays and Sundays? Can we get extra credit for writing more? Are lists still all right?
Ms. Gurzy’s answers became increasingly curt. “I want you to get in touch with your feelings. The journal will let them floohh freely. There is no wrong way to do the daily pages. This is nooht a writing class. They will nooht be graded. Just do them, oohh-kaay?”
The aforementioned girl with otherworldly beauty and hypnotic, brown eyes addressed the class without being called on. “I’ve been writing journals for years,” she said. “It’s fabulous and it has helped my acting immensely. I did three journal pages before I auditioned for the role of Dorothy in a production of ‘The Wiz’ and I got the role. And great reviews.”
“Thank you, Zoe.” Ms. Gurzy said this in a tone people use when they don’t want to hear any more. I must have been staring at Zoe, because she smiled at me. Or maybe she was smiling at the guy next to me. Or it was a smirk.
When I say Zoe’s eyes were hypnotic, I do not mean they literally hypnotized me. I do not believe in hypnosis. If I were a poet I could better describe what her eyes did to me. Technically, they made my pulse race, my throat tighten and my intestines gurgle.
I was on my way to the library when I saw Janet in the kitchen. She was caressing a mug that said Realtor of the Year. She sold houses. I made a mental note.
“You can run but you can’t hide,” she said. I hadn’t been running or hiding.
Janet looked at my arms and chin, and grimaced as if I had been in a bike accident, which I had, as I’ve mentioned. I gave her an abridged version of how my bike missed the SUV and hit the pavement. I thought it was an upbeat story of triumph. She was appalled.
“You ride around on a bike in Las Vegas traffic? It’s a wonder you’re not dead.” I thought she was being overly dramatic, and I was uncomfortable with her gaze, so I said I had to go. But she wasn’t done with me.
“Dinner at last? Or do we still have the cooties?”
I had never suggested they had “cooties.” But a few days before this, on the refrigerator white board, I had seen what I considered to be an ominous message, written in Janet’s handwriting. Tyler, we’re not contagious. I knew what she meant. They wanted a “family” dinner. There was no need for it. I was not family.
I said I would be free next Tuesday, even though I didn’t know my work schedule. I told her I could make eggless pasta primavera, but I would have to stop at the store for ingredients.
“No. Don’t you dare cook! What would you like us to make?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“A hint?”
I was silent.
“Time?”
I shrugged.
“Okay! I guess it’s a plan for mystery food at seven on Tuesday.” She sounded ticked. “And no more riding your bike in traffic.”
I obeyed her command that night because my bike was still in the shop. But on the long walk to the library, I decided that, unless she were willing to drive me around, she couldn’t put restrictions on my commuting practices.
**
September 13. A list of FoHos, from worst to least-bad:
· FoHo number three. The couple ran a part-time business collecting foster children and cash from the state of Nevada. The place was a mess. One time, a huge shelf of junk toppled over and smashed the coffee table, which was also covered with junk. I took responsibility for the mishap just to be able to leave.
· FoHo number two. They collected biological children. One of them stole something from my Box o’ Crap, and nobody believed me.
· The first FoHo. This ex-preacher listened to Christian radio too much and didn’t bathe enough.
· FoHo number five. For some reason I can’t remember anything except Pumpkin, the dog. It was a Pomeranian. Pumpkin and I got along well.
· FoHo number six. I got the heave-ho after the FoMo became pregnant and needed more “space.” My case manager told me not to take it personally. All case managers say this.
· FoHo number four. I can’t remember anything. I can’t even remember their house. They must not have been terrible.
· Number seven, Carl and Janet. It has only been three weeks, so this could move up the list. Upside: I have my own room. Upside: a fifteen-minute walk from school and the public library. Upside: not violent or religious. Downside: highly invasive.
**
I was riding the bus to Covenant Catering when I had a disturbing thought. It was even more disturbing than the possibility that the feral-looking man standing nearby would start stabbing me with his corkscrew. Not only would I have to write two superior essays, save piles of money and keep my grades up, I would have to become a football player or trombonist or cheerleader, or do something special to impress Caltech admissions.
Here’s why. Earlier that day, in German class, I overheard a guy talking about his application to Stanford. Jann-Otto—that was his German class name—complained about how Stanford wanted “all-around superior students.” He didn’t think his straight-A average and near-perfect test scores would be good enough. “If I graduate summa cum laude, and I will, it won’t be enough.” Was Jann-Otto right? Would my perfect grades and near-perfect scores be good enough for Caltech? Could the admissions committee be so demanding as to insist on applicants being stellar in every aspect of their lives?
They could. My evidence was on the application at the top of page four.
Caltech is committed to attracting students who will enhance campus life. Please list activities that show your leadership, growth, or diversity of interests.
My interpretation. What makes you think Caltech would want a geek like you?
It wasn’t enough to have the grades and science fair accolades. It wasn’t enough to explore macroevolutionary changes in spore dispersal in basidiomycetes. That was my tenth grade project. Those achievements were the bare minimum for admission. I was one in thousands.
There were only eight weeks until the application deadline. Eight weeks to cultivate diverse interests and leadership skills that would make me an enhancement to campus life. Finding the right club and making time to participate and excel would not be simple, but it would be necessary.
**
As you on the Caltech admissions committee are probably aware, applicants who have measured the effect of bee pollen on probiotic bacteria, as I have, are a dime a dozen. But how many of those applicants have also mimed pollen? I have done that in my Creative Soul class. And how many of those students also have been a leader in (EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITY TBD) as I have?
**
During Creative Soul class, I had an idea about how to present myself as someone Caltech might not dismiss. This came as a result of a miming exercise.
Ms. Gurzy put mime ideas on scraps of paper, placed the scraps in a b
owl and passed the bowl around. These weren’t traditional mimes, like being trapped in a box. They were more bizarre, like a giraffe tap dancing and an electric can opener with a can of pinto beans. Ms. Gurzy was sitting with her knees and apart ankles crossed, which, with her huge peasant skirt, made the chair disappear. For each performance she had a wide-eyed expression, as if she were seeing the aurora borealis for the first time. We weren’t given any time to prepare. We just grabbed a slip of paper and started performing. I picked my slip of paper—pollen in the wind—and sat on a wooden folding chair while the entire class stared at me, waiting for my dramatic interpretation. To buy some time, I scrutinized the quote painted on the wall. I shall create! If not a note, a hole! If not an overture, a desecration!
I should point out that I cough when I’m nervous. When I’m extremely nervous I dry heave, so it was a good thing my anxiety level wasn’t higher.
My effort in suppressing my cough was ineffective. I sputtered like an old car engine straining to turn over. In addition to this, I had a sudden, spastic eyelid tremor. When I was able to suppress my cough reflex for a few seconds, though not my twitching eyelid, I looked at Ms. Gurzy. I was about to admit I had no idea how to mime pollen. Ms. Gurzy clasped her hands together and said my performance was very inventive. “Tyler portrayed the effects of poooooh-len. Wooooon-derful.” The class displayed their agreement through vigorous head nodding.
I’m going to digress a bit more and say that most of the mimes were a blur to me, partly because Zoe’s washing machine mime wiped everything out of my memory. It involved stretching out her arms to form a square as she made various clicking, whirring, and churning noises. The most remarkable cycle was final spin. She was wearing a tight fitting t-shirt and no bra.
When class ended, Zoe and I reached the door at the same time. I stood back, allowing her to go first and ignore me. Instead, she turned and addressed me. “Gurzy really loves the less-is-more stuff, and you do practically nothing.” I let her sashay away.
For the rest of the afternoon I imagined myself responding in a variety of ways.
Thank you.
Thank you. I like your smile and dark eyes. They’re like huge hazelnuts. Your eyes, I mean, not your teeth.
Thanks. You gave me a new appreciation of the spin cycle.
Here’s my point. My “success” in the miming exercise, and Ms. Gurzy’s compliment and Zoe’s pseudo-compliment, gave me the idea to join drama club. Science and theater! That would impress Caltech!
Ms. Gurzy was thrilled that I was approaching her. But she said there was no longer a formal drama club at Firebird High. “It’s so typical,” she said. “Plenty of money for a losing football team. Dooohn’t get me started.” It seemed to me that she had already started.
I returned to Carl and Janet’s after a long evening at the library. Partly because I had just been chased by a crazy man who, inexplicably, wanted me to sniff his hand, I was in no mood to see the note on the refrigerator white board.
Tyler, we did plan dinner tonight, didn’t we? We left it for you, in the refrigerator. Are you all right? Reschedule?
Scheizen. I wrote, Sorry, thanks, yes, and I’m free Thursday.
In the morning they were both gone, but there was a response. Thursday dinner, and we need to talk. I hoped they meant we would talk at dinner. In my experience, an official talk with FoPas included variations on the phrase, “we believe you stole it,” and “we’ve contacted your case manager,” or “it’s not you, we need the space,” or “blasphemer!”
Carl and Janet didn’t need the space and they weren’t religious at all, as far as I could tell. They did have some Buddhist art around the house, but that could have been for decorative purposes. Possibly they could accuse me of stealing. I was pretty sure that a black metal table in their living room had once supported a vase, but I could have been wrong about that.
I did not want to leave this FoHo. Not yet. If I were tossed back onto the Foster-go-Round, I would probably end up near Nellis Air Force base, in another school district, in a house with hooligan biological children. Or worse. I could end up in a group home.
I called my case manager. He spent the first minute badgering me with generic questions. I answered the way he expected. “I’m fine, I feel fine, doing fine, things are fine.” I asked him if he had any new information. I heard papers shuffling, a cough, and someone’s cackling laugh in the background.
“Nope, everything’s awe-some.”
I didn’t believe him, so I asked him, point-blank, whether Carl or Janet called him recently. More paper shuffling, a squeak, a sniff, and finally, “yee….ahhhh… no.”
“They didn’t?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Yes, they did.”
“What did they—”
“Gotta run. Keep blowing that sax.” For the record, I had never played a saxophone in my life. Stupidly, I told him I would keep blowing.
Later that day, I wondered whether blowing a sax was a metaphor or euphemism, like blowing one’s horn. I decided he had, like the case manager before him, mixed up my chart with some other foster. Which meant that, possibly, everything was far from awe-some.
FOUR
Unlike many students who apply to your university, (LOOK UP STATS) I have held some kind of job since I was in my early teens. Impressive? Perhaps. Necessity? Absolutely. I don’t rely on anyone, although I will not turn down financial aid or grants, and I feel that is one of my strongest attributes. It also explains why, with the exception of my science fair achievements, I do not have an impressive array of extracurricular activities. While others have wasted spent time on meaningless pointless ridiculous various pursuits, I have been working and saving money for your inflated tuition college. Call me a geek, but don’t call me pampered.
**
My catering hours had been reduced to less than ten per week, but at least I still had one regular, non-crazy tutee. Levi Butler was ideal in many respects. I didn’t need to commute to his house. He was a lazy student and never seemed to learn much, which meant he would always need my services. The only drawback was, he was sixteen going on eleven.
I met Levi at Covenant Catering. When were preparing for a funeral reception by carving flowers out of radishes, I mentioned that I did tutoring on the side. Later in that shift, Levi whispered, as if he were being stalked by an organized crime ring, “I totally need you.”
Levi was home schooled, and he was certain his mother had been keeping important facts from him. To prevent her from learning how he was “cheating” on her, Levi always called me whenever he had a convenient excuse to get away. He made me promise to never call his house. Today I regretted picking up the landline.
“It’s Levi. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Please give me more notice when you need a tutoring session, because—”
CLICK
I was pressed for time because Carl and Janet and had planned an important dinner.
I waited for Levi on front doorstep. His ancient white Lincoln Continental pulled up to—more like docked at—the curb. He hopped out and loped toward me. It didn’t look like he was going to stop. He was all bone and sinew, like me, but he was about half a foot taller. He misjudged distances between himself and other objects, like a dwarf who had magically been transported into a giant’s body and was still getting used to it.
“Check it out,” he said, thrusting an iPod at my nose.
I leaned away from the device and reminded him that he already had several iPods.
“I used to. Gravy got inside one and I lost the other, but that’s okay because this one holds more music.” Levi maniacally touched icons with his index finger, as if he had a time limit.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask about the gravy.
“Oh that. It was last Friday at work. I was in the middle of training this new girl, you know the kinda hot one? And the phone rang. I had to answer it because nobody else was around and I wasn’t wearing underwear because mom forgot to
put the clothes in the dryer again. I was all out of boxers and the swim trunks I was wearing were binding and I was listening to this new band. What’s their name? I forgot the band’s name. Here maybe I can find it…”
This happened often. The more Levi talked, the further away from the point he veered. I digress from time to time, but my digressions do have a purpose.
“Okay I’ll find it later,” he said. “But anyway, I reached for the phone and I knew it was one of the birthday clowns calling to cancel.”
Ordinarily I let him ramble on, but I was expecting Carl and Janet any minute and Levi was no closer to disclosing the point of impact between the gravy and the iPod, so I cut him off and informed him the lesson would be very brief. He didn’t mind. It occurred to me that he called a tutoring session because he was bored.
We went to the patio and sat on the cold iron chairs. The blinds of the neighbor’s house pinched open and closed twice. I began a lecture on cell stabilization. I picked up where we left off in the last session. I introduced the concept of homeostasis. Before I uttered the word, I knew how Levi was going to react.
He leaned forward and cupped his hand to his ear. “Homo stays where? Huh?”
When Levi became bored, he would pretend to be a dirty old man with a hearing problem. The first time I was mildly amused. Then I simply tolerated it. Levi laughed at any attempt at humor, especially his own, and sometimes for no reason at all. It was not a real, ha-ha laugh. It was a rumble-laugh, more like a nervous tic or a vocal murmur.
