The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  Mom frowned at me, I guess for interrupting her flow. “Obviously rich people, Kevin, that’s the whole flipping point. Right? But the Khans would be sitting in the front row. The spotlight is on them, naturally, because this is the day that will change their lives forever.”

  Kendra said maybe we could take a dry-erase board from a classroom and set it up near the auctioneer so that someone could write down the sale prices with a gigantic red marker, adding them up in a column that would keep getting longer and longer.

  And Mom was like, “Yes, Kendra! Good! Can’t you imagine the faces on Saba and her family? Imagine the close-up where you can totally see in the eyes of these people how much this money is going to mean for them . . .”

  This was so typical of my mom. I mean, like I said, the woman sells air. I assumed this grand inspiration would blow over like all the others. But when we got home from school that night, Mom was still talking her way through the script. The funniest part was that, by then, in her mind, Kendra and I were the leads, not the Khans! We would lead the whole thing. Please tell me that’s completely normal “mom” behavior.

  Just to be clear: My sister may look like my mom, but that’s where the similarities end. Kendra’s not flaky at all. More than anybody I know, Kendra believes in her personal power to improve the world. She’s always been that way. I give her credit for taking Mom’s lunatic ranting and making it practical and real. And for making me believe that we could really do something to help.

  Also, for Kendra . . . I mean, there are other motives. It looks like our family will be in Chicago for a while, so Kendra may actually get three years at Highsmith. As sad as it sounds, and my sister will never admit this, Saba’s tragedy is Kendra’s social opportunity. It’s barely November and people know who my sister is . . . and they like her, you know? All because of this auction project.

  Wait—please don’t put that last part in the paper. That sounds cold. Best way to put it is, Kendra and I want to help this family. The whole school does. It’s no big mystery, it’s not crop circles. It just feels good to help people, right? It’s the decent thing to do. That’s where we’re coming from.

  The following day, in the faculty lunchroom, the ham salad of

  Wendy Pinch, Department of Physical Education,

  sits untouched so that she might get something off her chest, which is sizeable.

  Excuse me—if I may say something?

  Thirty years, that’s how long I’ve been teaching here. More than your age, some of you. The little turds we deal with now? Twenty-five years ago, I taught their little-turd parents. When I was a student at Highsmith, I sat in desks next to their little-turd grandparents.

  In lots of cases, the problem you observe with a student is the same problem I have observed with generations of that family. Behavior problems, laziness, cheating, sexual acting-out—these can be family traits, see? And no matter what color their skin, or what religion they claim to profess, rich kids, poor kids, smart kids and the dumb ones, god bless ’em, one thing they have in common is that they’re all exactly like their parents. It’s the apples-and-trees thing, you got me?

  Hell, we see it on report-card nights. That moment when we meet a loco parent and think, Ah-HA, well THIS explains everything!

  And knowing this, see, makes it hard to sit here and listen to you guys still speculating about what may have happened at the Khans’ apartment. Who cares how it happened? A family lost a home. Can’t we leave it at that?

  All that matters to me is, Saba Khan’s a good kid. Honestly that’s why I bawled so hard after the fire. It wasn’t like this awful thing happened to some stuck-up little princess. No, it happened to one of the truly nice ones. Doesn’t seem fair, see? Every time I’m with poor Saba, it’s all I can do to stop from hugging the stuffing out of her.

  Maybe her situation gets to me because we’ve spent time together. Two years on my tennis team. Not chatty, but respectful. She works at her game. The kid doesn’t even have a racket of her own. Takes one from the bucket in the gym office. Always the same one. Nothing special about the thing, but everyone knows the pink Wilson hybrid goes to Saba.

  Plus, her parents never miss a match. Gotta love that support. You see it with these first-generation families.

  The Spoon kids are impressive, too. I only met the mother once, at one of the summer registration nights. She sort of marched into the gym—you know the type—straight from work, lipstick and pearls, serious shoes. Pretty conservative, I was guessing, or at least works in that environment. She picked up her kids’ schedules like she was doing me a favor. All business, no small talk. Still, she had a spark about her, a spark, like she can get things done.

  So I’m not surprised that her kids are pretty terrific. They’ve got that spark, too. They stand out without even trying—blond hair, what they call “all American” looks.Kevin, the senior, to give him credit, the kid’s an excellent athlete. He knows how to move the ball down the court. And he’s smart, see? Some kids, you’ve got to remind them, every practice, what their strengths and weaknesses are. Steve Davinski, for example. He’s a giant, one of my starters. He can practically dunk the ball without lifting his arms. But he can only see what’s in front of him; he can only see the now.

  Kevin Spoon, on the other hand—he understands cause and effect. I can count on him to see an opportunity on the court before the opportunity exists. Remarkable kid. Face it, not many boys can transfer in senior year and make the varsity team. Coaches spend a couple of seasons building this well-oiled machine. You add a new element like Kevin Spoon and it’s a risk. Wild card. But Kevin showed up for conditioning last month, ready to show me what he could do. I found out later he was varsity at the last two schools he attended, too. Four different schools, three varsity teams. See, that’s impressive.

  That’s not just talent, it’s determination. Maybe all that moving around has taught him to look way far ahead. He knows that winning one game doesn’t really matter. What matters is the game he’ll be playing next year. If a kid like Kevin has vision, it can carry him to where he wants to be.

  The sister, Kendra, she’s on my tennis team. Very polite, friendly, but fierce on the court. Not hot dogs, these Spoons, not needy. They don’t need that kind of attention. They just want to get the job done.

  These are nice kids, all three of them. That means good parents.

  Talk all you want, but you won’t hear me say a word against ’em.

  On WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, on the back of a Human Resources flier that outlines smart precautions to take during cold-and-flu season,

  Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,

  writes a list of prayer intentions for the coming days.

  1. Offer prayers of gratitude that we have remained safe during this crisis.

  2. Recognize before God that I am responsible for my family—for all members of my family, and for their actions.

  3. Ask for the help of God and his angels to prove Salman innocent of setting the fire, so that our hearts may be clean.

  4. Even if Salman is responsible for this foolish and serious crime, pray that my wife and daughter remain innocent in the eyes of God, and so may their angels testify.

  5. Moreover, if Salman is truly guilty of this crime, pray that God will hear my account on the Day of Judgment and will forgive a man who suspected the truth, but chose to remain silent.

  6. Pray that my family will not be punished for receiving the good things provided by my community at this time of crisis, even when we may be responsible for the crisis ourselves.

  7. Promise to pledge even more zakat for the poor, according to how much $$ the auction raises for us.

  8. Pray that my family is kept safe from all winter sickness.

  That evening, after completing the work in a chemistry book chapter called “Forces, Electrons and Bonds,”

  Saba Khan, sophomore,

  directs her attention to matters less theoretical, more practical.

  My angel Beti got a new
phone + gave me her old one! She says I need it because I’m “notorious,” not only because of the fire. I told her to get out of town—but if you can’t believe your BFFL, who can you believe?

  Imagine that before all this craziness began, my bold girl Beti had stood in the Highsmith caf + addressed the student body. (Which, in fact, she would gladly do. Beti thinks public speaking is in her blood, because 100 years ago her grandparents had a radio show in the Philippines.) Anyway, if Beti had asked, “Classmates, do you know Saba Khan?” the 3 most popular answers would have been, “Sorry,” “No idea,” + “Never heard of her.” Or maybe, “Is she one of those scarf girls?”

  Uh, negative. I take a very immodest pride in my hair. Sometimes I wear it down, sometimes I pin it back. Every morning before school, I smile into my bedroom mirror + ask: What shall I do with these gorgeous shiny tresses today?

  What a colossal waste of time. Did I really think my shorter haircut would help? All that research, all those magazines. Nobody noticed.

  I do accept blame for my former invisibility. I stayed quiet, smiled constantly like the village idiot + avoided conflict. My goal? To survive my lovely Highsmith experience without any emotional scarring. I was happy to coast. The idea of being popular was so far from reality that I honestly never considered it a possibility. My girls + I hang out at school, eat lunch together, share notes, etc—but when it comes to parties + weekend stuff, I’m stuck at home, always within view of Ammi’s watchdog eyes.

  “Wait, is she one of the scarf girls?”

  I’ve had my Facebook account forever. 2 months ago, I had 34 friends. A few from homeroom, girls on the tennis team—a flurry of friendly camaraderie when I first opened the account.

  Then this chemistry experiment: We added fire.

  Today on Beti’s old/my new phone, I checked Facebook: 752 friend requests. At this rate, I’ll have more than 1000 FBFs by the end of the month, mostly kids I’ve never met. Thanks to updates, I now know more about some of these random people than I do about my own squirrelly brother.

  The opposite of invisible is not simply visible. The opposite of invisible is prominent. Without even meaning to, that’s what I’ve become. The fire put me dead center on the school social map.

  Before the fire, I took pride in 3 things: 1) my tennis game, which is fierce + always getting better, 2) my hair, which is naturally wavy yet still does what I tell it to, and 3) my freakishly small hands, which Ammi tells me are a good thing, a family trait—“delicate but strong” + they do look spectacular when she hennas them for my birthday every summer.

  Since the fire, I have a new kind of pride. In any school, kids cluster around the girl who’s at the center of all the drama. Now they mob me at the bus stop. They invite me to parties. Complete strangers stop at my locker to “check in,” ask how I’m doing.

  It’s a weird kind of popular, I guess. Popularity by pity. But no weirder than other ways of getting noticed—being pretty, having money, hooking up. Most of us will take it any way we can. My girls Beti + Danielle are down with it, for sure. “Ride it out,” they say, “see where it takes you.”

  Come one, come all. Please join me in the spotlight! Everybody’s invited. Friend me!

  And then there’s Mr. STEVE. Possibly the strangest + definitely the most radical way the fire changed my life: “In a relationship with Steve Davinski.” Now that would be a status update!

  Only I would never, ever put that on Facebook. I couldn’t risk having Ammi + Papa find out.

  Also, is that status precisely, technically accurate?

  Even before I met Steve, I knew who he was. He’s bigger than life. He moves around the school like a grinning, curly-haired giant, surrounded by his less attractive minions—the constant traveling wall of Steve Davinski.

  For a long time, I didn’t give him much thought. He was just the infamous “Steve ‘the creeping vine’ Da-vine-ski.”

  + so when he first said hello . . . I figured he might be one of those people who are attracted to drama, too. After all, he’s 6’9”. He is, like, genetically designed to be the center of attention.

  + one day, at that classic romantic campus spot known as “Tarzan’s Shack,” Steve glanced in my direction. + for whatever reason at all, he decided to shine that goofy charm all over me.

  I actually felt skeptical when he approached me. He’s a senior. He could have any straight girl in the school. Plus, I heard what the girls said: He’s like a weed, he takes over, he “chokes all the life around him,” . . . all that.

  But hey, I like cute boys. I’m not exactly immune to how fine his butt looks in those dorky khakis.

  The fire took everything from my family. But the funny thing is, it also gave me things, like Beti’s phone. It gave me a new identity at school. It gave me Steve.

  The girls say it’s time I stop questioning it. Ride it out, see where it takes me . . . + maybe even . . . enjoy it!

  Meanwhile, in a basement rec room strewn with Nerf balls, pool cues and an impressive array of video game equipment,

  Steve Davinski, senior,

  shares some brotherly wisdom with Don Davinski, age 11.

  For me, bro, the easiest thing in the world is getting a girl to like me. Simple as when ole “Da-vine-ski” drops basketballs through the net. Simple as winning student government elections.

  Not everyone can do these things, I guess. But to me they feel as natural as slipping feet into size 16 shoes. I’m guessing it will be that way for you, too, someday.

  I’m not bragging, Dawg. You should watch me, learn from me. Seduction of the opposite sex is simple. It’s a combination of three things: logic, practice, and strategy. It really works, you can be confident. And confidence is one of the major factors that make a person look super hot in the eyes of other people.

  Logic, practice, strategy—write those down, why don’t you?

  So get this: About a month ago, I found this chick Saba Khan sitting alone outside, in a part of campus called Tarlan’s Track. We all call it “Tarzan’s Shack,” but you get fined a quarter if any teacher hears you. The Shack is pretty cool. Some hippie doctor named Tarlan built it for gym classes about a billion years ago. Basically it’s these jungle gyms and high-ropes equipment constructed in a big old circle. Nowadays it’s totally neglected and covered in ivy, but it’s still pretty cool. I’ll show it to you sometime.

  Anyway, I’d heard Saba sometimes hung out there during free periods, and I went looking for her. In the fall, the ivy on the rusted bars turns bright red. And this babe was sitting there, alone, surrounded by this color, doing her math homework.

  Actually she’s one of those girls you might not notice if you aren’t looking for her, but once you see her, you realize she’s pretty. Pretty-like-a-picture, I mean, rather than pretty-like-a-hot-girl-in-a-music-video. She’s on the quiet side, but it’s like . . . maybe she knows she doesn’t need to make a lot of noise to get your attention. She always has this little grin that suggests she’s keeping a secret. Plus, she’s got the kind of hair Mom would say is “lovely” just because it’s shiny and thick, but the way she lets it curve around her face just adds to the mystery.

  For a week, the whole school had been talking about Saba, because of the fire. Obviously I was curious about her, too. I figured maybe there was something there for me, right?

  I sat on a bench a few feet away from her. “Hey,” I said, real casual. When she looked up, I gave her a wave and a grin. Not a quick one.

  Logic. Okay, bro, so here’s how it starts: The experience of romance is pleasurable for humans. Saba Khan is human. Therefore, we can assume that the very human Saba Khan enjoys the pleasure of romance.

  So Saba said hi and then went back to her calculator.

  I scooted along the bench, maybe a foot closer. “I’m Steve,” I said.

  Suddenly her eyes had the tiniest, flirtiest hint of an attitude. “I know who you are, Steve,” she said.

  I told her I’d seen her around, too. I wanted to
tease her a little, ’cause girls can’t resist that, so I asked her, “What’s your name?”

  She looked at me crazy, like she couldn’t believe I didn’t know her name. “Should I know your name?” I asked, all innocent.

  She looked down at her homework and sort of grinned. She said something like, “Gee, guess I’m not as famous as I thought.”

  Finally I told her I was playing. I said, “Saba Khan, I know who you are.”

  That made her laugh. She lifted a hand to her dark hair and combed her fingers through it for no reason. And Dawg, her hair is super shiny.

  Okay, practice. Here’s a bit of Big Stevie history for you: I had my first date in seventh grade. I wasn’t much older than you. I bought a hot cocoa for this new chick in my class, Jessica Lee, during a field trip to the planetarium. We skipped out on the “Ride the Rings of Saturn” tour, and Jessica and I got to know each other’s heavenly bodies instead. That was, like, six years ago. Believe me, bro, there’s been a lot of hot cocoa in the past six years. By now I’ve got a reputation to live up to. And lucky Saba only benefits from this experience.

  I told her I was sorry for what had happened to her family. She said thanks, and I said something like, “It totally blows,” and she agreed. Then she glanced back at the school to see if anyone might be around, like, watching us.

  Strategy. So this is the most important part. You want to identify the situations in which you are presented in the best possible way.

  I scooted even closer. By now our knees were almost touching. “Are you gonna come to the basketball games this winter? Looks like we’ll have a killer team.”

  She said something like, “Cool, good luck with that.”

  I asked her if she ever went to the games last year, and she said she didn’t. She was like, “Maybe sometime, though . . .”

  Now this? This was just a wee bit freaky-deaky. At Highsmith, everyone comes to the home games. I said something like, “Oh, don’t you like sports?”