Sophomores and Other Oxymorons

by David Lubar

  2. Hershey Park starts offering pterodactyl rides.

  3. Mr. Fowler gives me $100,000 so I can run off to Vegas with Lee and get married.

  4. Slitty the Cat comes back to life and finds work as a purse.

  The next day, in study hall, I watched to see if Kyle would give me any sort of knowing look. When he caught me staring, he grinned and mouthed the words You’re mine.

  Great. He knew that I knew.

  He didn’t say anything else to me that day, but I was sure there’d be trouble down the road.

  • • •

  When I got home from school, I headed into the kitchen for a snack. Mom was making a blueberry pie. She’d cut strips of dough for the top, and was weaving them in an open grid. She’d once told me it was called a lattice top.

  I’d seen documentaries about Buddhist monks who make these large designs out of colored sand. They look totally at peace with the universe. That’s how Mom looked. The pie was the center of her focus. The pie and the sand painting had another thing in common. Neither would be around for long. One strong wind, or one hungry family, and they were history.

  “Looks good,” I said.

  “Thanks. It will smell even better than it looks.”

  “I know.” I sat on a stool by the counter and watched as she finished weaving the strips. She took a piece of foil and wrapped the edge of the crust. That would keep it from burning while the pie baked. I couldn’t make a pie myself, and I doubt I’d get much joy out of any effort in that direction, but I’d seen the process often enough that I knew the details. And I definitely knew the results. Mom’s pies were as good as anything you’d get in a bakery or a restaurant.

  “You didn’t seem very happy to see Mr. Bartock,” Mom said.

  “He’s an okay guy,” I said.

  “Has he ever done anything that made you uncomfortable?” she asked.

  “No. Definitely not,” I said. Kyle’s dad was a little strict, but he definitely wasn’t creepy or inappropriate. I guess it was part of any mother’s job to track down the cause of strange reactions her kids had to other people.

  “But something bad happened between you and Kyle,” she said.

  “Old history,” I said. “It’s nothing.” I didn’t share my fear that Kyle would try to exert some sort of control over me.

  “Your dad never wanted someone to tell him how to run the business,” Mom said. “Mr. Bartock is willing to be a silent partner.”

  “Silent partner?” I asked.

  “He’ll own half the business, and share the profits. But he has no say in how the business is run. He’s purely an investor.”

  “Wow. That’s a pretty good deal,” I said.

  “And hard to find,” Mom said. “Most partners want control.”

  “So do most parents,” I said.

  Mom rewarded me with a frown.

  “Just kidding,” I said. Actually, most people would be more accurate.

  October 24

  No dance, Sean. I am so gutless. And distracted, I guess. I can’t believe Dad is going into business with Kyle’s dad. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. I’m really not looking forward to gym next week. That’s going to be Kyle’s first chance to take advantage of me outside the civilized world.

  “Hello, my servant,” Kyle said when I got to the locker room on Tuesday.

  “Very funny.”

  “You work for me now.”

  “Not really.”

  “Your dad works for my dad.”

  “Not yet. And not really. They’re partners.”

  “No. My dad doesn’t have partners. He has pawns. This is going to be awesome,” he said.

  As he said that, I realized there was really nothing he could ask me to do. He had power, to some limited extent, but no use for it. He was like a clunky old C-cell battery in a world of AA devices. I decided not to point that out to him. I didn’t want him to try to find a way to prove me wrong.

  Zenger Zinger for October 28

  Last week’s answer: “I love channel surfing from my couch,” John Peter said remotely.

  This week’s puzzle: “I deduce that we have to take the left fork of the trail,” John Peter said_________.

  I got called back down to guidance the next day.

  “Hudson, I have a suggestion,” Mr. Tivelli said.

  “Yes?”

  “You have to admit you’re in quite a sophomore slump,” he said.

  “Slump?”

  “Quite a towering slump, actually,” he said.

  Towering slump. I resisted the urge to hit him in the shoulder.

  He picked up my file and held it under my nose, “Look at last year. Good grades. Student council. Stage crew. All those articles in the paper. You were a ball of fire. What happened? Did you meet a girl?”

  I met two women. One teaches English. The other teaches biology. They share a hatred for me. I didn’t share that with him. “I’m still on the paper,” I said.

  “I don’t recall seeing any articles by you,” he said.

  I opened my mouth. But none of my responses seemed worth the effort. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t consider the Zenger Zingers a valid equivalent to everything I’d done last year.

  “Since you don’t seem to have a strong academic drive, maybe it would help your college chances if you went out for a sport. Is there anything you’re good at?” he asked.

  “I’m okay at fishing,” I said.

  He snorted. “Very funny. Can you run or wrestle, or do anything physical?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, give it some thought.”

  “I will.” But it seemed crazy to think about it at all. I hadn’t gone out for any sports freshman year. I was too short to play serious basketball. I’d wrestled in gym class, but that was it—except for a brief battle last year with Kyle that had been fueled by enough rage to tilt the outcome in my favor. I sucked at volleyball. Swim practice was at a fitness center at the edge of town, way too early in the morning for anyone other than vampires. We didn’t have a hockey team or a bowling team. It looked like Mr. Tivelli was in for another disappointment.

  • • •

  Thursday, in the cafeteria, I heard a shout as I was walking over to get some mustard for my soft pretzel.

  “Hey! Paper boy!” Kyle yelled at me from his seat at the table with his wrestler friends.

  “What?”

  He pointed at the French fries on his tray. “We need ketchup.” I guess it had taken him half a week to figure out some way to prove he had power over me.

  “It’s right there,” I said, pointing across the cafeteria to the table with the big pump jars of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise.

  “So bring it here,” he said.

  We locked eyes. Pride and passion were at stake. My pride versus my father’s passion. Could Kyle really screw things up? I had no idea. As I stood there, contemplating my next move, I spotted Lee out of the corner of my eye. She left our table, went to the condiments, and picked up the ketchup. She carried it across the cafeteria. As she walked past me, she said, “I have catlike hearing.”

  She plunked the bottle in front of Kyle. I could see some of the wrestlers cringing. A lot of them were creeped out by Lee. And I knew Kyle hated her. She held her palm under the dispenser, pumped a glob of ketchup on her hand, then slowly licked it.

  “Yummm.” She flashed the wrestlers a faux-bloody grin. “Bon appetit!”

  I followed her back to our table.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  I explained the situation with the contract.

  “I don’t think he can really mess things up for your dad,” she said.

  “Probably not, but I can’t take any chances. This is his big dream.” I looked over at Kyle and h
is friends, who were occupied in drenching all of their food in ketchup. “I just have to tough it out until they sign the contract. I can handle it.”

  “You’re so sweet,” she said. She patted my cheek with her palm.

  “Sweet and sticky,” I said when I realized which hand she used.

  “Hey, a bit of blush looks good on you,” she said. “Don’t wash. You can wear it tomorrow, for Halloween.”

  • • •

  “Want to come over tonight and help hand out candy?” Lee asked me on Friday morning. “We get the cutest little monsters in our neighborhood.”

  “That would be fun, but I’m going out.”

  She stared at me like I’d told her I was entering a yodeling contest. “Going out?”

  “I’m handing out flyers for the budget vote. I’ll give you some. Maybe you can pass them to the parents who come with their kids.”

  “Sure. I can do that.”

  That evening, I went from house to house, threading among the dozens of little pirates and princesses. Each time I knocked on a door, the person answering would stare at me, and then start to sneer, just the same way any adult would sneer at an uncostumed high school kid going out to trick or treat. I’d tried to get Mom to let me dress Sean up as a zombie and bring him with me. It seemed pretty much a perfect way to get people to listen to me. I’d even offered to make him a bulging eye out of a painted Ping-Pong ball. Who can resist a zombie baby? But she didn’t think it was a good idea.

  “Maybe next year,” she’d said.

  So I was forced to face a series of skeptical homeowners, armed with nothing but fast words and an earnest smile.

  “I’m not here for candy,” I’d say. “I just want to ask you to vote to save the school paper.” Then, I’d hand them a flyer. And, much to my surprise, most of them would insist that I take a piece of candy. I didn’t have a bag, so I had to put the candy in my coat pockets, until I ran out of room. At that point, I had no choice but to eat some of the treats. Politics is hard work.

  One man told me, “It’s nice to see a young person involved in the democratic process.”

  Another said, “Good for you.”

  Of course, I also got several versions of “I’m not wasting a penny of my hard-earned money on unnecessary luxuries for you young thugs.”

  No surprise—those people didn’t offer me candy.

  “How’d it go?” Mom asked when I got home.

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. You’re voting, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll try. Next Tuesday’s looking pretty busy.”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  “I know it is. I’ll try. I really will.”

  Later, when I asked Dad, he said, “I’ll vote on the way home from work. Unless I have to stay late.”

  I held out a mini Snickers candy bar. “Can you be bribed?”

  “Not usually.” He took the candy. “But you found my weakness.”

  October 31

  Happy Halloween, Sean. Next year, I’m dressing you up and taking you trick-or-treating. I miss going out. I went out tonight, but I was asking for a lot more than candy. It feels strange asking people to vote for something. It feels good when they say they will. I don’t like the way I feel when they say no. I’m pretty sure I could never be a politician.

  EIGHTEEN

  I was up in my room after lunch on Saturday when I felt my floor shake like someone was driving a tank down the road. I looked out the window. No tank. But close. It was a tractor. Not the kind of little tractors people use for mowing lawns or plowing driveways. This was one of those farm tractors you sometimes see chugging along the road toward a field at five miles an hour. Wesley was driving it.

  I went outside. “You taking up farming?” I had to crane my neck to talk to him.

  “Nope. Got a job delivering them,” he said.

  “Don’t they usually put them on a flatbed truck?”

  “The big dealers do. This is a small operation. They don’t have a truck. So they hire people to drive them there.”

  “Where are you taking it?”

  “Off County Line Road, about five miles past the old slate quarry,” he said.

  “And how are you getting back?” I asked.

  Wesley shrugged, then said, “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

  “Want me to see if my dad can pick you up?” I asked.

  “That would work.”

  “No problem.” I ran in and checked, then told Wesley the good news. “He can do it. Just call the house when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks. You coming?”

  I was about to say no. But I realized that would be totally typical of me. I needed to do more stuff that wasn’t typical. How often do you get a chance to ride a tractor?

  “Sure. Why not?”

  While I was climbing up, Wesley pointed over his shoulder. “There’s room to stand behind me. Hang on. I’ll try not to go too fast.”

  “That shouldn’t be much of a challenge.” I grabbed the back of his seat, and he drove off.

  “Great view,” Wesley said.

  “For sure,” I said. “It does look pretty cool from up here.” And even at five miles an hour, with cars backing up behind us and honking, or zooming past and screaming swear words out the window, the wind felt good in my face.

  There were times with Wesley when I felt scared, apprehensive, nervous, guilty, perplexed, or flat-out terrified. But even then, I usually felt fully alive.

  November 1

  This is National Novel Writing Month, Sean. I think it’s also National Pet a Turtle Day, National Artificial Sweetener Week, and probably National Zucchini Fortnight. There seem to be more national days on the calendar than there are days in a year. Same thing for weeks and months. But NaNoWriMo, which is what they call it, is a pretty cool idea. People write a whole novel of at least fifty thousand words in one month. Fifty K isn’t even two K a day. And we know that’s a piece of cake. I’m going to give it a shot. Good thing this is Saturday. I can get a jump on things, just in case I have to slack off during the week. I’d hate to have to start a novel on a Wednesday. I’m not sure what I’m going to write about. Maybe dragons. Yeah. Dragons would be fun.

  Here’s a tip. If anyone ever offers you a tractor ride, take it. Oh, two more things. First, don’t assume you can get cell phone coverage way out in the country. Second, a long walk on a country road on an autumn day is a great way to spend time with a good friend.

  Saturday evening, I took my seat at the temple of the Chevelle. Last year, when I was adoring Julia from afar, I’d asked Dad how long it took for him to actually talk to Mom for the first time. He’d told me it had taken a couple months. I wanted to find out about the next phase of their relationship.

  “Dad, do you remember the first time you asked Mom out?”

  “Sure.” He smiled the smile of recollection.

  “Was it hard getting up the courage?”

  “It was hard. But I did it.”

  “How long did you take before you asked her out on a real date?”

  “That was a long time ago. Hang on. Let me think.” He fiddled with the engine for a while, but I could see he was traveling through the past while his hands moved the wrench on autopilot. Or auto-mechanic. “Probably a month and a half.”

  “So you weren’t like Bobby, either.” My older brother had dates lined up before he was born.

  “Not even close.”

  That was comforting. Physically, Dad and Bobby were a lot alike. But I guess, inside, when it came to dating, Dad and I were a bit closer. He’d told me he’d been real shy when he was my age.

  “Were you afraid she’d say no?”

  “Terrified,” he said.

  “But you still asked.”

  “Soon after I’d started talking with her
, she went out of town for a week. I pictured that week, when I didn’t see her at all, as how the rest of my life would be, if we weren’t together. I couldn’t accept that. I needed her in my life.”

  “Where’d you go for your first date?”

  “A movie.” Then he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I thought it was an outdoor adventure. The title sure sounded like that. But . . .” He shook his head. “It was the wrong movie. Similar title. The actors didn’t leave their clothes on very long.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yeah. Oops. Not the kind of film for a first date. Or a hundredth. It wasn’t X-rated, at least. But nobody seemed to be interested in wearing a shirt.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “As soon as I realized where the film was headed, I looked over at your mom and said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ She didn’t need to be convinced. So we went for coffee. I apologized several times, until she told me to stop.”

  “So it worked out.”

  “We talked until well after midnight.”

  “That’s a lot of talking for you,” I said.

  “Your mom has that power,” he said.

  • • •

  Lee texted me at 2:00 A.M.

  Use your extra hour wisely.

  I could just imagine her waiting up all night so she could do that right when the clocks were supposed to be turned back. I wisely used my extra hour, and many that followed it, for sleep.

  November 2

  Sean, I think all the good dragon ideas have been taken. Today, halfway through writing my first chapter, I realized I was totally ripping off Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher. Maybe because I’ve read it seven times. I also spotted a smattering of Dragonflight. I guess it’s easy to copy something without realizing it. I’m going to try writing something else today.

  Monday was the last day of the first marking period. It also felt like the last day of the world. I could tell all my teachers were worried about the budget vote. I was worried about my grades. But it was too late to do anything about them.

  I got another great essay grade from Ms. Burke, who seemed to love my writing. Maybe the key to high school success was to write essays for history, and history papers for English. Though I was pretty much convinced Mrs. Gilroy would shoot down anything I wrote, no matter what the topic or format.