by David Lubar
“What kind?” I asked.
“You don’t need to know that. Just rest assured that it has nothing to do with my heart. It is not something that could be exacerbated by reading a halfway-clever attack. If we are to be judged by our intentions, you are guilty, but if we are to be judged by the results of our actions, your conscience is clear. You failed to harm me.”
“I think I’m leaning toward the guilty side right now,” I said. I looked away from her unwavering stare. She had a stack of books on her bedside table: The Elements of Style, Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage, and several others.
“Don’t you know all that stuff?” I asked.
“One never knows all that stuff.” She picked up The Elements of Style and held it out. “This is my bible, and your penance. Read it carefully. Absorb it. Then read it again.”
“Thanks. I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m finished.”
“Keep it. I have several copies. You’ll be reading it many times, if there is any depth to your enthusiasm for writing.”
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.
“My condition is chronic and unpleasant, but not known to be fatal,” she said. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll be away from the classroom for a while, but I will return to torment you before the year is over.”
“Like the Ghost of Christmas Present Tense?” I asked.
She smiled, briefly, then caught herself. “That was almost clever, Mr. Hudson. There may be hope for you after all.”
When I got home, I opened The Elements of Style. There was a bookplate pasted to the inside of the cover: “This book belongs to Lorraine R. Dewitte.” Maybe that was her maiden name. Just for fun, I searched online for that name.
A book popped up. And it wasn’t a grammar book. It was a novel. As Breath into the Wind. The author photo was definitely her. Much younger, but there was no mistake. I dug a bit deeper. The book was published forty years ago. All the reviews said stuff like “great new voice” and “promising debut.” As far as I could see, she’d never written anything else. Weird. I turned my attention back to the book she’d given me. It was actually pretty cool. Though I was still feeling guilty enough that I would have read a carburetor-repair manual, if that’s what she’d offered me.
I guess I’d been given a second chance.
• • •
That night, Dad said, “We have good news.”
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth, and decided I wouldn’t even try to guess what form this newest crushing blow would take.
“Bobby and Amala are facing a pretty high rent,” Mom said. “They need to try to save more of what they earn. And even a simple wedding comes with plenty of expenses for the bride and groom, beyond what all of us parents are covering.”
“With them traveling so much, it doesn’t make sense for them to take out a full-year lease,” Dad said.
I realized I was being softened up for something that didn’t require softening. “Do you want them to move in with us? That would be awesome.” I liked having Bobby around. And Amala. After Bobby’s band’s tour wrapped up at the end of January, they weren’t touring again until July, so he and Amala had planned to get an apartment in town. He would be giving guitar lessons at the local music store, and working there part-time as a salesman. Amala was able to do most of her work from home, since it involved stuff like sending out press releases and arranging interviews. The key fact about both income streams was that they were close to a trickle.
“When are they coming?” I asked.
“The start of next month,” Dad said.
“Great.” It was nice to get good news that wouldn’t lead to disappointment, like the garage news had.
• • •
Tuesday was the end of the second marking period. If I didn’t screw up hugely, I’d be back on the paper in a week.
“I would have to mess up in inconceivable ways to blow my grades this time,” I told Lee at lunch.
“Please tell me you’re not thinking of that as a goal,” she said.
“Of course not. But it’s a great exercise for a creative writer. It’s interesting to try to figure out a way that I could screw up at this point. I mean, if someone was writing a novel where he wanted a kid to destroy his grades at the very last moment, what would he do?”
We tossed around ideas. Edith and Richard joined in. I compiled a list, just for fun.
“I trust you won’t put any of those to the test,” Lee said.
“Nope. I’m eager to get things back to normal.”
Happily, at the end of the day, I hadn’t even come close to messing up. I’d made it. My grade-point average for the first half of the school year would still be pretty unimpressive, but I’d be fine for this marking period.
Scott Hudson’s (and Friends’) List of Last-Minute Ways to Ruin Your Grades
1. Go back in time to steal your homework from yourself.
2. Take hostages. (Several of us felt this was too close to reality.)
3. Hack into the school computer and mess up while changing the grades.
4. Bribe the school board to flip the scale so a zero is the highest grade and a hundred is the lowest.
Wednesday, we were supposed to start learning about silk screening in art. But the budget for supplies had been cut so drastically that Mr. Belman had to choose between getting the stencils and inks for us, or buying oil paints for the seniors. The seniors had priority. For now, we were working with our choice of colored pencils or India ink, since the art department had plenty of those supplies on hand.
Mr. Franka came to the Latin Club meeting. He didn’t say anything. But he stayed the whole time. Sarah’s editorial about satire and responsibility was really good. As much as I’d wanted to write it to try to make up for what I’d done, and as much as I hate to admit it, I doubt I could have done a better job.
While nobody could understand Mr. Kamber, at least he gave us our writing assignments straight out of the textbook. So we all knew what we were supposed to do. I guess he liked my writing. I actually scored a ninety-two on the first essay, and a ninety-five on the second. He didn’t even circle anything, or mark stuff as wrong. I wouldn’t have minded some sort of comments—preferably positive ones—but I was definitely happy with the grades. Eventually, I realized I could stop even trying to listen to him. English became my favorite spot for daydreaming.
The second marking period had already ended, but I had high hopes for the third. Two good marking periods, and I could pull my final grades up from the basement.
January 31
Time’s flying, Sean. A moment ago, it was the new year. Now, a whole month is gone. Sophomore year is more over than not. But there’s good flux coming. Bobby and Amala are moving in, tomorrow. It will be nice to have them around.
THIRTY
February 1
Happy shortest month of the year, you shortest Hudson. Last year in English, Mr. Franka taught us about redundant statements, like free gift and surprise ambush. Those are kind of obvious. But I’ve noticed some subtler ones. In the short story I’m reading for class, I saw the phrase dried husks. But being dry is part of the definition of husk. I think it’s really easy to fall into redundancy. People say stuff like, “When I first started high school . . .” But first started is redundant. If you look at it, you’re sort of redundant, too.
I’d never been so nervous about a report card. When I got mine on Tuesday, my eyes went right to the bottom. It’s funny—I think it’s a lot harder to make sure something isn’t there than to verify that it is there. But there was no sign at all, in any spot, of the word ineligible.
Lee was actually waiting for me outside of geometry.
“Well?”
“Eligible again,” I said.
“Great.”
“Yeah. Maybe this time, now that I’m back
on staff, I can actually kill a teacher with my writing,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure everyone is safe from your superpower,” Lee said. “But just to be certain, maybe you should set your journalistic sights on something inanimate, like cafeteria food quality, or budget cuts.”
“Good idea.”
“Hey,” Lee said as we headed in. “There’s a pattern. You were ineligible. Then you became eligible. If the sequence holds up, next marking period you’ll be igible. And you can finish up the year as ible.” She laughed and repeated “ible” with various tones and stresses as we made our way to our seats.
• • •
The next day, after school, I had the pleasure of walking into the newspaper meeting, and saying, “I’m back.”
“Yay!” Jeremy said.
I looked at Mr. Franka and added, “If that’s okay with you.”
“Welcome back,” he said. He didn’t smile, but he gave me a small nod.
My first official act wasn’t to pitch an article. It was to ask Sarah to permanently kill that opinion piece I’d written about prepositions.
She was happy to do that.
• • •
“I have to figure out what to get Lee for Valentine’s Day,” I told Bobby. I would have asked Amala, but she’d gone into New York to meet with a prospective client. “Any ideas.”
“That depends. Are you still just friends? Please say no. . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“Jewelry for her,” Bobby said. “And a backbone for you.”
“She isn’t into that stuff,” I said. Lee put a lot of effort into not falling into any stereotypes. Though a tiny backbone made of silver would probably please her.
“Scott,” Bobby said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Have you ever actually looked at her?”
“Uh, yeah. All the time. I’m pathetically incapable of not looking at her.”
“And, uh, her face is sort of decorated with stuff, right?”
“Right.”
“And what would you call that stuff? It’s not rivets and bolts. It’s not fishing tackle.”
“Sometimes she wears a safety pin,” I said. Though I realized she’d pared down the edgier hardware in the last several months.
“Forget that. All this other stuff. Rings. Tiny gems. Small objects made of precious metals. Tell us, Mr. Vocabulary, what do you think that might be called?”
“. . . Jewelry . . . ?”
“Bingo! Do you get it? She might not want a gold bracelet or a pearl necklace. She sure wouldn’t want the kind of jewelry Grandma likes. But she’d love the right piece.”
“How’d you get so smart about girls?” I asked.
“By not wasting time getting smart about anything else,” he said. “I decided to specialize.”
“Good move.” I headed out of his room. “Thanks.”
“Any time, little brother.”
“Middle brother,” I said.
“Middle little brother,” Bobby said.
“I like little middle brother better,” I said.
“They sound the same to me,” Bobby said.
“That’s how I feel about guitars,” I said.
So, now, at least I had a clue. And I knew a shop nearby where I could probably find something Lee would love.
Bobby didn’t have time to take me there before he had to go to work. So I called Wesley. He picked me up in what looked like an oil truck.
“Are you delivering fuel now?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m pumping crap.”
“What kind of crap?” I thought he was using it as a synonym for stuff.
“Crap crap,” Wesley said. “What other kind is there?”
It took a moment for that to register. And for me to identify the smell that seemed to envelop us. We have a sewer line at our house, but some of the houses way out in the woods at the edge of town have septic tanks. So does my uncle Steve’s place, up in the Poconos. And those tanks have to be pumped.
“That stinks,” I said.
“Pays good,” Wesley said.
“Why don’t you work for your dad?” I asked. “Limos cost a ton to rent. I’ll bet the drivers make good money. And tips.”
“I want to. But I’m not old enough to get a limo driver’s license. You have to be twenty.”
“I’ve seen you drive trucks and stuff,” I said. “How old do you have to be for that?”
“Just eighteen,” he said.
“So you have that license?” I asked.
“It’s never really come up. The people I drove for didn’t seem concerned.”
“You could do other stuff for your dad, like take care of the limos,” I said.
“I already do. He doesn’t think I should get paid for that. Not while I’m living at home.”
“Are you thinking about getting your own place?” I pictured myself hanging out at Wesley’s future apartment. Better yet, I pictured Lee and me hanging out there.
“I’m pretty comfortable at home,” he said. “So, where are we headed?”
“That goth shop in South Side Bethlehem.”
“Got it.”
He drove down the street, turned left on the corner, then took the ramp for the highway.
I thought about the part of the town where the shop was. “Parking might be tough.”
“I’m not worried.”
I think worried Wesley would be an oxymoron. Or an impossibility. But, just as I’d feared, there weren’t any spaces in front of the store. Not that a space or two would have helped. I estimated that Wesley would need three open spaces in a row to park the truck. I hadn’t counted on him double-parking, but he stopped in front of the shop and turned off the engine.
“You’re just going to leave it there?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the three cars he’d blocked in. “If anybody needs to pull out, I’m sure they’ll make some kind of noise.”
I looked at the sign above the door of the shop: WHAT HATH GOTH WRAUGHT? Beneath that, it read, Handmade Gifts and Unique Clothing.
“Good choice,” Wesley said, looking around at the displays of grim merchandise as we walked in the door. “This is Lee’s kind of stuff.” The earthy scent of leather and the synthetic odor of vinyl battled for dominance.
There was a woman behind the counter to the left. She had full arm tattoos, and some impressive hardware on her face. “Lost?” she asked.
“Often,” I said. “But not this time.” I wasn’t insulted that I didn’t strike her as a typical customer. “I’m looking for a present for a friend.”
“Sweet,” she said. She licked her lips.
I jumped back when I noticed her tongue was split. I’d heard about people having that done, but I’d never seen it. Not counting a statue of a lizard man at a Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum.
Before I could tell her what I was looking for, I heard a shout from outside. “Who blocked me in?”
“Told you it would work,” Wesley said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Careful,” the woman said. “They tow cars around here.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
I told the woman what I was looking for. She asked me a couple of questions about Lee, then pulled a tray out from under the counter. “These are nice.”
There were various beads and rings, along with a lot of skulls. “She likes skulls,” I said. As I stared at the assortment of pins, my brain handed me a gift. It struck with enough force that I said, “Oh, my God!”
“Easy there, kid. Don’t get too spiritual.”
“Sorry. Thanks. I figured out exactly what I need.” I knew a place that had to have what I was looking for. I stepped outside the store and called them, just to make sure. Then I hunted down Wesley, who’d pulled around the corner.
“We need to go to Allentown. Okay?”
Wesley laughed. “Sure. I love opening this thing up on Route 22.”
And so we went to a shop in the city next to Bethlehem, and I bought the perfect, and perfectly affordable, present for Lee. And Wesley got to raise the blood pressure of several dozen more drivers, who had the pleasure of trailing us on the highway and wondering What’s that smell?
February 7
Word geek alert, Sean. You can skip this entry without fear of missing important life skills. But if you read it, and can understand why I bothered to write it, you’ll move a little closer to understanding me. I just realized something interesting. Well, interesting to me. I think Lee and Mr. Franka would also appreciate it. But it’s bedtime, and I want to write it down while it’s fresh in my mind. It’s amazing how ephemeral an idea can be if you don’t make a note of it. (Yeah, I’m still working hard to enhance your vocabulary.) So, lucky you, you’re the first one to get my thoughts on this. A while back, I mentioned tautology. That’s when you say the same thing more than once. For example: I went home. I returned to my house. I entered the place where I live. The other day, I reminded you about redundancy, where you use words that are unnecessary because they’re covered by the meaning of other words. Like if you say crossword puzzle, that’s redundant since a crossword is a puzzle. But if tautologies and redundancies both refer to repeated information, why do we need two terms? Isn’t tautology itself, as a term, redundant? As I was trying to figure that out, I realized there are subtle differences. The unnecessary word in a redundancy doesn’t have to have the whole meaning of the other word. It just has to repeat part of the meaning. Surprise doesn’t mean the same thing as ambush. But there also seems to be a lot of overlap between tautologies and redundancies. And tautology can be part of a writer’s style. I guess I have to give all of this a bit more thought. But I’ll give you a break and stop for now. I don’t want your little head to explode. Or blow up.
Wait. One more thought. This is really cool. I just realized that a redundancy is the opposite of an oxymoron. Or maybe a tautology is. It’s amazing my own head doesn’t explode. Or blow up.
Hang on. Yeah. Yet another last thought. A redundancy slipped into this discussion. See if you can find it. I’ll give you a couple days. It’s sort of subtle.
