“All right,” he said.
“Here it is,” I said. “Don’t mess with the weirdos in the gifted pool.”
He scribbled that down. “You do realize,” he said, “that she requested that you be removed from the gifted pool?”
That was interesting news. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I felt like he’d just kicked a stool out from under me. I wondered if she was allowed to throw me out. I hoped not. The thought of having to go to sixth period every day, every week, was almost too much. I told myself that if she could, she would have thrown most of us out a long time before.
“Well,” I said, trying to stay calm, “maybe she should be removed as the gifted-pool director. And that’s my final comment.”
After that, as far as I was concerned, the interview was over. I sat back, folded my arms across my chest, and nodded, figuring he’d nod back, gather up his notes, and take off.
But Dr. Guff didn’t quite get the message. He went right on asking insipid questions. So I decided to just have fun with him.
“Do you ever feel angry when you’re at home?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “You would, too, if you were eating applesauce and green bean casserole instead of just ordering a pizza.”
“How about violent?” he asked. “Do you ever feel that violence is a good way to deal with your anger?”
“Well, of course I do!” I said. “Just last week I shoved my grandmother down the stairs and then jumped on her ankles over and over.”
“Did you really do that, Leon?”
“Sure I did. You would, too, if you heard all the great noises old people make when you jump on them.”
He just nodded and kept scribbling. I hoped he was smart enough not to take that seriously, but I wasn’t certain. If he did any investigating, he’d certainly find out that my grandmothers both lived in Florida and hadn’t been anywhere near my staircase lately.
“What sort of music do you like, Leon?” He acted like he was just trying to talk about something I’d be interested in, but I knew he was seeing if I listened to music that might drive me to violence.
“Metal,” I said. “Heavy metal.” I caught him trying not to smile, and knew that that was just what he wanted to hear.
“Why’s that?” he asked. “You dig the rhythm, the beat, the tune?”
“Mostly the lyrics,” I said, knowing that I was supposed to say I didn’t care about the lyrics, I just liked the sound, which would have made me seem less disturbed. “They give me lots of good ideas.”
“Like what?”
“Like there’s this one song, by, uh…Supernatural Anarchy,” I said, making up a band on the spot. “It’s called ‘Push Your Grandma Down the Stairs.’”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that band,” he said. “Are they new?”
“Nah,” I said. “They’ve been around for years. Their last album was called Satan Kicks Butt.”
“Tell me about your parents, Leon,” he said. I just decided to tell the truth.
“Well,” I said, “my dad is an accountant, and he’s really angry all the time.”
“Why is he angry?” Dr. Guff asked. “Does he drink?”
“Not really,” I said. “He gets angry at Thomas Edison.”
“Is that a neighbor of yours?”
“No! Thomas Edison. The dead lightbulb guy.” I suppose I shouldn’t have thought Dr. Guff would assume I meant that Thomas Edison. It wasn’t like it made any sense.
“The inventor? Why would he be mad at him?”
“For being a scumbag,” I replied. “If Dad heard you calling Edison an inventor, he’d go ballistic.”
“Uh…huh,” said Dr. Guff. “Leon, is there a word of truth to any of the things you’re telling me?”
“Actually, yes,” I said. “All the stuff about the casserole is true. So is the stuff about Thomas Edison. I told you, Dr. Guff. I’m crazy. But if you want someone who really needs counseling, go talk to Mrs. Smollet. She’s an absolute nut.”
“I can see you have a lot of anger toward her,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you?” I asked.
He sat there and stared at me for a long time.
“Leon,” he said, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re a very smart, talented young man. But you need to control your emotions and keep yourself in line. This sort of thing is only going to get you in more trouble in high school.”
“All right, Dr. Guff,” I said. “I’ll be good.”
Five minutes later he was out the door. That was his whole message—try to be good and use your potential. I could have done his job without a day of training. It seemed like an easy career path, except that I think you’d have to give up a sizable chunk of your soul to take a job like that.
I wondered if he’d say the same thing to Brian, the mechanical pyro. If Brian used his potential to the fullest, he could probably build a nuclear reactor in his garage.
On the other hand, maybe Dr. Guff was wrong. Maybe I was a bit crazy. Scientifically, I certainly had genetics working against me, what with my parents and all. But the guys who made Un Chien Andalou had been out of their minds, so I’d at least be in good company.
Toward the end of the day, Coach Wilkins showed up in the room, with a coffee cup in his hand.
“Hi, Leon,” he said, smiling and flashing me a peace sign. It was a pretty lame thing to do, but I took it as a sign that he was on my side.
“Hi, Coach Wilkins,” I said.
“I understand that you’re a political prisoner,” he said, smiling like the whole thing was somehow funny.
“Something like that,” I said. “I’m being censored.”
“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to sneak in here and let you know that we watched your tape in the teachers’ lounge, and more than a couple of the teachers are on your side here. The whole thing reminds me of when I was in school.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Sure. We were your age once, you know. When I was in college, I was part of a free-speech group called Freedom Under Charles Kerr. Think about the initials.”
“That’s pretty clever,” I said. I was sort of surprised that he felt like he could tell me something like that without worrying about getting fired. I was going to ask who Charles Kerr was, but the day was almost over, and I knew that if I really got Wilkins started on something, I might never be able to leave. I could always find out for myself.
“Anyway, just hang in there,” he said. “A lot of great art is censored when it first comes out, and that almost never stops it from being a hit. When I was in school, they tried to ban Forever by Judy Blume at my school, and I think every kid in town ended up reading it. They probably never would have touched it if the school board hadn’t made such a big thing about it. And anyway, it’s not like this will go on your permanent record or anything. So keep your chin up!”
I hate middle school. Even the teachers who are on your side don’t take you that seriously. Keep my chin up?
“And Leon?” he said as he walked out the door. I turned my head to him. “Don’t be surprised if everyone in school knows about this by the time classes end. I’m doing my part.”
The day dragged on for what seemed like years before the bell finally rang. On my way out, Dr. Brown told me I was to report right back to the office the next day, and I said I would. If it was honorable to serve time for a noble cause, then I would serve my time.
I wanted to hang around outside the school afterward, to see what everyone had heard, but Dr. Brown insisted on escorting me out of the building and walking with me until I was off school property. I didn’t say a word to him the whole time; we just slowly walked away from the building until we got to this little drainage ditch that ran under the street, which was known as the Pee Tunnel because, well, younger kids on their way back from grade school often peed in it. The tunnel marked the official edge of school property. When we got there, Dr. Brown said, “I’ll see you in the morning, same t
ime, same channel,” which I guess was supposed to be funny, then turned and left me there. I just kept walking home. When I got there, my parents were waiting in the living room.
“Well, Leon,” said my mother, “we got the call. I told you this would happen.”
“But,” said my father, “we want to make sure that we hear your side of what happened.”
“Well,” I said, “Mrs. Smollet saw my movie, thought it was horribly inappropriate for kids to be told that, uh”—I wasn’t about to talk about masturbation in front of my parents, so I went for a nicer way of putting things—“that thinking about sex is normal.”
“Well, your movie isn’t explicit, is it?” asked my dad. “It wouldn’t be rated R or anything, right?”
“Who knows?” I said. “You never know what they’re going to decide about movies. But all the nudity in mine is just old paintings and a CPR dummy that doesn’t even have a crotch.”
“She told me about the dummy,” said my father, half frowning. “But she didn’t tell me that it didn’t have a crotch.”
“Mrs. Smollet called you?” I asked.
“Yes, she did,” he said.
“Don’t listen to her. She thinks she’s the morality police.”
To my great surprise, Dad chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, Leon,” he said. “I told you how I used to do lighting for my roommate’s avant-garde stuff, right?” I nodded. “Well, there were plenty of people like her who used to show up to complain. I know how to deal with that sort of people. Of course, his show had actual nudity in it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He used to go onstage naked and painted green every now and then. Some people in town thought that was absolutely unacceptable.”
“It was, if you ask me,” said my mother.
“But this is different!” I said. “My movie really has a point!”
“I’m sure it does,” said my father. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll go into the school in the morning and talk to Dr. Brown to see if we can work something out.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was in the most trouble I’d ever been in, and my dad was offering to help bail me out.
For once in my life, I was awfully glad that I’d never actually pushed anyone in my family down the stairs.
“What does Max Streich think of all this?” Dad asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I didn’t get to talk to him yet.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be ready to fight for you,” he said. “I’ll give him a call later on. You’ll probably have to serve out the day tomorrow regardless, but I think we can keep all this off your permanent record, at least.”
About five minutes later, Anna called. “Is it true?” she asked.
“That depends,” I said. “What are people saying?”
“That Mrs. Smollet suspended you over the movie.”
“Yep,” I said. “A day and a half in-school for being an alleged smut peddler. She thought the dummy was jerking off.”
“What the green hell?” Anna asked. “Why would she think that? The dummy doesn’t even have anything to jerk off!”
“I know!” I said. “And they aren’t going to show the movie to the kids, and I’m not allowed to talk to anyone tomorrow.” I was sure Dr. Brown would escort me on and off the premises again.
“This isn’t over,” she said. “We can finish this movie. All you need is the kissing scene, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And the explosion and the audio. We can still tape Edie and Brian doing the kissing scene any time. And I kept the master tape.” Mrs. Smollet probably didn’t know this; she probably thought that the rough cut she had was the master tape. As I have mentioned, she wasn’t that gifted herself.
“Right,” Anna said. “Don’t worry, we’ve all got your back. Let’s meet up at Fat Johnny’s tomorrow night and we’ll figure out what we’re doing. They don’t know how many people are involved in this thing, do they?”
“Nope,” I said. “Mrs. Smollet knows you helped, I guess, but she doesn’t know anything about Dustin or Brian or Edie being involved. But be warned—I know she wants to kick me out of the gifted pool.”
“How do you know?”
“Dr. Guff told me.”
“You got to talk to him?” She sounded terribly jealous.
I told her the whole story—on any other day, that would have been the first thing I’d told everyone. But this day was different—our spots in the gifted pool were at stake. Art was at stake. Freedom itself was at stake, if you got right down to it.
“Well, do you think she can kick us out?” I asked, when I was done with the story about Dr. Guff.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Just hang tight, we’ll get you out of this. Everyone in school is going to know what’s going on.”
I hoped she was right.
Two hours later, there was a knock on the door and I went to answer it. To what I guess should not have been my surprise but actually was, there stood Anna and her father.
“Hi, Leon,” she said.
“Hi, Anna,” I said. “Hi, Warren.” I reached out and shook her father’s hand. “You guys wanna come inside?”
“Sure,” he said. They stepped inside, and my dad, who had been in the kitchen with my mother, saw them coming.
Please, God, I thought, don’t let them be working on a food disaster. I scanned the kitchen but didn’t see anything more unusual than a box of noodles and a jar of spaghetti sauce.
“Hello there,” he said, waving. “I’m Nick Harris.”
“Warren Brandenburg,” said Anna’s dad, waving back. “And this is Anna.”
Our dads shook hands, and I began to silently pray to whoever was listening that my father didn’t act like a complete dork in front of Anna and her dad.
We all walked into the kitchen and sat down. My mother waved and introduced herself but stayed at the stove.
“So, Leon,” said Anna’s father, “I hear they’re cracking down on you, huh?”
“You might say that,” I said. “I should have shown up with rocks in my pockets.”
“So you know about the project?” Dad asked.
“Of course. Anna’s been working on it with him,” said Mr. Brandenburg.
“Oh!” said my dad, as if he’d just discovered the Unified Theory of Everything. “You must be the one he borrowed the art books from.”
“Right.”
Dad sort of fixed me with a goofy grin, and I knew right away that the grin meant “You didn’t tell me your friend was a girl!” I wanted to crawl into the nearest cave, but I didn’t know of any caves in town, unless you counted the drainage ditch.
“Anyway,” her dad continued, “I’ve had some run-ins with Mrs. Smollet before, and this is just the sort of thing I expect out of her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was looking for some way to suspend Anna, too. She’s tried before.”
“Really?” my dad asked.
“Yeah,” Warren said. “We get calls from her now and then about some dumb thing or another. She usually warns that someone could sue. I thought if you and I, as parents, went in tomorrow, we could straighten this whole thing out and maybe get Leon off the hook before things get any worse.”
“I was certainly planning on going in,” said my father. “I think that this is clearly just the woman pushing her own agenda.”
“I can guarantee it,” said Mr. Brandenburg.
“Either that or she’s just waiting for a good reason to sue them and get rich,” I said.
“Probably both,” said Mr. Brandenburg. “Or it might be a religious thing. This school has always been known to sort of skirt the boundary between church and state. Last year Anna’s math teacher was always telling kids that they should buy some ‘extreme teens’ version of the New Testament.”
“And no one would stop him,” she said. “And the school team is named the Monks, after all. That’s religious, too.”
“And just plain stupid,” I said.
&nb
sp; “Well,” said Anna’s dad, “the story I’ve always heard was that it was supposed to be like Thelonious Monk, the piano player, but people thought it would be inappropriate to name the team after a jazz musician.”
“Especially a black jazz musician,” Anna added.
Her dad chuckled. “Probably that, too. It was back in the fifties, after all. But for one reason or another, they just had the mascot be a guy in robes to cover up the origin of the name.”
“That sounds like a suburban myth,” my dad said.
“I don’t believe it, either,” said Anna’s dad. “It’s probably just a dumb name all around, and that’s that. But that’s sort of what we’re up against. Still, I think we can get this taken care of.”
My father got up to make coffee, and Mr. Brandenburg followed him over to the counter so they could make basic “nice to meet you, what kind of work do you do” small talk. I couldn’t bear to listen to it; Anna’s dad was probably the coolest parent in all of Cornersville, and my dad was probably going to come off as a doofus. However, their conversation left Anna and me alone at the table.
“Well,” she said, almost whispering, “I told everyone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I called everyone I know and told them to call everyone they know. Half the school is going to know about this by morning,” she said.
“Coach Wilkins said he was telling people in his class,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard he was,” said Anna. “Some kid said he was calling you a political prisoner!”
“That’s Wilkins for you,” I said. “It’s just like him to get all excited about something like this.”
“Hell,” she said, “it might work out well if he can get the kids excited about it.”
“But half of them don’t even like me very much,” I said. “You’ll get the gifted pool and maybe some of the head-bangers rallied, but that’s maybe twenty, thirty people. Most kids have never even met Smollet.”
“Maybe we’ll get more,” she said. “It doesn’t matter whether they like you. Even if they hate you, they probably still want to fight with Dr. Brown over this.”
“We’ll see, I guess,” I said.
Meanwhile, our dads were still talking, and now my mother was talking with them, too; they all seemed to be getting along pretty well. Dad was talking about sound reception and flammable properties, so I guessed he was talking about his new invention, not the accounting job, which was probably good, as long as he never let anyone catch on that he wasn’t a very good inventor.
Adam Selzer Page 12
