Lee was still high when he opened his eyes the next morning. He woke before his alarm and got out of bed just because he felt like it. That in itself was miracle enough. More than once his mother had been forced to pour cold water on his forehead or pop ice cubes down his pajamas to stir him from his catatonic sleep states.
This morning it wasn’t necessary. Lee looked out his window and had to touch his eyes to make certain he wasn’t actually wearing those prescription glasses he’d imagined yesterday. It was true. Everything seemed hyper-focused and double-dipped in Technicolor. He wondered if this is what it felt like to look through the eyes of a winner.
Lee grabbed a shirt from his closet and did up the buttons. Buttons, marveled Lee; what a simple, yet ingenious invention. He thought about the history of mankind, and wondered how many centuries they’d been forced to struggle along without buttons before some inspired genius came up with the idea. Eureka! And how many more centuries till some brilliant dude dreamed up “denim,” he thought, pulling on his ragged and superbly comfortable jeans. Mr. Blue-Jean, whoever you are, I salute you! And then he started to do up his zipper, and, well, that whole concept just about blew his mind.
In the bathroom, he stopped to notice how the shade of toothpaste on his toothbrush matched the color of his shirt exactly. It nearly made him want to skip brushing his teeth and just carry around the toothbrush all day. Look! he’d say to people on the street, My shirt is a perfect toothpaste blue. Did you ever wonder who was exceptional enough to invent toothpaste? Did you ever wonder why the stuff doesn’t taste like Tub ’n’ Tile Cleaner? What other cleanser in the world tastes that good?
Jeez-Louise, thought Lee, I’d better be careful not to run too Jeez-many marathons; I’m starting to sound like some love-struck dope in a gag-me-with-two-fingers chick flick. He didn’t care, though. Not even about the blister on his ankle that was starting to bleed again. Or about the fact that he had to shuffle down the stairs on his bum because his calves were aching so badly. Minor details.
Nothing could bring him down today. Not the fact that there were only two Cheerios left in the bottom of the cereal box. Not the big black mess he had to clean up after scraping his burnt toast (Gertrude considered herself a “Mrs. Fix It,” but Lee could have told her to stay away from that malfunctioning toaster). Not even the fact that he had math today, and Mr. Wood would be handing their exams back. Shoot, that exam, thought Lee. Nope, nope, nope, he told himself a second later, not even a failing math mark could bring him down today.
“What did you burn?” asked Gertrude, fanning the air with her morning paper as she came into the kitchen.
“Hate to tell you, but the toaster worked better before you fixed it, Mom,” said Lee. Then he pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned her to sit down. “Your breakfast is served, Madame.” Lee plunked the plate of murdered toast in front of her.
“Are the planets spinning out of orbit or something?” said Gertrude. “Seems to me this is the second day in a row you’ve actually been up before me.” She picked up a piece of toast and stared at it before taking a bite from the least burnt corner. As she chewed, she took an even closer look at Lee. “C’m’ere,” she said. “You look different today.”
“It’s the shirt,” said Lee. “Turns out toothpaste blue’s my color.”
“Huh?”
Lee thought this might be a good time to ask his mother about lifting his grounding so that he could go to Slang’s play-off soccer game like he’d promised to. But somehow he felt that it wasn’t necessary. On days like this, things had a way of falling into place naturally. He felt it in his bones.
Whoa! thought Lee, when his mother echoed his thoughts half a second later. “So, you say you promised this Slang character you’d go to his game tonight?”
“Before I knew I was grounded,” said Lee.
“Well,” said Gertrude (maybe it was his gesture of making her toast that had buttered her up), “I’ve always believed in honoring your promises.” He looked at her. “And I suppose I’m grateful that he helped you home last night.”
Lee smiled.
“But don’t think I’m going soft, young man,” she said. “Pull another stunt like that and you’re grounded for life.” Lee hugged his mother, who pretended not to like it. Lee loved her when she put on an act.
On his way to school, Lee knocked on Agnes’s front door. He heard her shuffling to the door in her big crazy-cat slippers before he actually saw her. “Just wanted to say, ‘Have a good day,’” he said, when she opened the door. “And hey, Aggie—”
“Aggie?!”
“—how about making some of your delicious banana bread soon? I’ve been dreaming about it lately!” Of course, he’d pay for this later when she put a piece of banana brick in front of him and expected him to eat it, but right now it seemed worth the look of surprised pleasure on her face. It took so little to cheer Agnes. He wondered why he didn’t make a point of doing it more often. Note to self …
After that, he stopped at Rhonda’s.
“Beanpole!” said Mr. Ronaldson at the front door. Oh no, thought Lee. “Good to see you, kid,” he said, wrestling Lee to the ground, then popping him up so fast Lee felt like a yo-yo.
Rhonda rolled her eyes and pushed her dad back to the kitchen, but not before Lee had a chance to see the words written on his apron: WORLD’S NUMBER ONE MOM.
“What do you want?” said Rhonda suspiciously, when she returned. “Got some more dirty work you need me to do? It’s gonna cost you more than a Mars Bar this time.”
Lee laughed. “Okay,” he said, palms raised in the air, “I just came to see if you wanted to walk to school together, but …” he started down her front steps, “hey, if you’re not in the mood, that’s cool.”
He got halfway across her yard before Rhonda believed her ears. She jumped into her high-tops, grabbed her backpack, and ran to catch up. “Wait up, ya idiot!” she called.That was about as useless as saying, “Wait up,” to a helium balloon without a string. Lee had his own momentum today, and Rhonda could see that she’d just have to keep up. “What’s your hurry, pea-brain?” Lee slowed down so she could catch up (another miracle!), then playfully bum-checked her onto the boulevard. “Hey! You combed your hair, for a change,” he said. “Looks good.”
Rhonda narrowed her eyes. “I had my annual bath,” she said, mussing her hair with her fingers until it looked like a rat’s nest again. “What’s up with you, anyway?” she said. “You’re acting weird.”
“Me? Weird?”
“Yeah, and I don’t like it. I prefer you when you’re a jerk.”
Good old Rhonda, thought Lee, taking a swig from his water bottle. He handed it to her. “Here, take a huge mouthful and don’t swallow.”
“What?!”
“We’ll see who can hold it in the longest. Come on.”
“Me? Take a swig from something that just touched your lips? You got some kind of brain-eating virus, or what?”
“Just wipe it off, Turkey Gizzard. I’ll bet you won’t last more than twenty seconds.”
Rhonda grabbed the bottle and wiped it a couple of hundred times on her T-shirt. Even then, she refused to let the bottle touch her lips. She put her head back and poured in a big mouthful. Lee took the bottle back and took his own huge swig. He already knew from experience that it doesn’t take long to feel like a bozo-brain when your mouth is bulging with water, and what’s left then but to laugh? Rhonda was the first to explode, spraying water everywhere, and choking with laughter. Lee lost it soon after that.
Rhonda tried several more times to outlast Lee but lost every time. They were getting soaked.
“Come on,” said Rhonda. “One more time. I know I can do it.”
Lee took an extra huge mouthful and looked up just in time to see—oh no, please, no—gorgeous Charlotte Bailey crossing the street toward him. Had she ever said a word to him in her entire life? Of course not. Did she choose today, when he was holding a gallon of water in his mouth li
ke some dork, to acknowledge him? Of course. “Hi Lee.”
Lee tried swallowing his water in one gulp—what was he going to do, hork it out in front of her?—but he took in some air as he swallowed, and the pain of it going down made his eyes water. He opened his mouth to say “Hi,” but the word came out trapped inside a huge belch.
She looked at him, stunned for a second, then shook her head and said one word: “Charming.” As gorgeous Charlotte Bailey walked off, Rhonda fell on the sidewalk clutching her gut with laughter.
On any other day, this would have been enough to ruin Lee’s day (his year). But, nope. Not today. Nope, nope, nope. I’m fine, thought Lee. Really, I’m fine. He looked down at Rhonda and yelled it out loud: “I’m fine!” which sent Rhonda into another wave of hysterics.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I ain’t no physicist, but I knows what matters.
Popeye the Sailor Man
Doesn’t matter, thought Lee. I’m no Einstein, but at least I know what matters and what doesn’t, and this math mark doesn’t. Said it before, and I’ll say it again: Ain’t nothin’ gonna bring me down today.
When Mr. Wood entered the class, Lee McGillicuddy wasn’t the only kid trying to convince himself that a failing math mark wasn’t the end of the world. Decimals are no picnic, and judging by the look on Mr. Wood’s face, the exam results were dismal.
“People,” he said, rocking on his heels and tilting his head back to look at them through the bottom of his bifocals. “Either I’m the world’s worst teacher, or you geniuses neglected to study. And I’d put my money on the latter. How about you?”
No one bothered to answer. Most of the students stared down at various names scratched on top of their desks. On his own desk, Lee zeroed in on a badly carved heart with the words Charlotte Bailey Loves L.M. engraved inside; clearly the work of some brainchild with a turds-for-brains sense of humor, thought Lee.
“Now, this was an important exam,” continued Mr. Wood. “It counts for twenty percent of your final mark. And as you well know, there are no rewrites for final exams.” He looked around at the glum faces currently avoiding his glare. “For those of you who weren’t listening, as usual, I will repeat that last sentence,”—and here Mr. Wood raised his voice for the benefit of the habitual non-listeners—“THIS EXAM COUNTS FOR …”
Few people in the class missed the undertones of someone’s disgusted mumbling.
Mr. Wood certainly didn’t.
“Mr. McGillicuddy!” he said, his words as sharp as a yardstick whacking a desktop. “It seems you have something important to say. Please say it loud enough for the benefit of all.”
“That’s okay,” said Lee, reddening.
“It is not okay,” said Mr. Wood. “It is not okay, at all. If your thoughts are important enough to interrupt my class, they must be of utmost significance, and I for one would not want to deprive the class of such momentous thoughts.”
Lee remained silent, and then he thought, Fine. You want to know, I’ll tell you. He stood up beside his desk and repeated what he had formerly mumbled. This time his words were loud and clear. “Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.”
Mr. Wood raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mr. McGillicuddy,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down at the tips of his nerdy shoes, “if I were an English teacher, I would give you an A-plus for such inspired originality, but as it is, I am a Math teacher, and—”
“Those aren’t my words,” interrupted Lee.
“No doubt,” smiled Mr. Wood. “Whose, pray tell, are they?”
“Albert Einstein’s.”
“Really,” said Mr. Wood, smugly looking at the rest of the class, even though he was addressing Lee. “And have you managed to keep anything else that Mr. Einstein said in that head of yours?” Two seconds of silence.
Okay, you asked for it, thought Lee. “As a matter of fact, yes, Mr. Wood. May I write it on the board?”
“Please,” said Mr. Wood, holding up a piece of chalk for Lee.
Lee wondered if he’d finally gone and lost his cotton-pickin’ mind as he walked to the front of the room. Still, it was too late for that now. He took the piece of chalk and wrote one sentence on the board: The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education. Then he signed Albert Einstein’s name and underlined it three times.
“Well, well,” cooed Mr. Wood, “a real rebel, your Mr. Einstein. Is there anything else you’d like to share with us before I send you to the office for disrupting my class?”
Lee wondered if anyone could see the smoke that was surely pouring from his own scarlet ears. “As a matter of fact, yes,” said Lee, and he turned back to the board and wrote one last sentence, his hand shaking this time: Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from weak minds. This time he underlined Albert’s name four times.
“And do tell us, Mr. McGillicuddy,” said Mr. Wood, again addressing the class instead of Lee, “into which category do you fall? That of a great spirit or a weak mind?”
Some of Lee’s classmates laughed.
“Laugh if you like,” said Lee, cursing the wobble in his voice. “But there were enough dummies who believed that Einstein had a weak mind.”
“And how would you know that, I wonder?” asked Mr. Wood.
“He was refused by the first university he applied to,” said Lee. “They said he didn’t show enough potential as a student.”
More nervous laughter from the class. Mr. Wood waited for the laughter to die before saying, “And your point is?”
I’m okay. For sure. I’m fine, thought Lee, as he replaced the chalk on the ledge and slowly walked toward the door.
“Way to go, Einstein,” called someone from the back row. Lee knew instantly that from this day on, he’d never be known by any other name. Well, there were worse names. Einstein. He’d wear it with pride.
I’m fine. Really. Nothing can bring me down today.
That’s what he told himself as he stepped out into the hall.
Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions.
Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.
– Mark Twain
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Well, finally,” said Agnes, when Lee walked in the door that day. “We were starting to worry. Where have you been?”
Lee stared at the spectacle in Agnes’s front room. She was on her knees in front of Rhonda, who was standing on the leather footstool in her unlaced high-tops, with her bare, skinny legs sticking out of … some weird thing she was wearing.
“What the heck is that?” said Lee.
Agnes spoke around the pins sticking out of her mouth. “It’s a bed jacket,” she said. “I’m just finishing the hem.” With that, she stuck a pin through the fabric and Rhonda came alive.
“Ouch!”
“Oops, sorry, love.”
Lee stared at Rhonda in the bizarre looking “jacket.” It looked as if it was made out of a pink bedspread. The sleeves hung at least six inches past Rhonda’s fingertips. “What the heck is a bed jacket?”
“You wear it when you’re sitting up in bed reading, or knitting, or some such thing,” said Agnes.
“You knit?!” said Lee to Rhonda.
“It’s not for me, ya big dough-brain. You think I’d be caught dead in something like this?”
“So who’s it for?”
“Some old dear in the seniors home,” said Agnes. “I’ll take it along on one of my visits. I’ll know exactly who it’s for once I meet her.”
Lee smirked at Rhonda who glared back at him.
“You didn’t tell me why you’re late,” said Agnes.
Lee slumped into a chair. “I was sitting on a park bench.”
“For two hours?!” Agnes took a closer look at Lee. “You okay?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine. Really.”
Agnes took the pins
from her mouth, stuck them into the pincushion, and got to her feet slowly, pressing her hands against the small of her arthritic back.
“You look different today,” said Agnes. It was the second time in one day someone had told him that.
“You’re very pale. Come here and let me see your tongue.”
“No, I’m fine, yeah, really, no, never been better,” mumbled Lee all the way to his bedroom. Agnes and Rhonda looked at one another.
Rhonda shrugged. “He’s been acting weird all day.” She wiped her perspiring forehead. “Can I get out of this ugly thing now?”
Lee was relieved to find that Rhonda wasn’t joining them for dinner that night. During the meal, Agnes kept a suspicious eye on Lee. He knew she was dying to ask him what was up— he was way too quiet for her liking—but he just didn’t have the energy to talk about it. Instead, he said: “Bass the putter, please.” That usually got a smile out of her. Today she just raised an eyebrow and passed the butter with one of her “you’re not fooling me” looks.
“Your mother tells me you’re going to a football game tonight, Sonny.”
“Soccer,” said Lee.
Agnes waved an impatient hand—soccer, football, he knew it was all the same to her.
“Matter of fact,” said Lee looking at his watch, and pushing his chair away from the table, “I’d better get going if I want to be on time. Thanks for supper. See ya later.” The game wasn’t for another hour, but Agnes didn’t need to know that. Besides, he’d caught a whiff of Agnes’s banana brick baking in the oven and his day had been heavy enough without adding a ten-pound slice of that stuff on top.
He went outside and waved the leash at Santiago. “Come on, girl.” She came bounding toward Lee and he snapped the chain onto her collar, slipped the leash over the handlebar of his bike, and jumped on. Santiago gave one of her “Yes!” yips and ran alongside the bike. The soccer complex wasn’t more than a twenty-minute ride from his house, so he pedaled slowly and tried to let the breeze blow the film of this crappy day from his skin. When he got there, he locked his bike to the chain-link fence and ambled over to the empty stands. He sat at the far end of the lowest bleacher so he could keep Santiago in the grass beside him. There was still loads of time, so, what the heck, he unclipped the leash and let Santiago run free for a while.
The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records Page 6
