“What?”
“You know. From the back room.”
There was a pause, then he started laughing. “Hey, Bill,” he said to the other barber, “you seen the hair stretcher?” Soon everyone in the shop was laughing, and I went around for the next month looking like a complete dork.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Since then, whenever we go to that barber shop, Ralph makes jokes like, “Let’s get that hair stretcher ready!” I try to avoid him, but when I end up in his chair, he always cuts my hair as short as he can get away with. That’s what happened last week. Not a crew cut, but close. I look ridiculous.
And that’s how I felt when I walked into Mr. Newton’s office. It was really early, forty-five minutes before the start of school. Mrs. McGillicuddy, the secretary, was typing something. “I’m here to see Mr. Newton?” I said.
“What did you do?” she asked, without looking up.
“I . . . um . . . I’m not sure.”
“Well, he’s not here yet,” she said. “You’ll have to wait.”
Sitting in the principal’s office, waiting, is not something I’m used to doing. I’d never been called into the principal’s office, except for one time, in fourth grade, when I was in Miss Baker’s class. It was December of 1968 and she was teaching us how to write letters. Richard Nixon had just been elected president.
“He is now the president-elect,” she explained, “and our class is going to write letters to congratulate him on his victory and say how glad we are that he will be running the country.”
Except I wasn’t glad at all. He only won because Robert Kennedy had been assassinated and Gene McCarthy was too good a guy to be president. But I didn’t want to fool with Miss Baker—who’d been a sergeant in the Women’s Army Corps—so I wrote the letter as instructed. But I also wrote a second one, saying what I really thought—that if I was old enough to vote, and if America had been attacked by Soviet nuclear bombs so that he was the only one left in the entire country, I still wouldn’t have voted for him.
At the end of the day, just as Miss Baker was standing by the door, I snuck up to her desk, where there was a big envelope with all our letters, and switched mine. I would have gotten away with it too, because she read and graded them all before she put them in the envelope. But then in February, we got a reply from the White House. Miss Baker opened it up, all excited, and read it to the class. President Nixon promised to serve the country well, with the support of the American people. He thanked the children of Bixby School for their good wishes, then added, “. . . even Joel, who would not have voted for me.”
That was the only other time I had been called into the principal’s office, and questioned by Mr. Newton, who seemed more confused than angry. In the end, Mrs. McGillicuddy used Wite-Out to cover up the part about me. It looked funny, though, because Nixon’s stationery is beige, and Wite-Out is white. They framed it anyway and hung it on the wall behind Mrs. McGillicuddy’s desk. Now, as I looked at it, I began to wonder if I had been called in because the Secret Service had finally tracked me down. Part of me knew that was a crazy thought, but you never can tell with Nixon. And it doesn’t take much to feel guilty when you’re sitting in the principal’s office, especially when you’re Jewish.
It’s like this joke my dad told me about two Jewish guys walking down the street in Nazi Germany. They see a Gestapo soldier following them, and one turns to the other and says, “What do I do? I don’t have any papers!” The other thinks a moment, then says, “I have papers. I’ll run away and he’ll follow me. You walk home like everything’s fine.”
So the one guy takes off running and, sure enough, the soldier chases him. He runs and runs, until finally the soldier catches him. They stand there, huffing and puffing, until the soldier can speak.
“Give me your papers!”
The man takes out his papers and hands them to the officer, who examines them, surprised.
“But they’re all in order!” he says.
“Yes, they are.”
“Why were you running?”
“My doctor told me to run five miles every day.”
“I see,” says the Gestapo officer, still trying to catch his breath. “But why didn’t you stop when you saw me running?”
“I thought maybe you had the same doctor!”
I sat there, the clock ticking away, with just fifteen minutes until the first bell. If Mr. Newton didn’t come soon, I would be late for Mr. Culpepper’s class, which would call more attention to me—the last thing I wanted.
I started to squirm and thought about Houdini, the greatest escape artist ever. He could escape from anything: straitjackets, prison cells, every kind of handcuff ever made, even locked safes! He had this one trick, his grand finale, called the Water Torture Cell. He would have members of the audience lock him up in all kinds of chains and handcuffs and ankle cuffs. Then they would turn a crank that pulled the heavy chain around his feet until he was suspended by his ankles over this big glass box, filled to the top with water. They would lower him into it, headfirst, water splashing everywhere. You could see him there, upside down, with bubbles coming out of his mouth, so you knew the clock was ticking. In fact, there was a giant clock onstage, counting the seconds. There were also firemen at the back of the theater, dressed in yellow raincoats, with big axes, so that if anything went wrong, they could rush up to the stage and shatter the glass to save him.
Once the top was locked, they would close a curtain around it. All you could do was watch the clock and wait. And wait. And wait.
After a minute or so the audience would start getting restless—many had naturally started to hold their breath as soon as Houdini went into the water, and one by one, they gave up. After about three minutes, they would begin talking to each other. You could feel the worry in the air. Four minutes. Five minutes. Six. Seven.
Their talk would grow into grumbles, even shouts.
“Something’s wrong!”
“He’s not getting out!”
“Do something!”
But the clock kept ticking. Eight minutes. Nine. Ten.
Everyone would be standing up, shouting for someone, anyone, to do something. Twelve minutes. Fifteen. Seventeen. Finally, when the whole crowd was going crazy, the firemen at the back of the auditorium would rush up with their axes to break the glass. They would pull back the curtain around the Water Torture Cell—and it would be empty!
The audience would gasp. Even the fire captain would take off his helmet to scratch his head in wonder. Then he would turn to face them.
It was Houdini!
The crowd went wild.
Here’s what no one knew: Houdini had actually escaped really quickly. It took him less than two minutes to get out of the Water Torture Cell. That, in itself, is amazing.
A lesser showman would simply have escaped and immediately said, “Ta-da!”
But not Houdini. He waited until the time was right. And you know what he did during that time? He read.
That’s right. He sat backstage, reading a book. Maybe he was studying science or math. Or maybe he was learning yet another language, after Hungarian and English.
Almost every picture you see of Houdini has him wrapped in chains. But when I picture him, he’s sitting backstage, listening to the crowd freak out as he turns the pages of his book before putting on his raincoat and helmet, then heading down the secret passage to the front of the theater.
But that’s not even what I like best about Houdini. The coolest thing, I think, is his real name. Houdini was a stage name he took after Robert-Houdin, a French magician in the 1800s. Houdin was good, but he was no Houdini.
You know what Houdini’s real name was?
Erik Weisz. That’s right. And that explains why he would sit there and study. Houdini was Jewish. Not weakling Jewish, like me, but super-duper strong Jewish.
He
re’s the weird thing: Erik Weisz was actually the name of this kid at our temple who became a bar mitzvah when I was a little kid. (He didn’t get bar mitzvahed, because even Houdini couldn’t do that.) The bar mitzvah of this Eric Weiss—spelled differently but pronounced the same—was something of a legend. He was right in the very middle of chanting his Haftorah portion when his voice cracked. It didn’t just crack—it actually split in two. One moment he had a super-high voice, the next, a baritone.
Of course, you’re not supposed to laugh when you’re sitting there in the synagogue, especially during someone’s bar mitzvah. We all knew that. But it turns out there’s nothing quite so funny as a whole sanctuary full of people trying not to laugh.
Actually, there is one thing funnier. That was Rabbi Buxelbaum, who was also trying not to laugh as he watched all of us trying not to laugh. To Rabbi Buxelbaum’s credit, he managed not to laugh during the service, though there were tears running down his face.
Of course, everyone felt bad a month later when Rabbi Buxelbaum died of an embolism—that’s when part of your brain pops. Nobody mentioned Eric’s Haftorah, but you’ve got to wonder what happens to laughter that gets stuck in your brain. Maybe Eric had something to feel guilty about. But me, what had I done but laugh and sneeze?
“Joel?”
I looked up to see Mr. Newton standing at his door, waiting.
“Mrs. Gobbler told me to come see you,” I said.
“You mean Mrs. Gabbler?”
“Gabbler. Yes. Mrs. Gabbler.” That was dumb.
“Right. Come in.” He motioned for me to sit in a brown metal chair across from his desk. When I did, it wobbled. “So?” Mr. Newton said. “Have you given it some thought?”
I nodded. It seemed the only thing I could do was apologize.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought. And . . . all I can say is . . . I’m really sorry.”
“I see,” he said. He looked disappointed. “May I ask why?”
“Well, I guess . . . doing that is, um, wrong.”
“Wrong?” He still didn’t seem satisfied and I had no idea what else to say. He took a deep breath. “I’ll certainly respect your decision,” he finally said, “but I have to tell you it would really mean a lot to us. To the whole school. I think it would make other students feel better. You know, about being here on Monday.”
What? When? I was confused, and starting to sweat.
“The way we’d imagined, it would be to start with some songs, Christmas carols.” He corrected himself. “Rather, holiday carols. And then you’d come up. Along with your family. Monday is the last day of the holiday, right?”
I stared at him, baffled.
“Are you talking about the assembly?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“You want me to be onstage at the assembly? Why?”
“To light the candles. And tell the story of Chaanukah,” Mr. Newton said.
“Lighting candles? With my family?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I thought Mrs. Gabbler had talked to you about it. You see, last week at the faculty meeting, we were discussing the winter holiday assembly, which had to be moved to Monday, and what would make it special. Several of your teachers mentioned how when you were younger you used to tell the story of the holiday each year in class. So we’d like to ask you to do it this year, at Monday’s assembly, for the whole school. And we’re inviting your family as well, to light the candles in the, uh, menorah, I think you call it? That way the whole school can see how the Jewish people celebrate.” There was a long pause while I took that in. “So, what do you think?”
What did I think? I thought of Houdini in the Water Torture Cell, stuck, out of breath, unable to escape, the minutes ticking away . . . But I just sort of nodded.
“Great!” he said. “Oh, and by the way, don’t tell any of the other kids.” He winked. “We want it to be a surprise.”
The first bell rang.
“You’d better get to class,” he said.
Tell anyone about it? Was he out of his mind?! Like I would walk up to someone and say, “Hey, guess what? I may look like a dork, and you may suspect I actually am a dork, but on Monday I’m going to stand up in front of the whole school with my dorky family and prove it!”
No, this secret would die with me, hopefully before Monday. I made it to class on time and, luckily, no one asked what had happened in the principal’s office. In fact, all day long no one said anything, which was great, until last period—Home Economics. It’s supposed to be a class just for girls, but this year, as part of Women’s Liberation, they decided to let girls take Wood Shop and boys take Home Ec. The good part is we get to eat. So far we’ve learned to make pancakes and cookies, and today, Mrs. Hernandez was teaching us to make deviled eggs.
“Once you’ve hardboiled the egg,” she said, “the trick to peeling the shell is to roll it gently on the table.”
I was doing pretty well until a voice behind me said, “Hey, Joel—what happened in the principal’s office?”
It was Amy O’Shea.
“Nothing, really,” I lied.
“Did Mrs. Gabbler say anything about what’s happening on Monday?”
“What? Why?” I smashed my egg. How did Amy know? “Um . . . no,” I said. That, at least, was true. She hadn’t said anything. But he sure had.
Evidently I hadn’t cooked the egg long enough either, because there was gooey yolk all over my hand.
I’d better tell you about Amy O’Shea. You wouldn’t think someone who looks like me would have a girlfriend. And you’d be right. Magicians don’t have girlfriends—we have assistants. Mine is Amy O’Shea.
I’ve known her since first grade, though we never talked much, because, well, she was a girl and I was a boy. Also, she always sat in the back of the classroom. Some kids sit there because they don’t want the teacher to call on them. That’s not the case with Amy; she knew the answer to every question. She was back there so she could practice drawing horses. Even in first grade she was really good at it. She knew all their muscles and had these special techniques of perspective that made her pictures look three-dimensional. Since then, she’s gotten better and better. Her horses look like they’re going to come to life and run off the page.
Then, at the start of sixth grade, two things happened to Amy. One is that she suddenly got beautiful. Like too-beautiful-to-even-imagine-talking-to beautiful. I mean, she had never been homely, like me. She always looked like, well, Amy. But when we came back from summer vacation, all the boys said, “Wow! Have you seen Amy?”
The other thing that happened was she became a radical. She ran for student council, and made speeches about all the things she wanted to change at Bixby, like abolishing the dress code and having better food in the cafeteria. She won the election, no problem. She’s the most popular girl at Bixby—and every boy has a crush on her.
You’re probably wondering how someone as pretty and popular as Amy O’Shea would end up spending time with a dork like me.
Here’s what happened: One day last spring I went in after school to see Mr. Winters, my sixth-grade English teacher. Amy was there too, cleaning the chalkboard.
I was there to show him a card trick I’d just made up. It started like every other card trick.
“Okay, Mr. Winters, pick a card.” He did. “Now, don’t show it to me. Just put it back in the deck, and shuffle it.”
This was all pretty much standard. Then the routine kicked in.
“Now, the problem with being a magician,” I said, “is that no one trusts you. Like, you just picked a card from this deck, but you probably think it’s already hidden somewhere, or up my sleeve. Am I right?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said.
“So I’d like you to check. Just look through the cards—don’t show me—and make sure your card is there.”
&nbs
p; He looked, then looked again. “Hold on,” he said, then frowned. “It’s not here. Where did it go?”
“What will you give me if I tell you?”
“What do you want?”
“To change my grade on the spelling test. From a C+ to an A.”
I’m pretty smart, but spelling is one thing I cannot do. I can learn all the rules, like “i before e except after c, or when sounding like a as in neighbor or weigh.” The problem is that sometimes the rules don’t work, with words like weird, which is a weird word. In those cases, you’re just supposed to memorize the way it goes, but my mind always mixes up the letters.
“Joel, I can’t change your grade,” Mr. Winters said.
“All right, then. Trick’s over.” I gathered up the cards and turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” he finally said, leaning in close. “All right. Where’s my card?”
“Hmmmmmm,” I said. “You don’t trust me, so how do I know I can trust you, and that you’ll actually change my grade? Change it first—then I’ll tell you.”
He sighed, then opened the grade book. There was his card—the seven of spades. He smiled and gave me an A+.
As I walked out of the classroom, quite pleased with myself, Amy followed.
“You put the card in the grade book before you did the trick,” she said. “It was while he was stacking up the textbooks, wasn’t it?”
I didn’t say anything. “Then you made him choose it,” she went on. “Only it was another seven of spades. You had it on the bottom of the deck. Then, when he put it back, you hid it in your hand—and while he looked through the cards, you slipped it into the back pocket of your pants.” She pointed. “Which is where it is now. Right?”
Normally I hate getting caught in a trick. But she was amazing. I took the card from my back pocket.
“But don’t worry. He has no idea how you did it. He also didn’t notice that the card he picked had a blue back—and the back of the one in his grade book was red.”
Dreidels on the Brain Page 7
