Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie

by David Lubar

  The scary thing was that the big kids didn’t seem angry. I’m pretty sure they trashed his stuff by reflex, like they were scratching an itch or squashing a bug. Some people step on ants. Some people step on freshmen. I guess it was better to be a freshman than an ant. At least the seniors didn’t have giant magnifying glasses.

  Mouth was spared from further damage by the arrival of transportation. With an ear-killing squeal of brakes, the bus skidded to the curb, bathing us in the thick aroma of diesel fuel, motor oil, and a faint whiff of cooked antifreeze. The driver opened the door and glared at Mouth as the mob pushed their way aboard. “Pick up that mess, kid!” he shouted.

  When I walked past Mouth, I thought about giving him a hand.

  “You’re holding us up!” the driver shouted. He kept his glare aimed in my direction while he took a gulp of coffee from a grimy thermos cup. Great—of all the types of bus drivers in the world, I had to get a shouter.

  I hurried on board, hoping to grab a seat near Julia. No such luck.

  As dangerous as the bus stop is, at least there are places to run. There’s no escape from the bus. It’s like a traveling version of a war game. All that’s missing is paintball guns and maybe a couple foxholes. I could swear one of the kids in the back was in his twenties. I think he was shaving.

  I sat up front.

  That wasn’t much better, since every big kid who got on at the rest of the stops had a chance to smack my head. I should have grabbed a seat behind Sheldon Murmbower. There was something about his head that attracted swats. Everyone within two or three rows of him was pretty safe.

  For the moment, all I could do was try to learn invisibility. I opened my backpack and searched for something to keep me busy. Now I really wished I’d brought that field guide, or anything else to read. All I had was blank notebooks, pens, and pencils. I grabbed a notebook. The driver was shouting at a new batch of kids as they got on. Then he shouted at Mouth, who was sitting in the front seat.

  “Shut up, kid! You’re distracting me.”

  Last year was so much better. I had the greatest driver. Louie. He used to drive a city bus. That gave me an idea. I started writing. It didn’t cut down on the smacks as much as I’d hoped, but it kept my mind off them.

  Scott Hudson’s Field Guide to School-Bus Drivers

  Retired City-Bus Driver: Unbelievably skilled. Can fit the bus through the narrowest opening. Never hits anything by accident but might bump a slow-moving car on purpose. Spits out the window a lot. Never looks in the mirror to check on us. Knows all the best swear words.

  Ex-hippie (or Child of Hippies): Has a ponytail, smiles too much, uses words like groovy. Likes to weave back and forth between the lanes in time to Grateful Dead music. Wears loose, colorful clothing. Smells like incense. Refuses to believe it’s the twenty-first century.

  College Student: Similar to the hippie, but no ponytail. Hits stuff once in a while. Studies for exams while driving. Sometimes takes naps at red lights or does homework while steering with knees.

  Beginner: Very nervous. Goes slowly. Can’t get out of first gear, but still manages to hit stuff pretty often. Makes all kinds of cool sounds when frightened. Occasionally shuts eyes.

  Shouter: Very loud. Goes fast. Slams the door. Likes country music, NASCAR, and black coffee. Hands tend to shake when they’re not clutching the wheel. Often has broken blood vessels in eyes. Usually needs a shave. Always needs a shower.

  Twenty minutes and one full page later, we reached J. P. Zenger High.

  “No pushing,” the driver shouted as we scrambled out.

  “High school,” Mouth said, staggering to the side as someone pushed him out of the way. “Here we come. This is going to be great. We’re going to rule this place.”

  Wrong, Mouth. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

  There were so many buses, the parking lot smelled like a truck stop. On top of that, the lot was jammed with a long line of parents dropping off kids and a wave of seniors driving their own cars with varying degrees of skill.

  I stood on the curb for a moment, my eyes wide and my head tilted back. I’d seen it a thousand times before, but I’d never really looked at it. Zenger High was huge. It sprawled out like a hotel that had a desperate desire to become an octopus. Every couple years, the town built another addition. The school mascot should have been a bulldozer.

  My homeroom was located as far as possible from the bus area. I got lost twice. The first time, I asked some older kid for directions, and he sent me off to what turned out to be the furnace room. I assumed this was an example of upperclassman humor. The janitor, who I’d wakened from a nap, yelled at me. I reached my desk just before the late bell rang.

  I didn’t see a single familiar face in homeroom. The teacher passed out blank assignment books. Then he gave us our schedules. I scanned mine, hoping to get at least a clue about what lay ahead.

  Period Class Teacher

  1st H. English Mr. Franka

  2nd Gym/Study Hall Mr. Cravutto/Staff

  3rd Art Ms. Savitch

  4th Lunch

  5th C.P. History Mr. Ferragamo

  6th C.P. Algebra Ms. Flutemeyer

  7th Life Skills Ms. Pell

  8th C.P. Spanish Ms. de Gaulle

  9th C.P. Chemistry Ms. Balmer

  I had no idea what the H or the C.P. stood for. Since there was no teacher listed for lunch, I grabbed a pen and wrote Mr. E. Meat.

  My first class turned out to be as far as possible from homeroom, and nearly impossible to find. But at least I knew enough not to ask for directions. Ten minutes into my freshman year, I’d already learned an important lesson.

  When I reached the room, I finally saw a face I recognized. The same face I hadn’t recognized earlier. Julia was in my English class, along with Kelly, and a couple other kids I knew. Still no sign of Kyle, Patrick, or Mitch.

  I grabbed a seat two rows away from Julia. Things were looking up.

  “Welcome to Honors English,” Mr. Franka said. He was a short guy with a beard and sideburns and the sort of rugged face you see on the cable hunting shows. Instead of a camouflage outfit, he was wearing a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but no tie or jacket. “I hope you all love to read.” He grabbed a stack of paperbacks from his desk and started tossing them out like literary Frisbees. I noticed a Marine tattoo on his left forearm.

  He also passed out a textbook, which weighed about nine pounds. Fortunately, he didn’t toss it. Otherwise, there’d probably have been a death or two in the back row.

  Instead of reading in class, we started discussing how to define a short story. It was actually fun. I didn’t say too much. I didn’t want anyone to think I was some kind of brain—which I’m not. I wasn’t even sure how I’d ended up in the honors class. Maybe it was because of the tests we’d taken at the end of last year.

  Mr. Franka kept asking us all sorts of questions to keep the discussion going. At one point, he said, “What do you think is easier to write, a short story or a novel?”

  I almost raised my hand. I’d read so many of both, I figured I had a good answer. A story was harder because you couldn’t wander around. You had to stick to the subject. At least in a good story. It was a matter of focus.

  Most of the kids said that a novel would be harder because it was longer. I wasn’t sure whether to speak up or just keep quiet. Then Julia raised her hand. “I think stories are harder,” she said. “In a novel, the writer can wander. In a story, the writer has to stay focused.”

  “Right!” Oh great. I hadn’t meant to shout. But it was so amazing to find we felt the same way. Everyone was looking at me. “I agree,” I said in a quieter voice as I slunk down in my seat. Wonderful. Now she’d think I was some kind of suck-up.

  At the end of the period, Mr. Franka wrote our homework on the board and passed out a vocabulary book. One class—three books. This was not a good sign.

  There was a dash for the door when the bell rang. The hall was jammed with
freshmen walking in circles, ellipses, zigzags, and other patterns that marked us as clueless members of the lost generation. Or lost members of the clueless generation.

  I saw Patrick in study hall, but the teacher wouldn’t let us talk. For some reason, he thought we should be studying.

  We made color charts in art class, which was pretty interesting. On the way out, Ms. Savitch gave us a photocopy of an article about Van Gogh. I was beginning to calculate my reading load by the pound instead of the page. But that was okay. I could handle it.

  {three}

  i met up with the guys at lunch. I got there late because the cafeteria is not only really far from my art class, but also amazingly well hidden. I probably never would have found it if I hadn’t detected the unique aroma of burned hair, rotting peaches, and cinnamon drifting out the door. Oh—and a subtle hint of butterscotch pudding.

  “How’s it going?” I asked. At least this part felt familiar. We’d sat together through middle school. Even the round tables were the same. And the wobbly plastic chairs.

  “It’s going fine,” Kyle said.

  Patrick nodded. “Yup. As long as you stay out of the way of the seniors, it’s okay. Except for getting lost.”

  “Yeah, this place is like a tesseract,” I said.

  Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

  “You know. A tesseract. From A Wrinkle in Time.”

  The stares were joined by head shakes.

  “A cube twisted into another dimension,” I said.

  Head shakes gave way to sighs. Eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Shrugging shoulders twisted into other dimensions.

  “Never mind.”

  “You’re such a mutant,” Kyle said.

  “Yeah, but he’s our very own mutant,” Patrick said. “All the other kids are jealous.”

  I reached across the table and flipped open Patrick’s assignment book. There was nothing on the page except some doodles. “No homework?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Patrick said. “It’s the first day.”

  I glanced down and noticed Mitch’s schedule. Most of the classes had T.P. next to them. “What’s T.P.?” I asked.

  “Toilet paper,” Kyle said. “If you don’t know that, you’d better run home and change your underwear.”

  “Tech prep,” Patrick said. “Isn’t that what you have?”

  “Nope.” So that explained why they weren’t in my classes. I was dying to ask if they’d noticed Julia, but I didn’t want them to think I was obsessed with her or anything. So I sat and listened while they made fun of their teachers.

  Patrick was definitely right about avoiding seniors. On the way out of the cafeteria, this big guy knocked my books from under my arm. He grinned and said, “Oops. Must suck to be a freshman.” Then he strutted away.

  As I was grabbing my stuff, and earning a couple kicks in the rear from passing kids, Kyle sprinted ahead and knocked the guy’s books out from under his arm. “Oops to you, too,” Kyle said when the guy spun around. “Must suck to lose teeth.”

  The guy stared at him for a moment. Kyle stared back. Then the guy snatched his books from the floor and walked off.

  “Hey, thanks, but you didn’t have to do that,” I said.

  “No one messes with my friends,” Kyle said. He’d broken his nose way back in first grade. It had healed kind of crooked, which made him look tough. Everyone figured he liked to fight. The truth is, he broke it falling off a rocking horse. But that didn’t matter. Once you had a reputation, good or bad, it stayed with you.

  On the way to my next class, I got relieved of my “spare change” by a guy who could work as a debt collector for the Mob. I was glad Kyle wasn’t around to try to help me. He would have gotten killed. Though I’d bet Bobby could have taken the guy.

  My little miscommunication with tesseract was nothing compared to the language barrier that greeted me in my next class. I’d picked Spanish for my foreign language because I figured it would be easier than French or German. It seemed like a great idea until the period started.

  The teacher, Ms. de Gaulle, opened her mouth and made some sounds that sort of resembled a sentence, though none of it contained any meaning. We all looked at one another and shrugged. That didn’t seem to bother her. She smiled and repeated the sentence.

  Everyone stared at her.

  She spoke again. And again. Eventually, we figured out that we were supposed to repeat what she said. That seemed to make her happy. It reminded me of when I was little and I used to dream up magic spells. Abra-ca-dumbo. Hocus mucus. Presto squisho.

  During the rest of the day, I got lost three more times, yelled at twice, and nearly trampled when I headed up a flight of stairs while everyone else on the planet was racing down. My last class was really far from my locker, which was really far from the parking lot. I almost missed the bus. By the time I left Zenger High, my head was stuffed with a jumble of facts and figures, and my backpack weighed eighty-five pounds. Between my homework and a couple comments I couldn’t resist adding, I’d already filled a page in my assignment book. At least it would be a short week, since school had started on a Wednesday. If this had been a Monday, I think I would have just quit right then and joined the army.

  “Man, high school is awesome,” Mouth said when we got on the bus. He looked like he’d been forced through a meat grinder at least twice. His clothes were rumpled, his backpack had footprints on it, and one of his shoelaces was missing. But he seemed happy.

  I tuned him out as he launched into more details about his awesome day.

  Scott Hudson’s Assignment Book

  English—Read “The Lottery.” Read chapter one in the textbook and answer the questions on page 19. Learn the first twenty vocabulary words.

  Art—Read the article on Van Gogh. Sketch something interesting you find in your room. There’s that piece of pizza that fell behind my dresser last month.

  Algebra—Read pages 7–14. Do the odd-numbered problems. From what I’ve seen, they’re all pretty odd.

  Spanish—I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do. The teacher wrote the assignment on the board in Spanish. What the heck’s a cuaderno?

  History—Read the first three chapters. Answer the questions at the end. Try to stay awake.

  Chemistry—Read pages 3–14. Answer the questions on page 15. Count the atoms in your house. For extra credit, count the atoms in your neighborhood.

  {four}

  mom was in the kitchen when I got home from school. I thought she was looking through a photo album, but when I got closer I saw it was wallpaper samples.

  “You redecorating?” I asked.

  She looked up and said, “Hi, hon. How was school?”

  “Fine.” The page she’d stopped at had a pattern with little rocking horses on it. “Those things are dangerous,” I said.

  She flipped the book closed. “Would you like a snack?”

  “Maybe in a bit. I got a ton of stuff to do.” I headed upstairs to face my homework.

  I read the story Mr. Franka had assigned for English. It was really good. And creepy enough to give me hope that English would be fun this year. Then I read the article about Van Gogh, which was also pretty interesting, and also sort of creepy in its own way. The vocabulary list wasn’t a problem, since I already knew all but one of the words. I tried to decide what to do next, but none of it looked like much fun, so I read a couple more stories from the book. By then, it was time for dinner. Mom had roasted a chicken, with stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. I figured I could get everything done easily enough after we ate.

  “How was school?” Dad asked. He’d just gotten home from work, but had already changed out of his button-down shirt. He runs the service department for Linwood Mercedes over in Allentown. He’d rather work on cars than boss around the guys who do the work, and he’d really rather work on classic American muscle cars than hugely expensive luxury vehicles, but the offer was too good to refuse. Besides, if he saves up enough, he can open his own
garage someday and get to do what he really wants.

  “School was fine.” I grabbed the gravy and swamped my chicken.

  Dad looked at Mom. “Did you …?”

  Mom shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” they both said. Too loudly, and too quickly.

  I figured I should let it drop. But I spotted the newspaper over on the counter by the microwave. I went over, lifted it up, and stared at what lay beneath. Two magazines. I spread them out.

  No alien Elvises. No six-legged cows. Something much scarier. The first magazine had a smiling baby on the cover. The other showed a smiling woman who looked like she was smuggling a watermelon under her dress. I spun back to face my parents. “Did Bobby get some girl pregnant?” I wasn’t ready to be an uncle. And Bobby sure wasn’t ready to be a dad.

  Another perfect chorus from my parents. “No!”

  “Then who …?” I didn’t even need to finish the question. Mom’s face broadcast the answer.

  “We just found out,” Dad said. “Dr. Rudrick wanted your mom to take this medicine for her headache, but he needed to make sure she wasn’t pregnant first. As it turned out, she was.”

  A baby …

  I staggered back to the table. This was so huge, I couldn’t even grasp the full meaning. It was like trying to inhale all the air in a beach ball.

  Mom reached out and ruffled my hair. “Now don’t you worry. You’re still my little boy.”

  A baby …

  Images flashed through my mind, like a multimedia video from hell. I saw the whole house filled from floor to ceiling with dirty diapers. And puddles of baby puke. Clouds of scented talcum powder drifted through the scene like horror-movie fog. All to the background music of constant crying.

  “Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” Dad said.

  “Yup.”

  “We wanted to wait a while before we told you,” he said, “but I guess you suspected something was going on.”