by David Lubar
Book reviews? When he mentioned that, these fantasies flashed through my mind. It was like someone pointed out a road I’d never noticed. I could see myself doing it.
Yeah, right. In my spare time.
“Look. Thanks. It’s cool you offered, but I’m pretty busy. You wouldn’t believe how much work they load you down with in honors English. The teacher is brutal.”
To my relief, he grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard that guy’s a jerk. No problem. Maybe next year.”
The rest of the day, I found myself making up book reviews in my head. But as I walked toward my front door, the weight of my backpack dragged me down into the real world.
Not that the real world didn’t have rewards. The moment I stepped inside, I sniffed magic. Mom had been baking. Fresh cherry pie is the perfect after-school snack. Add vanilla ice cream and it goes beyond perfection. Heat. Cold. Sweet. Sour. Heaven.
I vacuumed the first piece. I paced myself on the second, talking with Mom while I ate. She was over by the counter, trimming chicken breasts.
“Did anyone in our family ever go to college?” I asked.
Mom frowned, as if trying to identify a stranger in a photograph, then said, “Not that I know of. Your aunt Doreen went to business school for a year. That’s sort of like college.”
“What about on Dad’s side?”
“His people have always been good with their hands.” She trimmed another piece of chicken, then said, “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering.”
Mom smiled at me. “There’s a first time for everything.”
The rest of the school week zipped past pretty quickly. After losing two more hats, Mouth switched to a jacket with a hood. Another mistake. Wednesday, I saw a couple seniors hang him from the top of a door by the wood shop. He finally managed to get free when he slipped out of the sleeves.
I saw Kyle with some seniors the next day. One of them pushed him. I figured there’d be a fight. But they all started laughing and pushing one another. I guess he knew them from somewhere.
Mitch ate lunch with his girlfriend now, instead of with us. I didn’t blame him. Outside the cafeteria, I never even saw him in school. I guess we just traveled different paths.
For the most part, high school had become a matter of life and death. Mr. Cravutto tried his best to kill us with exercise. Ms. Flutemeyer tried to slay us with quadratic equations. Mr. Ferragamo bored us to death with names and dates from the musty past. Ms. Balmer drowned us in chemical formulas.
On the other hand, Mr. Franka taught us all sorts of cool stuff. And on the third hand, Spanish class was still a total mystery.
September 14
Hey, you fluid-dwelling piece of protoplasm. You might notice that it’s been nearly a week since I’ve written anything here. I’ve been too busy. But since you aren’t even born yet, I guess that’s not a problem. Time doesn’t exist for you. At least I hope not. If it does, you’re probably bored out of your skull. If you even have a skull, yet. Or a brain.
Yuck. I wonder if your head is all squishy. To tell the truth, I know hardly anything about fetuses. And I plan to keep it that way. Though I saw one with two heads last year when Bobby took me to a carnival. I think it was fake. Speaking of which, don’t ever pay money to see “the world’s largest rat.” It’s actually a capybara. They’re supposed to be that size.
I’d bet anything you were too lazy to go get a dictionary when I mentioned ichor. Too bad. I’m not telling you what it means.
Hey—you’ll like this. We read “The Gift of the Magi” in English. It’s one of the most famous stories ever. It’s really short, so we read it right in class. I spotted something weird at the beginning. There’s a mistake. I pointed it out to Mr. Franka. He said he’d never noticed. Here. I’ll write down the opening, to see if you can spot the problem.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Delia counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
Find anything? I’ll let you think about it for a couple days. I’ll read the whole story to you sometime. It’s pretty awesome. Here’s a confession—I had to look up imputation and parsimony.
I’m outta here. I’m not going to blow Friday night sitting in my room writing notes to a cluster of goo.
“What’s the plan?” I asked when I got to Kyle’s house.
“Football game?” Patrick suggested.
“That wouldn’t be much fun,” I said. I liked pro ball and pickup games, but the last thing I wanted was to drag myself back to the school right now.
“Shows what you know,” Kyle said. “It’s got nothing to do with football. Everyone goes. It’s a chance to hang out.”
“It’s a chance to let the seniors get their hands on us,” I said. “After they’re all worked up from watching two or three hours of violence.” I wondered whether Wesley Cobble went to the games. He didn’t seem like the school-spirit sort, but he might appreciate the convenience of having so many victims packed together in one place.
“Don’t be such a wuss.” Kyle turned to Patrick. “Is it at home?”
Patrick shook his head. “It’s at Hershorn.”
“We could go to Mitch’s,” I said. “We haven’t raced cars in a while.” Mitch had an awesome slot-car track in his basement.
“Mitch isn’t around,” Kyle said. “He’s hanging out with that girl.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “They aren’t dating, are they?”
Kyle sneered. “Yup. For now. They won’t last a week. You’ll see. She’ll dump him fast.”
I looked over at Patrick. “Any ideas?”
“Rent a video?”
That’s what we ended up doing. In the movie, the dorky high school kid ended up with the hot girl. Obviously, it was a fantasy.
When I got home, I found Dad in the kitchen with a bucket of wings. “Want to help?” he asked.
“Sure.” I grabbed the milk from the fridge and joined him. We had our work cut out for us. The bucket was nearly full.
“So how’s school going?” Dad asked.
“Good.”
“Glad to hear it.” He slid the bucket toward me.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Did Mom notice you right away?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“So what did you do?”
“Showed up.”
“Where?”
“Wherever.”
“So you showed up wherever she was?”
“Or wherever she might be.”
“That must have taken a lot of time,” I said.
Dad shrugged. “Worth it.”
We finished the bucket, and I slept far into Saturday afternoon.
September 15
You have no idea what you’re doing to Mom. She keeps getting cravings. Like she’ll suddenly decide she wants fried shrimp. So Dad runs out to Long John Silver’s. When he gets home, Mom takes one bite and that’s it. Craving satisfied. Which leaves a ton of shrimp. There’s no way you can let fried shrimp go to waste. So Dad and I eat them. The next day, Mom wants chocolate ice cream. Dad buys her a quart. She eats a spoonful or two. The rest is ours. Last night, it was wings.
Dad’s starting to put on a few pounds. I’d probably be bloating up, too, if I wasn’t burning ten zillion calories in gym class.
I’ve yet to see anything good about being pregnant.
Sunday, after lunch, I was in my room reading the last chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird. It was so good, I hated to close the book and admit that it was finished. I wanted to spend more time with Scout and Dill and Atticus Finch.
A minute or two after I reached the last line, I heard Bobby come out of his room.
“Hey,” I said, catching him in the
hall. I held out the book. “Perfect timing. This is really good. I don’t have to turn it in for a couple days. Want to read it?” I figured he had plenty of free time, since he hadn’t found a job yet.
He stared at my hand as if I’d offered him a slab of month-old uncooked pork.
“It’s really good. Honest. There’s this girl named Scout. She’s just a little kid, but she’s really cool. And she has a brother who—”
“Not now,” Bobby said. “Give me a break. I’m not even awake yet. I was out real late. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
As I started to walk off, he said, “Hey, if the folks let me borrow a car, we can do something later. Want to?”
“Sure.”
I went downstairs. I could hear Dad out in the garage. Mom was in the kitchen, making applesauce. “This is pretty good,” I said, holding up the book. “You want to read it?”
She looked at the cover and smiled. “That is a good one.”
“You read it already?” I asked.
“I saw it. What a wonderful movie.”
“So maybe you’d like the book.”
“Hard to imagine it could be as good as the movie. Besides, I’ve got plenty to read.” She pointed over to the kitchen table at a stack of baby magazines, then dipped a spoon in the sauce and held it out to me. “Taste?”
“Absolutely.”
“Need more cinnamon?”
“Nope. It’s perfect. You sure you wouldn’t like to read something different for a change?”
“Why don’t you read some of it to me while I cook? How would that be?”
“Great.” I sat down and opened the book, and started to read. It felt strange. Not counting school, I’d never read to anyone before. It was also sort of nice. Right after I finished chapter three, Bobby came down.
“Can I borrow the car?” he asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Just be careful.”
“I will.” Bobby turned toward me. “Coming?”
I looked over at Mom. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got a million things to do. But thanks, I enjoyed that.”
Bobby grabbed the spare keys from the hook by the door and we headed out.
“So what do you want to do?” Bobby asked.
There was a great used-book store just outside of town, but I didn’t think Bobby would go for that. He liked to hang out at the music stores, but since I didn’t play an instrument—not counting one disastrous month spent wrestling with a trombone in sixth grade—all I could do was look at the guitars and pretend I was a rock star for about ten minutes, until reality stomped down on my imagination.
“How about slot cars?” I said. “We could go to Hobby-Land.” That was pretty far away, but it was the nearest place with a track.
“Sure,” Bobby said. “Anytime I can go way too fast without hurting anybody, I’m good.” As he pulled out of the driveway, he said, “Hey, doesn’t Mitch have a setup?”
“I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s been kind of busy.”
“Yeah. School will do that to you if you aren’t careful.”
I didn’t say much more until we’d pulled into the parking lot at HobbyLand. Finally, I told Bobby, “Mitch’s got a girlfriend.”
“Way to go, Mitch!” Bobby said.
I guess my silence spoke for me, because Bobby glanced over and said, “Oops. You don’t have one?”
“Not yet. I got my eye on someone,” I said, trying to sound like success was within reach.
“Good deal.”
We only got to race for about fifteen minutes. Then the owner kicked us out because Bobby kept driving too fast and flying off the track. So we went to the music store.
September 16
I finished To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s awesome. I’d bet Dad would like it because the father in the book is so cool. He’s quiet, but he’s not a wimp. He kind of reminds me of Dad.
We’re starting a new book in English pretty soon. How’s this for weird—I’ll be reading The Outsiders. And you, my unborn, unformed, uninvited sibling, are the ultimate insider. Ewww.
Sibling. Cool word. But you need a name. I know it’s going to be Sean or Emily, but Sean-or-Emily is kind of awkward. And kind of weird. Unless you’re hoping to work in a carnival. Maybe I can combine them. Seanily? Emean? Semily? Wait, I’ve got it. Smelly. There you go. It’s perfect. It fits you in so many ways. Fits like a glove. Or a bulging diaper.
Oh. Did you figure out the problem with “The Gift of the Magi”? She had $1.87, and 60 cents of that was in pennies. But what does that leave? It leaves $1.27. So she must have had more pennies. I can’t see any way to get $1.27 without them. Unless they had two-cent pieces back then.
Bye, Smelly. Talk to you later.
{eight}
there’s really only one thing that separates people from dogs. Our ears don’t twitch forward when we hear something exciting. Thank goodness. Otherwise, I’d have spilled my secret to the world Tuesday morning in English class.
Up front, Mr. Franka was telling us about similes, metaphors, and other descriptive language. To my right, Kelly was whispering to Julia in a voice as hushed as the rustle of a single-ply tissue. Oh crap, I suck at similes. Anyhow, Kelly was talking. Quietly.
“Did you finish your article for the paper?” she asked.
That was the point when my ears would have pitched forward like a dog who hears his master opening a can of extra-chunky beef stew with an electric can opener.
Julia nodded, sending the shaggy ends of her hair dancing like kids in a mosh pit. I didn’t know she was on the paper.
I found it hard to concentrate during the rest of the class. My mind ran elsewhere, like a train that had slipped off the rails. No, that wasn’t right. A derailed train usually doesn’t get very far. Anyhow, time crawled along like a sleepwalking snail dragging a history book.
After class, I rushed up to see Mr. Franka. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. It would be fun to write book reviews.” I was running titles through my mind, picking out which book I wanted to do first. I’d read a ton of good stuff over the summer.
“I’m sorry, Scott,” he said. “Since you weren’t interested, I found someone else.”
“Oh.” I could feel myself droop like a cheap basketball that was left out on the lawn all winter.
“But you can still join the staff. Just show up tomorrow after school for the meeting. I’m sure they can make good use of your talents.”
“Great. I’ll be there.” I figured there were other cool things I could cover, like movies or something. Whatever I ended up writing, at least I’d get to spend some time in a small group with Julia.
I wondered whether she remembered that we were in kindergarten together. We’d shared an easel once. I was on one side, painting a pirate. She was on the other side. I don’t know what she was painting. Probably not a pirate.
I had a hard time finding the meeting room the next day, so I was the last one there. When I walked in, I saw a girl wearing a tight green top and a long denim skirt. The top was made out of that thin, stretchy material.
“Hi, Scott,” she said. “I’m Mandy. I heard you might be joining us. That’s great. We could really use you.” She smiled at me like she meant it. I think it was the first time a senior had looked at me as anything other than a piggy bank, punching bag, or doormat. Especially a cute senior with reddish blond hair and freckles. Did I mention the top?
“It sounds like fun.” I glanced at the dozen or so kids who sat around the table. Julia was there, looking even more beautiful than Mandy. Mouth was explaining something to her about his appendix. Apparently, he had it in a jar at home. Or maybe he had pieces of it in two different jars. That part wasn’t really clear. I could see Julia’s eyes starting to glaze. I tried to stop listening, but it was sort of like watching an accident.
“So I guess you’ll be doing football,” Mandy said.
I pulled my eyes away from Mouth and Julia. But not my brain. Again, I managed to l
eap to new creative heights. “What?”
Mandy pointed at my shirt. “None of us is much of a sports fan. We’re into food, movies, and music, and stuff like that. But we’ve got to cover sports. So we’re glad you’re here.”
I’d forgotten I was wearing my Baltimore Ravens T-shirt. Mom bought it for me because I liked Edgar Allan Poe. The Ravens were named after that poem of his.
As I tried to think of some way to explain that I wasn’t interested in covering sports, Mandy leafed through a folder in front of her, then handed me a sheet of paper. “Here’s the schedule. The games are all on Friday.” She smiled, then pointed to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”
Between the smile and the top, I would have sat in a bucket of sulfuric acid if she’d asked me. Once my butt hit the chair, the reality hit home. Sports? Friday? That was my night out. Could it get any worse?
Mandy turned to Mouth. “How’s your first book review coming?”
“It’s coming along great.” He pulled a mangled sheet of notebook paper from his backpack. “Want to hear what I have so far?”
Mandy shook her head. “I’d rather wait until it’s done.” She softened the blow with a smile. Though I was pretty sure it wasn’t as nice as the one she’d given me.
Mouth? Book reviews? I was afraid to discover what my next surprise would be.
The suspense didn’t last long. A couple of minutes later, Mandy said to Julia, “Thanks for writing this week’s guest column.”
Guest column? Equations flashed through my mind. Guest = just visiting = not here each week = Scott’s screwed.
“It was fun,” Julia said. “Do you want me to stick around for the rest of the meeting?”
Mandy shook her head. “No need. You can go.”
Julia smiled that heart-melting smile of hers and left the room.
When the meeting let out, I called home to see if I could get a ride from Mom.
“She’s out,” Bobby said. “Went to look for curtains for the nursery.”
“There are already curtains in there,” I said.
“I know.”
“So why do we need new ones?”
