by David Lubar
Anyhow, Happy New Year. The folks went to a party last night. It’s noon and Dad still isn’t up. I guess it was a good party. At least for Dad. Mom took it easy, since anything she drinks you drink, too. I don’t think she wants to pickle your brain. Though if she did, I could definitely get you a job in a carnival. I heard Bobby come in around four or five in the morning. He won’t wake up for a while, either.
New Year’s is sort of like starting a new school. You can make all sorts of plans and promises about being better or changing your habits. Then you go on being yourself.
I guess you’re lucky that way. You’re really starting from scratch. Or from goo.
{twenty-two}
it was tough going back to school. But I’d sort of missed English. When I got to class, I noticed that Julia wasn’t sitting next to Kelly. They must have had some kind of fight during vacation. Probably because of the play.
On the positive side, it was definitely too cold now for even Mr. Cravutto to think about taking us outside for gym. The ground was frozen solid. But that just meant there was more time for weight lifting.
Though the first day back was reasonably easy, things got busy the next day. I had to cover a basketball game and go to play practice. When I got to the auditorium, Mr. Perchal pointed toward the back of the stage and said, “Go report to Ben. He’s in charge of the crew.”
I saw six guys sitting around a table, playing cards. That was good. There’d be plenty of people to share the load. I figured I’d be able to study. And maybe play some cards.
“Freshman,” one of them said. He was a skinny guy with the kind of acne that looks like it’s taken up permanent residence on his face. He was wearing a Phillies sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off.
The others looked over.
“Fresh meat.”
“Fresh blood.”
A half-dozen fresh phrases floated through the air. The guy who’d spoken first, I guess it was Ben, pointed to a stack of two-by-fours. “We need those cut into three-foot lengths.”
I stared at him, wondering whether he expected me to do all the work while the rest of the crew sat and played. He stared back and shrugged.
Great. I was almost as good with a saw as I was with a wrench. Maybe they’d let me change spark plugs next.
I guess sawing uses different muscles than weight lifting, because I had a whole new set of sore muscles the next morning. But I forgot all about the pain in my arms when I came within inches of death on Friday.
Mr. Franka had sent me to the office to get a file he needed.
“I’ll be with you in a couple minutes,” the secretary said. So I took a seat. A moment later, Wesley Cobble came in. I thought about pretending to be asleep, but then I remembered what had happened to me when I fell asleep on the bus. I had no idea what Wesley might steal from me if he thought I wasn’t conscious. Probably a kidney.
My attempt at becoming a stealth person failed. There were three empty chairs, but Wesley plopped down right next to me. I could feel his eyes on me. I really didn’t want to turn my head, but I couldn’t help myself.
I looked at him and nodded. Just the tiniest, insignificant gesture to show I acknowledged his presence. I was pretty sure he didn’t recognize me, despite the fact that I was one of the many donors who’d contributed to his collection efforts.
That part of my plan didn’t work very well, either. Instead of losing interest, he nodded back and said, “What’d you do to get here?”
I realized if I said, “I’m picking up a file for Mr. Franka,” Wesley would know I was a goody-goody well-behaved kid of the sort he enjoyed pummeling. I’d end up on his radar. But I didn’t want to risk a lie. So I told the truth.
“Perambulation,” I said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. That’s what got me here.”
“Cool. I was trying to borrow a table saw from wood shop.”
Phew. That was close. I’d told the truth when I’d said perambulation got me to the office. It was just a fancy word for walking. It definitely sounded worse. Like when people refer to chewing as mastication.
Wesley got called into the principal’s office. As he stood up, without thinking, I said, “Have a nice day.”
I flinched, expecting him to spin around and knock me out. What a lame thing to say. Especially when he was about to go see the principal.
Wesley glanced over his shoulder. “You, too, man.”
A couple minutes later, the secretary handed me the file I was waiting for. By then, my pulse had dropped to a safe two or three hundred beats per minute.
I thought that was the end of my social interactions with Wesley. Then, at lunch, who should perambulate across the cafeteria and drop down into the seat opposite me while I was masticating some macaroni and cheese? Yup. My new pal. Right in the seat that used to be Kyle’s.
Wesley didn’t say a word. Just chewed slowly at his roast-beef sandwich. The silence was driving me crazy. Finally, I said, “You know, Westley’s the name of the good guy in The Princess Bride. That’s pretty close to Wesley. It’s an awesome book.”
He stared at me for a moment, chewed another bite, then said, “Oh really?”
It dawned on me that I could get hurt just for using the word princess in his presence. Or bride. I nodded and went back to eating, though my throat had closed up so tight I could barely swallow. I could still see the way he’d decked Mike Clamath with one punch. He’d only need half a punch to flatten me.
Midway through lunch, Wesley got up and strolled out of the cafeteria. I noticed kids all over the place glancing at me as if they were trying to figure out where I fit in the social structure. Their guess was as good as mine.
January 4
My arms are going to fall off. Yesterday, I sawed a forest of wood for stage crew. Today, we moved sets all evening at rehearsal. Picture this. Seven guys are carrying a large piece of plywood painted to look like the back wall of a house, and weighing nearly as much as a real house. Six of them are at one end. One guy is at the other. Guess who that one guy is? If this keeps up, I’ll eventually be able to tie my shoes without bending over.
There was a student-council meeting on Monday. I had the funny feeling that if I didn’t show up, nobody would notice. We spent the whole meeting figuring out what each class should sell this year for their fund-raiser. The other freshmen wanted to sell wrapping paper. I felt we should sell books.
After the meeting, I went up to the adviser and said, “Would it be okay if I quit?”
He stared at me like I was a complete stranger. “Quit what?” he asked.
“Student council.”
“Oh. Right. Sure, if you want. That would be okay. What position did you have?”
“Council member.”
“Freshman?”
“Yeah.” I started to leave, and then turned back. “Don’t you want my name so you’ll know which member won’t be back?”
“Nah. I’ll figure it out.”
On the way out, for just the slightest bit, I felt like a quitter. But then I felt like a genius. I was done with it. No more meetings. No more feeling completely ignored. It was probably the smartest move I’d made all year.
Thursday afternoon, I was standing at my locker when Julia walked by. I barely glanced at her. Hardly even noticed her dark green wool sweater, tan pants, mini—diamond-stud earrings, or the scent of peaches drifting from her freshly washed hair. Hardly noticed her at all. But a moment later, I realized Lee was staring at me like the two of us were at opposite ends of a microscope.
“Isn’t that sweet,” she said.
“Isn’t what sweet?” I asked.
“The way your face gets all soft and your eyes get dopey whenever she’s anywhere near you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. Good God, Lee reminded me of Patrick. He’d figured it out right away, too. I felt like that little model of a transparent guy—the one whose skin is plastic so you can see all his organs. Especial
ly his rapidly beating heart.
Lee’s gaze skewered me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Romeo.”
I shrugged and said, “So I notice her. So what?”
“So talk to her. She’s just another person. No better or worse than you. Start a conversation. It beats drooling on your shoes.”
Good grief. Lee was the last person in the world who should be giving social advice. I shook my head. “I can’t talk to girls.”
Sometimes, right after you speak, you can feel the universe shudder.
Lee’s stare turned into a glare. “Thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant.” But I couldn’t think of any way to say what I meant without digging a deeper hole.
“It’s not important,” Lee said as she turned away.
I felt like such a jerk.
The next morning, I was standing at the bus stop when a Mustang drove by. The driver hit the brakes, threw the car into reverse, and pulled up to the curb. It was Wesley. Everyone in the group took at least one giant step back.
Wesley leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “Hop in.”
I figured he was talking to someone else, so I didn’t move. But he looked straight at me and said it again.
I got in. He’s not the sort of person you say “No, thanks” to. We shot away from the curb before I could even buckle my seat belt.
Behind us, I heard Mouth calling, “Hey, can I get a ride?”
When we reached the parking lot, Wesley hopped right out, said, “Later,” and headed into the building.
Inside, I noticed that Lee had a bunch of rock stars on her locker. All the ones I recognized were dead. Underneath, she’d written Only the young die good.
I nodded at her in the hallway. She stared at me without nodding back. I thought about putting a picture of Beethoven on my locker. He was the most famous dead musician I could think of.
January 12
I finally figured it all out. It’s too late for me, but at least I can pass this along. Don’t talk. Not at all. From the day you walk into high school to the day you leave, do not utter a word. Because if you do, one way or another, you’ll get some girl angry with you. There is no such thing as an innocent comment.
You might want to avoid hand gestures, too. And anything else that might carry meaning. Facial expressions. Deep breaths. Loud thoughts.
By the way, if you need any wrapping paper, let me know. I have to sell thirty rolls.
Monday morning, Wesley picked me up again. But he stopped to get coffee at the diner on Eighth Street, and have a couple cigarettes. We got to school a half hour late. And I smelled like smoke. Wesley gave me a ride home after detention. I miss getting smacked on the head. At least it’s quick, and has never been linked to lung cancer.
Tuesday, I got to the bus stop as late as possible so I’d miss Wesley. There was a new kid in my seat. A big new kid. The driver started shouting, “Take a seat! You’re holding us up!” I had to sit in the back. With the felons. By the time I got to school, I’d loaned all my lunch money to my seat mates. And my calculator. At least they didn’t take my sneakers.
I miss riding with Wesley.
When I got the paper, there was a headline saying big shake-up on student council. Wow. I never thought I’d make the front page. I started reading the article. Fortunately, there was enough noise around me to drown out the swearword I shouted when I finished the first sentence. It seems I wasn’t the only freshman who’d decided that the council wasn’t a lot of fun. The president and vice president had quit. Which meant that the new freshman-class president was the person who’d gotten the next highest number of votes. Julia. Madam President.
That wasn’t the only change. We had a different teacher in Spanish. Mr. Kamber. I guess Ms. de Gaulle had gone back to France. Or maybe to Madrid, to confuse the locals. I thought my worries were over until Mr. Kamber opened his mouth. His accent was so thick, it was like listening to someone speak backward. And he was chewing gum. From the few words I could understand, I was eventually able to figure out that he was from Australia.
After he’d told us about himself, he started the lesson. It went like this:
Mr. Kamber said something that might be Spanish, like “Ramblah pasten tew eznokulacha.”
One of the kids in the class said, “I didn’t understand that.”
Mr. Kamber shrugged and said, “Nwarries, might.”
And it continued.
“Tunko qweb mis decoofaloocha por abanki?”
“Huh? I don’t get it.”
“Nwarries, might. Echefolaka si mwarble docho.”
“What? I didn’t understand that.”
“Nwarries, might.”
After I’d heard Nwarries, might a half-dozen times, I finally figured out he was saying, “No worries, mate,” which I guess is Australian for, “You’re screwed and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
I miss Ms. de Gaulle.
Wednesday morning, I showed up early enough to catch a ride with Wesley. When he pulled away from the curb, I said, “You going straight to school?”
He grinned at me. “Want to go somewhere? I’m cool with that.”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I need to be on time.”
He stared at me. Which made me even more nervous because he was still driving. My reluctance to lie vanished. “I’ve been late so much, I’m already in big trouble. One more time, and they might throw me out.”
“I hear you,” Wesley said. He stomped on the gas. Tires squealed. I was pushed back against the seat as the roar of eight cylinders blasted my ears and a fog of burned tire particles coated my lungs. I think I’ll always be able to look back at that moment as the exact instant when I knew for sure I had no desire to be an astronaut.
“There’s lots of time,” I shouted, forcing the words out against the pressure of acceleration.
I doubt he heard me. He was too busy taking a turn on two wheels. Which must be even harder when you steer with one hand.
Wesley screeched to a halt in front of the school. “Sure you don’t want to grab some coffee? Nothing goes on during first period anyhow. Or second. Teachers aren’t awake yet.”
“Thanks, but I’d better get inside.”
“Whatever.” He peeled away, leaving me to wonder whether, instead of gas money, I should be offering him tire money.
{twenty-three}
Once upon a time, well, actually it was today, I was sitting in English class.
“We can break writing up in various ways,” Mr. Franka said. “Even though some things aren’t meant to be broken. However, the board of education wants to make sure you all know certain concepts for testing purposes. So today we’ll look at four types of prose. You’ll be tested on this eventually, and probably endlessly.”
I sat and listened as he explained about narrative writing. That was one of the most common kinds. It told a story.
When Mr. Franka finished that part of the lecture, he paused for a moment, sitting on the edge of the large metal desk that was wedged on a slant in the left corner of the room, beneath the drooping glory of the flag. “Who can name another type of writing?” he asked.
I raised my arm, and noticed with interest how the dust particles danced in a golden light beam coming through the window.
“Yes, Scott?” Mr. Franka said, pointing toward me with a chalk-stained finger.
“Descriptive?” I asked in a voice that was tinged with both enthusiasm and a slight shadow of uncertainty.
“Right.” He nodded. “As I mentioned, it is important for you to learn these distinctions. You’ll be tested on them. It might not be as much fun as reading novels, but if you don’t do well on the tests, it can affect the rest of your education. So I urge you to pay attention. Now, who can name another type of prose?”
He called on Julia, who said, “Persuasive?”
“Correct.” Mr. Franka then fulfilled his role as teacher, which of course required that he inform and educate us.
He explained that beyond narrative, descriptive, and persuasive writing, there was another sort. Expository writing laid out facts.
“And there you have it,” he said. “Though you’ll never encounter all four in the same place.”
First day of midterms. It was hard to believe the year was half over. There weren’t a lot of kids on the bus Thursday morning. We didn’t have to come in until it was time for our tests. That was third period for me, but I didn’t want to hike into town, so I took the school bus. Being early wasn’t a problem. I just hung out in the library and studied. I didn’t even see Wesley drive past the bus stop. Maybe he skipped midterms.
The tests weren’t all that bad, but I felt kind of fried. I had English, Spanish, and chemistry. Tomorrow, I’d have history, life skills, and algebra. But then there’d be a long weekend. We had Monday off for Martin Luther King Day. No basketball games or wrestling meets during midterms, either. Naturally, I had a rehearsal scheduled for Monday morning. It was so thoughtful the way Mr. Perchal made sure practice didn’t interfere with my schedule.
That night, Wayne and Charley stopped by the house. They’re two of Bobby’s old friends from his band. They’d been up in Boston, playing in small clubs. But the third guy in their group had been a real jerk, so they broke up. Mom invited them to stay for dinner. Afterward, I hung out with them for a bit in Bobby’s room while they played music together.
“We’re heading to Nashville,” Wayne told Bobby.
“No more small time,” Charley said. “We’re going where the action is. You should come.”
“I’m broke,” Bobby said.
Charley sighed. “I’d spot you some money, but we’re pretty broke, too. Maybe you can join us when you get some cash.”
“Maybe,” Bobby said.
I could see he was tempted. As for saving up some money, that was going to be kind of tough since he still hadn’t found a job. Even so, he should have gone with them. It’s great if you can make a living doing something you’re really good at.
