by David Lubar
On the way home, I stopped at the corner store to look at magazines. As I browsed through the rack of comic books, I got a great idea, but I figured there was no way Mr. Franka would go for it.
I didn’t get back to see Mouth until the end of the week. He’d finally healed enough to talk.
“Hi,” he said when I walked in.
That’s the shortest sentence you’ve ever uttered, I thought. Damn. Look at me. I was still making jokes. I truly sucked.
He didn’t talk much. His voice was kind of raspy. Maybe it hurt. Or maybe he was all talked out. I wanted to ask him Why? Instead, I said, “You feeling okay?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
I waited for him to say more. But he just lay there, looking kind of spacey. Maybe they had him on some kind of drugs. But I had to know. “Why’d you do it?” I asked.
“Why not …?”
“Because you can’t,” I said. “It’s cheating, Mouth. That’s what it is. Cutting in line. Or cutting out of line. You can’t do that. You’ve got to stick with it.” I stopped. In my ears, my voice was starting to take on the meaningless drone of Mr. Cravutto when he urged us to dig deep and stick it out for another lap. Come on, babies, suck it up. Hang in there. Pump those legs, you gutless losers. Keep it going.
“Nobody likes me,” Mouth said.
I didn’t bother replying with the obvious lie. Oh, don’t say that—you’ve got tons of friends. “Nobody likes me, either,” I said. “I cope.”
He shook his head. “Lots of people like you.”
“Right. Sure.” I wasn’t there to argue with him. But he knew as well as I did that if I threw a party for all my friends, we could fit in a phone booth and still have room for pony rides and a moon bounce. Mitch was little more than a memory. Patrick was in Texas, and on his way to Japan. Kyle spent all his time with the wrestlers, even though the season was over. I hoped we were still friends, but I didn’t really know. According to the numbering system, I was presently a member of the Zero Musketeers.
I dropped down into the chair next to Mouth’s bed. “Let’s face it—with a few exceptions, nobody likes anybody.”
He nodded.
That was a grim statement. And I didn’t really believe it. I mean, I hoped that deep in my heart I didn’t believe it. Half the time, I didn’t know what I believed. But at least this got Mouth thinking about how his loneliness, or whatever it was that drove him too far, wasn’t unique. We all suffered. And I guess we all had good times, too. Man—if every person who ever felt lonely killed himself, the world would be littered with corpses. And far lonelier.
When I was getting up to leave, I finally asked him the question that had been haunting me. “You remember the dance?”
Mouth nodded.
“You weren’t going to ask any girls to dance. But I talked you into it.” I paused, trying to find the right words. “Did that have anything to do with … what happened …?”
He shook his head. “No way. You were being nice. Nobody else in the whole school cared at all.”
“So I didn’t make you do anything?”
“I made myself do it,” he said.
I nodded and headed out of the room. When I reached the hallway, Mouth called after me, “Scottie.”
“What?”
“Cheer up.”
“I’ll try.”
Even if Mouth said it wasn’t my fault, I still felt that everyone in the school shared the blame. All of us had done our part to crush him. Monday morning, when I got in the car with Wesley, I decided to speak up.
“You shouldn’t take people’s lunch money,” I told him.
“Why not?”
“Well, how’d you like it if someone took your money?”
He laughed. “Fat chance.”
“Imagine if you weren’t very strong?”
He frowned for a couple seconds, then shook his head. “I can’t imagine that.”
I searched for some way to get him to understand. “You have any little brothers?”
“Nope.”
“What if you had a little brother? Think how he’d feel if someone took his money.”
“I’d kick the guy’s butt.”
“Sure you would, after you found out. But think how your little brother would feel while it was happening.”
He was quiet for the rest of the ride. But when we pulled into the parking lot, he said, “I guess it would kind of suck.”
“It would definitely suck.”
I hoped this was a sign that the school had just become a bit less stressful for the small and the weak.
By then, the jokes had pretty much stopped. It was like nearly everyone had forgotten about Mouth. Or like he’d never even existed. In a way, as far as Zenger High was concerned, I guess he’d succeeded in dying.
I wondered how small a ripple I’d leave if I vanished.
A couple days later, I got a letter from him. He thanked me for being such a good friend, which made me feel really rotten. He wouldn’t be coming back. His parents were sending him to a different school.
When I told Lee about the letter, she said I should feel good that Mouth took the trouble to write to me.
“But I never liked him,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You were nice to him. At least, nicer than most of the kids. Right?”
“I guess.”
“So what’s harder, being nice to someone you like or being nice to someone you don’t like?”
I saw what she meant, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
March 15
I just got back from the dance. I think they purposely space them just far enough apart so I always forget how little fun it is to stand around drinking soda and eating potato chips while other people pair up and flail at the air.
Other than that, I had a great time.
It was a St. Patrick’s Day dance, though that holiday actually falls on a Sunday this year. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll spot a discrepancy. (And also a vocabulary word.) Notice anything that doesn’t fit? Here’s a hint. Think about Christmas and Easter. I’ll tell you the answer in a day or two.
In the meantime, here’s a list for you.
Things That Happen So Far Apart That
You Forget How Bad They Are
School dances
Dentist appointments
Hernia tests
Award shows
Chicken goulash in the cafeteria
• • •
I spent another week looking for ideas for English class. Still no luck. The deadline had arrived. I went up to see Mr. Franka at his desk before class.
“So, whatcha got, Scott? Something hot?” He flashed a grin to let me know he was aware of the painful way he’d phrased the question.
Two words popped out of the vacuum created by my panic. “Comic books.” I backed up a step, expecting a lecture on taking things seriously.
Mr. Franka glanced over at the cabinets where he kept the books. “Good choice.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “At least I won’t have to scrounge around and dig up materials. I was afraid you’d pick something like advertising slogans or bumper stickers.”
“You’d let us study stuff like that?”
“If it’s written in English, we can study it. Even knock-knock jokes are worth studying. Not to mention shaggy-dog stories. But I like your choice. Besides, we’ll be doing slogans for a day or two next month.”
I wandered back to my desk. On the way, I thought up a dozen other things I could have suggested. But I was happy we were doing comics.
The center on the basketball team, Terry, said hi to me in the hall when he went by. He probably had me mixed up with someone else. But maybe I looked familiar to him since I’d gone to almost all the games last season. I’d never received a nod from so far above my head.
Some of the baseball players had started saying hi to me, too. I wondered whether it was because I’d written about how w
ell the team was doing. Even better, this girl on the track team smiled at me. I was actually having fun with the articles. Not like before, where I did all that crazy stuff for football. That was fun, too, though in a different way. Back then, I was trying as hard as I could to avoid writing a sports story. Now I was trying to write the best sports story possible.
Last week, I’d written about how the other team couldn’t seem to get warmed up. When I was doing my rewrite, I changed it to: Their engine was running but it kept sputtering, like a lawn mower tackling the first grass of the season. Maybe that was a bit much, but I felt pretty good about it.
As fun as it all was, I was looking forward to a break. Wednesday was a half day. After that, no school for a week. No games to cover, either. There were only three things I wanted to do—sleep, nap, and doze.
In other news, Ms. Phong was gone. Ahhhdyos nguchachos. Mr. Cravutto was back. We took two breaks for push-ups.
March 31
Happy Easter. When you’re old enough to walk, I’ll go outside and hide eggs for you to find in pathetically obvious places. Easter is by far the best holiday for chocolate. Halloween is probably second. They have little else in common.
It’s also spring break. College kids make a big deal out of the whole thing. They go to Mexico or Florida and party for a solid week. You can see it all on MTV. But you know what—I have this sinking feeling that it’s just like the dances. If I went to Cancún, I’d be standing in a corner watching other kids have fun. Though I guess instead of potato chips, I’d be eating tortilla chips.
Wow—I just realized how pathetic that sounds. I don’t want you to think I feel sorry for myself all the time or that I don’t expect to ever have any fun. Things are okay.
Well, mostly okay. Did I mention we have rehearsal every evening during vacation? Half the time, the rest of the crew sits around while I drag the sets all over the place. Show business sucks.
Speaking of Easter, did you figure out what’s weird about the St. Patrick’s Day dance? Here’s the thing. They can’t have a Christmas or Easter event, but they can have one named after a saint. Actually two, if you include Valentine’s Day. As for what all of this means, I’m clueless.
{twenty-seven}
thanks to Scott, we’ll be studying comic books this month.” Mr. Franka’s announcement was greeted with cheers. Then he said, “But first, we’re going to read about comic books. So we’re going to start out with a marvelous volume called Understanding Comics.”
As he walked over to the cabinet where he kept textbooks, I could feel the mood change in the room. I knew everyone was glaring at me. It could have gotten ugly. But the book Mr. Franka passed out was written like a comic itself. How cool was that? I survived the class without being beaten to death by an angry mob hurling some boring textbook at me.
Naturally, my escape from death was balanced the next day by a foolhardy plunge toward destruction. I was cruising with Wesley after school. All of a sudden he swore and pulled to the curb. There were three guys on the sidewalk, hanging out by the mini-mart on Dwyer Street.
“They’ve been ducking me for weeks,” Wesley said. He hopped out of the car and walked toward them. “Pay up.”
The guy in the middle said, “What if we don’t feel like it?”
“You want to find out?”
I had no idea what this was all about—other than money. I don’t know why they owed him. All I knew was I couldn’t sit there. It was three against one. So I got out of the car and joined Wesley. Now it was three against one and a half. Actually, I knew one other thing. I knew I was terrified.
The three guys barely glanced at me. But the guy in the middle dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple twenties, which he handed to Wesley.
We went back to the car. I went back to breathing.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Wesley said.
I just nodded. I wasn’t sure I could talk without squeaking.
“Thanks,” he added. He drove two blocks, then pulled into the lot of another mini-mart. “They have great cocoa here. With little marshmallows. I love those little marshmallows.”
April 8
I stood up with Wesley today. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Okay—make that shoulder to elbow. Not that he needed me. Still, it felt good. I wish I’d stood up for Mouth when everyone was trashing him. At least I stood up for Lee when that note was on her locker.
Sorry to get all serious, but it’s been on my mind. I mean, Kyle stood up for me all the time, but then he just dropped me for some new friends. I don’t get it.
Or maybe I get some of it. Kyle needs to be part of a group. So when our group started to fall apart, Kyle found a new one.
Here’s something a bit more positive—I think I just wrote my best article ever. It’s about a girls’ track meet. I didn’t use any gimmicks or clever stuff. I just found the perfect words, and the perfect mood, to describe what happened. Listen—here’s my favorite part:
When Erica Mason cleared the first hurdle, it seemed as if she didn’t believe in gravity. By the end of her race, the cheering crowd had joined her in joyous disbelief. The rarefied air of magic continued into the high jump, where Kate Bayler soared to a new personal best, skimming the bar with breathtaking elegance.
Not bad, huh?
No more calisthenics in Spanish class. When we came in on Monday, the new teacher had already written her name on the board. Ms. Cabrini. I didn’t have my hopes up.
“Hello, class,” she said to us in perfect English. “I’m looking forward to teaching you.”
That got my attention. So did the next thing she said. “I was born in Argentina. I’ve also lived in Spain and Mexico. I’ve visited Puerto Rico and most of the countries in Central America. There are many dialects of Spanish. But, with a bit of practice, you’ll be able to make yourself understood all over the world.”
She picked up the textbook. “We may as well take up where your last teacher left off.” Then she started reading the lesson.
I stared at her, completely lost. It sounded wonderful. It sounded like Spanish. I just didn’t have a clue what any of it meant. Without hearing it in a French or Australian or Vietnamese accent, I couldn’t understand a word.
Caramba.
Tuesday, I walked up behind Lee in the hall with a copy of the paper and tapped her on the shoulder. Even though she didn’t like sports, I figured she’d enjoy my article. She turned and gave me this odd smile with her lips closed. Then, just when I was about to say something clever about how she should broaden her reading interests, she opened her mouth, curled her lips, and hissed. But it wasn’t the hiss that spooked me. It was the fangs. She had vampire teeth.
There’s nothing like an unexpected encounter with a set of overgrown canines to drive home the true meaning of fear.
“Will you cut that out?” I said after I’d regained the ability to speak and determined that my pants were still dry.
She spat the teeth into her palm. “Cool, huh?” Then she held her hand out. “Want to try them?”
“Ick. No way.”
She rubbed them on her shirt. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
She popped them back in. “Thuit yourthelf.” She gave me another hiss, then danced down the hall, leaving me with the paper in my hand.
When I got home, I showed the article to Mom. “That’s really wonderful,” she said after she’d read it.
That night, I held out the paper to Bobby. “This is my best article yet,” I told him.
“Cool. Put it on the bed. I’ll read it later,” he said.
He didn’t look busy, but I didn’t argue with him.
April 10
Three different girls checked me out when I walked down the hall in school today. They must have read my writing and decided they wanted to get to know me better. I think that by the end of the year, I’ll have a fan club. Girls think writers are awesome.
Guess what we’re learning about in English class? The unr
eliable narrator. That’s what you call it when the person telling a story isn’t telling the truth. Like in what I just wrote. Unfortunately.
And sometimes, the narrator is lying to himself. Maybe that’s what I’m doing when I remember how well I knew Julia back in kindergarten. But I don’t think so. I really believe we were sort of friends once.
The point is, you aren’t always going to be told the truth. It’s funny. I listen to different people different ways. When Mr. Franka tells me something, I just assume it’s right. Even though he’s always telling us to examine and question everything we hear.
When Lee tells me something, I figure there are twenty layers of meaning hidden in her words. Or maybe no meanings at all. I still haven’t figured it out. With Wesley, on the other hand, he says exactly what he means.
Patrick was always pretty honest. So was Mitch. With Kyle, I used to assume that half the stuff he said was bull, but it didn’t matter. You take your friends for what they are.
When Mom and Dad tell me something, I don’t even think about whether it’s right or wrong. I just know it’s the law. It’s the same, I guess, with Bobby. You get used to listening to your older brother and doing what he says. Hey. That should work out fine for me, shouldn’t it, slave? I mean, brother.
Mr. Franka has this huge file cabinet full of comics and graphic novels. We could read any of them that we wanted, as long as we wrote up a response afterward. I even wrote one of my responses as a comic. I knew it was sort of an obvious thing to do, but Mr. Franka liked it and gave me a 98.
There were some pretty cool old horror comics in the piles, and these weird modern ones that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but were still sort of fun to read. I think they were the graphic equivalent of modern poetry. Someone was scamming someone. But that’s okay. The art in them was pretty amazing. And some of the old comics didn’t make all that much sense, either.
I figured I’d buy a couple of the really cool ones at the magazine place in town and send them to Mouth.
On the way home from school, I finally asked Wesley if he’d finished The Princess Bride. He’d had the book for ages.
