by Arthur Slade
Invariably, two months, three months, even six months later, Dad would return and wrap me up in his arms, smelling of sweat and strange smoke. He'd give me a whisker rub. He'd kiss Mom. And we'd take him home. Glorious Dad, back in our little house.
That night, and many nights after, I would wait in my bed, vibrating with excitement. Story time. He'd open his mouth and spin tales long into the night.
My favorite was about how he'd outsmarted the RanRans, a cannibal tribe in the Roterwali Peninsula, near the Amazon River.
Dad was studying the peaceful Wanniwa. During the night the RanRans stormed the village, drove the men away and stole whichever women they could capture. When Dad poked his head out of his hut to check on the commotion, the invaders stopped and gawked at the first white man they had ever seen. He was in a typical anthro outfit: khaki shorts and shirt, unkempt hair (what there was of it) and a pen and pad of paper in hand.
The RanRans encircled him with bamboo spears, poked and prodded him through the jungle vines to their canoes, then paddled vigorously down an Amazonian tributary teeming with piranha. They stared the whole time. Even warriors in the other boats steered close to eyeball Dad.
At daybreak they arrived at their village. A wall of bamboo spikes crowned with impaled shrunken heads surrounded their homes, dome-shaped huts jutting from the earth. The cries of birds and wild monkeys filled the air.
There's a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which cannibals boil a large pot of water, slicing onions and carrots into it. Then they attempt to force Bugs in, managing only to steam his tail. This potboiling motif is a common misrepresentation. Cannibals tend to bash your head and slice and dice you on the spot. Then they boil you. It's similar to our treatment of cattle.
My father was fortunate because this tribe had strict traditions for food preparation: First the meat was sweated to cleanse it of evil spirits. So, they stripped Dad and tied him to a stake for three days, allowing him only a bowl of water and a handful of fat grubs. He ate the grubs happily because he recognized the nutritional value inside their slimy bodies. Still, he disliked how they wiggled down his throat and quivered in his stomach before succumbing to gastric acid.
The RanRans quizzed him nonstop. Where were you born? Did you come from a white-shelled egg? Were you birthed under a full moon so that the light whitened you?
My father remained silent, stoic. He knew enough of the RanRan language that he could have begged for freedom, but he chose to quietly endure the three-day torture, which left his balding head scorched and his eyes red and dry. Army ants crawled over his entire body, biting him. The tribe believed the ants would tenderize the meat and release the tiny demons trapped by the skin. Dad watched the sun and the stars, kept track of the days, so that even though he was naked and without a watch, he could have told you the time.
They finally untied him and marched him to the roasting pit. He was bound to a spit over a mound of kindling. The RanRans' custom was to cook their food alive because screaming would loosen the flesh from the bones. They began to make a fire, spinning a piece of wood inside a wooden groove to create friction. Just as the smoke appeared, Dad said, "Kewokee nok nig," which meant "Something bad will happen."
The RanRans were shocked. The chieftain said, "Blegin blog," which translated to "Of course." They assumed Dad meant something bad would happen to him. They laughed uproariously, patting each other on the back and slapping their own cheeks, which was their jovial habit.
He repeated his warning and they guffawed and cheek-slapped again. Finally the chieftain approached with a flame. Dad uttered a third warning and the sky grew dark. The chief pulled back the torch and gawked up.
Above them, the sun was going out.
It was a total eclipse. Darkness rushed over the camp. Flocks of birds fled, confused by the sudden withdrawal of light. Only the corona of the sun was visible, burning like the eye of an angry fire god.
The chief RanRan dropped the torch and fled, followed by his tribesmen. The torch sputtered and died.
Within a few minutes Dad had wriggled out of his bonds and the eclipse had ended. The village was deserted.
"Remember, Perk," Dad would always say, announcing the end of the story, "even when you're naked and tied to a stick, there will always be a way out."
It's my motto.
seven
TRAPDOOR
Elissa had chosen a tiny skull and crossbones as her eyebrow ring. "It symbolizes the end," she explained, "the death of our high school personas. This is the final week before we become free."
"Clever," I said. We were in our usual position next to my locker. A cornucopia of humanity had disgorged before us, oddly active for a Monday morning. "They all look so invigorated."
"It's like a drug. Adrenaline rises as Grad approaches. They rush toward oblivion. So are you ready for the parties?"
"Ready?" I echoed. "I'm psychologically pumped. Test me. I dare you."
She laughed. "Okay, Darwin." She knew I loved it when she compared me to my hero. "Let's start with Tacky Party."
"A cross-tribal function. Dress: multicolored clothes. Drink: Yuk-a-flux, a concoction of alcohol and fruit juice. Music: loud. Time: tonight."
She whistled appreciation. A junior looked our way and she winked at him. He blushed. I was momentarily jealous.
"Round two," she announced, "the High Tea."
"Easy! Time: tomorrow afternoon. Once a female-only ceremony; now both sexes serve their elders tea and edibles. Later it descends into a herbivore-roasting feast: a barbecue."
"Is your mom coming?"
I shook my head. "She couldn't handle the smell of burning meat. Plus she teaches yoga then."
"My parents can't make it either. Too busy. Guess we'll be each other's parents. The rest of the week's going to be a blast."
"Yes, the River Party, Neolithic to the extreme. And, finally, ritual of all rituals, the All-Night Grad Party."
"It's a casino this year."
"Ha!" I exclaimed. "We can bet on the odds of Justin evolving."
"Or making it through first-year university," Elissa quipped.
We smiled at each other and she touched my cheek. "Hardly a bruise. You've healed well." Her fingers were warm. Healing hands, I thought. She has healing hands. The bell rang.
"Take care of yourself," she said, lowering her hand.
"I will," I answered. "I—I'm happy you're going to Grad with me."
She blushed. "Me too, my anthropological angel. Me too."
I was overcome with the urge to hug her. I reached out, felt suddenly awkward and decided to pat her back. "Grad's gonna rock, I promise." We headed our separate ways.
Time passed with ease. Our teachers smiled, dispensing the last bits of their curriculum into our 1350-cubic-centimeter brains. Some great witch doctor had greased the wheels of education, and they spun madly.
They stopped spinning at two o'clock, when I raised my hand in English 30. Ms. Nystrom, a kind teacher with a large birthmark on her left cheek, cocked her head and frowned. "Percy, you have something to say about Shakespeare?"
"Yes, I do." I stood up. The faces of my fellow students expressed a mild curiosity, as though a large insect had rested on my forehead. "Shakespeare was an amazing Homo sapiens, but his volumes of creative output can be reduced to one impulse: survival. His plays shouldn't be valued as works of art but as scientific proof of how complicated survival instincts have become. His creations were a means to secure food and shelter."
I continued. I cannot remember all I said, though I did trace the history of man's evolution from an anthropoid ancestor to clarify my point. The bell rang. The class immediately shuffled out. I paused in mid-oration. Enlightenment was not their goal. I glanced at Ms. Nystrom, but she was memorizing a spot on her desk.
I hadn't meant to go on at such length. It had just happened. I gathered my books and stumbled into the hall.
Where I ran into the past.
Delmar Brass stood there like a tree, an algebra b
ook clutched in his hand. He was a tall First Nations Saulteaux whose great-great-grandmother had been a member of Sitting Bull's tribe. They had fled to Canada after defeating an American army led by General George Armstrong Custer. They settled briefly in southern Saskatchewan. Most returned to their homeland, though Delmar's relatives chose to stay. I had once interviewed him for an article detailing the influence of cowboy movies on modern perceptions of natives. Anthropology Today never published it. In fact, no major scientific magazine expressed interest. My groundbreaking theories intimidated them.
Every time I saw Delmar I thought of the bison running over the plains, the grass growing tall and wild, no European-style cities darkening the land.
"Hear you were in a fight," Delmar said. "Need help?"
His eyes were dark, his hair black and tied back. He had developed an affection for me after the interview—that is, he occasionally nodded in my direction. Even once when he was with his friends.
"The situation is resolved. Thank you."
"Good. Take care." He continued down the hall, his tread surprisingly light.
I deposited my books, examined my watch: 2:35. Time for my appointment with Mr. Verplaz, the school shaman, He-Who-Lives-on-the-Top-Floor. A last-ditch attempt to correct the wayward.
At the very least, it would be a stimulating conversation. Plus he kept a jar of lollipops. I'd get a treat.
I walked slowly, deliberately. On the second flight of stairs, I became aware of the motion of my feet, pictured our ancient ancestors taking their first wobbly steps.
"Why you staring at your feet, Montmount? Afraid you're gonna trip?"
Justin loomed on the landing above me. Had he marked it and the soft-drink machine with his urine? Had I trespassed on his territory?
"I was trying to figure out why we walk upright."
He shook his head. "You're retarded, aren't you? How's your face?"
His tone conveyed no concern, but I replied as if it had: "A scratch and a slight bruise. Thank you for the lesson in tribal interaction."
He glared. "What was that crap in English? Our last class and you barf up another lecture. I should give you a smack." He clenched his ham-sized fist, looked at it; then his eyes flicked back to me. "You followed me in the park, didn't you?"
"I was only there to clear my thoughts."
"Spying is more like it. Again."
"I don't spy. I observe."
"Whatever." He spat. The spittle landed near my feet. "We're sick of you."
"We?" Was he having a dual-personality problem?
"Everyone at school. All the students. You stare like we're freaks. But you're the freak."
I blinked. "I am not a freak. I'm not. I'm just trying to do my job. I didn't intend to disrupt your behavior."
A strange reaction followed: He looked genuinely sad. "You don't even speak English, do you? Just that fake science crap."
"I do speak English. It's the language of my culture."
He furrowed his brow, a look I imagined the Cro-Magnons got when they first saw something beyond their ken. "You and your weirdo friend are first-class losers."
I narrowed my eyes and clenched turnip-sized hands. "Did you ask Elissa to Grad, you...you big ape?" My heart pounded madly. I was shocked at my reaction and disappointed at the blandness of my insult. "No, wait..."I jabbed a finger in his direction. "Classifying you as an ape would be an insult to apes and all other simians." I sucked in a deep breath. "Did you ask her?"
Justin's brow furrowed even deeper. "Ask Freak Girl to Grad? I'm not desperate."
I glowered, silently.
He pointed. "Four days, Ugly, and we're done. Just be careful, Einstein." He turned and lumbered down the steps.
What interesting behavior, I thought. What very, very interesting behavior. I was slightly insulted. Calling me Einstein. Hmmph. Einstein was good, but he was no Darwin.
I walked up the next flight, letting my clenched hands relax.
The rooms on the top floor of Groverly High were mostly vacant. The fluorescent lights glowed dully; two of the bulbs were burned out and a third flickered madly.
A large abandoned art studio ran along one side. I plodded down the hall, passing under a trapdoor with an oversized padlock. This was probably where Willard had climbed to the roof.
"Percival," a voice whispered from the other side of the trapdoor. I looked up, straining my sensory system. Something skittered across the wooden panels. My throat became dry.
Mice, I thought, picturing the beady-eyed rodents. They're always scampering around the school, foraging. It had to be mice.
I backed up. My brain adjusted my synapses so that I became two big ears, listening for another noise. Five steps away I heard a faint "Percival."
I turned the corner and leaned on the wall. There was a barred window at the top of the stairs, and I stared at the outside world, somewhat surprised to see daylight. The whisper had to have been my imagination. Or was it an echo of Will's voice? Forever trapped in the belfry.
Shapes moved at the edge of the schoolyard. The Smoker Tribe was gathered like a flock of crows, enjoying spring, their lungs filtering tar and nicotine. I held that position until my biorhythms steadied. I was not beyond superstition; the voice was a sign to avoid Mr. Verplaz.
Then the sound of squeaking hinges. A door?
Or: trapdoor?
I retreated down the stairs.
eight
A WINTER
Monday ended without any fanfare. Elissa and I exited Groverly's front doors. Three days until graduation, then summer holidays, followed by autumn. Which meant one glorious thing: first-year university. A swarming population from across the country and around the world. A hundred times the number of ritual events. My cerebral cortex vibrated with anticipation. I would have to purchase a new journal.
"Put this in your think box," Elissa said as we walked down the stone stairs. "If the highway speed limit were cut in half, most car accident deaths could be avoided. But our society chooses quick delivery of goods over safe travel. Illogical to the extreme! And did you know the majority of car accidents happen near home?"
"I was aware of that."
Her eyebrow ring glinted in the sun. "It's a misleading statistic. People spend more time driving around their neighborhood; it's only natural a greater number of accidents would happen there. Still, we should always be more careful. Especially you."
Was that supposed to be funny? Her words were hard to follow. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, university. Anthropology 101: kindergarten. The professors would see my potential. My promise.
The second coming of Darwin, they would whisper. Just like Montmount, Sr.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"No." I walked silently to the edge of the sidewalk.
"Look left before crossing," she warned. Another joke? I stepped off the curb. Car tires shrieked.
Time.
Slowed.
Down.
A car was coming at me. A teen with spiked hair glared through the windshield.
I froze. My survival instincts selected the wrong defense: Stay still, the predator won't detect movement. A prehistoric groan of the horn. The knee-high bumper hypnotized me.
I was yanked back and the wheels skidded just centimeters from my body. Air swished past, then another honk. The car didn't stop.
"Look left and right," Elissa said, releasing my shirt. "Do you need a crossing guard, Percy? Percy?"
No air. Lungs empty.
"What's wrong, Percy?" Elissa asked, squeezing my shoulder.
"Nothing. Just...need to...catch my breath." I sucked in. Oxygen! Sweet and pure.
Students on the school steps scowled. The drive-by had been planned. He's the freak. We're sick of him. Their common tribal mind spoke in chorus: Cut him from the gene pool.
That proved it. Justin was their chief.
I looked both ways, crossed the street. Elissa walked beside me, sneaking glances as if suspecting I might
spontaneously combust. A block later Groverly was hidden behind an apartment complex. Students had vanished. I felt safer in this, my own territory.
"Is there something else wrong?" she asked. "You're shaking."
"I ran into Justin again," I admitted.
"What happened?"
"He said everyone hated me," I reported.
"That ugly Neanderthal!" Her vehemence was surprising.
"He's a Cro-Magnon. Neandertal is too evolved," I said. "The Neandertals had a larger cranium and perhaps weren't related to us. Justin has many human tendencies. Bad ones." I resisted correcting Elissa's pronunciation: she had said Neanderthal, but the proper spelling is Neandertal. The word comes from the German and they now drop the silent h. "Please don't get upset. Cro-Magnon Boy is suffering brain envy. A common Jock Tribe sickness."
Her fists were white-knuckle tight. Her body vibrated. "I could punch him. I'm just so pissed off."
"Elissa, Elissa," I implored, "don't trouble yourself."
She stood still; then her shoulders sagged. "I suppose you're right." She released a deep breath. "Sticks and stones," she said, "just let it go." We carried on, and a few huffs later, she was back to her former mood. "You know, this is nearly the last time we'll walk home together from school. Do you think it'll be like this in university? Percy? Oh, Percy?"
"Yes." Luckily my cerebral cortex had noted her question. "We'll take the bus to university, so we likely won't walk each other home as often."
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?" I asked.
"Shut yourself off."
"I don't understand."
"Never mind. You're distracted. You worried about the party tonight?" We turned the corner to my house.
"The Tacky Party? It will be interesting. I'm not sure what to wear, though."
"Gee, you almost sound excited." She poked me in the ribs. I jerked away in surprise. "Maybe you don't have tacky clothes...actually, I take that back."
"What?" I examined my gray pants—two front pockets and a side pocket for field items, pencil and paper. "This is classic urban camouflage."
