“Dave!”
I blinked.
Mr. Cooper was staring at me from the head of the classroom. He didn’t look pleased. I could actually see his craggy face darkening like a movie theater right before previews.
“What is the variable in this equation?” be snapped.
“The … variable?”
A couple of kids giggled.
“Yes, David,” he said slowly. “The variable? The unknown factor? You do know what that is, don’t you?”
I nodded, staring right back at him. I was pretty sure I knew what the variable was. Unfortunately for me, it had nothing to do with the problem on the chalkboard. It had to do with the pretentious schmuck who’d once enjoyed fondling my sister’s butt in public.
* * *
“Young Master Rosen!”
When I first heard Joel’s voice booming down the hall right before second period, I cringed. It was instinct, I guess. But then I remembered: I was looking for him. Right. So this was a stroke of luck. I pasted a big fat phony smile on my face and turned to wave.
My mouth fell open.
What the—
Okay. Something very strange was going on.
Joel Newbury was unrecognizable. It was definitely him, though, because he was walking straight toward me. The goatee was gone. So was the scraggly hair. So was the air tie. (Thank God for that, at least.) Joel Newbury was bald—or clean-shaven, anyway. He was wearing a black turtleneck. And a black leather jacket. And horn-rimmed glasses. I didn’t even know he needed glasses. In short, he’d gotten a complete makeover. Now he looked like one of those hipster/nerds who play weird outlaws in low-budget independent films.
“I’ve been getting that all morning,” he said.
“Getting what?” I asked, still in shock.
“That rude look,” he answered dryly.
Whoops. I shook my head and forced a laugh. “Oh! Sorry! I mean, no, you know, it’s just … ah, you sort of took me by surprise there, Jo— Mr. Newbury.”
“Yes. Well, change is good, as they say.” He smiled. “Nothing is permanent but change.”
I nodded, resisting the urge to run. “Sure. Absolutely.”
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
“Really?” I laughed again. For some reason this made me nervous.
“Yes … listen.” He paused and glanced around the deserted hallway. Second period had begun, which meant I was late for study hall. “I’d like to talk to you for a minute,” he said.
I shrugged. “I … uh, well, I’d like to talk to you, too, but I have study hall right now—”
“I’ll write you a note,” he interrupted.
Hmm. Getting reacquainted with old Mr. Newbury could be more useful than I’d imagined. “What’s up?” I asked.
“You know, I’m not even sure.” he said in an oddly distant voice. He leaned toward me. “I’m a little concerned about your sister,” he whispered.
I frowned. “Why? What happened?”
“I just got off the phone with her.” He glanced around once more to make certain we were alone. “I’m worried about her job situation.”
I didn’t answer. I was worried about her job situation, too, of course. But I wasn’t sure if it was Joel Newbury’s place to be worried about it as well.
“This is an awkward thing, Dave,” he went on. He lowered his eyes. “You see, earlier this morning she faxed me … an article. Did she tell you anything about it?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I—”
“Did she tell you to tell me that you wrote it?” he demanded, suddenly staring right at me.
I shook my head, baffled. “What do you mean? I did write—”
“Listen, Dave,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to get excessively personal. I know it’s not appropriate for me to pry into your family matters. On the other hand, I am an old friend of your sister’s, and this is an issue that concerns not only me but the school.” His face softened. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so melodramatic, either. It’s just … if your sister wants to write an advice column for the school paper, that’s fine. I won’t think any less of her. I won’t think she’s a failure because she’s not writing for the New Yorker. In fact, I think it’s a wonderful idea. But she doesn’t have to put on this elaborate charade. Just tell her that, okay? I’d be very grateful.”
I stood there.
Whoa.
If I’d understood him correctly … I started to smile. This was unbelievable. No, unbelievable wasn’t a strong enough word. This made his bizarre new hairless getup seem like nothing.
“So let me get this straight,” I finally said. “You think that Naomi wrote the column?”
“I know that Naomi wrote the column, Dave.”
I burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, Joel didn’t seem to think any of this was funny. “I’m just curious,” he said, sounding annoyed. “What is she up to? Is this some sort of angle for a story she’s pitching? Is that why she needs your cooperation? Or is she just playing a practical joke on me?”
“No, Jo—I mean, no.” I shook my head. “It’s no joke.”
“Well, good,” he said. “Because I already mentioned this to some people in the administration, and they agreed: it would be great for a bright young alumna like Naomi to offer advice to students in a public forum. If it’s tastefully done, that is. I think kids would really go for it. And the fact that she’s a journalist and a psych major … It could be really terrific. I tried to tell her all this on the phone just now. But she wouldn’t hear it. She wouldn’t drop this ridiculous story about how she’s trying to help you get a ‘gig’ writing for the school paper.”
He enunciated the word gig to make it clear that he was using Naomi’s word, not his. Not that I would have thought otherwise.
“So will you please just tell her that if she wants to write this column, she’s welcome to?”
I hit my lip. I was having a hard time not breaking into hysterics.
“All she has to do is call,” he said curtly. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He raised an eyebrow. “Look, I understand that you’re loyal to your sister. I admire that. Just please pass on this message for me, okay? Thanks. I appreciate it.” He turned to leave.
“Wait! Can I ask you something?”
“What, Dave?”
“How come you’re so sure Naomi wrote the column?”
He paused. At first I thought he was mad. But then he grinned over his shoulder. His brand-new leather jacket creaked. Something in his smile made me think of a young dad whose toddler had asked an incredibly inane question—like “Daddy, does Santa ever stop to go poopoo at our house?” He might as well have been saying, “Aw … aren’t you cute. You’re so incredibly ignorant.” I wanted to punch him in the face.
“I’m sure you’re a fine writer, Dave,” he said. “But I know your sister. She’s got a certain way of thinking … a feminine way of thinking. We men just don’t write like that—no matter how talented or mature we may be.” He chuckled. “Speaking of which, I’ll take care of that note for study hall right now, all right?” He winked. “I’ll be sure to write a good one.”
The rest of the day passed in a dark fog. If concentration had been difficult before that jarring little encounter with Joel, now it was impossible. I barely even noticed Celeste, even though she said hi to me in the halls four different times. (Okay, “barely” is an exaggeration.) My brain was like a merry-go-round. One second I’d feel amused; the next, offended; the next, I didn’t know what. In the end I mostly felt nauseated. Not only did I not talk like other guys, I didn’t write like them, either. Apparently my writing was “feminine.” What the hell did that mean? More importantly, what would Celeste think? What was going on here?
By the time I got home, I was actually a little pissed off. This was all Naomi’s fault. It was up to her to fix the problem. As soon as I walked into the apartment, I marched right to her room and banged on her door. I didn’t even bother to take off
my book bag.
“Dave?” she said.
“That’s not what Joel thinks,” I stated.
Naomi opened up and offered a sheepish smile.
Yikes. For a second I forgot about being angry She was a mess. She was still wearing her pajamas. Her hair stuck straight up, as if she’d been electrocuted. I peered into her room. The shades were drawn. Her flickering monitor was half buried in newspaper, and the debris seemed to explode outward from there—onto the floor in spiraling arcs of wadded napkins and diet-soda cans. (The whole scene vaguely reminded me of Fat Albert, the seventies cartoon about a bunch of groovy kids who hang out in a junkyard, and whose episodes never fail to send Mom and Aunt Ruth into hysterics.) Naomi had probably been holed up here all day. Maybe Joel was right to be worried about her. Maybe I should have been more worried.
“Listen, Dave, I . . She giggled, then quickly clamped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Come in.”
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” she muttered. “Tell me what happened.”
I shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell,” I said, dumping my book bag on top of a pile of dirty laundry. I sat on the edge of her bed. “Joel thinks you wrote the column.”
She nodded. Her lips twitched. She was doing her best not to laugh.
Now I wasn’t so worried about her anymore. Now I wanted to punch her in the face.
“I know… He told me the same thing,” she finally managed. “It’s crazy. What did he say to you?”
I shrugged. “Basically that I couldn’t have written the column, because we men aren’t that ‘feminine.’ Oh—and that change is good. ‘Nothing is permanent but change,’ he said. That’s an exact quote.”
Naomi’s forehead wrinkled. “Why did he say that?”
“Because he came to school bald.”
“He came to school—what?”
“He shaved his head and his beard. And he was dressed all in black. He had weird glasses, too—you know, the ones that are ugly and expensive.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted For some reason. “Maybe he’s hosting a poetry slam. Or he’s becoming a Buddhist.”
Naomi didn’t say anything. I glanced up at her. She was staring off into space, just the way Grandpa Meyer used to do before one of his sneezing fits. All at once she started to giggle again.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured.
“What?”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. She sat down at her desk. “See, he and I got into this fight on the phone the other day … well, it wasn’t a fight, really. It was more of a joke fight. But I told him that if he wanted to win the respect of his students, he had to update his image. He had to stop dressing like Jerry Seinfeld, circa 1990, unless he was actively seeking a lifetime of abuse. And he said that he—” She broke off, staring at me. “What?”
“Nothing. This is a truly fascinating story. Please, do go on.”
She smirked. “Come on. It’s just … you’ve seen him. I mean think of how a guy like Cheese would rag on him. There must be a hundred wiseasses like Cheese at Roosevelt. Think of the torture he would endure on a daily basis.” She laughed again. “But I guess he finally came to his senses. You say he was dressed all in black?”
I nodded. In all honesty, though, I’d pretty much forgotten what we were talking about. Because the moment she mentioned Cheese, I felt an unpleasant knot in my stomach.
“Um … did Cheese call or stop by today?” I asked.
Naomi furrowed her brow. “No,” she said. “Why? What does that have to do with Joel’s wardrobe?”
“Nothing,” I said. My throat tightened. I wasn’t sure why, but I was pissed off at Naomi again. I didn’t want to talk about Joel Newbury or his stupid new wardrobe. I wanted to tell her that there weren’t a hundred wiseasses like Cheese at Roosevelt. There were no wiseasses like Cheese at Roosevelt. There were only meatheads like Jed Beck, which was why it sucked. In fact, when I really thought about it, the closest thing I had to a buddy at that lame school—even on the lowest, job-only, watercooler level—was Joel Newbury himself. And that wasn’t just pathetic, it was horrifying.
“Hey, is something wrong, Dave?” Naomi asked.
“Yeah, somethings wrong. Your ex-boyfriend thinks you wrote what I wrote.”
“Besides that, I mean.”
“No,” I lied. I pushed myself off the mattress and stood. “Listen just make sure Butt Man knows the truth, okay? Can you please do that for me? This is ridiculous.”
“I know it’s ridiculous!” she yelled, laughing. “I must have called him five times today already. That’s the whole point, Dave. He won’t listen. He thinks I’m playing some weird mind game. But, hey, you should take it as a compliment. It’s a testament to how good an advice columnist you are.”
I rolled my eyes. Please. That was garbage, and Naomi knew it. Did she honestly think it would make me feel better? It made me feel worse. It made me feel sick. Hooray for me! I was such a good advice columnist that Joel Newbury thought I was my sister.
“Listen, Dave. Sit down for a second,” Naomi said seriously. “I want to throw out an idea at you. I’ve been thinking about it all day. It’s sort of wacked, though.”
“What, you’ve decided to wash your hair?”
“Ha, ha,” she said. “Just sit down.”
I sighed. I knew that if I left, I would probably just go and sulk in my room. It wasn’t as if I would march down to Cheese’s apartment and demand to know why he’d suddenly decided to blow me off just because of some petty little non-argument. (Besides, it was up to him to come apologize to me.) It wasn’t as if I would do any Algebra II homework, either. Nope. Once again, I was totally free. Free—my favorite four-letter F word. I plopped back down on Naomi’s bed.
“All right,” she said. “Don’t interrupt or say anything until I’m done, okay?”
I yawned loudly.
She smiled. “And try not to be a little jerk, either.”
“You’re littler than I am, if you want to get technical. You’re barely three-dimensional.”
“And you’re Mr. Universe,” she said dryly. “Listen, remember what Cheese said yesterday?”
“‘The Mind Is a Terrible Thing.’”
“Dave!” she barked.
“You asked me what he said.”
“It was a rhetorical question.” She scooted forward on the chair. “He said that I should write an advice column because I could parlay it into a story about youth culture. And I know that he was just being a comedian, the way he always is. But after what happened today with Joel, I started thinking. He might have been on to something.”
I sat up straight. On to something?
Now she had my attention. Less than twenty-four hours ago this very same idea had prompted her to ask Cheese if he was on drugs.
“What if we pretended that I did write the column?” Naomi continued. “Because that way you and I would both get what we want. So would Joel. He’d get his column written by ‘me.’ And since you’d do the actual writing, you’d get to help your schoolmates—like this girl you’re so into, Celeste Fanucci. I mean, you’d actually make a difference in her life. And I’d get to develop a cool pitch for a story: ‘Young Journalist-slash-Psych-Major Revisits High School to Counsel Troubled Teens,’ or whatever it was Cheese said.” She grinned, looking like a demented infomercial hostess. “See? We can’t lose!”
I swallowed.
“What?” she said.
She must have been joking. I prayed she was joking. “You need to get out of the apartment more often,” I said. “You’re going a little bonkers.”
“Come on, Dave,” she groaned. “I’m serious. And who says bonkers?”
“You honestly don’t think we could get away with—”
“We already have gotten away with it!” she interrupted.
I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped.
She was right. Not only had we already gotten away with it, we couldn’t seem t
o talk our way out of it. As far as Joel was concerned, Naomi had written the column. Period. And nothing, apparently, could change his mind.
“I’ll help you with the whole thing,” she went on, capitalizing on my lost momentum. “I’ll help you sort through the questions. I’ll help you pick the best ones and edit your responses. Not that you need much editing. I mean, I sent Joel exactly what you wrote, word for word.”
I frowned. She was trying to butter me up again. She wasn’t very good at it. She hadn’t had a whole lot of practice.
“I mean it, Dave,” she said. She lowered her voice to a whisper and smiled at me, leaning so far forward on the chair that I thought she might fall off. Her dark eyes twinkled in the fluorescent glow of the computer monitor. “It could be a lot of fun.”
“Yeah, but …”
“But what?”
I chewed my lip.
My sister had come up with a lot of insane schemes over the years. Especially in recent years. Like two summers ago, when she somehow convinced Mom and Aunt Ruth to join something called the Men’s Hair Society. She figured it would be a great way for them to meet virile, if balding, bachelors. Poor Mom and Aunt Ruth called a 1-800 number and were charged over fifty bucks apiece in nonrefundable application fees before the automated Hair Line determined that they were, in fact, women, and therefore ineligible for membership. (It probably didn’t help that they weren’t interested in wigs or transplants, either.) They never got the name of a single bachelor.
Then there was the time last spring when Naomi nearly talked Cheese into stealing his parents’ SUV. She claimed she had to take pictures of him behind the wheel for her graduate thesis, something about the “excesses of urban youth.” At the time, Cheese had never operated a motorized vehicle other than a model airplane. (As far as I know, he still hasn’t.) “Driving isn’t all that hard,” Naomi kept telling him—as if she had any clue, which she didn’t, because as a lifelong New Yorker, she’d never bothered to get a license. “We’ll just go for a quick spin around the block.” Luckily, neither she nor Cheese could figure out how to start the engine.
Tell It to Naomi Page 5
