Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (12 page)

As if the barely edible fries weren't enough of a burden on my gut, the dark look of glee Ms. Denton gave me when I walked into class was sufficient to make my stomach tighten. I was pretty sure she had something special waiting for me.

I
hope you all like seafood,” Ms. Denton said after we'd been seated.

I just knew she was going to bring out a preserved shark and give me the honor of making the first cut. What she didn't know was that I'd been fishing for most of my life. And one of the first things my dad insisted on was that if you were going to catch and eat a fish, you had to know how to clean it. So, while I was definitely not eager to explore mammalian anatomy, I was okay with the piscine sort. A shark, or a perch, or a trout would have been just fine with me. I could cut one open.

It turned out to be a different branch of sea life.

We each got an oyster. That was fine, too. I'd helped chop clams up for bait when I'd gone deep-sea fishing with my dad and my uncles.

“You going to be okay?” Lee asked when Ms. Denton plopped my oyster in front of me.

“I'm looking forward to this,” I said, loudly enough so the teacher would hear.

“Now, I'm worried about you,” Lee said.

We got to work. The fries still exerted some pressure, but it wasn't anything I couldn't control.

“I found a pearl!” Lee said after she began cutting.

“I found ooze,” I said.

But I felt I'd turned a corner in this class. I was doing good work, participating, taking pages and pages of notes, and studying hard for each test. The only casualties in the room right now were the oysters. No matter how much Ms. Denton had it out for me, I could cross biology class off my list of problems. And that left just English standing in the way of an enjoyable sophomore year and a decent grade-point average.

Ms. Denton handed back our biology notebooks about five minutes before the class ended. When she gave mine to me, she smiled that same dark smile.

The oyster, it seemed, was a red herring. The notebook was her dark surprise.

I looked at the cover page. A sixty?

What the heck
 . . . 
?

Under that, in red marker, she'd written, “Where are the illustrations?”

Illustrations?

I turned to Lee and spoke that word.

“Yeah. Of course. It's a biology notebook. It's sort of useless without drawings.” She flipped hers open, but not before I spotted the ninety-seven on the cover. She thumbed
to a page, revealing several neatly labeled drawings. She flipped past other pages, all heavily illustrated.

“I didn't know . . . ,” I said.

“How could you not?” Lee said. “That was one of the first things she told us.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“The first day.”

“Probably at the same time I was taking the mop and bucket back to the janitor's closet,” I said.

“After you puked.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Would there be any point in asking for a second chance? There wasn't any way I could do all the drawings. Maybe I could get her to show me a bit of mercy. It hadn't been my fault I was out of the room when she mentioned that requirement.

I walked up to the front table.

“No,” she said.

“No to what?” I asked.

“Anything you are about to ask,” she said. “Just
no
.”

“But I was out of the room when you told the class there had to be illustrations,” I said.

“It was also at the back of the guidelines,” she said.

That put an end to my plea. I remembered getting the guidelines, glancing at them, and tossing them on my desk back home. As I returned to my seat, I spotted Ike's notebook. He'd also been out of the room. He had an eighty-five. I was
pretty sure Chelsea had illustrations, too. I was the only unwise sophomore in the room.

Zenger Zinger for October 14

Last week's answer:
“Edgar Allan wrote some less serious works,” John Peter said politely.

This week's puzzle:
“Fee, foe, fum,” John Peter said
_________
.

Wednesday, in English, we got our short stories back. This was the first time I'd had a chance to write fiction for Mrs. Gilroy. I didn't have high hopes that she'd like my story, but when she dropped it on my desk, I saw that even my lowest hopes weren't depressed enough to match reality. I'd gotten a seventy-five.

I was so used to getting shot down by her that I didn't even let out a moan. But I was curious which obscure, obsolete, or arbitrary rule I'd broken this time. Nothing was circled on the first page. Nothing on the second or third. I turned to the last page. Scrawled in red across the final paragraph were three words: “
deus ex machina
.”

Huh? I wasn't even sure how to pronounce that.

When I got to the newspaper meeting, I showed Mr. Franka that page. He glanced at it, then said, “God from a machine. In ancient Greek performances, the actors would get themselves into a mess. Then one of the gods would come down from above, lowered with ropes in a basket, and save the day.”

“That sounds sort of cool.” I guess the ancient Greek stage-crew guys were pretty strong.

“It probably was, way back then,” he said. “But, these days, when your story problems are solved by someone who just shows up, or by some other sort of miracle, that's
deus ex machina.
And that's not a good thing.”

“Is it bad enough to earn a seventy-five?” I asked.

“Do you think you'll ever make that mistake again?” he asked.

“No way.”

“Then I think the grade served its purpose.”

• • •

Two days later, I got called down to the guidance office.

Mr. Tivelli looked at the open folder in front of him as if it were an AP Bio cat. “Hmmmm.” Then he looked up from the file and stared across the desk at me. “You're nearly failing both biology and English. How do you feel about your grades?”

“I feel bad,” I said.

“Badly,” he said.

He was wrong.
Bad
was correct. I wanted to stand up for myself. He was giving me a character test, and he wasn't even aware of it. If I corrected him, he'd get angry, and he'd probably find some way to make me suffer. Or maybe he'd write something really terrible in my records. Guidance counselors had a lot of power.

“I don't feel good about them,” I said. I came dangerously
close to saying, “I don't feel
goodly
,” to point out why
badly
was wrong. But that wouldn't have been good, either. Or goodly. The moment of crisis ended as he moved on from the impromptu grammar lesson.

“What do you think we should do about these grades?” he asked.

“Try harder?” I guessed.

“That would be a good start.” He closed the folder with the triumphant finality of someone who has just solved a massive engineering problem. “Look at this as an opportunity to do better, Mr. Hudson.”

“I'll do my bestly,” I said. But I said it very quietly, after I left his office.

• • •

Painfully participating in the political process by producing poorly phrased passages and plodding poetry, people proposed platforms and pled for patronage. I survived the candidates' student-council speeches we sat through in the assembly on Monday. Later that day, in English, Mrs. Gilroy touched on
paroemion
, a term for excessive alliteration. The technique did not get her approval.

October 21

The first school dance is on Friday. I don't know what to do. I'd like to go with Lee. I want to ask her. I already tried, once. But I chickened out. Actually, I
French-fried out. It's kind of like a minefield with her, when it comes to social stuff. She made fun of dances last year. But then we ended up going to one. And it was an amazing night. There's no way I'll ever capture that magic exactly the same way. And I'm not trying to. But I'd like to dance with her again. And I think she'd like to dance with me. I keep thinking of that hug she gave me last month. A hug is like a very short dance. Without music. I want a longer dance.

Zenger Zinger for October 21

Last week's answer:
“Fee, foe, fum,” John Peter said defiantly.

This week's puzzle:
“I love channel surfing from my couch,” John Peter said
_________
.

“Who wants to cover the dance?” Sarah asked.

I realized that if I was covering the dance for the paper, I could tell Lee I had to go, and ask her to come along to keep me company. By the time I'd explored that thought and envisioned several outcomes, five hands had gone up. Including Jeremy's.

“You don't want to do that,” I said.

“Why?”

“Imagine an adhesive bandage being ripped off your arm. You know what that feels like?”

“Sure.”

“Now, imagine a thousand bandages.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

I sat back as Richard and Edith decided to split the assignment, and write the article from two perspectives. I had to admit that was a pretty good idea.

Dear Mouth,

I'm glad you're feeling better. Sorry it took me a while to write back to you. I've been pretty busy. Things are good here. My mom had the baby. Sean isn't scary. Unless you're terrified of moisture and stench. I'm on the paper. I haven't written much yet. But I'm going to be doing opinion pieces and news features. I don't have a girlfriend. Lee and I are friends. Do you remember her? She had a lot of piercings and wore dark and gory shirts. You know who I mean. They all called her “Weirdly” when she got here. But she's not weird. She's really smart. She reads a lot. She likes the stuff I like. Except for slot cars. (Though I think she might like them, too.) So we have a lot in common. Her father scares me. But I think that's his job. I have to get going. I'm glad you wrote to me. It was a nice surprise.

From equally far away,
Scott Hudson

T
hursday night, right after dinner, the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and experienced that weird jolt you get when you see someone unexpectedly. I knew the face well, but never imagined I'd encounter it on my porch this year.

“Hi, Scott,” Kyle's father said. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

“Guess not. . . .”

“Kyle's been pretty involved with his wrestler friends.” He poked my shoulder. “You're a strong kid. You should go out for the team.”

“I'm not much of a wrestler,” I said. I guess Kyle was as enthusiastic about sharing social updates or upheavals with his parents as I was.

“You never know until you try. Hey, I don't want to hold you up. I'm sure you've got stuff to do. I'm meeting your dad. Can you let him know I'm here?”

“Uh, yeah. Come in. Have a seat. I'll get him. He's in the garage.”

“That's just like him. Can't keep his hands off cars.”

I went to the garage. “Dad, Mr. Bartock is here.”

“Thanks, Scott.” Dad grabbed a rag and wiped his hands. He stepped away from the car with a wistful look. I think, in a perfect world, he'd just fix cars right here in our garage.

“He's your partner?” I asked.

“Yeah. You don't hang out with Kyle anymore, do you?”

“We drifted apart,” I said.
Like the shell of a hand grenade.

“It happens. Who knows? Maybe you'll drift together. Especially if I'm in business with his dad. You boys could become good friends again.”

“Anything could happen, I guess.”

It wasn't impossible, but it sure wasn't likely. Until the deal was done, and the contracts signed, Kyle could threaten to make trouble. He could tell his dad anything. I just didn't trust Kyle anymore, especially when he had some sort of power over me. As I headed up to my room, I thought about things that were more probable than a happy reunion with him. When I got upstairs, I jotted down my list.

Things That Will Happen Before Kyle and I Are Friends Again

1. 
Mr. Cravutto replaces laps around the track with poetry readings.

2. 
Hershey Park starts offering pterodactyl rides.

3. 
Mr. Fowler gives me $100,000 so I can run off to Vegas with Lee and get married.

4. 
Slitty the Cat comes back to life and finds work as a purse.

The next day, in study hall, I watched to see if Kyle would give me any sort of knowing look. When he caught me staring, he grinned and mouthed the words
You're mine
.

Great. He knew that I knew.

He didn't say anything else to me that day, but I was sure there'd be trouble down the road.

• • •

When I got home from school, I headed into the kitchen for a snack. Mom was making a blueberry pie. She'd cut strips of dough for the top, and was weaving them in an open grid. She'd once told me it was called a lattice top.

I'd seen documentaries about Buddhist monks who make these large designs out of colored sand. They look totally at peace with the universe. That's how Mom looked. The pie was the center of her focus. The pie and the sand painting had another thing in common. Neither would be around for long. One strong wind, or one hungry family, and they were history.

“Looks good,” I said.

“Thanks. It will smell even better than it looks.”

“I know.” I sat on a stool by the counter and watched as she finished weaving the strips. She took a piece of foil and wrapped the edge of the crust. That would keep it from burning while
the pie baked. I couldn't make a pie myself, and I doubt I'd get much joy out of any effort in that direction, but I'd seen the process often enough that I knew the details. And I definitely knew the results. Mom's pies were as good as anything you'd get in a bakery or a restaurant.

“You didn't seem very happy to see Mr. Bartock,” Mom said.

“He's an okay guy,” I said.

“Has he ever done anything that made you uncomfortable?” she asked.

“No. Definitely not,” I said. Kyle's dad was a little strict, but he definitely wasn't creepy or inappropriate. I guess it was part of any mother's job to track down the cause of strange reactions her kids had to other people.

“But something bad happened between you and Kyle,” she said.

“Old history,” I said. “It's nothing.” I didn't share my fear that Kyle would try to exert some sort of control over me.

“Your dad never wanted someone to tell him how to run the business,” Mom said. “Mr. Bartock is willing to be a silent partner.”

“Silent partner?” I asked.

“He'll own half the business, and share the profits. But he has no say in how the business is run. He's purely an investor.”

“Wow. That's a pretty good deal,” I said.

“And hard to find,” Mom said. “Most partners want control.”

“So do most parents,” I said.

Mom rewarded me with a frown.

“Just kidding,” I said. Actually,
most people
would be more accurate.

October 24

No dance, Sean. I am so gutless. And distracted, I guess. I can't believe Dad is going into business with Kyle's dad. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I'm really not looking forward to gym next week. That's going to be Kyle's first chance to take advantage of me outside the civilized world.

“Hello, my servant,” Kyle said when I got to the locker room on Tuesday.

“Very funny.”

“You work for me now.”

“Not really.”

“Your dad works for my dad.”

“Not yet. And not really. They're partners.”

“No. My dad doesn't have partners. He has pawns. This is going to be awesome,” he said.

As he said that, I realized there was really nothing he could ask me to do. He had power, to some limited extent, but no use for it. He was like a clunky old C-cell battery in a world
of AA devices. I decided not to point that out to him. I didn't want him to try to find a way to prove me wrong.

Zenger Zinger for October 28

Last week's answer:
“I love channel surfing from my couch,” John Peter said remotely.

This week's puzzle:
“I deduce that we have to take the left fork of the trail,” John Peter said
_________
.

I got called back down to guidance the next day.

“Hudson, I have a suggestion,” Mr. Tivelli said.

“Yes?”

“You have to admit you're in quite a sophomore slump,” he said.

“Slump?”

“Quite a towering slump, actually,” he said.

Towering slump.
I resisted the urge to hit him in the shoulder.

He picked up my file and held it under my nose, “Look at last year. Good grades. Student council. Stage crew. All those articles in the paper. You were a ball of fire. What happened? Did you meet a girl?”

I met two women. One teaches English. The other teaches biology. They share a hatred for me
. I didn't share that with him. “I'm still on the paper,” I said.

“I don't recall seeing any articles by you,” he said.

I opened my mouth. But none of my responses seemed worth the effort. I was pretty sure he wouldn't consider the Zenger Zingers a valid equivalent to everything I'd done last year.

“Since you don't seem to have a strong academic drive, maybe it would help your college chances if you went out for a sport. Is there anything you're good at?” he asked.

“I'm okay at fishing,” I said.

He snorted. “Very funny. Can you run or wrestle, or do anything physical?”

“I guess.”

“Well, give it some thought.”

“I will.” But it seemed crazy to think about it at all. I hadn't gone out for any sports freshman year. I was too short to play serious basketball. I'd wrestled in gym class, but that was it—except for a brief battle last year with Kyle that had been fueled by enough rage to tilt the outcome in my favor. I sucked at volleyball. Swim practice was at a fitness center at the edge of town, way too early in the morning for anyone other than vampires. We didn't have a hockey team or a bowling team. It looked like Mr. Tivelli was in for another disappointment.

• • •

Thursday, in the cafeteria, I heard a shout as I was walking over to get some mustard for my soft pretzel.

“Hey! Paper boy!” Kyle yelled at me from his seat at the table with his wrestler friends.

“What?”

He pointed at the French fries on his tray. “We need ketchup.” I guess it had taken him half a week to figure out some way to prove he had power over me.

“It's right there,” I said, pointing across the cafeteria to the table with the big pump jars of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise.

“So bring it here,” he said.

We locked eyes. Pride and passion were at stake. My pride versus my father's passion. Could Kyle really screw things up? I had no idea. As I stood there, contemplating my next move, I spotted Lee out of the corner of my eye. She left our table, went to the condiments, and picked up the ketchup. She carried it across the cafeteria. As she walked past me, she said, “I have catlike hearing.”

She plunked the bottle in front of Kyle. I could see some of the wrestlers cringing. A lot of them were creeped out by Lee. And I knew Kyle hated her. She held her palm under the dispenser, pumped a glob of ketchup on her hand, then slowly licked it.

“Yummm.” She flashed the wrestlers a faux-bloody grin.
“Bon appetit!”

I followed her back to our table.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

I explained the situation with the contract.

“I don't think he can really mess things up for your dad,” she said.

“Probably not, but I can't take any chances. This is his big dream.” I looked over at Kyle and his friends, who were occupied in drenching all of their food in ketchup. “I just have to tough it out until they sign the contract. I can handle it.”

“You're so sweet,” she said. She patted my cheek with her palm.

“Sweet and sticky,” I said when I realized which hand she used.

“Hey, a bit of blush looks good on you,” she said. “Don't wash. You can wear it tomorrow, for Halloween.”

• • •

“Want to come over tonight and help hand out candy?” Lee asked me on Friday morning. “We get the cutest little monsters in our neighborhood.”

“That would be fun, but I'm going out.”

She stared at me like I'd told her I was entering a yodeling contest. “Going out?”

“I'm handing out flyers for the budget vote. I'll give you some. Maybe you can pass them to the parents who come with their kids.”

“Sure. I can do that.”

That evening, I went from house to house, threading among the dozens of little pirates and princesses. Each time I knocked on a door, the person answering would stare at me, and then start to sneer, just the same way any adult would sneer at an uncostumed high school kid going out to trick or treat.
I'd tried to get Mom to let me dress Sean up as a zombie and bring him with me. It seemed pretty much a perfect way to get people to listen to me. I'd even offered to make him a bulging eye out of a painted Ping-Pong ball. Who can resist a zombie baby? But she didn't think it was a good idea.

“Maybe next year,” she'd said.

So I was forced to face a series of skeptical homeowners, armed with nothing but fast words and an earnest smile.

“I'm not here for candy,” I'd say. “I just want to ask you to vote to save the school paper.” Then, I'd hand them a flyer. And, much to my surprise, most of them would insist that I take a piece of candy. I didn't have a bag, so I had to put the candy in my coat pockets, until I ran out of room. At that point, I had no choice but to eat some of the treats. Politics is hard work.

One man told me, “It's nice to see a young person involved in the democratic process.”

Another said, “Good for you.”

Of course, I also got several versions of “I'm not wasting a penny of my hard-earned money on unnecessary luxuries for you young thugs.”

No surprise—those people didn't offer me candy.

“How'd it go?” Mom asked when I got home.

“I don't know. It's hard to tell. You're voting, aren't you?”

“I'll try. Next Tuesday's looking pretty busy.”

“It's important,” I said.

“I know it is. I'll try. I really will.”

Later, when I asked Dad, he said, “I'll vote on the way home from work. Unless I have to stay late.”

I held out a mini Snickers candy bar. “Can you be bribed?”

“Not usually.” He took the candy. “But you found my weakness.”

October 31

Happy Halloween, Sean. Next year, I'm dressing you up and taking you trick-or-treating. I miss going out. I went out tonight, but I was asking for a lot more than candy. It feels strange asking people to vote for something. It feels good when they say they will. I don't like the way I feel when they say no. I'm pretty sure I could never be a politician.