Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (13 page)

I
was up in my room after lunch on Saturday when I felt my floor shake like someone was driving a tank down the road. I looked out the window. No tank. But close. It was a tractor. Not the kind of little tractors people use for mowing lawns or plowing driveways. This was one of those farm tractors you sometimes see chugging along the road toward a field at five miles an hour. Wesley was driving it.

I went outside. “You taking up farming?” I had to crane my neck to talk to him.

“Nope. Got a job delivering them,” he said.

“Don't they usually put them on a flatbed truck?”

“The big dealers do. This is a small operation. They don't have a truck. So they hire people to drive them there.”

“Where are you taking it?”

“Off County Line Road, about five miles past the old slate quarry,” he said.

“And how are you getting back?” I asked.

Wesley shrugged, then said, “I'll figure that out when I get there.”

“Want me to see if my dad can pick you up?” I asked.

“That would work.”

“No problem.” I ran in and checked, then told Wesley the good news. “He can do it. Just call the house when you're ready.”

“Thanks. You coming?”

I was about to say no. But I realized that would be totally typical of me. I needed to do more stuff that wasn't typical. How often do you get a chance to ride a tractor?

“Sure. Why not?”

While I was climbing up, Wesley pointed over his shoulder. “There's room to stand behind me. Hang on. I'll try not to go too fast.”

“That shouldn't be much of a challenge.” I grabbed the back of his seat, and he drove off.

“Great view,” Wesley said.

“For sure,” I said. “It does look pretty cool from up here.” And even at five miles an hour, with cars backing up behind us and honking, or zooming past and screaming swear words out the window, the wind felt good in my face.

There were times with Wesley when I felt scared, apprehensive, nervous, guilty, perplexed, or flat-out terrified. But even then, I usually felt fully alive.

November 1

This is National Novel Writing Month, Sean. I think it's also National Pet a Turtle Day, National Artificial Sweetener Week, and probably National Zucchini Fortnight. There seem to be more national days on the calendar than there are days in a year. Same thing for weeks and months. But NaNoWriMo, which is what they call it, is a pretty cool idea. People write a whole novel of at least fifty thousand words in one month. Fifty K isn't even two K a day. And we know that's a piece of cake. I'm going to give it a shot. Good thing this is Saturday. I can get a jump on things, just in case I have to slack off during the week. I'd hate to have to start a novel on a Wednesday. I'm not sure what I'm going to write about. Maybe dragons. Yeah. Dragons would be fun.

Here's a tip. If anyone ever offers you a tractor ride, take it. Oh, two more things. First, don't assume you can get cell phone coverage way out in the country. Second, a long walk on a country road on an autumn day is a great way to spend time with a good friend.

Saturday evening, I took my seat at the temple of the Chevelle. Last year, when I was adoring Julia from afar, I'd asked Dad how long it took for him to actually talk to Mom for the first
time. He'd told me it had taken a couple months. I wanted to find out about the next phase of their relationship.

“Dad, do you remember the first time you asked Mom out?”

“Sure.” He smiled the smile of recollection.

“Was it hard getting up the courage?”

“It was hard. But I did it.”

“How long did you take before you asked her out on a real date?”

“That was a long time ago. Hang on. Let me think.” He fiddled with the engine for a while, but I could see he was traveling through the past while his hands moved the wrench on autopilot. Or auto-mechanic. “Probably a month and a half.”

“So you weren't like Bobby, either.” My older brother had dates lined up before he was born.

“Not even close.”

That was comforting. Physically, Dad and Bobby were a lot alike. But I guess, inside, when it came to dating, Dad and I were a bit closer. He'd told me he'd been real shy when he was my age.

“Were you afraid she'd say no?”

“Terrified,” he said.

“But you still asked.”

“Soon after I'd started talking with her, she went out of town for a week. I pictured that week, when I didn't see her at all, as how the rest of my life would be, if we weren't together.
I couldn't accept that. I needed her in my life.”

“Where'd you go for your first date?”

“A movie.” Then he laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“I thought it was an outdoor adventure. The title sure sounded like that. But . . .” He shook his head. “It was the wrong movie. Similar title. The actors didn't leave their clothes on very long.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops. Not the kind of film for a first date. Or a hundredth. It wasn't X-rated, at least. But nobody seemed to be interested in wearing a shirt.”

“What'd you do?”

“As soon as I realized where the film was headed, I looked over at your mom and said, ‘Let's get out of here.' She didn't need to be convinced. So we went for coffee. I apologized several times, until she told me to stop.”

“So it worked out.”

“We talked until well after midnight.”

“That's a lot of talking for you,” I said.

“Your mom has that power,” he said.

• • •

Lee texted me at 2:00
A.M
.

Use your extra hour wisely.

I could just imagine her waiting up all night so she could do that right when the clocks were supposed to be turned back.
I wisely used my extra hour, and many that followed it, for sleep.

November 2

Sean, I think all the good dragon ideas have been taken. Today, halfway through writing my first chapter, I realized I was totally ripping off
Jeremy Thatcher
,
Dragon Hatcher
. Maybe because I've read it seven times. I also spotted a smattering of
Dragonflight
. I guess it's easy to copy something without realizing it. I'm going to try writing something else today.

Monday was the last day of the first marking period. It also felt like the last day of the world. I could tell all my teachers were worried about the budget vote. I was worried about my grades. But it was too late to do anything about them.

I got another great essay grade from Ms. Burke, who seemed to love my writing. Maybe the key to high school success was to write essays for history, and history papers for English. Though I was pretty much convinced Mrs. Gilroy would shoot down anything I wrote, no matter what the topic or format.

I did my last bottle drawing in art. I had a whole stack of different drawings, sketches, and paintings, executed in a variety of techniques. We'd done extremely precise blueprint-like renderings, contour drawings, abstract representations,
impressionistic wet-brush paintings, and a slew of other things. I'd felt it was stupid, at first, that we were drawing the same objects over and over. But after a while, I started to appreciate that my three bottles were the anchor for all the techniques. If I'd drawn a sketch of three bottles, but then made an abstract collage of a house, followed by an impressionistic watercolor of a basket of apples, I wouldn't have learned as much about the techniques. Or about the bottles.

November 3

You'd think, after all the books I've read, it would be easy to write one. But every time I get an idea, I immediately think up a thousand reasons why it won't work.

“Your girlfriend can't save you in here,” Kyle said when we were getting changed for gym the next day.

“What, you want ketchup?” I asked. “I've heard it makes jock straps much tastier and easier to swallow.”

“I want you to show me some respect,” Kyle said.

“Sure. I'm happy to,” I said. “How would you like me to manifest that?”

“For starters, you can talk like a person, and not a freaking encyclopedia.”

“You mean, like a dictionary? Or a thesaurus?”

Kyle glared at me. “You used to be a normal kid, back
in middle school. I don't know how you got so messed up. My father's making a big mistake getting involved with your family.”

“He doesn't seem to feel that way,” I said.

“Things can change,” Kyle said

“That's for sure,” I said. “You know there are a thousand other people who'd love to be in business with my dad.”

“Good luck finding one,” Kyle said. He got up and headed out, giving me a push as he went by. I didn't push back.

November 4

I think I found the perfect idea. And it's still really early in the month. That gives me lots of time.

I watched election results on the local news that night, but they weren't covering anything except congressional races, and some scattered politically important campaigns for various mayors and governors. I couldn't find anything online, either. The next morning, I saw the results in the paper. The voters had killed both the main budget increase and Question Two.

I could have figured that out just as easily by the look on any of my teachers' faces when I got to school. To use a vocabulary word I hope I never have another opportunity to write, the atmosphere at Zenger High was funereal. When Mr. Franka walked into the meeting room after school, he looked like his dog had died trying and failing to rescue his best friend
from a burning building containing the only existing copy of an unpublished novel by H. G. Wells.

“We lost,” he said.

“I know. That stinks,” I said. “Now what?”

“Now there's no paper,” he said.

“But it's been published for seventy-five years,” Sarah said.

“The school is named for a newspaperman,” I said.

“They can't just kill something with all that history,” Jeremy said.

“They just did,” Mr. Franka said.

“So we're finished?” I asked.

“Soon,” he said. “We can print two or three more issues with the remaining funds. That money is ours. We can maybe stretch things out through the end of December, if we cut costs. But there's no more money coming.”

“What's the point?” Richard asked. “That's like being on life support.”

“There's a point,” I said. “We can't quit. We'll make them the best issues ever.”

“Waste of time,” one of the seniors said. “Bye, guys. It's been fun.”

He walked out.

As I looked around the table, I had a weird image of people in the Alamo, deciding to stick together in the face of certain death. “Anyone else want to leave?” I asked.

Heads shook in the negative. They were staying.

“Maybe we can print it ourselves,” Sarah said.

I thought about my adventure with the survival manual. I figured it would be cheaper to print a copy of the paper than a whole manual, but we printed a lot of copies. “How much does an issue cost to print?” I asked Mr. Franka.

He told me.

“Wow. That's a killer,” I said.

“Why don't we publish online?” Jeremy asked. “We can put it on the school's server. The cost would be insignificant.”

“That's a possible solution,” Mr. Franka said.

I thought about how kids would get a copy of each issue and look at it throughout the day. That made it special. There was so much stuff online, and so little in print. “No. We need to preserve the tradition. There has to be a way.” I grabbed a notepad. “Ideas? Say anything that comes to mind, no matter how absurd. Who knows what it could lead to?”

We spent at least half an hour listing everything we could think of, ranging from the practical to the absurd.

Scott Hudson's (and Friends') List of Ways to Save the School Paper

Sell ads.

Sell subscriptions for enough money to cover the printing cost.

Rob a bank.

Find a sponsor.

Get a grant.

Sneak into the offices of the local paper and use their equipment.

Win a contest where the prize is a high-speed printer and a year's supply of toner.

Print everything real tiny so it all fits on an index card.

Write it on our arms and stand in a row in the hall.

Sing it like bards of old.

End each meeting with a fight to the death, and charge admission.

In the end, after things started to move too far out of the box, we ended up with the obvious things in the box.

“My mom makes amazing cookies,” I said.

“Are you suggesting a bake sale?” Sarah asked.

“I guess. Yeah. I am. Her pies are killer, too.”

“We'll put it on the list,” Sarah said.

We didn't come up with a better idea. So we all agreed to bring cookies.

I ran into Mr. Franka in the hall after the meeting. He was coming out of the teachers' lounge, and he looked even more disheartened than he'd been at the meeting.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“We lost more than money yesterday. There were some board members who've been trying for years to make drastic cuts in areas they consider unimportant. They've always been
outvoted, five to two, or four to three, when it came to those measures. But three members were up for reelection. Two of our strongest supporters got defeated by people who aren't on our side. That will swing all the important votes against us.”

“So the people who are against spending money on us are the majority now?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What else is going to get cut?” I asked.

“I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see. But I have a feeling it won't be pleasant.”