Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (17 page)

T
wo days later, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the doorbell rang.

Mr. Bartock was on the porch, without Kyle.

He and Dad had a very short conversation.

“That apartment fire,” Mr. Bartock said. “That was my project.”

“Bad?” Dad asked.

“I was underinsured. I took a risk. What were the odds something like this would happen?”

“Now what?” Dad asked.

Mr. Bartock shrugged. “I wish I knew. I just wanted to tell you in person.”

Dad held out his hand. They shook. Mr. Bartock said, “I'm really sorry.” Then he left.

“Well, I guess that's that,” Dad said.

Mom had come up behind us. “I'm so sorry,” she said. She gave Dad a hug. “Maybe it will still work out.”

“I don't see how,” Dad said. He went to the garage.

“Think I should go out there?” I asked Mom.

“In a while,” she said. “He needs time by himself. That's how he copes. He'll be okay.”

“I know,” I said. “But it hurts to see his dreams get crushed like that.”

“He's lucky he has people who care so much about him. And you should be glad you have someone you care that much about,” she said. “That's something money can't buy.”

I nodded. Speaking didn't seem safe at the moment; I was afraid my voice would betray my feelings. But she was right. We were all pretty lucky. Still, it sucked to see Dad lose his dream.

Later, I heard the garage door open, and the increasingly familiar growl of the Chevelle as Dad drove off.

December 24

It's going to be a weird Christmas, Sean. Bobby and Amala went to see her parents in Mount Laurel. I'm sure Bobby's thrilled about that. Amala's dad sounds like Lee's dad on steroids. I did get you a present, even though you won't really appreciate it. It's a reindeer hat. I'm sure you won't remember it. But there will be pictures. Hundreds of pictures.

We unwrapped our presents before breakfast on Christmas morning. I got a video game system. The new one. And a gift certificate to the local bookstore. I guess Dad had bought it last
night. Mom got a pearl necklace, and this fancy Calphalon pot she'd been coveting for ages, like the ones you see the real chefs use on cooking programs. It was way more than we'd expected. We told Dad he shouldn't have done it.

“We've been scrimping for too long,” he said. “I wanted to bring home some happiness for us.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I'm good,” he said. Mom and I had gotten him modest presents; nothing like what he'd bought for us.

• • •

My parents had gone out for New Year's Eve. Mom was reluctant, but Dad had put up a convincing argument that the best way to shake off a tough year was to greet the new one with enthusiasm.

Lee was here. To my amazement, her folks had let her come over. With Sean standing guard in his playpen, I doubt my parents or Lee's parents were worried anything serious would happen this evening. I was worried nothing serious would happen this lifetime.

“I always feel I should do something significant on the last day of the year,” I said.

“It's just another day,” Lee said. “Either you did significant stuff already, or you didn't. Why stress about it?”

“I don't know. I should write a poem or jog five miles or something.”

Lee looked at the clock. “Go ahead. You have time.”

“For what?”

“For either. Even if you do a lazy ten-minute mile, you'll be finished before midnight. Sweaty, frostbitten, and reeking, but finished. A poem would take even less time, as long as you're happy with a crappy one. Hey,
happy
and
crappy
rhyme. You can use them to get started.”

She leaned over the crib and sang, “Happy crappy New Year to you, little Pooh Bear.”

Sean, dressed in his Winnie-the-Pooh decorated jammies, appeared to like that. Lee's voice always made him smile.

She picked him up.

“Careful,” I said. “He's covered with Pooh.”

“Don't you ever get tired of saying that?” she asked.

“Not so far. It's a classic.”

I thought about going out for a jog. It seemed like a really stupid idea. I thought about writing a poem. That seemed equally empty. I grabbed a handful of cheese curls, sat back down on the couch, and watched faded celebrities introduce the formerly popular bands that seemed to lie in wait to perform last year's hits on the last day of the current year.

• • •

“Ten!”

“Nine!”

“Eight!”

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

“Happy New Year!”

We both stood up from the couch.

I looked at Lee, wondering what to do. She leaned over, went up on her toes, and kissed me on the cheek. Boom. That was it.

“Happy New Year,” I said. I hadn't meant to leave off the exclamation point, but I didn't think she noticed.

“Ready for a new chance to make the same mistakes and repeat the same bad habits?” she asked.

“I thought that's what sophomore year was for,” I said.

N
ew year. I squinted at my clock. It was eleven in the morning. Coincidentally, the same hour as last night when I'd decided against doing anything significant. Did I want to do anything significant today?

Maybe today. But definitely not this morning.

I rolled over and shoved my head under my pillow. Lee was right. If you did stuff all through the year, it was silly to try to make the first or last day something special. I guess the same held true if you didn't do stuff all year.

I called Wesley around 2:00, but he sounded like he'd partied pretty hard, so I took pity on him and ended our conversation. Lee had gone with her folks to visit relatives. It seemed that, for the moment, I was on my own.

January 1

This is my first journal entry of the year. I guess I should strive to make it prefect. I'll leave it at that.

I finally caught up with Wesley on Sunday, when he picked me up to go bowling. He was driving his own car for a change. On the way to the lanes, I told him about the garage.

“That's rough. Your dad must be bummed.”

“Yeah. But he's not showing it.”

“That's what dads do,” he said. “It's got to be a tough job.”

We reached the lanes, and went to the counter to rent shoes.

“I wish I could do something for him,” I said.

“You'll think of something,” Wesley said.

“I hope so . . .”

January 4

Mark your calendar, Sean. We have a wedding scheduled. Bobby and Amala picked May 9. Bobby told me he chose that date because it was the day before Mother's Day. That way, he'd never forget his anniversary. When I pointed out to him that the date for Mother's Day changes from year to year, he laughed and smacked me on the head. Yeah, he was kidding. Actually, they picked it because it was the only date this year that fit the schedules of both families and that worked for the reception place they liked the most. They'd found a banquet hall on farmland in Flemington, which is halfway between here and south Jersey, where most of Amala's relatives live. Mom seemed to think that four months wasn't anywhere
near enough time to plan a wedding, but the happy couple had already lined up not just the location, but also the food and the band. Neither of them saw any reason to wait until next year.

And once again, I was back in school.

“You're at the circus,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “You see a clown juggling. Another clown hits him with a pie. How do you feel?”

At least half the kids in class raised a hand.

Why bother?
I thought. But I decided to give it a shot. Hey, it was a new year and all. Fresh start. Clean slate. So I raised my hand, too. It's not like there were any wrong answers.

Mrs. Gilroy pointed at Josh, who said, “Amused.”

It figured he'd take the easy one. Several hands went down; I guessed they'd also come up with just that one word.

Mrs. Gilroy picked three more kids, and received
delighted
,
happy
, and
terrified.
She frowned at the third one, but let it go.

She was holding off calling on me. I didn't care. I knew I'd be able to come up with a word nobody else thought of.

Finally, mine was the last hand standing. I got ready to impress her with my vocabulary. I actually had five words in mind. But I wasn't going to show off by listing all of them. One would do.

“Bemused,” I said when Mrs. Gilroy pointed at me.

She strolled over to my desk. She was actually almost smiling. Cool. I'd impressed her.

“Bemused?” she asked.

“Yup. Bemused.”

“You're a dunce, Mr. Hudson.”

She walked off, leaving me, as I soon learned, thoroughly bemused.

• • •

“Bemused?” I said to Jeremy when we got on the bus.

“Only by the question,” he said.

“No. What's it mean?”

“Puzzled. Stunned. Overwhelmed by an idea, as if struck by a muse,” he said. “Or deep in thought.”

“Oh, hell. . . .”

January 5

So I've been using a word wrong my whole life. Not that it's a word I use much. And not that it's accurate to say “my whole life” since I doubt I used it when I was little. But you know what I mean. I thought bemused was sort of like a fancy way of saying amused. It isn't. As for what it means, if you don't know how to use a dictionary by the time you reach this entry, there's no hope for you. Look it up. But don't use a new dictionary. If a lot of people misuse a word, which is certainly the case with bemused, and if they do that for a long time, eventually the dictionary people sigh, mutter, “Okay. We give up. You win,” and accept
the new meaning. Not that they're happy about surrendering. But Mrs. Gilroy pretty much adheres to the classroom dictionary, which has to be at least fifty years old, for her word supply. I checked once, and kilobyte wasn't even in it.

I wonder how many other words I'm misusing? There should be an app that listens to what you say, and compares it to the real meanings of the words. If I knew how to write an app, I'd bet that one would make a zillion dollars. That would be awesome. Not just for me. I'd give Dad as much money as he needed so he could buy that garage. Then he wouldn't have to wait, or find any partners.

A forced silence hung between Kyle and me when we were getting dressed for gym on Tuesday. I felt bad for his dad, and terrible for mine. I also felt relief. Kyle had lost his power over me. I wanted to tell him I was sorry things fell apart, but I was pretty sure he had no interest in my sympathy.

As we were leaving the locker room at the end of the period, he said, “Looks like you got your wish.”

I didn't bother responding.

• • •

“Can I trust you kids to play nicely on your own?” Mr. Franka asked.

We gave him our assurances. We'd have our regular
meeting tomorrow, as usual, but we all thought it would be a good idea to start the year with a special meeting, to figure out what would change now that the Latin Club was active.

“Good. I have a staff meeting.” He headed out the door.

“Welcome to the first meeting of the Latin Club,” Sarah said.

We all stood and shouted random Latin phrases. I went for
excelsior
. I wasn't sure what it meant, but it felt good to shout.

“
Ad astra per aspera,
” Jeremy said.

Richard giggled. “You said
ass
. Twice.”

“I said
astra
and
aspera
,” Jeremy said.

“That's even funnier,” Richard said.

Eventually, everyone settled down.

“What's the name going to be?” Sarah asked.

“I think it should still be the
Zenger Gazette
,” I said. “We need to keep the tradition alive. But we can add a subtitle, or a slogan.”

“Like the
New York Times
,” Jeremy said. “They use ‘All the news that's fit to print
.
'”

“But it should have something to do with Latin,” Sarah said.

“Got it!” I said. “The
Zenger Gazette
: From friends of a living dead language.”

Richard shouted, “Oxymoron!” and reached past Jeremy to slam my shoulder.

Jeremy laughed. “That's also beautifully ambiguous.”

“It will grab the zombie fans,” Sarah said. She looked around the table. “Everyone good with that?”

All hands went up. Then I put mine down, since I wasn't
technically a club member. But that didn't matter. It was official. The
Zenger Gazette
would live on, uninterrupted.

We had a short discussion about what things we'd need to change. There wasn't much. Jeremy suggested we number the pages with Roman numerals. Everyone loved that idea.

When we were finished with the changes, I said, “We have total freedom, right?”

“It's a club,” Sarah said. “I imagine we can do what we want.”

“We should have some kind of radical humor,” Edith said.

“We have cartoons,” Dan said. “That's enough.”

“No. We need written humor, too,” I said. “Something real edgy.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “It would be cool to do something funny.”

“Like what?” Sarah asked.

I thought about the first day in history class. “We could have three facts. No, make it ten, about a teacher, and kids will have to guess who it is.”

“What's so funny about that?” Sarah asked.

“We'll make up the facts. It will be a satire,” I said. “We can all do it. Except me, of course. We'll have a suggestion box. Everyone who wants to will put in fake facts. We need stuff that will point to the person, but be ridiculous. Like, if we were doing Mr. Franka, since he has that Marine tattoo, one of the facts could be
I have a Hello Kitty tattoo on my butt.
”

“Or
I steal comic books from little kids
,” Edith said. “
If they complain, I make them read sonnets.
”

“Good one,” I said. Everyone knew Mr. Franka had a whole drawer of graphic novels and comics. “That's exactly what I mean. At the meeting, we'll pick the best ones.”

“Let's do it,” Richard said. Everyone nodded.

“Don't sign your ideas,” I said. “That way, we can be really fair when we pick the best ones.”

“Good idea,” Sarah said. “So, who is our first victim?”

“How about Mrs. Gilroy?” I said.

“Perfect!” one of the juniors said. “I had her last year, and she was brutal.”

“She's kind of old-fashioned,” Sarah said. “Do you think she might get offended?”

“I think she'll be thoroughly bemused,” I said.

And so it was decided. I went right to work when I got home, since I planned to contribute. That's the real reason why I'd suggested we keep the submissions anonymous.

I needed to come up with some killer “facts” about Mrs. Gilroy. She always wore those white shirts with the long sleeves. That was a good target. I grabbed a pen and wrote, “I hide my heroin addiction from the world by covering my tracks.”

To my credit, no more than five or six seconds passed before I muttered, “No way,” and crumpled the paper. I'm happy to say I also sank a three-pointer into my wastebasket. The shirt was a good target for satire. Everyone was familiar with it. But I had to find the right approach.

I only buy the finest shirts made by sobbing six-year-olds in Cambodian sweatshops.

Crumple. Swish. Three points!

Child labor wasn't funny. Satire was tricky. I didn't want to harm innocent bystanders.

What else did a white shirt imply? Purity? Ewwww. No way was I going in that direction. The thought made me shudder. I put the shirt aside and looked for other ideas. Ten minutes later, I had three good facts, and two others that would be okay if nobody came up with anything better:

Fake Facts about Mrs. Gilroy

I was drawn to my profession after dating William Shakespeare in my youth.

My teeth aren't false. They're just undecided.

I got tossed off the Mayflower for correcting every-one's grammar.

I have a great sense of humor. I laugh when I hand out bad grades.

During the summer, I earn extra money working for local farmers as a scarecrow.

That seemed like plenty—especially since the rest of the staff was going to be contributing, too. As I was getting ready to move on to my real work, another one hit me.

I make all my own shirts from a pattern I found in
Dressing Dreadfully
Magazine.

Not bad. And I might be able to think up a way to tweak it a bit. After that, I'd print them out and cut each into a strip.
I figured that if I just put the whole list in the box, someone might recognize my style.

• • •

I went to the meeting room at lunch time and put my strips in the box. I hoped the first piece was a success
.
I had plans for suggesting Ms. Denton next. Latin Club vengeance is sweet vengeance. I'll bet that sentence would sound even sweeter in Latin.

When the meeting started, Sarah dumped the contents of the box onto the table. I was relieved to see plenty of other strips.

“Wow, lots of ideas,” she said. “Let's do a quick sort, and then narrow it down. I'll read each one. Raise your hand if you want to keep it under consideration.”

She started reading. I heard some pretty funny suggestions. Three of mine made the first cut, including the one about the shirt. From there, we kicked around our thoughts and cut the list to the ten best entries. Two of mine survived—the shirt and the
Mayflower
. Someone else had come up with a better one about Mrs. Gilroy's false teeth. Based on his smile each time it was read, I figured the author was Jeremy.

“Good job,” Sarah said as she typed the ten survivors into her laptop. “This will be fun.”

For sure
, I thought, relishing the idea of hitting Mrs. Gilroy with some writing she wasn't going to be able to shoot down or slap with a bad grade.