Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (18 page)

January 9

We read “The Monkey's Paw” in English, Sean. It was creepy, but not really scary. I think, ages ago, when we weren't flooded with TV shows and movies filled with special effects, it would have totally freaked me out. I'll bet it was the first story to use that sort of twist. But a zillion writers have borrowed the idea since then. The more we move into the future, the harder it is to get scared by the old stuff. But there are always new fears to take the place of the old ones. And that classic advice—
be careful what you wish for
—is as good in the real world as it is in the fictional one.

Dad's ears perked up as the rumble came through the walls. It was Saturday, and we'd just finished lunch. Actually, it was lunch for my parents, breakfast for me.

“Ferrari,” Dad said.

He got up from the table and headed for the front door. I followed. Nobody we knew had a Ferrari.

It was a red one. I think that's their natural color in the wild. Wesley waved at me from the driver's seat.

“Where'd you get that?” I asked.

“My dad's friend was over,” Wesley said. “He asked me to get it washed.”

“The car wash is right down the street from you,” I said.

“The closest one is,” Wesley said. “But what fun would that be?”

“I see your point,” I said.

“Go for a ride?” he asked.

I was about to nod, but then I realized he was talking to Dad.

Dad looked at me. Then he looked at Wesley. They had a brief conversation made up entirely of glances and nods.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I think you'll appreciate it more.”

“Tell your mom I'll be back in a bit,” Dad said. He slid into the passenger seat.

I went inside to deliver the news to Mom. She understood.

I heard the rumble again about an hour later. Dad was behind the wheel, and Wesley was in the passenger seat. Both of them were laughing. As they got out and walked past the front of the car, they exchanged a high five. Then Wesley got back in the driver's seat.

I caught Wesley's eye before he took off and mouthed, “
Thanks.
”

He responded with a grin.

“Fun?” I asked Dad.

He shook out his hand. Wesley had a hard slap. “Yeah,” he said. “As long as your mom never finds out about the speeding tickets.”

“Tickets?” I couldn't help noticing the plural.

“Tickets,” Dad said.

• • •

In geometry on Tuesday, I opened Lee's copy of the paper and pointed to the “Ten Amazing Facts about Me” article. The art staff had added some killer illustrations. I watched Lee's eyes as she read. And I watched her mouth, waiting for a grin. Her expression shifted through a variety of responses, none of which conveyed amusement.

When she was finished, she closed the paper and said, “Kind of harsh.”

“Kind of deserved,” I said.

Throughout the day, I caught snatches of conversation about the piece. It seemed to be a hit. I forced myself to pause when I reached the door of English class. I was wearing the crazy smirk of vengeance delivered. That would give me away. I backed off, and tried to rein in my joy. When I felt ready, I walked into the room. As I turned toward my desk, I risked a glance at Mrs. Gilroy. She looked as stern as usual. But maybe there was an extra glint of displeasure in her expression. I couldn't be sure. Well, if she hadn't seen the article by now,
she'd see it eventually. Or someone would tell her about it.

I took my seat and watched the door. At least half the kids who came in had the paper. Some of them must have read the piece. Josh pointed at it, then pointed at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Did you . . . ?”

“Did I what?” I asked, playing stupid.

“Never mind. But whoever did this is a genius.”

It was hard, but I kept my mouth shut. When class started, Mrs. Gilroy swept her gaze slowly across the room, as if to connect with every pair of eyes. I stared back, unblinking as she locked in on me. I held steady until she moved on.

“We're going to put Eudora Welty aside for the moment,” she said, “and examine a major aspect of literature.”

She walked to the board and wrote “SATIRE.”

Or most of that word.

Halfway through the E, she dropped the chalk. And then, she dropped. It was a slow fall. She clutched the edge of the chalk tray on the way down and knelt, like someone in church. From there, she crumpled over. She didn't hit the ground hard. But she ended up on her side on the floor. Her right hand clutched at her heart. I stood there, frozen, hoping she was playing some kind of cruel joke on me. I heard sneakers slapping tiles as kids raced to get the nurse.

Paramedics came. I stood there the whole time. After they took Mrs. Gilroy away, Lee put a hand on my back. I realized I was shaking.

“
My fault
 . . . ,” I whispered.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

“I gave her a heart attack.”

“You're not that good.”

My head snapped toward her.

“Sorry. Just trying to make you feel better,” she said.

“It's not working.”

“Seriously, you can't blame yourself. You don't even know if she read it.”

I went to Mrs. Gilroy's desk and picked up the paper. I couldn't tell whether it had been opened. But she'd had time to read it. So she'd probably taken a look. The written word was her life. I hoped it wasn't her death.

• • •

“We killed her,” Jeremy said after we got on the bus.

“She's not dead,” I said.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“She can't be. There's no way we can live with that,” I said. “She has to be alive.”

“I hope you're right.”

January 13

I suck, Sean.

Before I left school, I'd asked Chuck Peterson to let me know if he heard anything. He told me he'd ask his mom when she came home from her shift at the ER. Late that night, I got a
message that Mrs. Gilroy wasn't dead. That's all Chuck knew. The message didn't wake me. I was up.

• • •

“We're not murderers,” I told Jeremy the next morning.

“Yeah. Just thugs and bullies,” he said. “I never pictured myself as a bully.”

“I never pictured you that way, either.”

“Power is seductive,” he said. “So is anonymity. It's easy to hurt people when they can't look you in the eye.”

“I guess that's why the Internet is so popular,” I said. “And so vicious.”

• • •

When I got to English the next day, I saw a very familiar face.

“Oh, no . . . ,” I said to Lee.

“What's wrong?”

I thought about the best way to explain the problem, but then I realized it would be more interesting to watch her expression as she discovered it for herself.

“Albayer substoot ferda raysta dawake, orayven langa” the man at the front of the class said. The whole time he spoke, he also enthusiastically chewed a wad of gum, punctuating the words with random wet smacks.

Most of the kids were obviously puzzled. Several, like me, knew what was going on. And we knew what was coming.

A kid in the front row raised his hand.

“I didn't understand you,” the kid said.

Here it comes
, I thought.

“Nwarries, smite!” the teacher said.

I knew he was saying
No worries, mate!
That was the only phrase of his I'd ever been able to decipher. I settled back in my seat.

“What's going on?” Lee asked.

“That's Mr. Kamber,” I said. “He's from Australia. I had him for Spanish last year.”

“Spanish?” Lee said. “That's unimaginable.”

“Pretty much. And unintelligible.”

“English isn't going to be much better,” she said.

“I suspect you're right.”

• • •

I thought about skipping the newspaper meeting. But I wasn't quite that big a coward. Mr. Franka was already there when I came in, sitting with his chin propped on his hand. He didn't look at any of us as we took our seats.

Finally, after what felt like a century, he sighed, as if he was about to start talking. Then, he dropped his forehead onto his hand, like he was totally at a loss for words. He shook his head.

“Forget it,” he said. Though he used a different
F
word. He got up and walked toward the door. “You know exactly what you did. You don't need a lecture.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Do better. You're journalists. Just . . . do better.”

He went out.

“It's my fault,” I said. “I'll quit. I'll take all the blame.”

“You can't quit,” Jeremy said. “Because you're not a member.”

“And you can't take the blame,” Sarah said. “Or everyone will know we let an ineligible student come up with ideas for the newsletter.”

“So, what do we do?” I asked.

“We write an editorial about satire and responsibility,” she said.

“I'll do it.” I blurted that out, and then wished I could blurt it back in. “Sorry. I'll just shut up.”

I kept quiet for the rest of the meeting.

Throughout the week, all of us waited to be called down to the office. Or for the principal to disband the Latin Club. But nothing happened.

I never thought that not being punished would be such a painful punishment.

T
he last time I'd been to the hospital was right after Sean was born. That was a happy memory. But the time before that, I'd gone to visit someone who'd tried to kill himself. This time, it was someone I might have almost killed with my stupid idea for a satire.

I was relieved that Mrs. Gilroy seemed totally alert. I was also dismayed. I'd hoped for the saving grace of a bit of sedation to take the edge off her sword.

“Mr. Hudson,” she said, “this is a surprise. I know you aren't here to tell me you're nominating me for teacher of the year.”

“Yeah. I mean, no, I'm not.” I seemed to have lost most of my basic English skills.

She didn't say anything.

“The thing in the paper . . . ,” I said.

My unfinished sentence remained dangling.

“It's my fault. My idea. I didn't write all of it, but I wrote some of it,” I said.

“I recognized your style,” she said.

“So you read it?” I asked.

“I do have a professional interest in the writing of Zenger High students, many of whom find their way into my honors English class,” she said. “Your flaws reflect poorly on me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That was a plural pronoun. You are far from unique in being flawed. You owe me no apology for that.”

“But I gave you a heart attack,” I said. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean any harm.”

“Of course you did. You meant harm. That was your purpose. This was personal. Don't try to deny it. You picked me as the target of your satire because you wanted to hurt me.”

“You're right.”

“Don't think something as silly as a sophomoric attempt at humor could affect my health in the slightest,” she said.

“But you had a heart attack,” I said. “I was there.”

She shook her head. “For a professed writer, you are not a very keen observer.”

I thought back to when she'd collapsed. I remembered her clutching at her chest. I'd assumed she was reacting to pain. But maybe she'd been doing something else, and I'd misinterpreted it. She always wore a necklace with a large locket. “Were you reaching for some kind of medicine?”

“That's better,” she said. “What else do you notice?”

I looked at her. That felt weird. I was used to seeing her in her long-sleeved white blouses, not in a hospital gown. I
noticed a needle in her right arm, on the inside, right past the bend of the elbow. But it wasn't a regular IV needle. It was like there was a tube in her arm, or some kind of port.

I pointed at it. “That's why you wore long, loose sleeves.”

“You're clawing your way up from a C minus,” she said. “I wish you didn't move at such a glacial pace. If you're putting me at risk of anything, it's death from old age and boredom. Try to accelerate your epiphanies.”

“It's for medicine of some kind. Right?”

“Right.”

“What kind?” I asked.

“You don't need to know that. Just rest assured that it has nothing to do with my heart. It is not something that could be exacerbated by reading a halfway-clever attack. If we are to be judged by our intentions, you are guilty, but if we are to be judged by the results of our actions, your conscience is clear. You failed to harm me.”

“I think I'm leaning toward the guilty side right now,” I said. I looked away from her unwavering stare. She had a stack of books on her bedside table:
The Elements of Style
,
Merriam-Webster's Dictionary of English Usage
, and several others.

“Don't you know all that stuff?” I asked.

“One never knows
all that stuff
.” She picked up
The Elements of Style
and held it out. “This is my bible, and your penance. Read it carefully. Absorb it. Then read it again.”

“Thanks. I'll bring it back as soon as I'm finished.”

“Keep it. I have several copies. You'll be reading it many
times, if there is any depth to your enthusiasm for writing.”

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

“My condition is chronic and unpleasant, but not known to be fatal,” she said. “Thank you for your concern. I'll be away from the classroom for a while, but I will return to torment you before the year is over.”

“Like the Ghost of Christmas Present Tense?” I asked.

She smiled, briefly, then caught herself. “That was almost clever, Mr. Hudson. There may be hope for you after all.”

When I got home, I opened
The Elements of Style
. There was a bookplate pasted to the inside of the cover: “This book belongs to Lorraine R. Dewitte.” Maybe that was her maiden name. Just for fun, I searched online for that name.

A book popped up. And it wasn't a grammar book. It was a novel.
As Breath into the Wind
. The author photo was definitely her. Much younger, but there was no mistake. I dug a bit deeper. The book was published forty years ago. All the reviews said stuff like “great new voice” and “promising debut.” As far as I could see, she'd never written anything else. Weird. I turned my attention back to the book she'd given me. It was actually pretty cool. Though I was still feeling guilty enough that I would have read a carburetor-repair manual, if that's what she'd offered me.

I guess I'd been given a second chance.

• • •

That night, Dad said, “We have good news.”

I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth, and decided
I wouldn't even try to guess what form this newest crushing blow would take.

“Bobby and Amala are facing a pretty high rent,” Mom said. “They need to try to save more of what they earn. And even a simple wedding comes with plenty of expenses for the bride and groom, beyond what all of us parents are covering.”

“With them traveling so much, it doesn't make sense for them to take out a full-year lease,” Dad said.

I realized I was being softened up for something that didn't require softening. “Do you want them to move in with us? That would be awesome.” I liked having Bobby around. And Amala. After Bobby's band's tour wrapped up at the end of January, they weren't touring again until July, so he and Amala had planned to get an apartment in town. He would be giving guitar lessons at the local music store, and working there part-time as a salesman. Amala was able to do most of her work from home, since it involved stuff like sending out press releases and arranging interviews. The key fact about both income streams was that they were close to a trickle.

“When are they coming?” I asked.

“The start of next month,” Dad said.

“Great.” It was nice to get good news that wouldn't lead to disappointment, like the garage news had.

• • •

Tuesday was the end of the second marking period. If I didn't screw up hugely, I'd be back on the paper in a week.

“I would have to mess up in inconceivable ways to blow my grades this time,” I told Lee at lunch.

“Please tell me you're not thinking of that as a goal,” she said.

“Of course not. But it's a great exercise for a creative writer. It's interesting to try to figure out a way that I could screw up at this point. I mean, if someone was writing a novel where he wanted a kid to destroy his grades at the very last moment, what would he do?”

We tossed around ideas. Edith and Richard joined in. I compiled a list, just for fun.

“I trust you won't put any of those to the test,” Lee said.

“Nope. I'm eager to get things back to normal.”

Happily, at the end of the day, I hadn't even come close to messing up. I'd made it. My grade-point average for the first half of the school year would still be pretty unimpressive, but I'd be fine for this marking period.

Scott Hudson's (and Friends') List of Last-Minute Ways to Ruin Your Grades

1. Go back in time to steal your homework from yourself.

2. Take hostages. (Several of us felt this was too close to reality.)

3. Hack into the school computer and mess up while changing the grades.

4. Bribe the school board to flip the scale so a zero is the highest grade and a hundred is the lowest.

Wednesday, we were supposed to start learning about silk screening in art. But the budget for supplies had been cut so
drastically that Mr. Belman had to choose between getting the stencils and inks for us, or buying oil paints for the seniors. The seniors had priority. For now, we were working with our choice of colored pencils or India ink, since the art department had plenty of those supplies on hand.

Mr. Franka came to the Latin Club meeting. He didn't say anything. But he stayed the whole time. Sarah's editorial about satire and responsibility was really good. As much as I'd wanted to write it to try to make up for what I'd done, and as much as I hate to admit it, I doubt I could have done a better job.

While nobody could understand Mr. Kamber, at least he gave us our writing assignments straight out of the textbook. So we all knew what we were supposed to do. I guess he liked my writing. I actually scored a ninety-two on the first essay, and a ninety-five on the second. He didn't even circle anything, or mark stuff as wrong. I wouldn't have minded some sort of comments—preferably positive ones—but I was definitely happy with the grades. Eventually, I realized I could stop even trying to listen to him. English became my favorite spot for daydreaming.

The second marking period had already ended, but I had high hopes for the third. Two good marking periods, and I could pull my final grades up from the basement.

January 31

Time's flying, Sean. A moment ago, it was the new year. Now, a whole month is gone. Sophomore year is more over than not. But there's good flux coming. Bobby and Amala are moving in, tomorrow. It will be nice to have them around.