Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (25 page)

T
hursday morning, I glanced in passing at the newspaper on the kitchen table. I was halfway to the fridge when the headline sank in and yanked me back. “School Board Member Arrested for Embezzling Funds.” Beneath that, in the subhead, as we journalists call it, I read, “Long-time school board member and relative in business office implicated in nearly decade-long fraud.”

I read the story. Mr. Sherman had been arrested, along with his sister, who worked in the school's business office and was able to help transfer the money. Nobody else was involved. The district attorney was charging them with embezzling funds in a scheme that dated back eight years. He was also seeking full restitution for the large sum that had been stolen. That was great. Maybe the school would get some of the money back. There was even a mention near the end about how the crime had been discovered by two high school students.

My phone rang.

“See the paper?” Lee asked.

“Yup. Just now.”

“You're a hero,” she said.

“Not really.” But I did sort of feel heroic. And I realized I had finally found my feature story. How wonderful that the tale of an embezzlement that began with the Latin Club would soon appear in the Latin Club newsletter.

“We should do something to celebrate,” Lee said.

“Sure. Hey, tell your dad I said thanks.”

“If I have to . . .”

After I hung up, I wondered whether mentioning a celebration was her way of getting me to ask her out. Probably not.

I thought about the stuff Lee and I did. Was it all just friends hanging around together or could some of it be considered boyfriend/girlfriend stuff? I didn't mean kissing or hand-holding. I meant the activities themselves. What did I do with my friends? What would I do differently if Lee and I were dating? There'd be school dances, I guess. But they didn't come around all that often. Long walks? We already walked places. Movies? We did that. Usually with Wesley. It looked like dating wasn't about what you did, but how you felt about what you did.

No. That was nonsense. Dating was when the evening ended with a kiss. Not a high five or a pat on the back. Not a peck on the cheek, but a kiss on the lips. A lingering kiss. I had no idea how to make that transition. I guessed I could just kiss
her, at the right moment. Even the thought of that excited me. But if I tried to kiss her and that wasn't what she wanted, it would definitely hurt our friendship. Maybe even kill it.

I looked back at all the missed signals and mixed messages I'd experienced this year. I couldn't believe I'd assumed the Poe book was an anniversary gift commemorating the first time Lee and I had set eyes on each other.

Anniversary!

There was another anniversary Lee and I had. Unlike our first meeting, this anniversary was significant and memorable. Last year, we'd gone to the final school dance. I could ask her to the dance again. She'd go for that. It would be like we were reliving an amazing day. Better yet, the actual date of last year's dance was also Sean's birthday. This year, his birthday was on Saturday. The dance was the Friday after that. So I could ask her to an anniversary dance on the actual anniversary of our first dance. That was the sort of resonance she'd find pleasing.

• • •

The phone rang again that evening. I was on the couch, recovering from my AP U.S. History test. But I managed to find the strength to answer the call. The guy on the other end asked for Dad.

“Who's calling?” I asked.

“Fred Regent from Regent Commercial Properties,” he said.

It sounded like some kind of sales call, but I figured Dad didn't need my help to get rid of the guy. He was very good at
telling people that he didn't want a quote for life insurance, a better credit-card interest rate, or an exciting time-share vacation opportunity.

“For you,” I said, handing Dad the phone. “Fred . . . Reagan?”

“Regent?”

“Yeah.”

He snatched the phone from my hand. “Thanks.”

As I walked away, I heard him say, “Back on the market? Really . . . ?”

There was an edge of excitement in his voice. I turned around and listened to the rest. “I'd love to. More than anything. It's a perfect spot for me. But I don't know if I can get the financing.” The excitement dropped. “Can you give me a couple days to think about it?”

“The garage?” I asked after he'd hung up.

“Yeah. The current owner has to sell it. That guy from the school board. He's facing lots of legal bills. And probably some huge fines. So it's going on the market at a big discount.”

“Big enough?” I asked.

“No. It's still out of reach.”

“What about a partner?” I asked.

“I can't think of anyone,” Dad said. “Mr. Bartock is getting back on his feet, but he's in no shape to finance a business. Nobody else I know has a pile of extra cash sitting around.”

“I wish the whole thing hadn't fallen apart,” I said.

“I know.” Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “It will happen when it happens. Meanwhile, we carry on. Speaking of which, come out with me. I need a hand adjusting the rear axle.”

I followed Dad into the garage. There had to be some way I could help him get the money he needed. He deserved to see his dream come true. I thought about it all evening. I didn't see a solution, but I saw a better way to look for one.

• • •

It is a fascinating fact, known to few, that the lyrics to the happy birthday song are protected by copyright. Jeremy and I were discussing that fascinating fact immediately after we two fact-holders, along with my family and assorted friends, sung those very words that can't be put in print without paying a fee, and watched Mom help Sean blow out his candles. She provided the air. He provided a thin stream of spittle, which only sullied a small portion of the cake.

I hadn't slept much. I'd spent most of last night thinking about my failed attempts to ask Lee out, and trying to figure out why it was so hard. I'd finally decided I'd walk her home after the party, and just take the plunge.

Lee was her usual self, holding intense conversations with Sean and snapping photos of everyone. She had no idea I had so much on my mind. On top of the dance, I had something devious I needed to avoid signaling or giving away. Not to Lee, but to Dad. I'd crafted a plan and would soon spring it, with Wesley's help.

It felt a bit strange to have Kyle there, like we'd warped back to eighth grade. But I'd invited him for a reason. I was surprised, and pleased, that he'd showed up.

Right after we ate our cake, along with the ice cream that had served as its essential companion, and watched Sean open his presents (with Mom providing most of the ripping and Sean providing a slightly more impressive stream of drool, along with squeals of delight), the alarm on Mom's car went off in the garage.

“I got it,” Dad said.

“Need help?” I asked. I flinched. That definitely was out of character for me. But Dad didn't seem to notice.

“I'll give a yell if I do.” He grabbed the keys from the hook by the door and disappeared into the garage.

“Okay, everyone,” I said. “We don't have a lot of time.”

“Sure we do,” Wesley said. He pulled Mom's extra set of car keys, with its electronic panic button, halfway out of his shirt pocket, flashed me a grin, then slid the keys back.

“Even so, we should get started,” I said. That was my plan. I figured if all of us put our heads together, we could think up a way for Dad to buy the garage. I heard the alarm stop. But I knew Dad would look all around the car, and the garage, to see what had triggered it. And then maybe he'd clean some tools or gap some spark plugs, because Dad likes to take breaks and savor some solitude when there are a lot of people around.

Everyone started tossing out ideas. It was a great mix. Mom
was practical. Wesley was outrageous in his ability to think big. Bobby was pretty smart about garage details. Amala knew all about business. Jeremy was full of all sorts of knowledge. Kyle had grown up around investors. And Lee had a talent for seeing things from unique perspectives.

About five minutes later, Dad walked in from the garage. “I checked all over. I can't find a reason for—”

He was interrupted by the alarm. He let out the mildest of swear words, and headed back to the garage. I noticed Wesley had his fingers pressed against his shirt pocket.

We resumed brainstorming. Dad was away for ten minutes this time.

During the third session, which lasted twenty minutes, we struck gold.

“Limited partnership,” Kyle said.

He spoke so quietly, I wasn't sure whether he was making a suggestion or just talking to himself.

“Yeah!” Jeremy said. “Good thinking. That's not a bad idea.”

“What is it?” I asked.

Kyle looked over at Jeremy. “Go ahead.”

“No,” Jeremy said. “I barely know the basic concept. You explain it.”

Kyle seemed a little uncomfortable about being the center of attention. “A limited partnership is like a company with a lot of owners.”

“Sounds like too many cooks,” Mom said.

“And too many bosses,” Wesley said.

“No. That's the thing,” Kyle said. “It's a
lot
of owners, so nobody has a big share, except for the person in charge. And in most LLPs, the partners have no say at all about the business itself.”

“LLP?” I asked.

“Limited liability partnership,” Jeremy said.

“So we'd have to find a lot of people to chip in,” Bobby said.

“Invest,” Amala said. “
Chip in
makes it sound like a poker game.”

They exchanged smiles. Bobby didn't seem to mind that she'd corrected him.

“Half the companies I've worked for would probably want to invest,” Wesley said. “Especially if investors got a discount at the garage.”

“That's a wonderful incentive,” Amala said.

“And I'll bet the exotic car guys would love to have access to Dad's skills,” Bobby said.

“That's a great idea,” I said. I pictured Dad working on tractors, septic trucks, and Lamborghinis. “It would also help guarantee a lot of customers.”

This was getting exciting.

“These partnerships can be tricky to set up,” Amala said. “You need someone with a business law background. Those folks can be very expensive.”

I could feel the excitement level in the room drop several
degrees. The deal would never leave the ground if it took a lot of money to get started. “Wait,” I said. “That could be a sort of partnership, too.”

I pointed at Lee. “Law.” Then I pointed at Kyle. “Business.” Then I pointed at both of them. “Could your dads work together on this? Maybe for a share of the partnership?”

Lee and Kyle looked at each other.

“Sure,” Lee said.

“I don't see why not,” Kyle said.

“We can't tell Dad until we know it's happening for real,” Bobby said. “We don't want him disappointed again.”

A few minutes later, Dad came back in. This time, as he stood in the middle of the living room, staring toward the garage as if waiting for the fourth shoe to drop, Wesley said, “Oops. Look what I was sitting on.” He reached behind himself and plucked the keys from the couch cushion. “Sorry, Mr. Hudson.”

“That's okay, Wesley. It gave me an excuse to toss out some stuff I'd been meaning to get rid of. And I reorganized my socket sets. Come check it out.”

Dad headed back to the garage, along with Wesley and Bobby. It looked like the party was winding down. But I'd accomplished the first of two goals on my list.

So much for the easy one.

“Isn't there something called
cake makeup
?” I asked Lee.

She joined me in admiring the way Sean had managed to
apply a huge quantity of birthday icing to his face. “I think it's
pancake makeup
,” she said.

“It's not just for breakfast anymore,” I said. “Walk you home?”

“Sure.”

We left the house, strolling side by side. This was it. I was going to ask her to the dance. There were no interruptions or distractions. No school bells. Words from people whose advice I'd sought, and images of their faces as they spoke, floated through my head like flashbacks in a movie.

Amala . . . shyness is real . . .

Wesley . . . so ask her out . . .

Mr. Cravutto . . . women are scary, but loneliness is scarier . . .

Mr. Fowler . . . she values honesty . . .

Dad . . . I needed her in my life
 . . .

I promised myself I'd ask Lee to the dance before we reached the midpoint of our walk, which was roughly at the corner of Locust Avenue and Bayard Street.

I wavered between
Would you like to go to the dance?
and
Let's go to the dance.
The question allowed for rejection. The imperative sounded a bit bossy. Maybe there was some middle ground.

“Happy anniversary,” Lee said.

There goes my train of thought
, Scott said to himself distractedly.

Lee must have misread my expression for confusion,
because she added, “We went to the dance exactly a year ago. So Sean's birthday is our anniversary. Remember?”

“Vaguely. I have fuzzy memories of racing from the cops in a limo and facing down a bully in the gym. There might also have been a birth that drastically altered my family's dynamics. Is that particular May 17 the anniversary date to which you refer?”

“That's the one,” Lee said. “And I have bad news.”

“What?”

“I didn't get you anything.”

“Thus making reciprocity a piece of cake,” I said.

“Cake is always appreciated.” Lee laughed. “Hey, I have an idea. Let's go to the dance.”