Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (10 page)

M
r. Franka popped his head into study hall, pointed at me, and said to the teacher, “I need to borrow him for a moment.”

I got out of my seat and followed Mr. Franka into the hall. “What's up?” I asked.

“I read your essay.”

I was pleased he'd gotten to it already. “It's pretty good, isn't it?”

“It's well written . . .”

“But . . . ?”

“You're taking a shot at Mrs. Gilroy.”

“I never mention her name,” I said.

“You make it obvious enough.”

“You aren't going to tell me we can't run it, are you?” I felt a surge of heat invade my cheeks at the thought of being censored.

“Never.” He touched the Marine Corps tattoo on his arm. “A lot of people made large sacrifices for your freedom to speak your mind.”

“So, why are you here?” I asked.

“To urge you to think carefully before you commit to publishing this. I understand why you wrote it. I understand how you feel. I know you believe those rules are arbitrary. Some scholars agree with you. Others don't.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I generally don't enforce them. But they're widely entrenched. When enough people accept a rule, its origin doesn't matter. That's how the academic world works. Students need to know these rules. It doesn't hurt to practice them. I respect Mrs. Gilroy's insistence on having her students learn and follow them. I respect her expertise. But that's beside the point. Look, I'm not saying we won't ever run the piece. I'm asking you to let it sit for a week or two. Give yourself a chance to think calmly about everything you wrote. Are you okay with that?”

I thought about the fantasies I already had of the student reaction. Kids would cheer for me as I walked down the halls. They'd rip up writing guides and shower me with confetti. “I was kind of looking forward to getting it in print,” I said.

“Of course you were. We write to be read. But I know from experience that the angrier the article, the more time you should take before the point of no return. You should give yourself a bit of time to think this through. Would you do that as a favor to me?”

I didn't like the idea. There was no reason to wait. I was positive my opinion wasn't going to change. But he was the
best teacher I'd ever had, and he'd given me a lot of breaks. “Sure. Why not? I'll hold off.”

He clasped my shoulder. “Thanks, Scott. It's a smart move. I appreciate it. If the paper gets killed by the voters, you can save the piece for the last issue, and really go out with a bang.”

“I hope it doesn't come to that,” I said.

“That makes two of us.”

I let Sarah know I was holding back the essay. So, once again, I would have nothing in the paper. But it was still early in the year. I'd rather take my time and write a great article than rush stuff into print for the sake of being in every issue.

• • •

On Friday in history, Ms. Burke smiled at me when she handed back my essay.

“Good job,” she said.

“Thanks.” This had been our first written assignment, and I'd put a lot of time into doing a good job. I stared at the grade. Not only had she given me a hundred, she'd written, “I love your writing.”

Wow. I like to think I'm good. But this seemed a bit over the top. I guessed I should be happy I impressed her.

• • •

Sunday, after lunch, I kept thinking about the jerks who had invaded my life. I wasn't sure how they ranked, as far as claiming the trophy for who was the worst, but I knew I'd be a lot happier without Ms. Denton and Mrs. Gilroy around. I'd
finished the rest of my homework, but I still needed my figure-of-speech paragraph. I was scanning the list in my notebook when I spotted the one I couldn't believe was an actual word.
Bdelgymia
. Seriously, do people need to make everything harder by giving impossible names to stuff?

When I looked up bdelgymia, I discovered it would give me a chance to write the perfect paragraph for my present mood, and fill the vengeance void I'd created when I'd agreed to hold back my newspaper essay.

Sweet.

All bdelgymia meant was a spewing of hatred. I grinned at the idea of having permission to do that. Still, why couldn't they give it a cool name like
hatespew
or
wordsword
? Oh, I liked that second one, especially since people might not notice the “sword” part at first. If I ever got made Emperor of English, I'd definitely change all the names to make them more fun.

Zenger Zinger for September 23

Last week's answer:
“I love how cats respond to stroking,” John Peter said perpetually.

This week's puzzle:
“I like to make rhymes when I'm underwater,” John Peter said _________.

Mrs. Gilroy didn't pull my paragraph from the pile until Thurs-day. It had been preceded by a sea of unexceptional
antistrophes
, mundane
distinctios
, a clueless
haiku
from someone who
clearly misunderstood the assignment, and a clever
psittacism
that I knew was Lee's. Clever Lee. Yes, Lee is clever. Lee is very clever.

As soon as I heard the first sentence of my paragraph, I poked Lee in the arm and shot her a grin.

I have to give Mrs. Gilroy credit for reading my whole glorious and venomous hatespew without blinking. I loved the way the class, which started out only half-listening, gave her their full attention by the last sentence. This was great. When Mrs. Gilroy was finished, I waited for her reaction. To my surprise, she didn't say anything. Instead, she went to the board and wrote out my paragraph.

The English teacher was one of those harpy-like harridans who is always
sure she is right, even when she is pathetically wrong. Happy to constantly flout her arrogance, she wrings every shred of pleasure from the study of the English language. Her horrible personality is matched only by her dreadful sense of style.

After quickly determining that none of my classmates recognized the figure of speech, Mrs. Gilroy said, “I'm not sure where to start. There are so many errors.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.
Errors?

She tapped
harridans
, and said, “Plural subject.” Then, she tapped the “is” that followed it and said, “Singular verb. This is a very common mistake, but that's still no excuse. Anyone with
a true ear for the language would never do this. Let's move on.”

I stared at the first sentence. Damn. I saw what she meant. It should have been “one of THOSE HARRIDANS who ARE always sure.”

My smackdown had just begun. Mrs. Gilroy tapped
flout
. “Class?”

A half dozen hands went up. Oh, crap. I meant
flaunt
. I always get those mixed up.

Sticking with the same sentence, she tapped
constantly.
“I'm not even going to ask who knows this. You're all aware you shouldn't split infinitives.”

This was another debatable rule. Before I could even get suitably annoyed about that, she grabbed the chalk and circled
wring every shred
.

Now what? That was a perfectly fine phrase.

Hands went up. Knitting needles entered my gut and colon.

“Mixed metaphor,” Julia said. “You wring liquids from things, not shreds.”

Mrs. Gilroy smiled at her like she'd just written a sequel to
Hamlet
.

“As for the last sentence,” Mrs. Gilroy said, “amazingly, it is not peppered with errors. I suppose anyone can get the words right once in a while, although these tepid attempts don't rise to the caustic level one would expect from a well-crafted example of bdelgymia. I won't embarrass the author of this thin gruel
by naming him. All of you should view this as a wonderful example of how not to write bdelgymia, or anything else, for that matter.”

Lee was nice enough to treat me to French fries after school. It didn't help. Or they didn't help. Or that didn't help. I'm not really sure. One of those. Pick whichever sounds right. Or sound right. Or sound rightly. I, apparently, have no ear for prose.

• • •

I licked my wounds that night. Most of Friday slipped by pretty quickly. Mrs. Gilroy and Ms. Denton crushed my spirits in various nonlethal ways, and I still had nothing for the next paper, which came out on the last day of the month. But everything else was fine.

That afternoon, Danny had a new book. Before I could even ask, he held it up.

“Stotan!?”
I asked. The author's name seemed familiar, but I was pretty sure I hadn't read any of his books. “What's that mean?”

He shrugged. “I haven't started reading it yet.”

I held my hand out, and he passed the book to me. I read the back. It sounded good. And it explained what a Stotan was. We'd just started reading
Cyrano de Bergerac
in English. It was sort of cool in its own way, and there was a lot of wordplay, along with sword play, and a healthy dose of wordswords, but it's not something I would have picked for myself if I'd had a choice.

I handed the book back to Danny. “Let me know how it is.”

“Sure.”

It bugged me that Danny was reading a book I'd never read, so I swung by the library at the end of the day. They had a copy.

“Good choice,” the librarian, Ms. Paige—really, that's her name—said when I checked it out. “It does contain some adult language. Are your parents okay with that?”

“My father's a mechanic,” I said. “Have you ever hit your thumb with a wrench?”

“Got it,” she said. “Enjoy the book. If you like it, he's written others that are equally good.”

“And equally inappropriate?” I asked.

“You bet.” She punctuated that with a wink. Librarians rock.

“Thanks.” I tucked the book in my backpack. I was always up for discovering a new author. And Ms. Paige was pretty good at gauging my tastes. Last year, she'd introduced me to Stephen Gould and Peter S. Beagle.

As I headed out at the end of the day, I realized I was close to surviving my first sophomoric month. And Jeremy was almost finished with his first freshmaniacal one.

“Here's hoping next month is uneventful,” I said as we took our seats on the bus.

“I've been hoping for that every month since I started kindergarten,” he said. “So far, no luck.”

Zenger Zinger for September 30

Last week's answer:
“I like to make rhymes when I'm underwater,” John Peter said subversively.

This week's puzzle:
“The tomb is filled with blood-sucking insects,” John Peter said
_________
.

W
hen I took my seat in geometry next Wednesday, Lee handed me a package neatly wrapped in newspaper. “Here.”

I was amused to note she'd selected the sports section. “Thank you for not using the obituaries.”

“Too obvious.”

“What is it?”

“Open it,” she said.

It felt like a book. I ran a finger under the spot where the paper overlapped, and lifted the tape. It was a book. “
The Humor of Edgar Allan Poe
,” I said, reading the title. “Humor?”

Lee grinned. “He was a bundle of laughs. You'll see.”

“Cool. But why are you giving me a present?” I asked.

“You'll figure it out,” she said.

I had no idea whatsoever. All day, Lee kept throwing meaningful, expectant glances in my direction. I remained clueless. On the bright side, it did give me an idea for the next newspaper puzzle. The staff loved the Zinger when I revealed it at the meeting.

That night, as I was drifting off to sleep, an image floated up from my mind. One year ago, on October 1, Lee had walked into homeroom. She was wearing a shirt with a decapitated teddy bear on it. One year ago. Exactly one year. Today was the anniversary of Lee's arrival at Zenger, and of the day we met. That's why she'd given me a present. And that's why she kept staring at me all day, like she expected me to do something. I never would have guessed Lee cared about anniversaries.

You'll figure it out.

Those were her exact words. Which meant she expected me to remember. Anniversaries are the sort of concepts that girlfriends care about. I mean, I have no idea what date Wesley and I became friends. Maybe one way to get Lee to be my girlfriend was to act more like she already was. Though I could see where that could turn into a minefield of awkward moments and misunderstandings.

However much or little this anniversary meant, I'd obviously not remembered soon enough. I needed to fix this. But I wasn't sure how. If I pretended I was totally clueless, she'd eventually either let it go or let me know why she was angry. But then I'd have to figure out whether to be apologetic or tell her how I felt about pseudo-significant moments. I was glad she'd come to Zenger. I was really glad we'd met and become friends. But, seriously, the anniversary of the day we met? It didn't seem like an occasion for a gift.

I could come right out and admit that I was slow to realize it was an anniversary. The fact that I'd finally figured it out
should earn me at least a little bit of credit. Especially if I ended the admission by handing her a gift. Assuming I had any idea what to buy.

• • •

First thing in the morning, I looked up anniversaries. I was pretty sure that the one-year gift was supposed to be made of paper. A quick check online proved I was right. So, paper . . . a book was the obvious choice, and also the least imaginative, since she'd already given me one. A journal? Not bad, but not great. Origami paper? Nope. She had tons of it. Cardboard counted, too. I guessed anything in a box would sort of count. Crayons would be fun. No. Crayons would be stupid. But maybe Lee would think they were fun. I wondered whether there was a wax anniversary.

I realized I was in danger of driving myself crazy. I looked around my bedroom, seeking inspiration. I saw a deck of playing cards. Cards. They were paper.

Wait!

I could get her tarot cards. Those were cool and also kind of creepy—especially the ones involving death. Yeah. That was perfect. The only problem was that I'd have to wait until after school to go shopping, and then give the present to her that evening, or the next day. Showing up at her house with a gift would be really weird. But the longer I waited, the worse it would be.
Here's a gift to commemorate the time we first met, one year and two days ago. Aren't I thoughtful?

But there was someone who always had my back. Someone I could count on when I really needed help.

I called Wesley. “You driving?” I didn't want to distract him if he was on the road.

“Nope. Just finished my route. What's up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

I explained what I wanted him to do. The stores wouldn't be open yet. I figured the earliest Wesley could get the cards and meet me was third period. “I'll wait for you by the cafeteria doors,” I said.

“You got it.”

“Thanks.”

When I saw Lee in geometry, I assumed I'd receive another of those expectant stares. But she greeted me normally. Which didn't mean anything, since she was really good at hiding her feelings. Still, it made me happy that I was going to acknowledge the anniversary. I was pretty sure she'd be pleasantly surprised.

At lunch, I waited for Wesley by the side door of the cafeteria and, sure enough, he pulled up in his truck. Except it wasn't the bagel truck. This was one of those street-sweepers. He got out, came over, and handed me a small bag.

“What happened to the other truck?” I asked.

“I lost that job.”

“But you got another,” I said.

“Yup.”

“And you drove the sweeper over here, from wherever you were supposed to be.”

“Sure. No big deal. I mean, all the streets are dirty, right?”

“Right. How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“My treat,” he said.

“You didn't . . .” I was afraid he'd stolen the cards.

“Didn't what?” he asked.

“You didn't have to do that,” I said.

“Hey, what are friends for? Catch you later.”

I looked in the bag and was relieved to see a receipt. I guess there was hope for Wesley, after all. He'd gotten the deck wrapped. Appropriately, the paper was black. I took the present out of the bag and walked over to our table.

“I finally figured it out,” I said, handing her the gift. “I'm a bit slow at this stuff.”

Lee looked at the gift. “This is a nice surprise. And don't be too hard on yourself. Not everybody memorizes the death dates of famous writers.”

Death dates? Famous writers?

“Yeah. Not everyone,” I said. So that was the October event. This was so typical of Lee—give me a gift to celebrate Poe's death, not the anniversary of our meeting. And that's why she had said that the obituaries were too obvious.

“Cool,” Lee said after she unwrapped the cards. “What's this have to do with Poe's death?”

Before I could invent an answer, a tell-tale slip of
paper flittered out of the wrappings. I recognized Wesley's handwriting. Lee picked the paper up and read the note. “Happy anniversary.”

She frowned. “What anniversary?”

This was not going well.

“You thought my gift was to commemorate our first meeting, right?” Lee said.

“Right.”

“But you didn't come to that mistaken conclusion until last night. Or this morning. Right?”

“Right.”

“And then you scrambled to get me something. Right?”

“Right.”

“That's sweet. And stupid. We could call it
glykomoronic
. Hey, I made a word.”

She grinned at her coinage, opened the box, and slid out the cards. “Let me tell you your fortune.” She shuffled the deck, then turned over a card. I expected The Hanged Man, but it was The Fool.

“I guess we can stop right here,” Lee said.

October 2

Here's a tip for you, Sean. Keep a diary. I know guys don't do that. But if we did, we could look back and always know what had happened exactly one year ago.

By the way, as exhaustive as Mrs. Gilroy's list of essential figures of speech might seem, I realized she missed a lot of them. So I took some time and made my own list. The last one's especially for you.

Scott Hudson's Little-Known Figures of Speech

Hamonym
—creative phrases for tasty parts of the pig

Bdelguppia
—dozens of small words dashing about like little fish

Ablitteration
—words so awesome they blow the reader away

Slimeli
—any description or comparison using snot or mucus

Metafart
—any descriptive phrase that includes a colon

Bananaclassis
—writing about the same fruit at different times for different reasons

Cacaphony
—any words used to describe rubber dog poop

Oopsphemism
—unintentional swearing

Onomatopony
—how toddlers ask for a horse

“Isn't it picture day?” Mom asked as I headed for the door on Monday.

“Yeah. So?”

“You're wearing a T-shirt,” she said.

I glanced down. “It's clean.”

“That's not the point. You want to look presentable.”

“Why? We have lots of pictures of me.”

“Your grandparents love the photos. So do your aunts.”

“I can get Lee to retouch last year's picture. She can age me slightly. She's really good at that. They'll never know the difference,” I said.

“Scott.”

It always amazed me how a single syllable could carry so many different meanings simultaneously when uttered by a parent. This one, at the moment, carried a variety of commands, laced with several threats, and an ultimatum.

I played my last card.

“I'll miss the bus.”

“I'll drive you.”

Had I known what sort of nerve gas lurked in Sean's bowels, awaiting release in the car, I would have appeared at breakfast in a tuxedo.

• • •

I saw a lot of freshly scrubbed faces in the halls, and an abundance of well-ironed clothing, crisp pleats, and stiff collars, along with the usual variety of individual protest statements. I blended right in among the respectable buttoned-down majority. Jeremy, who I saw out front after Mom dropped me off, had been swaddled in a sports coat and tie. Poor kid.

“Nice shirt,” Lee said when I walked into geometry.

I didn't bother to respond.

“Did your mom dress you?” she asked.

“Basically,” I said. “I should burn all these shirts.”

“I'll help. We can have a festival and call it Burning Shirt. It could start a trend. At which point, of course, we'll stop going because it became too trendy.”

She was wearing a black T-shirt. But it didn't contain any horrifying images or defiant messages. “Did
your
mom dress you?” I asked.

“No. She merely advised me. We agreed, after heated negotiation, that this would be an acceptable compromise.”

“That's what parenting is all about,” I said.

“Hey, I have an idea. We've got that geometry test tomorrow. Let's study at my place.” She gave me a calculating grin.

“You want your dad to see me dressed up.”

“It will disturb his universe, slightly. Are you in?”

“Sure.” I might as well get some mileage out of my outfit.