Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (23 page)

M
rs. Gilroy walked slowly to the front of the room.
No, wait.
Mrs. Gilroy shuffled to the front of the room. Writing laboriously on the chalkboard, she carefully formed a sentence.
Hang on.
Laboring over each word, she crafted a sentence. She tapped the board enthusiastically to fully attract our attention.
Scratch that.
She smacked the board to capture our attention. She spoke the sentence solemnly.
Just a sec.
She intoned the words she'd written: “Adverbs are not always our friends.”

Yeah, she was back. At least the marking period had ended, so I knew I'd have one good grade to average into the others, thanks to Mr. Kamber. The first thing Mrs. Gilroy did, after banning the lazy use of adverbs, was tell us to resume our exercises writing figures of speech. She also put all the terms we were studying back on the board.

I'd given my selection a lot of thought. If I tried to be nice and to make up for what had happened, she'd crucify me. I needed to be clever, instead. I needed to dazzle her.

I knew exactly what I was going to do. It made me nervous. But not because I was doing something wrong. I was scared because I wasn't sure I could pull it off. If I failed, I'd look like an idiot.

• • •

Thursday morning, when Jeremy, Kyle, and I got off the bus, Lee headed toward me. Her new bus had a slot near ours.

“Later,” Kyle said, scooting off.

“He certainly vanished in a flash,” Lee said.

“I think you scare him,” I said. But I knew that wasn't the reason he'd split so quickly.

• • •

After school, when Lee and I were walking toward the bus, I noticed Kyle hanging back. When we took our seats, I turned to him and said, “I never told her it was you.” He'd written something pretty nasty on her locker last year.

“No?”

“No.”

“I still feel bad about it,” he said.

“Let it go,” I said. “It's long past.”

“Maybe I should do something nice for her,” he said.

I laughed. “That's a lot harder than it sounds.”

• • •

The next morning, Kyle put his hand on my shoulder as we got off the bus. “Wait here.”

He went ahead to intercept Lee. They talked for a while.
Not real long. Kyle's not a talker. But I guess he felt he needed to make things right by confessing.

“All is well?” I asked Lee when she joined me.

“All is well between Grapple Boy and Freaky Girl, as we now call each other,” she said. “I'm glad we talked.”

“Me, too.”

• • •

Tomorrow was opening day for trout season. Unfortunately, today was opening shout-a-bad-word day when I got sideswiped, bushwhacked, and gobstopped by my report card in two directions at once. I might as well have shouted, “What the Dickens?”

It was the best of grades. It was the worst of grades.

I slipped into my seat next to Lee and checked out her report card. “Mommy and Daddy are going to be proud,” I said.

“That's the downside of being a natural-born genius,” Lee said. “How'd you do?”

I handed her my report card. Lee stared at it for a moment, as if digesting something that didn't quite make sense. I knew the feeling.

“Mr. Kamber clobbered you,” she said. “How could he give you a seventy-five?”

“I have no idea. I got great grades on all my papers.”

“But Ms. Denton gave you a hundred? Wow.”

“Yeah. I feel sort of guilty. She's rewarding me for speaking at the hearing.”

“And for getting my dad to speak for her,” Lee said.

“There's no way she'd know about that,” I said. “Your dad didn't mention me when they were talking.”

“There are other ways she might have found out.” Lee gave me a smug grin.

“But I don't want a grade I don't deserve,” I said.

“Scott, you have too many rules. Accept the gift. Allow the universe to toss you a bone, or a bonus, you didn't earn. It's only fair, given how often the universe hits you in the face with a pie.”

“It doesn't feel right,” I said.

“What grade would you have given yourself?” she asked.

I did the math, based on my test scores. “I'd say about a ninety-three.”

“So you're stressing out about seven points?” Lee asked. “Points that are helping you stay eligible for clubs?”

“No. Well, maybe. Yeah, I guess so.” I took the report card back from Lee. Did I want to say something to Ms. Denton? Or was Lee right? Did I have too many self-imposed rules? I needed to think about that.

• • •

When biology class ended, I stayed in my seat.

I'd given my phrasing a lot of thought. I didn't want Ms. Denton to feel I was accusing her of doing something wrong. She'd had enough of that. After everyone else had left, I went up to her and said, “I was surprised by my grade.”

“I was surprised by your enthusiasm for the minutiae of photosynthesis,” she said. “It's not all that often a teacher can discover her lessons have made a lasting impact.”

“I do like biology,” I said.

“You earned that grade, Scott. You might have impressed me out there, at the board meeting, but you earned it in here, even if you aren't like your brother.”

I couldn't think of a response beyond, “Huh?” How could it be bad that I wasn't like Bobby?

“I never had a more focused student,” Ms. Denton said.

“Bobby?” I asked.

“Absolutely. He absorbed every word I said, never took his eyes off the board, and participated in the discussions. He had a knack for seeing how things connected. I'm sure he would have done great on the tests if he hadn't skipped school so much.”

“That was sort of his hobby,” I said. As surprised as I was by this, it made sense. Bobby was great with mechanical things. Biology wasn't all that different. Stuff connected and interacted. There were power sources and various means of converting energy into motion. Even so, not everyone could have held Bobby's interest. It looked like I'd spoken the truth when I'd told the board that Ms. Denton was an excellent teacher. “I'm glad there was one class he enjoyed.”

“I enjoyed teaching him. I was so disappointed when you acted like such a slacker,” she said.

“You can't blame me for throwing up,” I said.

“I didn't. I blamed you for not paying attention. For not taking class seriously.”

“That's not really who I am,” I said.

“I've come to learn that,” she said. “Although you have a hard time tearing your attention away from Lee.”

“I'm working on that.” This seemed like a good time to change the subject. I pointed at Splitten Kitten. “Why the shock treatment?”

“To discourage the unfit,” she said. “In college, they do a brutal job of culling the herd of wannabe doctors who don't have the heart or mind for the role. I'm just starting the process early.”

“That's pretty cold,” I said.

“So is life.” She shrugged. “Still, you're probably right. It's cold. But winter is over for you. Enjoy the grade. Work hard. Keep learning.”

“Thanks. I will.” I headed out.

“Did you talk yourself into failing?” Lee asked when I joined her in the hallway.

“Not this time,” I said. “But I'm sure there will be plenty of other opportunities.”

“That's just part of your charm, Scott.”

“It's a Hudson thing,” I said.

I headed off to Life Skills. Though I had a feeling I was learning the real life skills outside the classroom.

• • •

After school, I hunted down Mr. Kamber. I'd heard he was subbing in chemistry. There were still about ten kids in the room when I got there, staring at him from their seats as if, after an extended period of observation, they would suddenly be able to understand what he'd been talking about during the period. I waited by the door until the last of them gave up and left.

When I walked in, Mr. Kamber flashed me a smile of recognition and said, “Skaught Hadsen!” We'd crossed paths many times.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked.

“Roit,” he said.

I took that for a yes. I pointed to my grade on the report card, where I'd been Kamber-clobbered. Then I pulled my last paper from my backpack and pointed to the grade on that. “You gave me great grades on my papers, and a terrible grade for the marking period.”

“Smoren jessure pipers,” he said.

“What?”

“Sherattitude anyer hievyur.”

I could see it was pointless. Still, I couldn't part without saying, “It's not fair.”

He grinned, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Nwarries, smite.”

T
he mist above a trout stream on an April morning is like a whispered echo of the running water. It shifts shape slowly, fluidly, while mimicking the curves the creek has allowed the land to suggest. The sun will burn the mist off by midmorning, but the memory of it will linger in the rivers of the mind.

I love opening day.

Dad, Bobby, and I went farther afield than usual this year. Normally, we'd hit the Bushkill or the McMichaels. The former would be mobbed. The latter would be less crowded, but far from isolated.

We headed deep into the game lands, to a perfect fishing stretch along a branch of the Tobyhanna. You could only reach it by hiking a narrow trail for half an hour.

We got there well ahead of the legal time for the first cast. None of us fished yet. We could easily have done so. There were no wardens out here. But that was not the way Hudsons fished.

When the time came, we all cast together.

“No matter what happens, we have to always do this,” Bobby said.

“Always,” Dad said.

“Always,” I said.

We caught fish. The number and size doesn't matter.

“Life is good,” Dad said, late in the afternoon, as we pulled back into our driveway.

“Life is good,” Bobby and I said.

April 18

Sean, I can picture the future. Someday, maybe in three or four years, there will be four Hudson guys on the stream bank on opening day. That will be nice. As long as you don't try to poach off my spot.

Things are starting to get busy here. The wedding is less than a month away. Mom and Amala are doing all sorts of things involving dresses, food, candles, flowers, and endless spools of ribbon. Amala's mom is here all the time. Or Mom is over there. Everyone consults with Dad once in a while. He pretty much tells them he's happy with whatever they decided, and then disappears into the garage. I've been relatively safe from it all, except I had to get fitted for a tux. Much to my surprise, it's a lot more comfortable than a suit. They make them stretchy so people in a range of sizes can rent the same one.

Bobby's bandmates are coming up a couple days
before the wedding. They're throwing him a bachelor party. I'm pretty sure that's not something I'll be invited to. Amala's friends already threw her a bridal shower. Needless to say, I wasn't at that celebration, either.

Zenger Zinger for April 21

Last week's answer:
“I have my father's eyes,” John Peter said inherently.

This week's puzzle:
“My ballpoint pen melted and drooped into a semicircle,” John Peter said
_________
.

Mrs. Gilroy didn't get to my paragraph until Wednesday, which also happened to be Earth Day, not that there was any connection between those two things. I had a copy of it with me. I followed along, reading mine silently as she read hers out loud to the class.

Unlike simians, metronomes, and other familial fixtures of screech, catachresis flails to stripe the ear in a peasant and euphoric way. Perhaps in fear that any exorcise utilizing this reportorial technique might encroach bad habits, the teacher delighted it from the list of permeable fixtures, forboding its use.

She'd frowned, briefly, before she started. But after that, I couldn't read her expression at all. When she was finished, she said, “Who can name the rhetorical technique this passage was meant to illustrate?”

There was a pause. Nobody seemed to have a clue, despite
the fact that I'd mentioned it. I guess the word was lost in the jumble of mistakes I'd pumped into the paragraph. Finally, Julia raised a tentative hand. “Isn't that the one you told us not to use? Cataleptic?”

“
Catachresis
,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “You were close.” She turned her attention to me. “How do you justify using the one figure of speech I told the class not to use, Mr. Hudson?”

“Because my paragraph is not an example of catachresis,” I said.

I expected her to shoot me down, or shout me down, but she nodded, pointed to a spot on the floor in front of her desk, and said, “Please come up here and continue your explanation.”

I took my place facing the class. “Catachresis is basically about breaking rules. Specifically, the rules of meaning. But there was a rule against using it. So, by using it, I broke a rule against using a figure of speech about breaking rules.” I paused to savor the moment. I knew how Mr. Fowler must feel when he was arguing a case in front of a judge and jury. “Therefore, what we have is an example of . . .” I pointed to the class.

They responded with the correct answer: “Irony!”

“I rest my case.”

To my surprise, Mrs. Gilroy said, “Very clever.”

To my further surprise, I devoured this gift of praise.

To my furthest surprise, Mrs. Gilroy said, “However, in your attempt to create irony, you have created a problem for yourself.”

It was her turn to pause, and to look at the class to see if anyone could fill in the blanks. After a moment of silence, she said, “If the central rhetorical concept of your paragraph is irony, then it isn't based on catachresis. Correct?”

“Right. I just said that.”

“If it isn't based on catachresis, you haven't broken a rule against using catachresis. Correct?”

“Uh . . . wait . . .” I had a feeling I was being schooled. Then I saw where this was going, and realized there was no escape.

Mrs. Gilroy plunged the dagger into my paragraph. “If you haven't broken a rule by using an example of a method involving the breaking of rules, you haven't created irony.”

It was my turn to say it. “Correct.” I looked at the class. Some of them were following this. I could tell that Lee was. Mrs. Gilroy was waiting, as if there was one more step, and she expected me to discover it.

I let out a gasp as everything clicked. I had created a prison. But it was the most beautiful, elaborate, twisting prison imaginable, like a jailhouse drawn by Escher. “If it isn't irony, then we're back at it being catachresis, so I did break a rule, which means it
is
irony.” I felt like I'd been hunting for a paper clip, and found a nugget of gold.

Mrs. Gilroy actually smiled. “We go around and around and around. If it is irony, then it isn't. If it isn't irony, then it is. Congratulations, Mr. Hudson. You've created a paradox. Who follows this?”

I raised my hand, along with about half my classmates.

“The rest of you, give it some thought. You'll see what's happening. Those of you who have grasped the nature of this paradox are to be congratulated on making your first baby step from sophomore to philosopher.”

Yeah, I was gloating.

“Mr. Hudson's selection has a unique benefit,” she told the class. She turned back to me. “Do you see it?”

I spoke my thoughts, trying to see where they led, beyond the looping paradox. “I wrote a paragraph filled with intentional mistakes—”

A motion distracted me. Richard punched his own shoulder, mouthed the word
sophomore
, and then pointed at me
.
I guessed he was planning to hit me later for
intentional mistakes.
I pulled my attention back to my explanation. “But even if I committed some accidental mistakes, you can't mark me down for them. Every mistake, accidental or intentional, is correct. All mistakes count as examples. So you have to give me a hundred.”

“Unfortunately,” Mrs. Gilroy said, “that is true. That is also a first for this year.”

The class awarded me scattered applause for my achievement, tempered, I suspect, with a bit of envy. I walked past Richard on my way to my seat, so I could get the punch over with. After I sat down, and digested what had happened up there, I realized that this might explain why she'd banned
catachresis. Maybe she'd hoped one of her students would see that as an opportunity.

On my way out of class, Mrs. Gilroy said, “Mr. Hudson . . .”

“Yes.” I braced myself for the inevitable deflation.

“Well played.”

“Thank you.”

• • •

Since I'd wimped out as far as stage crew, I figured I could at least support the
Goodnight Moon
musical by being an audience member. Lee and I got tickets. I also got tickets for Wesley, Bobby, and Amala. Just like it felt strange to watch a Zenger football game that was being covered by other reporters, it was weird to watch the play from the audience.

Weird or not, the play was a lot of fun.

“Oon,” Lee said as we were leaving.

“What?” I asked.

“Oon, just oon. Oon all day. Oon all night. Oon, always and forever. Oon eternal. Oon everlasting. Oonce oonpon a time.”

I guess she had a point. The songs did lean heavily on the whole
moon
thing. But the cast did a great job with them.

Bobby and Amala headed home. Lee and I went out to the diner with Wesley.

“I liked the red balloon,” Wesley said when we settled into a booth.

“Yeah. That was Edith. She really made you feel her balloonness.”

“Oon . . . ,” Lee said, pointing at her spoon.

“The chair was good, too,” Wesley said.

“For sure.”

“But not as good as the balloon.”

“Agreed.”

“Oon . . .” Lee had spotted a cartoon on the placemats.

I stopped listening. I knew she'd get tired of the game eventually. Of course, when Wesley dropped her off, I couldn't resist saying, “See you oon.”

April 25

Sean, I think the year got away from me. There's less than a month and a half left for school, and I've pretty much dropped the ball on everything. I have more to say about this. I'll get back to you later today.