Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (3 page)

You still are
.

He laughed. “I know what you're thinking. I still am small. But I'm due for a growth spurt. I researched it. Maturation is even more fascinating than gestation.”

He talked for a while longer, but I sort of zoned out. The bus rolled along, picking up more students, but getting only about half full.

About five minutes before we reached the school, my subconscious handed me an idea. I didn't want to start up a prolonged conversation with Hatboy, so I waited until the bus pulled into the school lot. When the driver opened the door, I tapped my seatmate on the shoulder.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who reacted to shoulder taps. After the sound of his scream stopped echoing in my ears, I said, “How would you like to buy a freshman survival manual?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That would be awesome. Do you have one?”

I sort of did. My first day of school freshman year was such a miserable experience, I'd decided to make a manual for my unborn sibling by writing down any survival tips I could think of. That's how my journal had started. There was a lot of good advice in it. I could take out all the personal stuff, leave in the practical material, and sell it to this kid. Why not?

“I don't have it with me,” I said. “But I can bring it tomorrow.”

“How much would it cost?” he asked.

Good question. I named a figure that seemed fair. He didn't blink. Maybe I should have asked for more.

“Plus shipping and handling,” I said.

“Shipping and handling?”

“That was a joke,” I said. But I had the feeling he wouldn't have objected if I'd bumped the price up.

“Good one. You're funny. So you're probably smart. Humor requires intelligence. A lot of famous comedians have philosophy degrees. I can be quite amusing. Except people don't always get my jokes. Though I'd bet you would. Want to hear my favorite one?”

Resistance, apparently, was futile. “Sure. But let's get off the bus first.”

The instant his feet hit the asphalt, he said, “How can you tell you're near a murder?”

“I don't know.”

“Probable caws.”

It took me a second to connect the punchline with the name for a group of crows. Despite myself, I laughed.

“I knew you'd get it. Good one?”

“Yeah. Good one.” I pointed to a rear corner of the building. “That's your safest bet. Good luck. Keep moving.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't dawdle by the Dumpster,” I called after him.

I watched for a moment, to make sure his superabundance of fear pheromones didn't attract lions, tigers, or thugs. After he'd turned the corner, I went in the front entrance and threaded my way through the crowds to my new homeroom. I had no trouble finding it. I knew my way around the school, even though I hadn't been there since June.

Okay, sophomore year
, I thought,
I'm ready for you. Bring it on.

I
saw a lot of familiar faces when I reached my homeroom, including Mary Abernathy, Diane Zupstra, and Chuck Peterson. Chuck, whose mom worked in the ER at the hospital, was a good source of news whenever something major happened.

We all exchanged nods, as if to say,
yeah, nothing new here
. It was a big change from freshman year, when everything was new and confusing. We launched into the familiar morning routine and, just like that, it was as if summer had never existed. The homeroom teacher, Mr. Ruiz, took attendance. After the pledge, read over the intercom by the student pledger of the day—who, true to form for student pledgers throughout history, seemed to be encountering “indivisible” for the first time—Principal Hedges welcomed us, shared a brief inspirational message about how a new year meant a fresh start, and reminded us that we could reach our full potential as long as we believed in ourselves and understood the value of
hard work and striving to reach our full potential.

The homeroom teacher passed out assignment books and copies of our schedules. I looked at mine. It matched the one I'd gotten online.

My guidance counselor had suggested I try at least one AP class for college credit. The choices were bio or history. I knew AP Bio would be a mistake. I had barely survived chemistry last year. History, on the other hand, pretty much just requires a good memory and the ability to wade through dense volumes of dreary prose without getting too weak and weary. I'd heard geometry was pretty cool. Trig, which came next year, was supposed to be harder, but I wasn't going to worry about that at the moment. I'd picked up a Spanish language magazine in July, when I was in New York with my dad, and managed to
understand a fair amount of it. So I hadn't completely lost my language skills during vacation. Lee was in geometry, lunch, and biology with me. After that, we'd go our separate ways again until English.

When the bell rang, I headed off to my first class. It was interesting seeing the freshmen bubbling through the halls like guppies in a piranha tank. Lee was already in the room, sitting in the third row, on the aisle. She'd saved a seat for me.

She was wearing basic black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black nail polish, black makeup of various sorts that girls use around their eyes and whose names I could never keep straight. Her piercings had remained stable, except for several additions to her left ear.

There was a test on each desk. Nothing like starting school with a bang. “I hope this isn't an omen,” Lee said.

I folded mine diagonally so the top edge was lined up with the side, forming a triangle with a rectangular base, and held it so it cast a shadow on my desk from the morning light coming through the windows. “If it's not an omen, it could be a gnomon,” I said.

“Scott, it's too early for wordplay,” she said. “Though that is sort of clever, in an obscure, geeky, word-nerd kind of way. But, really, it's too early.”

Mr. Stockman, a thin man dressed in a tan suit and plaid shirt, with a fringe of hair encircling three-fifths of the geometry of his head, walked over and stared at the origami in
my hands. Or maybe it was testigami. He didn't say anything. I contemplated explaining that I'd folded the test to look like the thing in the center of a sundial. But I realized that would mean explaining about Lee's “omen” comment, and hoping that the teacher knew the shadow-caster in the sundial was called a
gnomon
, while also hoping he had a sense of humor.

“Sorry.” I unfolded the test and put it back on my desk, where it no longer lay flat. I hoped I hadn't made a bad first impression. I reminded myself that my teachers would be meeting me for the very first time today. It would be smart to sit back and let someone else stand out in each class as the problem student.

Mr. Stockman headed back to his desk. Halfway there, he turned, pointed at my test, and said, “Gnomon?”

“Yeah.” I guessed maybe he'd heard Lee's comment.

“Cool.” He awarded me a smile. “Nice example of gnomon-clature.”

Lee groaned, then whispered, “You found your tribe.”

“Score one for the geeky word nerd,” I whispered back.

“This test won't be graded,” Mr. Stockman said after he reached his desk. “I just want to get an idea where you all are, as far as core concepts.”

That seemed fair. I looked at the first problem. It was basic algebra. Solve the quadratic, give the two values of
x
. I had no trouble remembering how to do that. The next two questions, about slopes and coordinates on a graph, were also pretty easy.
Then there were some questions about points and lines. For the handful of questions where I wasn't positive about the answer, I was able to make a good guess. The fact that we weren't being graded made the test pretty stress-free for me. As I scanned the room, I saw a range of reactions. Most kids seemed pretty relaxed. But one or two were hunched over, gripping their pencils like they might be called upon to switch tasks and kill a vampire on short notice.

Lee finished before me. I wasn't surprised. She had a good head for math.

After Mr. Stockman collected the tests, he introduced us to some of the basic concepts of geometry, and tossed out a pun or two. The best one was “Are Euclid-ing me?” The worst one was the well-known joke about the acorn saying, “Gee, I'm a tree.” So, yeah, I was back in school, back to learning things in a classroom environment, and pretty relaxed about everything. It was going to be an easy day. My little glitch with the gnomon had turned into a good thing. And I'd participated enough in the classroom discussion to show him I wasn't a slacker or a clown.

When the bell rang, I said, “See you at lunch.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Lee said.

“That's the other Hudson,” I said.

“Bobby or Sean?” Lee asked.

“I think they'd prove equally problematic in the classroom.” I double-checked my schedule, then headed to history.

“Welcome to AP U.S. History. The study of history isn't about dates. It's about people, and the things they do,” Ms. Burke said. She looked the way I'd imagine the stereotypical Mrs. Claus would have looked in her late forties, before her hair had turned white, but after she'd developed her rosy cheeks and sunny smile. “We are going to be working very hard all year. We have a lot of material to cover. But there's no reason we can't take a few minutes on our first day to get to know each other. Write three interesting facts about yourself. Share a bit of your history.”

The air filled with the scribble of pens. Everyone else started writing immediately, as if they'd entered the room with a fact on hand. Or in mind. I glanced to my left, at Phil Nelson's paper.
I once ate a whole pepperoni pizza.

I knew I could do better than that. Better fact, I mean. Not better pizza consumption. Five slices pushed me pretty close to my gastronomic comfort zone. I wanted my facts to be good. What was interesting? I guessed the fact that I'd read
5,000 Amazing Facts
would make a cool fact. Yeah, a fact about a book of facts. I loved the self-referential aspect of that. One down. What else? My mom just had a baby. That would work. I'd probably be the only one in class who could say that. Two down. But I needed something really awesome for the third fact.

As I stared at the page, I heard the clicks and clatters of people around me dropping their pens. I glanced over at
Phil. His list was finished. Besides the pizza, though hopefully during the course of a different meal, he'd eaten an entire rotisserie chicken. Not surprisingly, his third fact was that he'd recently bought a new belt and several pairs of pants.

“Okay,” Ms. Burke said, “pass them up.”

Kids passed their papers forward. Kristen Valence, in the seat ahead of me, twisted a quarter turn and held out her hand.

I couldn't give Ms. Burke two facts when she'd requested three. There had to be something I could add.

Kristen cleared her throat in an obnoxious way.

At this point, the fact didn't even have to be good. It just had to
be
. What did I do this summer? What did I do yesterday? What did I do ten minutes ago?

Think!

I dug deep and found something. Lee had given me three Venus flytraps on the Fourth of July. I never did figure out the connection, if any, between carnivorous plants and declarations of independence. But the plants were definitely cool. They eat insects. You can give them hamburger, too. I fed mine flies and the occasional ant. That was sort of a fun fact. I could even do it as a couplet:
I just feed my plants / live flies and dead ants
. I figured everyone would appreciate a bit of light verse during the readings.

I hesitated. I actually had only one Venus fly trap, since two of them had died soon after I got them, but
plants
worked better in the couplet, so I needed to take some poetic license. Though I guessed I could go with
flies and an ant.

As I was mentally tweaking the words, Kristen reached for my paper.

I scrawled
I just feed my plants—

I dashed off the rest in a sloppy line as Kristen yanked the paper out from under the pen.

Shoot. But at least that would make three.

Ms. Burke took the gathered sheets and started reading them aloud. The class had to guess who'd written each one. That was pretty easy, since most of us knew one another.

About midway through the pile, she got to mine.

“‘I read a book called
5,000 Amazing Facts
,'” she said.

A couple heads turned my way, and I heard at least one whisper of, “Hudson.”

Ms. Burke read the second fact:“‘My mom just had a baby.'” Most of the heads turned my way, and I heard my name whispered by several other kids. Sean's arrival was far from a secret. The third fact would be sort of stupid, but I didn't care. At least I wouldn't be branded a slacker.

Ms. Burke frowned at the sheet in her hand, tilted her head slightly to the left, squinted, tilted her head slightly to the right, lifted her glasses up, put her glasses back down, then shrugged and read, “‘I just peed my pants.'”

“No!” I shouted. “That's not what I wrote!” Not that anyone would hear me over the laughter that bounced around the room like a barrage of jet-propelled dodgeballs.

As the class settled down from howls and guffaws to
chortles and snickers, I said, “‘I just feed my plants flies and ants.' I have Venus flytraps.”

It was pointless.

Someone behind me whispered, “Venus flytrap,” but substituted the obvious rhyming body part for
Venus
. In other circumstances, I would have found that amusing.

Ms. Burke studied my handwriting for a moment, then said, “Oh, right. I see. I guess that word could have been
feed
. And, yes,
plants
would make sense. It even rhymes. Were you aware of that?”

I nodded.

“Very clever,” she said. “I love poetry. Well, I guess we can move on, since we know who wrote this one.”

Great. Halfway into history, and I was history.

At the end of the class, some kid I didn't know pointed at my crotch and said, “Hey, you peed your pants.”

I could ignore him. But that might inspire him to try again, or get others to join in, preventing the whole thing from fading away. On the other hand, I could smack him down so hard, he never got back up. Maybe even so hard, it would scare off others. I don't mean with my fists. There's an old saying:
Never get in a war of words with a man who buys ink by the barrel.
If I was as good with words as I thought I was, I could end this decisively, right now. But I had to act immediately. If I hesitated, he won.

I planned to stagger him with a lightning-quick one-two
punch, then take him out with a knockout blow.

First jab—surprise him by agreeing.

“Yeah, my pants are wet . . .”

I saw his brows knit closer as he tried to decipher what I was doing. Little did he know he'd just been disarmed.

Second punch, make it about him, and go for the stagger.

“. . . because I was laughing so hard at your face, I lost all control of my bladder.”

And, now that he was stunned, throw an uppercut, to put him out of my misery. I pointed at my opponent, and addressed the mob: “The next time you're constipated, give Zitgeist here a call. If he can empty a bladder so easily, think what he can do to clogged intestines.”

I could tell from the smirks of the crowd that I'd scored a victory. I headed out.

Yeah—two classes down. One disaster averted. One set of bus-stop bullies thwarted. One pun-loving teacher discovered. Sophomore year was definitely rocking. It wasn't even lunchtime, and I'd already come back from the dead.

I met up with Lee down the hall from the cafeteria.

“How was your history class?” I asked.

“Dated,” she said. “How was yours?”

“Epic.” We got in the food line. “This is a ridiculously early time to eat lunch.”