I think Cosquillas secretly enjoyed trolling her. He no-no-no’ed her with his finger and said, “That’s ‘Señorx Cosquillas’ from now on, Señorx Tómas, if you please.”
She huffed, crossed her arms, and flopped into her chair.
“Those are tough to catch,” said Adam. “I had to use my Ultra Ball to collect one that was asleep on the road when I was playing Pokémon Y.”
“That’s a Snorlax, you forehead.” Widelene laughed.
Adam turned to her and asked, “Really, Widelene? Thank you for explaining that to me.”
Adam Hoag, aka beret boy, aka the most wedgied middle schooler in the history of the universe, wanted to work as a film director someday. He was, imho, well on his way. The trailer he’d made for his documentary on wedgies, which was called Splitting the Adam (lol) (also ow) showed Adam getting underwear-lifted in increasingly torturous and creative ways. He’d managed to make everybody in my Intermediate Theater Workshop class involuntarily acquire buns of steel as we clenched our way through five minutes of sympathetic butthurt.
Adam came across as nerdy and socially awkward—pretty Clark Kent–ish. Also, the beret he always wore made him look a little too much like the kind of elf who would fix your shoes at night. That led people to dismiss him. But after just seeing him give the straightest straight face I’d ever seen to Widelene, I knew he wasn’t a person to underestimate. He told jokes mostly to make himself laugh. That was a sign of someone who gives feero zucks about what other people think. And that made him someone I could work with.
The final bell blasted through the speakers; time to start class. I about-faced and fell into a desk. It wasn’t even my desk—the classroom was so empty that I just collapsed, play-pouting, into the desk nearest to me.
“Sal,” said Mr. Cos—oops, I mean said Señorx Cosquillas. “What are you doing, sitting there?”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think it mattered today, since the class is so empty. I’ll go sit in my usual seat.” I started getting up.
“No, my dude. I mean, why are you sitting down at all? Why aren’t you coming over and handing me the book with all the Alice illustrations you promised to show me?”
I nodded to him like a genie granting a wish. Then I reached into my bag and produced my big, beautiful illustrated double book.
“My dude,” he said. On cue, his transition lenses became see-through, which let me see how wide his eyes had gone. “The cover is awesome.”
I jogged up to his desk, got down on bended knee, bowed my head, and lifted the book as high as I could. “Even more wonders await you within the pages of this tome, señorx.”
He took the book in both hands like I’d just handed him the Holy Grail. “My dudes,” he said, his voice full of reverence, “gather round. Let’s spend homeroom expanding our minds.”
One thing Culeco didn’t skimp on was teachers’ desks. Srx. Cosquillas’s was as big as a rowboat. Plenty of room for four kids and one adult to sit in a circle around it and page through a book together. Srx. Cosquillas made sure to rotate the book around so that everyone got a good look at the amazing, explosive, playful, wild, scary, excessive, and utterly wonderboom Wonderland watercolors on every spread. He didn’t move on until everyone had said everything they wanted to about each illustration.
And everyone said a lot. All the kids took turns liking some watercolors and hating others, bickering about good drawings and bad ones. Widelene thought she had all the answers, and Teresita thought none of us had any taste, and Adam couldn’t understand how we could be so wrong, but hey, it’s a free country.
And me? Well, it was their first time looking at it. They could be forgiven for having shallow, unsophisticated responses to what was obviously the greatest rendition of Carroll’s vision in the history of time. But I was very kind to them. I told them I forgave them for being so ignorant, and that I was proud of them for trying to understand art that was clearly beyond their grade level.
Srx. Cosquillas didn’t say anything during our increasingly heated conversation. But after my last comment, he laughed and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” said all four kids at once, not exactly nicely.
“My dudes, my dudes, my dudes.” He uncrossed his legs and let them dangle over the side of the desk. “Art is about so much more than whether you like it or not.”
Widelene genuinely enjoyed school. I could tell by the way she leaned in, smiling and curious. “What do you mean, señorx? Don’t people make art so other people can enjoy it?”
Cosquillas side-eyed her like a sphinx. “Sure, sure, yes, of course. But then what?”
We all short-circuited for a few seconds. “And then nothing?” Adam tried. “Because it’s art. It doesn’t do anything.”
Srx. Cosquillas gaped at Adam like the chacho had just shot him. “It doesn’t?!”
Adam backtracked big-time. “Well, I mean, art is inspiring. That’s something it does.”
“And?!” Cosquillas prompted.
Adam writhed. “And it can make people happy?”
“AND?!”
Adam, in a full-on panic, spoke faster than I thought his permanent sinus congestion would allow him to. “And it can definitely teach you life lessons. And people pay billions of dollars for it every year. So I see now that art does quite a lot, actually. I hereby publicly declare that my former statement was incorrect and apologize for any harm my words have caused, and hope my grade will not be affected. Yours truly, Adam Hoag.”
Teresita, revolted by Adam, said to him, “Cha.”
I think that’s a word in Mean Girl. Roughly translated, it means You weak-willed worm, I am, like, so disgusted by your cowardice that I would, like, never in a million years date you.
Yeah, I know, right? Pretty amazing how much meaning the language of mean girls can fit into just one word.
Switching back to English, Teresita said to Srx. Cosquillas, “You’re just doing that teacher thing of trying to make us think. But everybody knows that art is just make-believe. It’s not real.”
The transition lenses went pitch-black as Srx. Cosquillas turned his deadly stare on Teresita. “Does art influence our culture? Politics? People’s opinions?”
“Uh,” said Teresita. “I mean, yeah, it can. But that doesn’t mean it’s, like, real.”
Srx. Cosquillas knocked on his own head, trying to get the gears working again. “Let me get this straight, Señorx Tómas. You agree with me that art can redefine morality, open up people’s imaginations, and literally change the course of human civilization, but none of that counts as being real?”
“Uh…” said Teresita. And then, embarrassed by her inability to say anything smarter, she finished with “Cha.”
Welp. I was the only one left. So it was time for me to save the day. “So, okay, Señorx Cosquillas,” I said, spreading my arms to show how reasonable I was being, “art is real. But you have to admit that you can interpret art any way you want to. It’s not like math or science. There are no wrong answers.”
Srx. Cosquillas turned his head robotically until I was locking eyes with his impenetrable transition lenses. The right half of his mouth smiled and the left half frowned. His hair shot out in every direction, like the rays of a black star. I’m pretty sure the colors on his tie-dyed shirt started to move.
And then he slowly, creakingly dipped his head, like he was starting to nod yes, starting to agree with me. But then, when he creakingly lifted his head—you know, the other half of the nod, the upswing—he kept on lifting it and lifting it, until he was looking at the ceiling, and then the back wall of the room.
And then he fell backward off the desk.
All four kids rushed to peek over the edge and see if he was okay. There he lay, sprawled on the floor like a crash-test dummy, one second after the crash test. His glasses had twisted like an airplane propeller on his nose. His lips flapped horsily as air escaped his body. The legs of his castaway khaki pants had bunched so high up his legs, we could see
the red and blue stripes of his nearly knee-high tube socks.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No,” he croaked, his head tottering from side to side. “I need…I need…” But he couldn’t finish his thought.
I scampered off the desk and was kneeling beside him in a second. Widelene moved to his other side just as fast, just as ready to assist.
Since I’ve spent so much time in hospitals, I’ve taken several first-aid courses, which you’d think would have been helpful right about now. But the only word that kept repeating itself in my head was “tourniquet.” Thanks for nothing, brain.
“How can I help, Srx. Cosquillas?” I asked.
“Come closer,” he whispered, “and I’ll tell you.”
I looked at Widelene. She shook her head, cut at her neck with both hands, and soundlessly lipped, Nuh-uh, not me.
Up to me once again. It’s tough, always being the hero.
I brought my ear next to Srx. Cosquillas’s mouth. “I’m listening. What do you need? A tourniquet, maybe?”
“I need you,” he said, his voice creaking and cracking, “to…hear me when…I tell you…that…OF COURSE THERE ARE WRONG ANSWERS WHEN IT COMES TO ART!”
In case you were wondering, I already knew he was okay. I mean, he had tumbled off the desk on purpose, and he wouldn’t have risked that unless he knew how to fall safely, right? Plus, he’d been careful to set the book down before he fell, which he wouldn’t have been able to do if he’d actually fainted or something. I’d also caught a glimpse of how he hit the floor: El tipo had rolled like an expert stuntman. I don’t know if every single teacher at Culeco was a former theater kid, but I betcha a hundred bucks Señorx Cosquillas was.
So I knew he was just having some fun with us. And that meant I could have fun back. “SPEAK UP, SONNY!” I yelled like a veteran—of the Peloponnesian War. “MY HEARING AIN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE!”
In response, he sat up faster than a whack-a-mole mole and said, “Sal, my dude, people are so judgmental when it comes to art. They get stuff wrong all the time, because they’re thinking, There can only be one best, and this isn’t the best. It makes it impossible for people to enjoy something they’ve never seen before. Haven’t you ever tried to explain a book or movie you love to someone who just doesn’t get it?”
I had a flashback of trying to explain to American Stepmom what made Poocha Lucha Libre the best fighting-game franchise in the history of video games, and how the whole time she had looked like she was thinking, No matter how much of an idiot Sal is, I will always love him.
“Oh yeah,” I said to Srx. Cosquillas. “It’s pretty frustrating when you love something and other people don’t get it.”
Srx. Cosquillas clapped. “Now we’re talking. Now you’re getting it. Gather around, duderificos. I have something important to tell you.”
Teresita and Adam, who’d been having the best time spectating all this from the desk, crawled onto the floor and completed the circle that Srx. Cosquillas, Widelene, and I had begun to form. Srx. Cosquillas crossed his legs, lifted his right foot onto his left thigh, and rested his hands on his knees. We all imitated him, to varying degrees of success, with Widelene at the top, doing it perfectly, and me at the bottom, learning how much I needed to take yoga classes.
“My dudes,” said Srx. Cosquillas, breathing deeply, “people make art because they want you to learn what life feels like to them. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s scary, sometimes it’s sad or uplifting or gross or deep or a million other things. But whatever it is, it’s always about what the artist thinks of life.”
I turned to look at Adam. He was nodding, saying without words, Wedgies are the symbol I use to probe the deepest mysteries of human existence.
“So,” Srx. Cosquillas continued, “you don’t want to misunderstand the art. You want to be sure you’re not just making something up that isn’t in there. Because if you’re doing that, my dudes, you’ll miss out on the completely unique way the artist views life.”
“Cha,” said Teresita Tómas. But this time it meant more like Yeah, okay, fair point.
Srx. Cosquillas nodded at her and spoke to us all. “You want to be a careful and responsible audience member. You want to put your own expectations and preferences aside to give yourself time to comprehend the art. If you do that, then, whatever your opinion of the art is, you’ll understand humanity more deeply. Your mind will expand, and you’ll become a smarter, more empathetic, and more complete human being.”
“And that’s the point of life,” said Widelene, 1,000 percent into this whole meditation thing. Probably all the martial arts training she’d had. “To be a better person every day.”
Srx. Cosquillas pointed at her with both hands. “So, in a minute, we are going to head down to see the dress rehearsal for the Rompenoche show. The kids have been working hard for most of the summer to put on a great performance. Probably there’ll be things you like and things you don’t. But go deeper. Be an active audience member. Participate. Pay attention. Think less about ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and more about ‘what?’ and ‘how?’ and ‘why?’ Be generous with your applause. And most of all, appreciate the gift that the students of Culeco are giving to you. Can we do that?”
“Yes!” all the kids answered.
Srx. Cosquillas cupped an ear. “What?”
“YES!”
“Perfect. All right, my dudes, let’s head on down to the auditorium.”
And we did. All four of us were excited. We felt like part of a secret club: the We-Can-Understand-Art-More-Deeply-Than-the-Rest-of-You-Sandwiches Club. We were ready to laugh and cry and gasp and howl and just let the performance wash over us like a tidal wave. We would feel everything, consider every angle, be the most ideal audience in the history of audiences. I was already half in love with the play before it had even started.
We took our seats in the front row of the auditorium and settled in, eager to be wowed, giddy with anticipation. I was so ready for greatness.
But chacho. Then we watched the show.
And it sucked.
SO, WHAT’D YOU THINK of the show? Gabi texted me.
The last thing I wanted to do was respond to a text like that. Not after what I’d seen. The horror!
But then I got thirteen more texts on my smartwatch, in less than ten seconds, that I also didn’t want to respond to:
Now, don’t just gush over it and tell me how great it was.
We already know how great it is.
We want to know how to make it even better.
No criticism too small!
Do your worst, Golden Elf-boy!
I mean, I understand if you HAVE to praise us first.
It was pretty unbelievably terrific, wasn’t it?
Wait, I take that back! Ignore that last text.
I don’t want to color your opinion or anything.
Just tell me in your own words how great it was.
And then if you have any notes for us, I will make sure they are voiced and entertained during our next cast meeting.
But you probably don’t have any.
It was pretty great, huh?
How could Gabi text that fast? I wondered. She was like a one-girl firing squad.
I was standing at my locker reading these texts, right after the performance, and right before lunch. Yep, you did the math right: The performance lasted four school periods. The only thing worse than a terrible show is a terrible show that never ends.
This time, though, hallway 3E was the opposite of empty. Tons of kids, mostly seventh graders, reminded me why deodorant is such an important part of getting ready for school. They were all extra sweaty, too, because they’d just spent the last several hours wearing their burning-hot Wonderland costumes for the Rompenoche dress rehearsal.
They still had them on. Loads of living playing cards and human chess pieces and talking animals hugged and high-fived each other, giggling and giddy, clapping and hopping in place and dancing. Everyone wa
s still riding the high of their performance.
I know that feeling. Heck, I wouldn’t be attending Culeco if I didn’t. The best moments in life happen just after you run offstage after giving a great performance, and you stand still and just absorb the audience’s applause. I live for people shouting Encore! Encore!
Thing is, people only shout Encore! Encore! when they don’t want the performance to end. And, chacho, no one in that audience wanted it to go on a half second longer than it already had. I’d had Widelene on one side of me and Adam on the other, and every time I glanced over at them, they looked like they were being forced to watch a documentary on how fur coats are made. Teresita was sitting next to Widelene on the other side, so I couldn’t see her, but I sure could hear her complaining about being forced to watch the rehearsal. It was, like, so unfair.
We’d all been dying. Melting into our seats. Wondering exactly how hard we would have to punch ourselves in the face to be excused to go to the nurse’s office.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking: You’re exaggerating, Sal. How bad could it have been, really? Well, let me put it this way: Have you ever played Would You Rather? You know, where people ask you questions like: Would you rather get bitten by (a) five thousand mosquitos at the same time, or (b) a great white shark, just once? Or: Would you rather give yourself (a) an emergency appendectomy with nail clippers, or (b) eye surgery with a scalpel and a fun-house mirror?
Well, go ahead and think up your worst Would You Rather? question. No, really. Close your eyes and think up one right now.
Got it? It’s super painful, right? Or super gross? Or something that would make you want to nope the heck out of there, am I right?
Whatever you thought up, the answer is yes. Yes, I Would Rather eat my own feet, I Would Rather floss with a razor blade, I Would Rather lick roadkill, I Would Rather be reincarnated as a suppository, I Would Rather anything than ever, ever, ever see that show again.
Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe Page 8