I was just wishing someone would help me fill in the blanks in my life. But I took out my notebook, just like everybody else.
For the next few days, I tried to just lay low, both at home and at school. I did all my homework, read all of The Tao of Pooh in one night, didn’t volunteer in class, and avoided spending time alone with my mom or Woody. Or Peter. Or Dowd. Or anyone, actually.
Except in gym. Woody and I were practicing like crazy. So far our big Zen experiment was not producing visible results, and the end of the marking period wasn’t going to wait just because I sucked at foul shooting. I kept telling Woody that Zen archers never worry about accuracy; they just get their form perfectly and the accuracy comes automatically. But she kept saying that Zen archers aren’t doing their arching for a major project grade.
Great—the pressure was sure to improve my accuracy, right?
On the Tuesday after my phone call crisis with Mom, Woody and I were getting set up, and all of a sudden, Peter was there. “Betcha can’t beat me in a shooting match, Buddha.”
I smiled at him. “Bet you’re right, Peter. You’re a great basketball player.”
I got the feeling that wasn’t the answer he wanted. He snapped back, “And you’re afraid to take my bet.”
He had a point. I was just about to admit it, when Woody leaned over and whispered to me, “Do it, San!”
I murmured back, “Why? You know your brother will waste me.”
She hissed back, “STEPbrother, San. STEPbrother. And he won’t waste you. You’ve been practicing for days on end. If you beat him in front of everyone, we’ll definitely get a good grade.”
Was this all I was to her—a grade? I bet she wouldn’t force ELL to make a fool of himself in front of a whole gym class just for a project. On the other hand, ELL was probably some superjock in the first place.
Maybe I should step up to the line, I thought. Of course, it’s a total betrayal of the whole Zen concept, letting myself be goaded into shooting for egotistical purposes. But then again, Woody wants me to. Plus, maybe she’s right. Maybe I will beat Peter. Yeah, right. And maybe the U.S. invading Iraq was a brilliant idea.
But Woody was looking and, in the end, that was what mattered. I stepped up. “You call the rules, Peter.”
“OK, Buddha. We each shoot ten free throws. Whoever sinks the most, wins. If it’s a tie, we shoot one at a time from the top of the key until someone misses. You go first.”
You know how sharks swarm in from miles around when they smell blood in the water? This was like that, only the entire gym class was the shark posse, and I was the bloody bucket of chum. While everyone was jostling up to surround us in a boiling sea of carnivorous excitement, Woody leaned in close and whispered to me, “San, you can do this. I know you can.”
I turned and looked at her like a rabbit looks into the blades of an approaching lawn tractor. Then I faced the basket and gripped the ball for dear life.
“I’m serious, San. Be the ball. Be the net.” She leaned in and kicked my feet apart one final time. Then her lips might have just brushed my ear as she added, “For me, OK?”
Well, there’s nothing like a little horribly timed flirting to get a man ready for combat. I took several deep breaths, bent my knees, and shot without even really looking. Everyone cheered. The ball had somehow found its way in. Some huge moose of a kid threw me the rebound. I said to myself, How does one think about not thinking? Without thinking, and shot again before I had time to start thinking about thinking about not thinking.
Swish.
Rebound, swish.
Rebound, swish.
Rebound, swish.
Woody whispered to me, “Five-for-five! You’re gonna win!”
And as her orangey smell swept into my head, I lost my rhythm. Missed three of my last five. But hey, seven for ten was about six better than my usual. I bounce-passed the ball to Peter. “Thanks for the challenge,” I said mildly. “This is fun!” Woody stood next to me, so close that our elbows pushed up against each other every time the crowd moved.
Peter glared at me, stepped up, and sank three in a row. Then someone said, “Hey, Pete—remember that game against Phillipsburg when you were ninefor-nine from the line?”
Guess what? Even star basketball jocks can get jinxed. Peter missed his next two shots. One more, and we would be tied. Yikes!
Peter looked around, set, and shot. He sank the next three, then missed one. That put him at six-for-nine. If he missed the last shot, I’d win. But if he sank it, we’d be shooting it out with three-pointers. I realized I’d never actually sunk a three-pointer before. Oh, joy.
Peter dribbled and stopped. He started dribbling again, and stopped again. Then he looked at me, said, “It was fun playing with you too,” and drained his last shot without even looking. Before I could even fall to the cold gym floor, pound the unfeeling boards with my puny fists, and curse whatever gods there be, Peter stepped back to the top of the key, caught the ball from the Rebound Bison, and shot a perfect three.
The big guy tossed me the ball and Woody smiled at me. It occurred to me that she was getting into this in a big way. I prayed, Don’t let me throw an air ball. Then I stared at the backboard until my eyes began to blur a bit, bent my knees, and shot. The ball hit the front edge of the rim, bounced up way too high, hit the backboard on the way down, and started rolling around and around the rim. Just watching it spin made me want to hurl. I didn’t want to watch, so I turned away.
When everyone started to cheer a second later, I assumed I’d lost. I prepared myself to face Peter, congratulate him in cool Zen fashion, and then try to slink away into the dank and shadowy recesses of the locker room as quickly and quietly as possible. Then Woody slapped me on the back, hard, and said, “Wow, San, I am some kind of Zen teacher!”
Peter had been looking for signs and miracles, and apparently the time had come. We were tied. He looked stunned; I’m sure I did too. But he recovered first. “Nice one, San. Now step aside and watch me put an end to this thing.”
Everyone had been chattering frantically among themselves, but when Peter put up his second shot, the silence was complete and instantaneous. Then the rebound guy shouted, “SHORT!” And it was. The ball barely kissed the rim before falling straight down and dribbling slowly away across the gym floor. Someone kicked it back to me, and I was just approaching the line when the warning bell rang. “Oh, well,” I announced, “we’ll just have to continue this tomorrow.”
Peter said, “Not so fast, Buddha. Take this shot.”
I was going to lose whether I waited or not, so I figured I’d better make it look like I didn’t care. I turned to him and said, “All right, Peter. It’s only a friendly contest, right?”
He gave a sickly little nod, and—with amazing showmanship—I flipped the ball as hard as I could over my shoulder backward, in the general direction of the hoop.
second helping
On the way to the soup kitchen the next day, Woody was practically bouncing out of her boots. “San, that was so cool! Did you see the look on Peter’s face when you beat him with your back turned? Oh, that was awesome! You just take everything so calmly. Even when everyone was running up to you and giving high-fives, you were so relaxed about it. And, you know, today all these guys from the basketball B team asked me if you and I could give them free-throw lessons.”
“I hope you said no.”
“Wellllll…”
I stared.
“…I said maybe.”
I stared some more.
“I told them that we were really busy with our charitable work and all, but that we’d let them know if anything changed. But don’t you get it? Our project is a total success. You’re, like, famous! A seventh grade girl asked me today if I could get her your autograph!”
“What was her name?” I asked, before I could think about it.
“I don’t know—Katie something, maybe. Anyway, you don’t have any earthly attachments, remember?”
“I was just wonder
ing what her name was. Names are important.”
She was looking serious all of a sudden. “By the way, San, before we get to the soup kitchen, I wanted to tell you about the whole name thing: My parents named me Emily—Emily Jane Long—after my mother’s mother. But when my mom left, I decided I didn’t want to be named after somebody from her side of the family. Plus I didn’t feel like the same person anymore, so I just…decided to be somebody else.”
She bit her lip. “You probably think that’s totally stupid, right?”
I could have told her right then. It was an amazing moment: Woody was like me. We were both inventing ourselves from scratch because of our screwed-up parents. I could reveal my secrets to her and she’d understand. I could open my soul to her, and she would embrace me. We could join hands and frolic together through fields of daisies. It would be us against the world. Bonnie and Clyde. Caesar and Cleopatra. Madonna and, uh, everybody.
But I hesitated. I thought about it too long. What would happen with our project if Woody found out I was a fake? The grade was really important to her and so was honesty. Yikes, honesty. She wasn’t going to want to frolic in the daisies with the son of a convicted con man. And what about ELL?
She was waiting for me to say something, to tell her she wasn’t stupid. “You’re not stupid,” I said. “You’re just stuck in this demented culture that says a person can’t change who she is inside. So if you don’t like who you were yesterday, you’re—I don’t know—stuck with yourself. But your way was the Zen way.”
She chewed on that one for a while, and then asked, “How is that the Zen way?”
“A great Japanese thinker said, ‘Concentrate on and consecrate yourself completely to each day, as though a fire were raging through your hair.’”
“Meaning?”
“All that matters right now is what you do right now.”
“Really?” She grinned.
“Honest to Buddha.” I grinned back and crossed my eyes. Then she grabbed my hand and started skipping. We almost got hit by an oil truck, but we skipped all the way to the shelter. Then we leaned against the wall with our hands on our knees, gasping for air and laughing. A whole line of people waiting to eat had already formed; we had skipped right past the line. I stopped laughing then. It seemed wrong to be so carefree right in front of all these people who had nothing. Woody looked up and got quiet too. She nudged me with her hip and tilted her head toward the back of the line. Two of the little kids from the week before—a boy and a girl—were pointing at us and cracking up. Suddenly the girl gripped the boy’s hand and they started skipping up and down the line. Everyone laughed with them.
The two kids skidded to a stop about a foot from us. The boy said, “Hi, I’m Shaun. I’m the king of skipping,” and bowed at the waist. The girl stuck her tongue out at him and told us, “I’m Annie. I’m the ace of skipping!” Then she curtsied.
I said, “Nice to meet you. I’m San—whoever that is today.”
Woody said, “Hi, it’s a pleasure to have your company. I’m Woody, and my hair is on fire!” As we walked away, I heard the boy whisper, “That girl is crazy. They better not be letting her cook the food in there.”
Fortunately we were still on dish duty. Which was fun. There was some joking about flaming hair, which led to some moderately intense water fighting, which eventually settled down into real talking. The work went more smoothly, because we knew what we were doing, which let me concentrate on having fun with this amazing girl and watching the sudsy water drip from her shining hair. And on getting hungry. The main course was hamburgers and hot dogs (which also made the cleaning easier, because burgers and dogs have a much lower “glop factor” than spaghetti). The hamburgers smelled great. I couldn’t wait to take a huge, juicy, charcoal-y bite of one. As soon as we were done washing, we sat up on the counter and I waited droolingly for our well-earned and beefy reward.
Mildred came in and handed us two heaping plates of burger, pickle, and coleslaw. She cackled, “Wash your bowl, right San?” and was all ready to walk back out when Woody said, “Wait! San can’t eat that burger!”
I jerked the delicious bun-enclosed patty away from my wide-open jaws in surprise. “What do you mean, he can’t eat the burger?” Mildred asked. “He’s a growing boy, and I’m sure all of your horsing around back here has given him quite an appetite. And he probably wants some food too! Heh-heh.”
Woody’s cheeks turned an appealing reddish-pink. “No, I mean—San doesn’t eat meat. He’s a Buddhist. And, you know, that makes him a vegetarian.”
Crap. She had a point, as far as she knew. Mildred raised one snow-white eyebrow at me, but said, “I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” After she went back into the kitchen, I made myself say, “Thanks, Woody. I was afraid I’d be having a pickle on a bun for dinner.”
She winked at me. Wow, nobody except my one totally senile uncle had ever winked at me before. It looked cuter when she did it, though. “No problem. Got to keep up your strength for foul-shooting. And skipping, of course.”
I smiled then, but had trouble maintaining the expression when Mildred reappeared. Carrying a veggie wrap, which she deftly switched for my burger. A veggie wrap? I felt betrayed. What kind of soup kitchen serves veggie wraps anyway?
Have I mentioned how much I hate vegetables? There are only two kinds of eaters in the world, and the Cap’n Crunch fanatics aren’t in the same category as the carrot-juice junkies, believe me. But Mildred and Woody were watching. I forced myself to unclench my teeth and let the soggy horror in. Yikes! As my incisors sank into each successive layer, it took all my willpower not to choke the whole thing back onto my plate.
Sadly, it was a fat wrap. There were the mandatory sprouts, which popped in my mouth and shot out foul, dirt-flavored liquid. There was the tortilla itself, which tasted like some horrible mutant offspring of carrot and spinach. There was something slippery and unspeakably spongy—tofu? A fluffy mushroom? And the whole shebang was drenched in a ghastly ranch dressing that tasted like monthold mayonnaise would taste if you were licking it off of a dead cat’s mangy fur. With garlic.
And you know, I chomped down every last morsel before it occurred to me that I could have just eaten my coleslaw.
face-to-face, toe-to-toe
The next morning I could still taste the sprout-and-garlic horror even after brushing twice, scarfing down a massive dose of Cap’n Crunch, brushing again, and chugging enough mouthwash to sterilize a Port-a-Potty. Do you know how hard it is to meditate when your mouth is a vegetable disaster area?
But then again, I’m San Lee. If cold, rain, poverty, and tragedy couldn’t break my concentration, neither could a dead plant sandwich. By this point, sitting zazen had become strangely comfortable for me, and the little indent in my rock where the bottom of my back rested felt like my personal easy chair. When Woody got to school, she found me zoning out. In fact, I was probably about three-quarters of the way to nirvana, and closing fast, when Woody stomped her feet right in front of me.
“Ugh,” she groaned, “I hate him!”
“And a good morning to you too, partner. Uh, what are you talking about?”
“My brother, the idiot!”
I couldn’t help myself: “STEPbrother, you mean.”
She glared at me. “You don’t understand, San. Him and his stupid mother. They’re ruining my life!”
“OK, Woody, calm down. What happened?”
Note to self: Never tell the girl you like to calm down. “What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? I’ll tell you what happened: Peter told my mom that you and I are going out.”
Wow, was it hot out here, or was it just me? “Uh, are we?”
“San, I don’t think so. Earthly attachments, right? But that’s not even the point. The point is that now my wicked stepmom doesn’t want me to be with you, unsupervised, every Wednesday. So she said I can’t go to the soup kitchen with you anymore.”
“But we’re not unsupervised there. We’re in a building with, like,
three hundred people. And our boss is a NUN! What does she think, we’re going to be playing tonsil hockey in front of freakin’ Mother Teresa?”
Tonsil hockey? Had I really just said tonsil hockey?
Woody snorted, and maybe got a little bit red. “I know, I know. But my parents are total maniacs about keeping me ‘safe’ from boys until I’m, like, twenty-nine or something.”
“Can’t you just get Peter to tell her he was wrong? What if we talk to him right now? How immature can he possibly be?”
“We could talk to him now, I guess,” Woody said. “Except that a) he went into the building early because he said he had something important to take care of, b) he’s incredibly immature, and c) he hates both of us, so he’s thrilled that he got me in trouble with his mom.”
“Oh.” Woody was staring down at her feet, swishing them around in the icy grass. “Uh, why does Peter hate you, exactly?”
“Well, it’s a long story. Basically, he thinks my dad broke up his parents’ marriage.”
“Why?”
“Uh, because my dad broke up his parents’ marriage.”
“But what does that have to do with you?”
“Nothing. Except for a while his mom tried really hard to be my pal, and Peter refused to spend any time with my dad—so Peter was pretty neglected for about half a year in sixth grade. Which isn’t my fault either. It’s not like I wanted to hang out and shop with Little Miss Sweetness anyway. All I wanted was my real mom.”
“So, where is your real mom?”
“I don’t know, San. She’s just gone. I mean, she left a mailing address, but she hasn’t contacted us once. She took off out of here and as far as I know she hasn’t looked back. You’re lucky—I bet your family isn’t as messed up as mine.”
Ha! I didn’t know what to say to that one, but the bell saved me. We hurried to be on time, and by the time we got to her homeroom, the moment was past. On the way to my locker, I thought about the irony: I could have totally bonded with Woody about the missing-parent thing, but then she would have hated me for all the other stuff I had lied about. Plus our situations were a little different: She wanted her mom back, and I wished my dad would stay locked up forever.
Zen and the Art of Faking It Page 8