Schooled

by Gordon Korman

  “All that’s behind you now, Cap. Our life is here.”

  “I know that,” I told her. “But my name is on all the posters. How can I let everybody down?”

  “They won’t even notice you’re not there,” she assured me. “You know how people are in the outside world. Only interested in themselves and their own mindless fun.”

  I tried another argument. “But you always said we should finish what we start, see things through to the end—”

  “Cap, when you left that school, that was the end. And a good thing too. You were only there for a couple of months, and see how much you’ve changed: you talk about television programs and waste your time staring at silly yearbooks. Thank goodness I was able to take you away before the contamination got any worse.”

  Contamination. That was the word she kept using. Like I’d spent her recovery wallowing in a toxic waste dump. Sure, the Donnelly house and C Average weren’t much like the life Rain and I had built at Garland. But different didn’t automatically mean bad.

  Yet the more I talked about my experiences of the past eight weeks, the more upset she got. Not angry—that would be a sign of spiritual imbalance. Just really, really worried.

  Maybe she was right. I was contaminated. Would I ever have stood up to her before my time away from Garland?

  And for sure I never would have done what I was about to do.

  I tore a small piece from the duct tape roll and fastened the note to our refrigerator.

  DEAR RAIN,

  I’M SORRY, BUT THIS IS JUST TOO IMPORTANT.

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, I’LL BE HOME SOON.

  CAP

  Rain had the pickup, so that left me on foot. There was a gas station a few miles away. My plan was to go there and use the phone to call a taxi. I didn’t have any money, but I still had one last check. That would get me anywhere I wanted to go.

  I hadn’t made this walk since the time the truck ran out of gas. I’d forgotten how long and dusty it was. The whole way I didn’t see a single vehicle. I couldn’t help thinking of the crowded streets around C Average.

  Finally, through the red-gold of the autumn underbrush, I could make out the Service King sign.

  Maybe it was because I was upset about disobeying Rain. Whatever the reason, I didn’t notice the car until I was in the middle of the road. The driver slammed on the brakes, and the tires shrieked their protest against the asphalt. The sedan spun around, its rear end swinging toward me at incredible speed. Desperately, I flung myself out of its path. The taillight missed me by inches, and I tumbled into the ditch.

  The driver jumped out. “Mister, are you okay?”

  I would have known that voice anywhere. “Sophie?”

  I sat up, and there she was, peering anxiously down at me. “You maniac, where do you get off running into the middle of the road like that?”

  She was right to be upset. It had been a very close call. But all I could think of was, “You got your license!”

  “And they would have taken it back for running over some freakazoid the very first day!”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, climbing out of the ditch and brushing myself off. “You’re almost at Garland, you know.”

  “I’m taking a victory lap sixty miles from where I live. I came to find you, you idiot! And don’t think I don’t already regret it.”

  “Me?”

  “That bracelet—when it came back engraved,” she accused. “That wasn’t from my dad, was it? You sent it.”

  I could feel my face burning bright red.

  She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Supernova was a word I’d read in science books, but this was the first time I’d ever experienced the power of one.

  “Now get in the car,” she ordered. “We’re going to the Halloween dance.”

  “What a coincidence!” As we made a U-turn and headed away from Garland, I explained my plan for the trip to C Average.

  “You’re crazy,” she scoffed. “No taxi driver would take a check. And even if he did, how were you planning to get home?”

  “I figured he’d wait until the dance was over and then—”

  Her sigh cut me off. “Maybe you’re better off at Camp Purple Haze. I hate to think what would happen to you in the real world.”

  “Well, anyway,” I told her, “thanks for picking me up.”

  “I’m a saint,” she noted. “My father said that once, but it wasn’t true until right now.”

  As we approached the outskirts of town, there was traffic, and buildings, and lights, and people on the streets. I drank in the hustle and bustle, greeting it like an old friend. But I couldn’t suppress a pang of guilt, wondering if Rain had come home and found my note.

  Night had fallen by the time we reached C Average.

  Sophie frowned. “Why is the building dark?”

  “Power failure?” I suggested. But the nearby houses had lights on.

  We turned the corner and pulled around the side of the school, stopping just short of the main driveway. There was no going in. The parking lot was jam-packed, not with cars, but with people. It would have been every bit as dark as the school, if not for hundreds and hundreds of flickering candles.

  Sophie was bug-eyed. “What’s going on?”

  “I guess it’s the Halloween dance.”

  “Oh, come on, even you can’t think that! People dance at a dance—that’s why they call it a dance! There isn’t even any music!”

  I had to admit it seemed pretty strange to decorate the gym and then hold the party in the parking lot.

  We pulled over to the curb, and she handed me a rubber mask with a round black nose and large ears.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath. “Costumes? Halloween? You’re Mickey; I’m Minnie. Best I could do on short notice.”

  We put the heads on and waded into the mob. It wasn’t loud, but I realized there was music. Somewhere in the crowd, a single boom box was playing the Beatles’ Abbey Road album, Rain’s favorite.

  I surveyed the crowd through the eyeholes of my mask. “Sophie, how come we’re the only ones wearing costumes?”

  All at once, she put a death grip on my shoulder. “Look around—ponchos, tie-dyes, peace signs. Cap—they are in costume. They’re dressed as you!”

  28

  NAME: MRS. DONNELLY

  Well, of course I was worried. It was only her first full day as a licensed driver, and she’d been gone for three hours. I’d moved past the anger stage. I was no longer even miffed about being stranded at home without transportation. I was already making deals: If Sophie comes home in one piece, I won’t strangle her or even ground her. Please, please, let her be okay!

  To take my mind off the anxiety, I was cleaning out the spare room where Cap had lived for two months. I have to say he was the tidiest person in the house, as opposed to Sophie, who used the floor as a display rack for her clothing choices. I couldn’t find so much as a speck of dust that had come from Cap. As for clutter—the boy had nothing, so he couldn’t possibly leave it lying around. There were a few pieces of schoolwork. One was an essay entitled: “The Most Important Invention of the Twentieth Century.” What had Cap chosen to write about? The telephone? The computer? No, duct tape. In spite of my nervousness, I couldn’t contain a chuckle. I remembered Garland, where duct tape had served every purpose but food.

  In fact, my sweep netted only one other item—a slip of paper neatly folded in the nightstand drawer.

  1 “Effervescence” bangle, multicolor stones

  Engraving: ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE

  My heart turned over in my chest. Sophie’s bangle—it was from Cap? He had that much of a crush on her?

  No, he’d pretended it was a gift from Bill. In my job, I knew that pure kindness, with no strings attached, was pretty rare. The boy was an angel! Whatever problems I had with Rain, I had to admit that she’d raised a truly wonderful kid.

  I stared at the scrawl at the bottom of the receip
t: Paid by check.

  Oh, no.

  I remembered the school’s bank statement—the check to the jewelry store. In his innocence, Cap had purchased Sophie’s bracelet with money from the Student Activity Fund!

  I raced to the phone and dialed Frank Kasigi. He wasn’t picking up so I tried his cell.

  “What?” barked the assistant principal in a very harried tone.

  “It’s Flora Donnelly, Frank. I found out about the check Cap wrote to the jewelry store.”

  “Never mind that!” he snapped. “Meet me at the school! There’s some kind of riot going on!”

  I was alarmed. “Because you canceled the Halloween dance?”

  “I don’t think so. My custodian called me. The parking lot is full of kids with candles. They told him it’s a memorial service for Cap Anderson!”

  I was thunderstruck. “A memorial service? Cap isn’t dead!”

  “Well, you seem to be the only one who knows that. That’s why I need you there. You’re the closest thing to family he has in this town. Maybe you can convince everybody!”

  “I can’t get to the school,” I protested. “Sophie has the car.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  My hands were shaking as I hung up the phone. Sophie AWOL, the school in turmoil, rumors Cap was dead.

  What was going on here?

  29

  NAME: HUGH WINKLEMAN

  In the great encyclopedia of history, if you look up mass stupidity, this was the picture you’d see: eleven hundred kids dressed as hippies, crammed belly to belly in a parking lot, having a candlelight memorial for someone who was probably just fine.

  The idea to dress as Cap hadn’t been part of Zach’s original plan. Maybe it was the Halloween spirit, but the word had started spreading almost as soon as Zach and I had begun passing the flyers around the school. Picture it: the entire student body decked out in Day-Glo and beads—all except for one brain-dead pair wearing Mickey Mouse masks.

  The candles had been Zach’s idea. “We’ll need the light,” he’d told me on the way to the Dollar Store. But their effect was more than either of us could have imagined. Hundreds of tiny flames glowing orange in the dark just screamed mourning. Dull flickering shadows reflected off somber faces. Eerie.

  Zach. I’d spent most of my life either afraid of him, jealous of him, or just hanging there while he stretched the waistband of my underwear over a parking meter. We were never going to be best friends, but I had to admire the guy. He was a genius! Not book-smart, but a master when it came to crafting his public image. Somehow, he had positioned himself as head mourner of the Anderson tragedy. Not bad, considering that a couple of days ago he was the villain of the school—him and me.

  Okay, we deserved that. Setting Cap up at the pep rally was an awful thing to do, and I felt terrible about my part in it. Being angry at Cap was no excuse. I knew better than anyone what it was like to be a target for the Zachs of the world. A lot more than just my conscience was suffering. I was kicked out of the chess club for good. I had a month of detentions and a black mark on my permanent record.

  And how’s this for ironic: the only way to avoid being branded Cap’s backstabber was to get myself embroiled in yet another scheme with the same Zach Powers.

  Beam me up, Scotty. There’s no intelligent life on this planet.

  I approached Zach. “So now what? We’re not just going to stand around all night, are we?”

  “Chill,” he said serenely, jiggling his Dixie cup to keep his candle from going out. “We’re basking in our sorrow.”

  I was uneasy. “I don’t know. A third of these kids are positive Cap’s dead, a third have him in intensive care, and the rest are just here because everyone else is. The last thing we want to do is give people too much time to think.”

  “Good point,” Zach agreed. He hoisted himself onto the payload of the school district’s flatbed truck and stopped the tape on the boom box, which was playing “Here Comes the Sun.” He took the karaoke mike and flipped the switch.

  “Attention, everybody! Can I have your attention up here?”

  Considering the size of the crowd, we were a quiet group, gathered in clusters, speaking in hushed tones—almost like this really was a funeral. It only took a few seconds before all eyes were on Zach.

  “Thanks for coming. I know if Cap could be here, he’d thank you too. Cap Anderson was our eighth grade president for just two months—two wild, fantastic months. Now he’s gone, and the best way to celebrate his life is to talk about the way he touched our lives.”

  Then, before my amazed eyes, people began to push forward through the crowd and mount the flatbed, awaiting their turn at the microphone.

  Naomi got there first. “I wasn’t a nice person,” she announced. “I was mean to Cap because I thought it would get me what I wanted. Then I started watching him. He showed me a whole different way to be. How to be sensitive and generous—and not just so people will say thank you, but because it’s right.” She drew in a tremulous breath. “I never even had a chance to tell him there’s no Lorelei Lumley!”

  Overcome, she gave up the mike to the seventh grader beside her. “I used to be really shy. I didn’t have any friends,” he confessed. “Then Cap let me work on the Halloween dance…”

  I was blown away. One after another, these kids took center stage and poured their hearts out about how Cap had changed their lives.

  “His tai chi class helped me lose eleven pounds…”

  “I stopped picking on my little brother…”

  “I started giving some of my paper route money to charity…”

  “Learning about the sixties helped me get along better with my grandparents…”

  My mind was in a whirl. The kids at C Average wouldn’t share their innermost feelings if you held a machete to their throats. We lived in constant terror of letting slip some personal or embarrassing detail. We went to incredible lengths to avoid looking vulnerable or uncool.

  Yet here they were, lined up to spill their guts like this was an episode of Dr. Phil. Because Cap had made everything A-OK.

  Well, I was the number-one victim around here. And suddenly, right in front of me was a golden opportunity to paint myself with the Cap Anderson brush that would make me A-OK too. I just had to get up there in front of the entire student body and join the fan club.

  As I climbed onto the flatbed, I got my first sense of just how big this event had become. I knew the whole school was here. But now adults were starting to gather around the perimeter. The neighbors, probably. And passersby. Oh, no—it was Mr. Kasigi! I had to say my piece before our assistant principal shut the whole thing down.

  I grabbed the microphone from a sixth-grade girl who insisted that tai chi had made her unbeatable at gymnastics.

  “My name is Hugh Winkleman, and I was Cap’s first friend at school.” I experienced a brief moment of panic. I’d been so intent on getting the floor that I hadn’t given a thought to what I should say. Eleven hundred faces peered earnestly up at me. This was no time to be timid.

  If I was going to do this, I had to let it all hang out.

  I bit down hard on the side of my mouth until I felt two giant tears well out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks.

  “Cap Anderson was the greatest person it’s ever been my honor to know. How are we ever going to get along without our president?”

  I could see Mr. Kasigi pushing through the crowd. It was time to give this a big finish. This was my shining hour. Hugh Winkleman would be the school joke no longer!

  I dropped the mike to the flatbed, raised both arms to the heavens, and howled, “Cap! You were too young to die!”

  I could hear sobs breaking out all around me. And then a muffled but strangely familiar voice called, “Hugh—don’t cry!”

  I goggled. One of the kids in Mickey Mouse masks waded through the crush to reach the truck. He stopped just below me and pulled off the mouse head.

  “See?” anno
unced Cap Anderson. “Everything’s okay! I’m not dead!”

  30

  NAME: ZACH POWERS

  Wow.

  What a lightning strike. Like crashing your own funeral.

  Hugh fell off the flatbed. I didn’t blame him. I was seriously thinking about taking a dive myself. This didn’t make me look so great either.

  The people close in realized who had just shown up. They went berserk, hugging Cap and shrieking with joy. Farther back, there was a buzz of confusion. Something was going on, but nobody could figure out what.

  Finally, a couple of guys in the front row helped Cap onto the truck. The wind took his long blond hair and blew it into a halo around his face, backlit by a streetlamp.

  The roar from eleven hundred throats combined shock, disbelief, happiness, and even love. I was used to crowd noise from playing football, but I never experienced anything like this. The ground shook. The echoes bounced off houses and buildings. It was unreal.

  The hairball tried to say something. Forget it. There was no way anyone was going to hear him over the sounds of celebration that he was still among us. He had a couple of shiners and a cut on his nose where Darryl had decked him. Yet it was obvious to everybody that the eighth grade president was not hospitalized, not suffering from amnesia, not in a vegetative state, and was very, very much alive.

  Naomi, her face glowing and streaked with tears, reached down for the fallen microphone and handed it to Cap. Still the thunderous ovation went on. I clocked six full minutes, but it might have been longer.

  Finally, the tumult died away, and an expectant silence covered the crowd.

  Cap shuffled uncomfortably and said, “This isn’t the Halloween dance…is it?”

  A wave of laughter greeted this. I’ll bet I was the only one out of the eleven hundred who knew that he wasn’t joking—me and Winkleman.

  “I can’t believe so many people were worried about me,” he went on. “I’m fine. I just had to go home because Rain got out of the hospital. My life isn’t here anymore. I live at Garland Farm.”

  He seemed to spot someone at the edge of the crowd and gave a shy wave in that direction. I followed his line of vision and noticed an older lady who waved back with a cane. Even if she hadn’t made that gesture, I would have been able to pick her out. She was the only adult in hippie clothes—peasant blouse, long cotton skirt, Day-Glo headband with a yin/yang disk in the center of her forehead. Stunned disbelief was the only way to describe her reaction to the sight of Cap on the receiving end of all that love. Trust me, I could relate.