I squeeze my foot into a dress shoe. “You look like a—”
Dad clears his throat. “Not today, Ethan.” He bends down and tries to make Freddy presentable. “You look very grown-up,” he tells him.
The reason we’re wearing suits, and that I can’t make fun of Freddy, is that it’s Yom Kippur—the holiest day of the year, if you’re Jewish. On Yom Kippur, you fast for twenty-four hours if you’re thirteen or older. Last year, I lasted eighteen. This year I’m shooting for twenty. I figure if I fast two more hours each year, I’ll be right on schedule. (Take that, Miss Wright!)
Another thing about Yom Kippur is that you pray God will forgive you for what you did wrong, and are sorry for, over the past year, and that you’ll be written in the Book of Life for another year to come. I know there’s not an actual book. I mean, how big would that have to be? Still, pretty much every practicing Jew on the planet prays today.
The parking lot is totally full when we arrive at the synagogue, except for the handicapped spaces. We pull into one of those.
“We’re lucky we can park here, huh?” Freddy says.
No one answers.
My brothers and I wait in the crowded lobby while Mom says hi to someone I don’t know and Dad puts on his prayer shawl. After what feels like forever, Freddy walks down the hall to the little kid service, while I head into the sanctuary with my parents and Jake. As usual, because of the Kid Kart, we sit at the end of a row.
Mom hands me a prayer book, and I try to follow along. When everyone reads out loud in English, I do, too. When we pray in Hebrew, I join in as much as I can. When the choir sings, I chime in, and when the rabbi starts his sermon, I try to pay attention. Once in a while, though, my mind drifts off.
I imagine my first meeting with Magnus the Magnificent. Maybe he’ll smile and we’ll shake hands. Maybe we’ll be super cool and not even have to say anything, just nod at each other. Or maybe I’ll be so excited, I won’t be able to say anything.…
“Ethan.” Mom nudges me. She’s got this crazy radar thing and can always tell when I’m not paying attention. It’s really annoying.
“Today we reflect on our past and pray for our future, and the futures of our loved ones,” the rabbi says. “We pray for good health and happiness. For peace and safety. We pray for our husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters.” He nods to the ushers on either side of the sanctuary and they head down the aisles, passing out papers.
Once we all have one, the rabbi says, “Please take a copy of this home, and take it to heart.”
It’s called “A Prayer for Children,” by Ina Hughs. And it’s actually more like a poem than a prayer. It talks about kids who “sneak popsicles” and kids who “never get dessert.” Kids who “get visits from the tooth fairy” and kids “who have never seen a dentist.”
Ms. Carlin would like it a lot, and I’m thinking about showing it to her tomorrow. Then we get to the last stanza: “We pray for children / who want to be carried / and for those who must, / for those we never give up on / and for those who don’t get a second chance.…”
I hear Mom taking short, fast breaths beside me. I look over and, sure enough, she’s crying.
“Ethan,” Dad whispers, leaning over Mom. “Get Freddy. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”
I nod and head to Freddy’s classroom, glad to get out of there. He sees me right away and jumps up. “Are we leaving already?” he asks with a big smile.
At least somebody’s happy.
We get back from synagogue tired and hungry. Mom gives Jake a bottle and some oatmeal/banana mush while Dad fixes Freddy a roast beef sandwich.
“How about you, E?” Dad smears mustard onto the bread. “You don’t have to fast for two more years, y’know.”
“That’s all right. I’m gonna go four more hours.”
“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”
“Yep. No big deal.” My stomach growls so loudly they’d hear it on Mars. The roast beef smells amazing. I’m hungry enough to eat the mustard by itself.
“Mom and I are going to take a nap,” Dad says. “Maybe you should, too. It makes the fast go faster—haha.”
I think about it for a minute or two, but I’m too hungry to sleep, so I visit Jake. He’s in bed, eyes wide open, waiting for me.
“Hey, Jake!” I sit down and scoop him into my lap so we’re facing each other. “Did you have a yummy lunch? I’m so hungry, even baby food sounds good! But I’m not complaining. Maybe if I fast when I don’t have to, God might give me some bonus points. They sure could come in handy—for both of us.” I bounce him up and down on my knees, then stop before his food makes a second appearance.
“Want me to blow some bubbles for you or read Peter Rabbit?” Even though he won’t answer, I still like to give him choices. “How ’bout we play school?” I Velcro him into his little chair and slide the plastic tray on top: his very own desk. It’s weird how fun school is when it’s pretend. Plus, I’m a much nicer teacher than Miss Wright is.
I squeeze Jake’s hands and pull them back and forth as fast as I can. He gives me a super-huge grin to let me know he’s ready. “Let’s start with English. Do you know what a synonym is?” He gazes at me, waiting for the answer. “It’s two different words that mean the same thing. Like I could say, ‘Freddy is dumb,’ or ‘Freddy is stupid.’” Except either way I’d get in trouble.
“Then there are homonyms. They sound the same but mean different things. Like two, too, and to.” I squeeze his hands again, then raise two of his fingers. “See? Two fingers. Then there’s, ‘I want to eat.’” My stomach growls. “I think I’m too hungry to teach.” I picture Freddy’s roast beef sandwich. My mouth is watering and my stomach is rumbling even louder than before. Would it really matter if I have a little snack?
Will it matter if I don’t?
I go to Jake’s bookcase, grab a red wand that lights up, and place it on his tray. I turn it on, wrap his fingers around it, and help him wave it back and forth. Then I push it toward him, just a little, hoping he’ll reach out for it, or at least try to.
He hasn’t yet, but maybe this time he will. I am fasting, after all. I wave it around some more. His eyes watch, but his hands are still. Like always.
I think of the “Prayer for Children.” Will Jake always have to be carried? I close my eyes and ask God not just to put Jake in the Book of Life, but to give him a better life.
I open my eyes and see him looking back at me. I take his hand and, together, we reach for the red wand.
I’m dreading school today because I have to see Ned for the first time since Wendy’s birthday party. Plus, in case once isn’t enough, I have to see him twice: in both gym and English.
I’m not that worried about English class; I know Ms. Carlin will protect me. (I hope.)
But gym class? Things could get ugly.
We just started our basketball unit, which is good news for me. I’m not all that athletic, but I’m a fast runner and—not to brag or anything—I’m especially good at foul shots.
Basketball aside, I’m not looking forward to being anywhere near Ned. My strategy is to act like nothing happened. I’m hoping he’ll do the same. I’m hoping we can move on or, at least, keep out of each other’s way.
“Split off into pairs and let’s do some drills,” Mr. Davis, our gym teacher, says. Then he calls out our names and pairs us up.
One guess who I get.
Whenever Mr. Davis turns his back, instead of throwing the ball to me, Ned throws it at me. One time the ball hits my arm really hard, and I know I’ll have a big purple bruise there tomorrow. But I don’t let Ned see how much it hurts. Instead, I smile and hurl the ball back as hard as I can.
Fun times.
Almost as fun as math is during sixth period.
“Ethan, what did you get for question eight?” Miss Wright glares in my direction.
“Uh… nothing?”
“The value of x is nothing?”
Hey, m
aybe it is! “Yep. X is nothing. Zero.”
Some classmates smile, knowing I took a wild shot like always.
My teacher sighs that special way she saves just for me. “Would anyone else care to hazard a guess?”
After three billion years, it’s finally time for seventh period.
I’d do just about anything to sit with Brian again, but it seems Ned and I are both happy to ignore each other. It’s pretty easy to pretend he’s not there, since he never says anything anyway. I do my best to pay attention to Ms. Carlin.
She’s talking about our next unit, which is all about heroes. I smile to myself, remembering my ongoing Loki debate with Daniel.
First off, Ms. Carlin asks us to make a collective list of what it means to be a hero. Some things we come up with are: someone who stands out from the crowd and will be remembered long after he (or she) dies; someone who does something amazing; or someone who is in an impossible situation but keeps trying and never gives up.
“Here are some definitions from Webster’s dictionary.” Ms. Carlin holds it up and reads from the page: “Someone ‘admired for his’”—she smiles and adds—“‘or her achievements and noble qualities,’ ‘one that shows great courage,’ and ‘the central figure in an event.’”
She looks around the room. “I want you all to think about who your hero is and why. Each of you will prepare both a written and oral presentation worth forty percent of your final grade.”
While groans explode all around me, I’m totally psyched because I’ve already got my hero picked out: Magnus the Magnificent! I know so much about him; I could almost give the report today. A little bit of work and, abracadabra: A+!
After class, I tell Ms. Carlin about Magic Fest.
“The winner gets to meet Magnus?” she asks.
“And perform with him!”
“Meet him? In person?”
“Um, yeah.”
Ms. Carlin sits down at her desk, then grabs her big red Maryland Terrapins water cup and drains it. “Where is this competition?”
“New Jersey,” I answer, wondering why she’s acting so weird.
“And what is the date?”
“Well, the competition is January nineteenth through the twenty-first, but—”
“January nineteenth…” She pulls a mini calendar out of a drawer, and I see a picture of a guy with long hair wearing a silver tux.
“Is that a Magnus the Magnificent calendar?” I ask.
Ms. Carlin’s face turns pink. “Why, yes. Yes, it is.” She clears her throat. “Now, this competition… I assume it’s open to the public?”
“I guess?”
She pushes a piece of hair away from her face, then leans forward in her seat. “So, just to be clear. You’re saying Magnus will be in New Jersey on January nineteenth—”
“Oh. No. He won’t actually be at the competition.”
She blinks. “He won’t?”
“Nope. The winner meets him some other time and place ‘to be determined.’”
“Oh.” Her shoulders relax and she leans back in her seat, then reaches for her cup before realizing it’s empty.
“The problem is convincing my dad to let me go. I’m sort of waiting for the right time to ask him.” Like when I get straight A’s and win the Nobel Peace Prize.
“I see,” Ms. Carlin says. “Will this help?” She reaches into a folder, riffles through some papers, and hands me the test on Acts I through III of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I got forty-eight out of fifty questions right.
“It might!”
On the way home I plan my strategy. First, timing is important. I only have Mom’s attention ten minutes tops before I get Freddy at the bus stop. I try to imagine her questions and my answers:
Question: Even if we say yes, who’s going to pay for all this?
Answer: I will!
Q: How?
A: With money.
Q: What money?
A: That’s a good question.
My favorite way to make money, of course, is doing magic shows. And, as luck would have it, I’ve just lined up another. This one is for Katie, a member of “the Group.”
“The Group” is Katie, Peter, C.K., and Jake, plus their moms. They get together when they can, which isn’t very often, since the kids get sick a lot. Today they’re meeting at a fast-food place, and I’m tagging along so Katie’s mom can go over details for the party.
Katie is around Freddy’s age and has hearing aids, purple-framed glasses, blond braids, and Down syndrome. And she’s a hugger. Whether she knows you or not.
Peter is about a year older than I am and has cerebral palsy. He’s in a wheelchair and has a hard time walking and talking. The first time we met, he had a seizure. Sometimes he tries to feed himself and spills his food all over the place. (I do that sometimes, too.) He “talks” by using this board with letters and numbers. He’s really smart and really funny. He’s definitely my favorite person in “the Group” (except for Jake, of course).
Then there’s C.K. (short for Constantine Koroulakis). He’s nine years old and has autism. Unlike Katie who talks nonstop, and Peter who talks in his own way, C.K. never talks at all. He hates loud noises and stares at shiny things and avoids eye contact with the rest of us. If he’s super hungry or overtired, though, watch out! He can have some serious temper tantrums.
So, when it comes to the Group, things always get a little… complicated. Still, magic is magic and money is money and I’ll do just about anything to get to Magic Fest.
“Originally I was planning to invite only girls,” Katie’s mom shouts over the loud laughter and conversation around us. “But you know Katie. She’s awfully fond of boys.”
She sure is, I think to myself. That very second, she’s wrapping her arms around some random teenage guy who looks terrified. “Uh, is it okay if Katie’s, uh…” I nod my head in her direction.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She stands up and waves her arms to get her daughter’s attention. “Katie!”
“Sit,” my mom says. “I’ll get her.” Mom goes off to save the day, knowing Jake will wait patiently in his Kid Kart for her to come back.
Katie’s mom sighs. “I keep telling her she can’t go around hugging everyone she sees.”
I’m not sure how to respond, so I shrug.
“Anyway… what was I saying?” she asks.
Beats me. It’s impossible to think when the Group is around. C.K. is hitting himself in the forehead while his mom tries to distract him with a French fry and Peter knocks over his drink. Even though the cup has a lid and a straw, half the soda spills onto the floor.
“Ethan?” Peter’s mom asks. “I’m sorry. Would you mind…?”
“No problem.” I get up and head for the counter to grab a pile of napkins for the third time in ten minutes.
“Ethan!” Katie smiles like she hasn’t seen me in months. She throws her arms around me and squeezes. Hard.
I sort of hug her back, then grab some napkins before we head back to our peaceful little table together.
Peter has moved on to dessert and gotten more of his sundae on the table than in his stomach. Before Katie’s mom and I can get back to our conversation, C.K. launches himself onto the floor and starts kicking and screaming his head off. His mom and mine kneel down beside him while Katie hugs Peter and knocks the ice cream off his spoon.
“Ethan?” Katie’s mom shouts to be heard, even though I’m two inches away. “Y’know what? I’m thinking maybe this would be simpler over the phone.”
A few minutes after we get home, Katie’s mom calls, and soon we’ve got everything worked out. I add Katie’s birthday party to the calendar on my phone. As I scroll down to January, I see the date for Magic Fest and a chill goes through my spine.
I still haven’t had a chance to talk to Dad. Between Freddy making a mess and Mom taking care of Jake, mealtimes are too chaotic. After dinner, my parents take turns putting my brothers to bed. By the time Jake’s had his bath and Fre
ddy’s gotten as many bedtime stories as he can, Mom and Dad just want to watch TV or go to sleep themselves.
I scroll back up to the October calendar. It’s almost Halloween. It’s no surprise that this is Freddy’s favorite day of the year (all the sugar he can eat!); the funny thing is, it’s Dad’s, too. Which means he’ll be in an especially great mood this weekend.
Which means it will be the perfect time to bring up Magic Fest.
Mandy’s green station wagon is in our driveway when I get home from school, which means I won’t be snacking alone. Every week she lets Jake try something different: a new cup or spoon or, best of all, a new food.
I drop my trumpet and backpack on the floor, then go to the kitchen where Mandy and Jake are hanging out.
“Hey, Jake!”
He tries to smile back, but it’s tough with Mandy’s fingers in his mouth.
“What’s Jakey gonna try today?” Freddy calls out as he and Mom come in from the carport. “Another lollipop?” he asks, his eyes full of hope. Last week, Jake got to lick a cherry lollipop and Mandy gave Freddy one, too.
Mandy smiles. “Not today.” She whispers the mystery ingredient to me, and I head for the fridge to get it, along with chocolate milk for Freddy and me.
Jake’s the adventurous type, especially when it comes to food. The thing is, a lot of stuff is off-limits since he doesn’t know how to chew yet. Still, you’d be surprised how many things Mandy comes up with.
I bring today’s experiment to the table and she squirts a dab of whipped cream onto her finger and offers it to Jake. As usual, he makes a funny face at the taste and feel of something new, then sticks out his tongue for more.
“All right, Jake!” Mandy laughs.
Mom smiles. “He likes it.”
I grab a spoon. “Can I give him some?”
“Can I have some?” That’s Freddy for you.
A few minutes later, Mandy says goodbye, and Mom goes downstairs to catch up on e-mail while Jake takes a nap in his Kid Kart. Since the whipped cream is already on the table, I decide to make good use of it by making banana splits for Freddy and me. We’re a few bites in, and talking about my favorite thing (hint: rhymes with tragic), when he says, “I almost forgot!”
Super Jake and the King of Chaos Page 4