The Kingdom of Childhood

by Rebecca Coleman

  “I’m astonished that you signed off on it. How could you? Class rings, of all things. How about a Duke Nukem video-game tournament? We could charge admission.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  I widened my eyes in indignation, but he held up one hand. “Don’t start with your list of the principles this school was founded on. I’ve been working in Steiner schools for as long as you have. Your board recruited me here based on that. Because this school was failing.”

  “It’s never been failing. It’s been poorly managed.”

  “You’re damn right it has been. I’d never seen a College of Teachers so dysfunctional, and you served on it. We wouldn’t need to make these concessions if the school had gotten its act together five years ago, or ten. How white is your classroom?”

  Confusion took the edge off my anger. “What?”

  “How white is it in there? Because we can’t bring in kids from the neighborhood without financial aid, and we can’t provide financial aid if we can’t even cover our utility bills. We have to take whichever families can pay, and you know what that means. The school gets whiter and richer and richer and whiter, and if you ask me, that’s selling out the principles more than the rings ever could.”

  I glared at him without replying.

  “You need to face facts, Judy,” he said, his voice lower than before. “This is about survival. I didn’t pack up my family and move across the country so I could bring down your school. That should be obvious enough to you. My son is in your class, for God’s sake. I came here because I believe in this. But my first priority is to keep our heads above water. It has to be.”

  “‘Life is the unknown and the unknowable,’” I quoted, “‘except that we are put into this world to eat, to stay alive as long as we possibly can.’”

  “Yes,” he said with passion. “Kahlil Gibran, right?”

  “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” I corrected, and met his ice-blue gaze. And there, for a single unnerving moment, I felt my reproach stumble over the electrified wire of my dream of him: a memory that had never happened.

  In the hallway, the other teachers left me alone. Even Sandy hurried ahead. They walked to the parking lot in pairs or trios, chatting amongst themselves. It was a little like high school: nobody likes a know-it-all. In a few days I would return to their good graces.

  Stepping out into the parking lot, I heard the squeal of a saw from the workshop and turned toward the sound curiously. So far as I knew, I was the last to leave; could a student still be working at this late hour? I sidetracked up the path and pushed open the heavy door. There stood Zach, working on the same saw with which he had been occupied the previous day, now hoisted onto the worktable. Sawdust twinkled like glitter in the sharp, low sunlight.

  I called, “Are you allowed to work in here unsupervised?”

  He blew the dust from a board. “Technically, no.”

  I stepped inside and let the door close behind me. “Well, at least you’ve got your safety glasses on.”

  “I wear contacts. The sawdust would scratch my eyes up if I didn’t.” He pulled the glasses off and added, “You look wiped.”

  His observation surprised me. My experience with teenagers had taught me they possessed an almost aggressive skill for ignoring the emotional states of adults. It was the same way they handled pet messes or dirty dishes: you can’t be held responsible for what you fail to observe.

  “Dr. Beckett and I had a difference of opinion at a faculty meeting,” I explained, probably unwisely.

  His interest was immediate. “Oh, yeah? Over what?”

  I infused my weary voice with a bit of sardonic enthusiasm. “We’re going to have our very first class ring sale.”

  He snickered. “That’s lame.”

  “Do you think so?” Again I was surprised. Normally Waldorf students leaped at the opportunity to take part in the for bidden rituals of the ordinary public high school.

  “Of course. Steiner would not approve.”

  “I thought you and Steiner were butting heads.”

  He offered his abashed grin again, turning a piece of wood over in his hand. “Over me being a crime against nature, yes. Not over anything else.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve liked my schools and all that. I’m happy. I’ve got no complaints.”

  I walked around to look at the playhouse. The pile of boards that had been laid out on the floor the day before were now assembled, the corners dovetailed together with smooth, perfect notches. I ran my fingers over the edges and admired the scalloped gingerbread trim laid out on the worktable. The project had all the marks of competence, which was far more than I had expected out of a high school junior. It was certainly better than anything Scott had done in his arts classes the year before.

  “It looks like the project’s coming along well,” I said. “When do you expect to have it done?”

  “A couple weeks. It needs to be finished by the end of the term so I can get a grade. I wanted to do a thatched roof, but Mr. Zigler said it would be a fire hazard.”

  “He has a good point.”

  “I suppose. I like fire, so for me that’s a selling point.”

  I chuckled. “Not if someone’s inside it, though.”

  “I guess not, yeah. But it would make a cool prop for a pillage scene in a play. I bet it would burn like a mother.”

  I indulged him with a wry smile. “So what are you going to do for the roof?”

  “Cover it with acorns. The kindergarten at my old school had one like that. It’ll look cool.”

  “Where are you going to find enough acorns to cover the whole roof?”

  He pointed to a box against the wall. Greg’s All Natural Potato Chips, read the ’60s-style bubble script printed on its side. Acorns filled it to the brim. I asked, “Where did you find all those?”

  “The woods. My mom actually let me take the car for once, so I could collect them. In the service of the higher good.”

  “You’ll have to show me. I could use some of those for a craft project, myself.” I peeked into the playhouse and examined its tight corners, giving it a slight shake to see how well it held. It hardly budged. “The joinery is beautiful. You’re very good with your hands.”

  His grin was lascivious. “That’s what they tell me.”

  Pointedly I ignored his remark. I asked, “How are you getting home?”

  “I told my mom I’d call her when I’m done.”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No, I’ll call from the front office.”

  I gestured to the windows that looked out on the empty parking lot. “Everybody’s gone.”

  He grimaced. “Well, that could be a problem.”

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I guess I’d better take you up on that.”

  I helped him tidy up the room, stacking the playhouse pieces on a shelf and sweeping up the considerable pile of dust. If he could devote this much time and care to a school project, then perhaps the bazaar tasks would be more painless than I had come to anticipate. The immaturity I had witnessed in our earlier meetings appeared to be mostly for show. About some things, at least, he seemed more focused and thoughtful than Scott, who would be eighteen in short order. Not that Scott was a good stick to measure by.

  As Zach climbed into the passenger seat of my car, I picked bits of cat hair from his shirts—a T-shirt featuring a photo of the Earth behind the legend “Love Your Mother,” worn over a thermal undershirt that appeared to attract pet hair like a lint roller. “How many cats do you have?” I asked.

  “One. Is it that big a deal?”

  “I don’t want it to get all over the car. My husband’s allergic.”

  He sat still, tolerating my grooming. “That’s a sign of evil.”

  I laughed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Cats are the servants of the moon goddess. Only evil people can’t tolerate them. It’s like garlic and vampires.�
�

  I grinned and examined his expression to see if he was serious. “The moon goddess, huh?”

  He smiled. “It’s just something my mom says. It’s a joke.”

  “I don’t know about that. You haven’t met my husband. She might be onto something.”

  His laugh was embarrassed. “I didn’t ask.”

  I fell silent, a bit chagrined to have crossed some invisible line in complaining about Russ. The sound of the radio filled the car, traffic and weather. Once the discussion of the news resumed, it took me several moments too long to pick up on the deejay chatter: the Starr Report, in gory detail. My fingers flew to the preset buttons.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zach said, not fooled by my sudden interest in Top 40 music. “You can’t get away from it. They’ll be talking about it on this station in about ten seconds.”

  “I can try.”

  He chuckled. “You sound like my mom. She’s super laid-back, and even she freaks out every time they talk about it on the news. Which is every minute of the day, in case you’ve missed it. Personally, I think it’s hilarious to hear a news anchor say ‘oral sex.’ It’s like the best prank ever.”

  “Except it’s not a prank. At all.”

  “No, but it’s still funny. The stuff the Starr Report says Bill Clinton did—have you heard it all? He’s the president of the United States, and I’m sixteen, and I think some of it is really juvenile. Like the stuff with the cigar? Come on.”

  “It’s quite a letdown. I was a big Clinton supporter. Now I don’t know what to think.”

  “My folks were, too.” He fidgeted with the air vents. “Were. Are. Whichever. I think it’s dumb to go after him over something that stupid. When you think about it, you have to laugh.”

  I slowed for a stop sign. “At the absurdity, perhaps. At the jokes, no.”

  “Why not? They’re funny.”

  “They’re inappropriate.”

  “Bill Clinton and Al Gore go to a diner for lunch,” he began.

  “Zach, no.”

  “They read the menu and the waitress comes over and asks the president if he’s ready to order. Clinton tells her, ‘Yeah, I’d like a quickie.’”

  “Zach,” I warned.

  “The waitress says, ‘A quickie?! Sir, given the problems you have had lately with your personal life, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all. I’ll come back when you’re ready to order from the menu.’ As she walks away, Gore leans over and says, ‘Bill, it’s pronounced Quiche.’”

  The smile I had been forcing myself to restrain won out. I giggled.

  “That’s a good one,” I admitted.

  He drummed his index fingers against the dashboard. “Thank you. Want to hear another one?”

  “No. Please, spare me.”

  He gestured toward the window as I approached his house. “You can pull into the driveway.”

  I parked behind a little convertible with its canvas top up. LIVE FREE OR DIE, read its license plate above the number. He hitched his backpack onto his shoulder and I watched him meander up the sidewalk, the hems of his jeans raveled where they brushed the ground. He was so lanky they barely stayed on his hips. When he unlocked his front door and the light from the foyer glowed suddenly in the gray dusk, he turned toward me and waved goodbye. I held up a hand in acknowledgment and watched as he slipped inside, shoulders hunched, hair hanging in his eyes.

  ZXP, his backpack said.

  I did wonder what that X stood for.

  Vivienne Heath called me on Friday night to inform me that Zach wanted to use the workshop over the weekend. Could I come in to unlock it for him and to supervise?

  “For a few hours,” I conceded, already resentful of giving up even that much of my Saturday. “In the morning, because I have plans later. Can he be there at eight?”

  To my surprise he was. When I arrived he was already sitting on the workshop steps, backpack slung over his shoulders, headphones on his ears. He said nothing when I let him in and got right to work, moving around the shop with a familiarity that made him look like a very young professional. I sat on a stool with my newspaper and coffee, and read.

  As he worked, he sang to himself. It seemed almost unconscious, and when I stole a glance at him, I saw him briskly measuring and marking as he sang. Apart from the rest of the madrigal choir, I was struck by the beauty of his individual voice. It had the pure, clear-spring quality of a child in a boys’ choir, partnered with the faintly raspy undertone of a voice only recently changed. It wasn’t the voice of a rock star, even if rock was what he was singing—a sad song, bittersweet and mournful.

  “That’s a very depressing song you were singing,” I said when he pulled the headphones down, letting them rest around his neck. He sat down at the adjacent side of the table from me and hoisted up his backpack.

  He smiled. “It’s Ben Folds Five. I didn’t realize you were listening.”

  “Is that the name of the song, or the band?”

  “The band. ‘Brick’ is the name of the song.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a notebook, a bottle of green tea and an organic granola bar. Flipping the notebook to a schematic drawing of the playhouse, he examined it while swigging from the tea bottle. He unwrapped the bar and took a bite. It was no wonder he was in such good shape. When Scott was younger I had fed him exclusively out of natural-foods stores, but since adolescence he would only eat like that if the pantry offered him no alternative. Maybe Zach was in the same boat.

  I pointed to the initials on the front pocket of his backpack. “What’s the X for?”

  He grinned and took a drink of his tea. “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Why should I?”

  “It’s probably for Xavier.”

  “It’s not Xavier.”

  “That’s the only boy’s name that starts with X.”

  He bit into the granola bar. With his voice muffled by granola he replied, “No, it’s not.”

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  I waited until he swallowed for my answer. Then with a sly expression he asked, “If you’re so curious, why don’t you just look it up in my file? You’re a teacher, aren’t you?”

  “Because I don’t want to go nosing around in your business.”

  “Nose around all you want. I’m an open book.”

  I sipped my coffee. “I don’t know any teenager that’s true for.”

  “You do now.”

  “Come on, just tell me.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I considered the question. In his eyes and at the corners of his smile I could see a hint of the mischievousness that, for him, had always preceded an off-color remark. Before he could crack a joke in that vein I replied, “Coffee.”

  “What kind of coffee?”

  “Whatever you want. Starbucks.”

  He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Starbucks is corporate.”

  “Well, it’s what we’ve got around here. This is the ’burbs, not New Hampshire.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “What about with a black-and-white cookie? I love their black-and-white cookies.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I took a drink of my own corporate latte. “Steiner might not approve.”

  He laughed. “Seriously, are you buying me off?”

  I nodded. He gauged my seriousness and replied, “It stands for Xiang.”

  “That starts with a C.”

  “No. In Chinese, the X can make a ch sound. It means ‘arising.’ Or ‘spreading his wings to fly.’”

  I gave him an admiring look. “Does it really?”

  He nodded. He looked a little proud. “Zachary Xiang Patterson,” I said, carefully pronouncing each crisp word.

  “I have the coolest initials on the planet.”

  I gazed at the black-markered initials again, a code I could suddenly read. Then I admitted, “I probably wouldn’t have guessed you were part Chinese if I hadn’t met you
r mother.”

  “I am, though,” he insisted. “Feel my hair.”

  With a short laugh, I declined the offer. “That’s okay.”

  “Seriously, feel it.” He bent his head toward me. Reluctantly I stroked it, as if he were a puppy. The choppy edges of his haircut belied the texture, which was silky, slippery. “It’s the same as my mother’s,” he said.

  “Softer than it looks.”

  “Yeah. I have Asian earwax, too.”

  I grinned. “What’s the difference?”

  “It’s flaky instead of goopy. And I don’t stink when I sweat.”

  Bemused, I considered whether I could remember evidence to the contrary. “Is that supposed to be an Asian characteristic? That sounds like a myth.”

  “It’s not true for everyone, but it is for me. And it’s a good thing, too, because you ought to smell my dad sometime, when he gets working. He’s like an NFL locker room after a game.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “So when do I get my coffee?”

  “I’ll take you and Scott out after Madrigals on Monday.”

  “What about tomorrow? My mom told you I’m working here all weekend, right?”

  I sighed. “No, she didn’t tell me that. Does that mean I’m babysitting you tomorrow, too?”

  He shrugged with unconcern. “I thought you were.”

  “Then I guess I am,” I told him ruefully. “But the coffee will still be Monday.”

  “I can live with that.” He hiked his headphones back onto his ears and hopped off the stool, heading back toward the playhouse with the bottle of tea in his hand. Today he wore a black T-shirt, almost outgrown, with no thermal beneath it. When he reached for the trim pieces on an upper shelf he revealed a stomach that was smooth and faintly muscular, divided, below his navel, by a narrow line of black hair.

  I looked away.

  Even the Style section of the newspaper was crammed with items about the repercussions of the Starr Report. Zach was right—it was unavoidable. I turned the offending sections over so he would not be inspired to perform another comedy routine. Instead, I picked up the Travel section.

  Escape from D.C., it said.

  I rolled my eyes and glanced at Zach. He squatted by the jigsaw and twirled the smallest plywood pieces past its blade, his fingers hovering just at the edge of the plastic guard. The neat muscles of his biceps leaped and danced.