The Importance of Being Wilde at Heart

by R. Zamora Linmark

  “What’s up with you and Antarctica?” he asks, standing in front of the huge map of the frozen continent.

  I pause.

  This is what happens when you let a new friend into your room. The door opens and he sees another side of you.

  How do you explain to someone new in your life that the edge of the world is your kind of world? That you’ve been dreaming of Antarctica ever since you watched the documentary on the frozen kingdom featuring a cast of emperor penguins. A world so extreme from the rest of the Earth that it feels as if it is its own planet.

  A vast wilderness worth exploring.

  Where eternity begins.

  Eternity carved in ice.

  I watch his eyes travel across the room, taking snapshots of anything that catches his curiosity, then developing them in the darkroom of his mind. My books, DVDs and CDs. My Oscar Wilde collection. The desk in the corner with its pile of letters, all from colleges and universities inviting me to spend the next four years of my life on their campuses. The glass jar of pens and sharpened pencils. The lamp that keeps me company at night. The paperweight molded in the form of an emperor penguin.

  “It’s heavy,” he says, weighing the paperweight in his palm. Then, noticing its flipper: “Ken Z, it’s broken.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Ran runs one finger across the chipped glass where the right flipper used to be.

  “Careful,” I say.

  “Did you drop it?” he says.

  I tell him no, that I bought it like that.

  “Was it the last one?”

  “No,” I say, remembering there were at least a dozen or more on the bargain rack. “But it was this chipped one that, for some reason, I picked up first.”

  “Did you know it was chipped?” he asks, staring at the black button eyes, red-lined beak.

  “I found out the hard way,” I tell him.

  “It cut you?”

  “Yes,” I answer, “but minor.” I look at the tip of my right thumb where the shard pierced it. I had to press hard on it for a couple of seconds to stop the bleeding.

  “But you still bought it?” he asks, unable to take his eyes off the broken flipper.

  “I did.”

  “You know, in North Kristol, stores are not allowed to sell anything defective, no matter how minor it is. They have to throw away the merchandise. Everything has to be in perfect condition.”

  “What about pets?”

  “Same,” he says. “They can’t be sickly or deformed.”

  “Scary,” I say. “And sad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you guys don’t have animal shelters?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  He places the paperweight back on my desk.

  “I dropped it once, you know,” I say, whisper-like, as if I were disclosing a secret to him. “I thought it was the end of the world. I really thought so. I was cleaning my desk and I accidentally swept it off. I froze as I watched it fall to the floor.”

  “But it didn’t shatter,” he says, picking it up again.

  “Not a single crack,” I say. “Except, of course, for what was already broken.”

  “Lucky you,” he says.

  “It’s my rabbit’s foot,” I say.

  “No, Ken Z,” he says. “Your penguin’s flipper.”

  Ken Z Uchida

  Eighth Grade

  Miss Coloma

  The One Place I Want to Visit the Most

  The one place I want to visit the most is Antarctica. Antarctica is so extreme and harsh it is simply unlivable. It is the coldest, driest continent. Rain is a stranger there. By definition, it is a desert. And like a desert, it is constantly being hit by strong and fierce winds. These are called the katabatic winds, which can blow up to two hundred miles per hour. They are so powerful that they can white out everything, including the colony of emperor penguins that has to face the storm every year while protecting their eggs. Inside a windstorm, the world of Antarctica becomes invisible. These winds are what shape the glaciers and icebergs of this icy kingdom.

  Despite these drawbacks, I still want to experience Antarctica. It seems so pure and peaceful there. It’s like being in an outdoor library. In Antarctica, there are no wars to fight or worry about. There are no fathers and brothers returning home in body bags or innocent people getting killed, maimed, or scarred for life. Because the only war that exists in Antarctica is the fight to stay alive. Hypothermia and winds that pierce you like sharp knives are the worst enemies. And because no war has ever been fought there, Antarctica is an extremely special place. A place where we might not need to keep praying to save our crazy planet.

  I wonder if the place we go to when we die is a little like Antarctica. Somewhere peaceful and remote and pure and undisturbed by sad prayers. A place with miles and miles of books, enough to cover the desert. Antarctica as the Book of Eternity. How cool is that?

  The Emperors of Antarctica

  Tuesday, 5 March

  What a surprise! No Zap the whole day; then, suddenly, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s him wearing the face of “Surprise!” In his hands is a large pepperoni and mushroom brick-oven pizza and a bottle of Fanta Orange. I’m speechless, my mouth opened like that of the figure in Edvard Munch’s painting. He says he can’t stay very long, an hour at the most, because he has to attend a party he wishes he could skip, but he doesn’t want to be badgered by questions from his mom.

  An hour passes and he’s still here, sitting comfortably on my chair and not minding about the time. Too absorbed watching The Emperors of Antarctica for the first time. I was shocked when he told me he’s never seen this documentary about the life of Elroy and the other emperor penguins. How could he not? It’s one of the best documentaries ever made, with one unforgettable scene after another:

  Endless procession of emperor penguins marching across a desert of ice as they make their way back to their birthplace to breed.

  A crowded and noisy colony of black-and-white-feathered crooners, singing their hearts out and hoping their songs will attract a mate.

  Elroy as an egg being passed delicately from his mother to his father.

  Elroy’s mother and the other mothers marching across a horizon of ice; they are on their way back to the sea to feed themselves for two months.

  Powerful and deadly katabatic winds buffeting the colony.

  Elroy’s mother escaping the jaws of a leopard seal.

  Lifeless penguins and cracked eggshells the day after the storm.

  Reunion of Elroy’s mother and father.

  Breathtaking view of glaciers.

  Elroy and other baby penguins lining up for their first dive.

  A seagull swooping down on a group of chicks.

  An iceberg, the length and size of our island, splitting.

  A frozen world collapsing into the icy waters.

  But the one scene that always gets me, that never fails to make the heartbeat of my world stop, is the part when Elroy’s father and the entire colony of male penguins have to brave the katabatic windstorm. While some of the males abandon or drop the eggs, Elroy’s father remains resolute. He stands gallantly on the edge of the circle, defying the deadly winds against all odds.

  It is this particular scene that hits me the most. Maybe because, for once, it’s the father, not the mother, who’s in charge of the egg, of keeping it warm and safe underneath the folds of his belly, as if he were pregnant.

  Seeing it again, this time with Ran, makes me think about our own fathers. Mine who left before I was born, and Ran’s, who stuck around long enough for memories to form. I don’t know which is worse, actually: not knowing who your father is or knowing him long enough to remember him with bitterness. I guess it really doesn’t matter, because, in the end, both of our fa
thers weren’t brave enough to stick around and fight the katabatic storm for us.

  “Amazing” is the first word Ran utters afterward.

  “Truly,” I say.

  “I didn’t know they’re off on their own at six months old,” he says. “Lucky them.”

  “Well, that’s us soon,” I say. “We’re graduating in two months. It’s all downhill from there. We turn eighteen, then dorm parties, then antisocial support groups, then nine-to-five cockroach existence, then splat. How depressing.”

  He laughs at my short chronicle of our lives.

  “When’s your birthday?” he asks.

  “Fifth of July. Yours?”

  “Cool. Mine’s July too, the twentieth. We can turn eighteen together.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  “You’re going away for college, right?” he asks.

  I shrug. “My mom hinted I should.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know if I want to leave South Kristol,” I say. “I’m not even sure if I want to go straight to college.”

  “What would you do?”

  “If I had the money I’d travel,” I reply. “Go to Dublin.”

  “Go on the Oscar Wilde tour?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Dublin, London, and Paris, to visit the hotel where he died.”

  “And Père Lachaise, the cemetery where he’s buried,” Ran says.

  “Most definitely,” I say. “What about you, Ran? What university will you be attending?”

  “No choice but to stay in North Kristol,” he answers.

  “Lucky you,” I say. “At least you guys have real universities.”

  “I’m not going to college,” he says. “Not right away, anyway.”

  “How come?”

  “I have to serve in the military first,” he says.

  “For how long?”

  “Three years.”

  “Three years?”

  “Yup,” he says. “It’s mandatory. Guys and girls. But I don’t want to.”

  “Can’t you get exempted?” I ask. “Tell them you have asthma or a weak heart or something?”

  He laughs. “It’ll be difficult convincing them, especially since I’m on the swim team and the track-and-field team.”

  “Then leave.”

  “Impossible,” he says, explaining that he can’t get a passport until after he’s completed his mandatory military training.

  “Training for what?” I ask, though I have an inkling of its purpose.

  His silence confirms my suspicion: war.

  “Then move here,” I say with enthusiasm, as if it’s the best alternative plan.

  “I thought of that—defecting,” he says. “Maybe live around the Mount Pula area.”

  His mention of the west side makes me wonder just how familiar is he with South Kristol.

  “But they’ll track me down,” he says. “Eventually, they’ll find me and drag me back there.”

  “Not if I hide you in my room,” I say.

  He smiles. The kind of smile that stops the eyes from tearing up. “My Antarctica,” he says.

  “Yeah, this can be your Antarctica. Easily. I’ll buy a foldout futon. Nobody will have to know. Not even my mom. And if she finds out, I’m sure it’ll be cool—”

  “They’ll know, Ken Z,” he interrupts.

  Hope derailed, I keep silent for a while.

  “That sucks,” I say.

  “Royally,” he confirms. “But three years will fly by real fast.”

  “It will,” I say in my best pretend-optimistic voice.

  “Still,” he says, “it doesn’t sound half as exciting as bunburying…or Elroy’s life.”

  “True.”

  “Your penguin paperweight…” He pauses. “Does it have a name?”

  I laugh, wondering why I never thought of that before. It’s like having a pet rock. It has a purpose. So why not? “Any suggestions?” I ask Ran.

  “I think you should name him Elroy,” he says.

  “Elroy!”

  “Elroy, who holds everything down,” he says.

  “Who has the world at his feet,” I say.

  “Who never gets left behind,” he says.

  “Because he’s the one doing the leaving,” I say.

  “But the good kind of leaving,” Ran says. “He leaves so he can experience the world.”

  Point taken.

  We get so carried away talking that we both forget about the time.

  He springs out of the chair and rushes out of the room. I catch up with him at the front door, where he’s tying his shoelaces. Then, before bolting out the door, he throws his arms around me and leaves me with a few words. The hug happens so fast it feels as if it almost never happened. But the words did. And I’m pretty sure I heard it right when he said “us” and not “you” in “See us tomorrow.”

  Amazing?

  Yes.

  Adventurous?

  Yes.

  Sounds like a plan.

  Yes.

  See.

  Us.

  Tomorrow.

  Most definitely.

  The Downside to Focus

  Wednesday, 6 March

  “You don’t like it?” Ran says, hurt in his sad eyes. We’re standing at my front door. He shakes off the rain as he closes his umbrella. It’s been pouring all day. I wasn’t expecting to see him today. But crazy weather makes people do crazy things. Like driving across the border with a newly shaved head.

  “I do,” I say, trying to conceal my surprise.

  But it was his hair that made him a dead ringer for Dorian Gray. Thank God he’s still got Dorian Gray’s attitude and good looks. Now the wind has nothing to ruffle on his head or for the rain to slick back. Now there’s nothing to hide his steel-gray eyes from the world. Now I’ll have to wait until time grows every strand back.

  “Be honest,” he says.

  “It’s different,” I say. I look over his new do. He did dye his hair, because it’s more brown than gold now.

  He laughs. “Of course it is.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it, Ken Z, but I feel so much freer now. Lighter. I didn’t know I was carrying so much on my head.” Then he takes my hand and sweeps it across his scalp. Back and forth. His hand over mine over his scalp.

  “Feels nice, huh?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to think of words to best describe the texture. Smooth? Fuzzy? Velvety?

  “Makes you want to shave your head too, right?” he says.

  I pause to think, because it’s never crossed my mind until now. Can I see myself with a buzz cut? “No,” I finally answer.

  “No?” He sounds disappointed.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never shaved my head—”

  “Never?” he cuts in.

  I nod.

  Then his eyes widen. “Do it, Ken Z.”

  I look at him like he’s crazy (because crazy weather makes people come up with crazy ideas).

  “I bet you’ll look real good,” he says, though I think he’s only trying to cajole me. “No, for real, Ken Z,” he adds.

  “I’ll look like a Buddhist monk,” I say.

  “Then you and I can both be Buddhist monks,” he says, and laughs.

  I laugh too, as I imagine Ran and myself in saffron robes with beads around our wrists, bald as newborns.

  “You won’t regret it, Ken Z,” he says. “I promise.”

  Wow, I think, he’s on a mission and won’t let up until I concede.

  “It’s such a good feeling, Ken Z,” he says. “Like when a breeze blows in from nowhere and you get this ticklish sensation. It’s like a ghost playing with yo
ur mind.”

  I pause to relish the phrase “a ghost playing with your mind.” I like it. And will dog-ear it. Deposit it in my Bank of Memories, then withdraw it when I’ve saved enough to make a list. Maybe I’ll call it “Heart-Stopping Things That Ran Said.”

  “Tempting,” I say.

  “Then yield to it,” he says. “That’s what Oscar Wilde would say if he were here right now.”

  “Funny,” I say, wondering where Oscar is at this very minute.

  “Not even if I twist your arm—gently?”

  “Negative.”

  “Can’t make tonight an act of sacrifice?”

  “Maybe one of these days,” I finally say, hoping he’ll give up.

  “Awww, Ken Z.” He looks disappointed. “Just say when.”

  “I will,” I say.

  He picks up Elroy, the penguin paperweight, bounces it on his cupped palm before placing it back on the desk. He stands up, his eyes traveling to the books on the shelves above my desk. He scans the collection as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

  “Tell me more about your book club, Ken Z,” he says.

  “Well, there are five of us,” I say. “CaZZ and Estelle, my friends; Matt, who’s this born-again jock; and Tanya, a cheerleader. Plus Mr. Oku. He’s our teacher and advisor.”

  Then I give Ran a brief history of our still-nameless book club, how it all began with The Picture of Dorian Gray, which Mr. Oku had assigned to the entire class. Dorian Gray appealed to us right away. He was constantly courting danger. It was in his blood and beauty to rebel, commit vices. He made evil look sexy. We dug him so much that Mr. Oku suggested we form a book club devoted to the works of Oscar Wilde. Because if we enjoyed Oscar’s gothic novel, we’d also like his plays and short stories.

  “Mr. Oku sounds like a cool teacher,” Ran says.

  “He is,” I say. “He gets us.”

  “He reminds me of my tenth-grade English teacher, Miss Robertson. She was the one who turned me on to Oscar Wilde. She was smart—and tough. Real tough. The students loved her. She was a role model, especially to the girls.”

  “Ran, why don’t you start a book club at your school and ask her to be your advisor?” I ask.