Donutheart

by Sue Stauffacher

  “At LaVeen’s?” Taking my mother’s shopping bag, Paul pressed it all over with his fingers. “No way, Franklin!”

  He lifted his hand in a high-five gesture. I was discovering that this was how my mother’s boyfriend bonded with people. I braced my feet and raised my hand up and away from my body.

  “You got your mother to buy a dress for the dance? Way to go!”

  Slap!

  “Well,” he said. “Are you going to try it on for me?”

  “Not on your life, mister. You can wait.”

  I bent down to remove my shoes, hoping Paul would follow my example.

  “I figured.” As he pulled my mother close, I was forced to make another thorough study of my footwear.

  “So what did you get Franklin?”

  “Oh.” Paul pulled a handful of wool out of his jacket pocket and lobbed it at me. “Your mom told me you got the dreaded desk in Spansky’s class.”

  I caught the material and stretched it out.

  “Go on. Try it on.”

  “What exactly is it?” I asked him.

  “It’s a ski mask.”

  My mother started laughing. “Oh, Paul.”

  “I’m serious. It’s gonna give you maximum protection. It was Hank Niemeyer who got that desk when I was at Pelican View Middle. Him and another kid. I don’t know what happened to the other guy, but I see Hank every once in a while at the harness races and he still has a twitch.

  “Try it on, Franklin,” my mother said, chewing her lip to keep from laughing.

  “I prefer to wash it first,” I said, trying to imagine myself in sixth-grade science in the headgear most popular among bank robbers and terrorists.

  “Yeah, that’s okay. It’s pretty much one-size-fits-all. But don’t put it in the dryer. That’s one hundred percent wool.”

  Maybe I’d better explain. It has always been my habit to sit at the front of the classroom. Studies have shown that scholastic achievement is directly linked to how close you sit to the teacher. Criminal activity is far less likely to occur in the front of the classroom than at the back. So, while Sarah Kervick found a seat that was wedged between an actual skeleton and a glass case containing jars of human organs(!) in formaldehyde solution on the first day of science class, I sat at one of the gleaming black lab tables just opposite Mr. Spansky’s desk. While this proved to be the best seat possible for achieving mental improvement and risk avoidance, it was not the right location for health promotion.

  On the first day of class, Mr. Spansky pinched the ends of his bow tie so that they stood out from his lab coat in perfect symmetry. He walked around his desk and leaned against it. He was a mere three feet away. Leaning back, he removed two pairs of safety glasses from the drawer in his desk and handed them across the lab table to me and to Bernie, who’d arrived late and taken the only seat left, which just so happened to be at my table.

  At first, I was pleased, thinking that my reputation had preceded me and Mr. Spansky was trying to respect my wishes regarding risk avoidance. Bernie held up the safety glasses as if to ask, Has this already been covered? Since class was about to begin, I could only answer with a shrug.

  We put on our safety glasses. As it turned out, just in time.

  “Good morning, and welcome to my—Mr. Spansky’s—sixth-grade science class.”

  Note, if you will, how many words in that sentence contain the letter s. As soon as his brief declaration was complete, the lab table in front of us was covered in shining bubbles of Mr. Spansky’s spit, horrifically highlighted by the table’s dark color. Extracting a spray bottle from his front pocket, Mr. Spansky quickly dispatched the mess with a spritz and a paper-towel wipe down.

  Bernie and I exchanged quick glances through our violated glasses as the classroom around us broke up laughing.

  “Due to a deficiency in my palate, I am unable to contain all of my saliva in my mouth when I speak. This necessitates—squirt, squirt, rub, rub—the use of certain antiseptic measures. I beg your understanding.”

  By the time his little speech was completed, I was crouching beneath the table. Hadn’t the man lived with his disability long enough to know that words like necessitates should be permanently removed from his vocabulary?

  Needless to say, Bernie and I had snagged the seats for the entire semester. Though Paul’s heart may have been in the right place—I’m still not entirely sure he wasn’t making fun of me—even I could see that wearing a ski mask in Mr. Spansky’s class would amount to social suicide.

  So I learned to develop my own precautions. At the end of each class period, as I bent over to return my materials to my backpack, I quickly wiped my face with antibacterial wet wipes, the sort that mothers stow in their baby’s diaper bag. I also had a small Mercurochrome stick for direct hits. While using “the stick” left an orange mark, I relied on the general chaos between classes to let disinfecting occur, and then wiped it off at my locker just before lunch.

  I developed my emergency hygiene plan just in time. Not long after the year began, we launched into a unit on single-celled organisms. I should note that science teachers seldom refer to the building blocks of the universe in the singular: not atom, but atoms; not electron, but electrons…protons, neutrons, strands of DNA. But even a long speech on single-celled organisms could not compare to the shock I received in the cafetorium that Wednesday.

  Our small band had assembled and lunch was proceeding as usual, with Bernie relating another installment, this time about the Dorgon Trolls’ sworn enemies—the dreaded dragons of Lairding—while Sarah Kervick chewed on rubbery chicken fingers and asked for clarifications in the action before swallowing. She had just opened her mouth again to speak when I, Franklin Delano Donuthead, did something I try very hard not to do. And that is: act on impulse.

  I had decided the evening before that speaking to Glynnis Powell might be easier if I first practiced being within speaking distance. After that, a casual “hi” in passing would be the next logical step. My plan had been to spend the next few weeks carefully determining the locations we would most likely “bump into” each other.

  But as I sat there with my organic yogurt untouched in front of me, I started hearing voices inside my head.

  Voice of FDR: Men are not prisoners of fate, Franklin, but only prisoners of their own minds.

  Voice of Franklin: Stay where you are and eat your yogurt. You haven’t achieved the USDA-recommended amount of calcium yet today.

  Voice of FDR: It isn’t sufficient just to want—you’ve got to ask yourself what you are going to do to get the things you want.

  I was so caught up in the conversation going on in my head that I said out loud, “But it’s game day. I already have a plan!”

  Sarah and Bernie looked over at me with surprise.

  On game days, Pelican View football players wore their jerseys. Today was our first home game. My fear was that seeing the players in their red-and-white jerseys might have the same effect on Marvin Howerton that a piece of red silk has on a bull. He might look for ways to channel his aggression off the field, especially after the run-in we’d had the day before. My game-day plan was to wear dark colors and keep a low profile, so today was not the best day to be roaming the lunch area.

  “Quick, where is Marvin?” I asked Bernie and Sarah.

  They just kept staring, as if I’d said, Where is the Martian?

  “How’m I supposed to know that?” Sarah Kervick answered, finally.

  “I just thought…maybe…”

  “I should put him in my book,” Bernie said. “He could be one of the bog monsters.”

  “Good idea. Then we can kill him off.”

  As they put their heads together and plotted Marvin’s demise in the swamps of the Malogon Forest, I continued to scan the lunchroom until I located the here-and-now Marvin Howerton, sitting with his back to us, his feet up on the table.

  So it seemed safe to set out in the opposite direction on my quest for a crisp white blouse; a modest, k
nee-length checked skirt, or even a stone-washed denim kerchief.

  As I walked, I scanned the lunchroom masses without success.

  Could she be ill? I wondered. Absent for a dental appointment?

  It was then I received the shock of my life; for there in front of me, in the place Glynnis normally occupied, sat a girl in a cheerleading uniform. As I stared at her back, covered in Pelican View Panther, reality began to sink in.

  The intensity of my gaze caused Glynnis to shift in her seat. “Oh, Franklin,” she said, covering her mouth with a napkin, as it still contained remnants of her whole-wheat organic pretzel twists.

  “Glynnis,” I said, too shocked even to dilate. “You’re a cheerleader.”

  Glynnis glanced quickly at her seatmates, all festooned in red and white, with shockingly short, thigh-baring skirts.

  “Hey, I’ve seen you somewhere before. What’s your name?” one of the girls asked.

  I almost reminded Rebecca Foster—for that was the name embroidered on her uniform—that the recommended way to introduce yourself, according to etiquette expert Miss Emily Post, is to state your name along with “It’s nice to meet you.” And not to blurt out rudely: “What’s your name?”

  However, I did not want to escalate the level of tension that already existed, so I simply answered her question: “Franklin Donuthead.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not a skater.”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you coming to my house tomorrow? Donuthead is on our calendar.”

  I had no idea what Rebecca was talking about. I looked helplessly at Glynnis. Were these really the sort of girls she chose to be friends with?

  “No wait,” said another cheerleader—Vivvy Heinz—whose mother allowed her to wear blue eye shadow and pink lip gloss to school. “You’re the one who ducks under the table in science class.”

  Simultaneously, four cheerleaders covered their mouths and giggled.

  Not Rebecca Foster. She continued to stare at me. “So what’s that orange thing on your forehead?”

  I touched my forehead lightly, realizing at once that I had forgotten to remove the Mercurochrome at my locker. Why had Bernie and Sarah failed to point this out to me? Was making Marvin Howerton an entrée for the dragons of Lairding more important than my reputation?

  I stared back at the cheerleaders. There seemed to be nothing to do but confess.

  “That would be Mercurochrome. I’ve gotten pretty good at dodging him, but Mr. Spansky does score a direct hit on occasion.”

  Six more hands flew to their mouths. I had the attention of the whole table now. I failed to see why my troubles with Mr. Spansky were so funny. I did not fail to see the look of distress on Glynnis’ face.

  Once again, reality hit me full force. She was ashamed of me—the poor unfortunate who’d been spit on by our science teacher and so become the laughingstock of her new friends. How I managed to stumble back to my own table I do not know. Even Bernie, who normally failed to read the subtle nonverbal cues of others, was shocked into silence by my pale expression.

  “Franklin,” he said, finally. “Are you okay?”

  “All my hopes are dashed,” I replied, sinking into my chair.

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell me that I still had Mercurochrome on my forehead?”

  Sarah Kervick swallowed the last of her chocolate milk and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “That orange stuff?” She looked over at Bernie.

  “It’s been there before, Franklin,” Bernie said matter-of-factly. “We thought you knew.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Helping Out Hope

  Every object has a center of gravity through which the laws of the earth and its magnetic forces act. I think it is safe to say that, most of the time, Sarah Kervick defies gravity.

  For example, an object will remain stable as long as its center of gravity is directly over its base. For a skater, that means directly over the weight-bearing foot. Watching the other girls, it was easy to tell when their center of gravity shifted. Some were able to resist the pull of gravity by leaning in the other direction. Others fell. Repeatedly.

  But Sarah Kervick’s body seemed as finely calibrated as the ancient Egyptian scales of justice. At first, when she turned her skates out and leaned back into a spread eagle, I cringed with the knowledge of what happens to an unstable object. But when I opened my eyes, I found her gliding over the ice, a beatific look on her face, as if the invisible hand of Isaac Newton were pushing on the small of her back.

  Normally, I was not recruited to observe the highly dangerous activity known as contract ice, where up to twenty-five skaters, most of them girls between the ages of ten and eighteen, pay for the chance to practice their routines. Twenty-five girls skating in twenty-five different directions is enough to bring about heart palpitations in the most seasoned air-traffic controller. But my mother’s schedule on certain days made my attendance necessary, and I was told to do my homework in the “snack area” and not request that the table be sanitized more than one time. With Sarah just weeks away from her first exhibition, it seemed like the ice arena was becoming my second home.

  My mother was rarely around during these sessions. As soon as we arrived at the rink, she would disappear into the girls’ locker room, emerging near the end of Sarah’s practice flushed and, obviously, worn out from the exertion. She told me there was a ballet barre and some weights in there that the girls used for warming up. Why not take advantage of the facilities?

  “A strong core prevents injuries,” she explained, imitating coach Debbi’s heavy Swedish accent. It sounded suspiciously to me like she was trying to improve her statistics for Paul.

  There were times when my mother felt bad about her neglectful behavior toward her only child and compensated by picking up little gifts for me during her workday. Most recently, I’d scored the updated edition of Live Safely in a Dangerous World. So I didn’t dare tell her that I actually enjoyed the time I watched Sarah.

  It all began a few months ago when Sarah took a bad spill while practicing a Salchow. She pulled herself up, skated over to the edge of the rink, and waved me closer.

  “Franklin, did you know that was going to happen?” she shouted over the plastic barrier.

  I nodded yes. Of course I did. Sarah had pressed down too hard on her toe pick, and that slowed her down. She tried to make up for it by cranking around the jump, but that just threw her off balance.

  “You think you can still do that thing we did in baseball?”

  “I’m afraid you need to be a bit more specific than ‘that thing’…?” I shouted back, getting a couple of slanty-sideways glances from hovering mothers. Distracting the skaters was frowned upon. I started down the bleacher steps.

  “Where you know what’s going to happen…remember?” Sarah said as we met at the opening of the rink.

  When Sarah Kervick played outfield for Pelican View Elementary’s Modern Hardware Team, I enjoyed predicting—and then conveying to her via agreed-upon hand signals—in what direction and how far the ball would travel, so that she could be waiting to meet it when it fell to the ground.

  Still, I didn’t see how knowing she would fall helped her. “It happens in an instant. There’s no time to warn you.”

  Sarah tugged at the sleeves of her warm-up jacket. “Right. But I’ll get smarter, see? If you teach me?”

  I nodded. I did.

  She tossed me the jacket and held out her hand. “Partners. Okay?”

  We shook on it and I returned to my seat in the bleachers.

  So, while my mother sweated it out in the locker room, I got my own share of cardiovascular exercise, running down the bleachers to confer with Sarah Kervick at the opening of the rink.

  It wasn’t the same thing we did in baseball. Our baseball strategy was about Sarah meeting the ball. Now she was applying what I taught her about physics to what she felt when she skated.

  “You’re not getting enough momentum on that inside Mohawk because you
’re waiting too long to change feet,” I would tell her. “As soon as your shoulders have turned as far as they can go, you need to reverse them and change your feet at the same time. If you wait too long, you’ll lose momentum.”

  I demonstrated from the safety of the rubber matting: “You’re making the T shape, you’re bringing your free leg up along the skating foot, you’re turning your upper body…now! Reverse from top to bottom in one motion.”

  After a few more practice sessions, Sarah would achieve what I’d shown her. It was a funny thing. Unlike in school, Sarah had no problem listening to lectures about skating. She kept her head down and twirled a piece of her hair, concentrating intensely. Then, more often than not, she’d hand me a piece of her clothing and head back to the rink.

  The girls began practice in tights, skirts or warm-up pants, sweaters, gloves, hats, and jackets. But all during the practice, they peeled away layer after layer of clothing until they were down to little more than a sleeveless shirt and a skirt. Sarah Kervick had not minded wearing a skirt in the early months. My guess was she would have worn a bodysuit woven of horsehair and nettles as long as they let her on the ice.

  No, her decision to stop wearing skating skirts had come about six weeks ago. She’d shown up for practice in baggy warm-up pants, and nothing my mother could say would convince her to go above the ankle. This wasn’t merely a fashion whim. Sarah was going against one of Debbi’s rules of professionalism. The girls Debbi coached—the girls who were serious about skating—wore skirts, not yoga pants, not warm-ups, definitely not jeans. There was a long conference between Debbi and Sarah in the locker room. When they emerged, Sarah took to the ice again…in her pants. It appeared, for the time being anyway, that Sarah had won.

  But won what? There was nothing Sarah Kervick wanted more than to skate. Practice, exhibition, competition, she didn’t care. Just put her on the ice. She knew what skaters wore when she got into this business.

  And I knew her well enough to know she was hiding something. I wanted to ask her about it, but I didn’t know how. The laws of mathematics and physics are consistent and logical. Girls, I have found, are neither.