Sammy’s mom was just walking in, drying her hands on her apron. His dad came right behind, cleaned up with nary a clay spot on him, Sammy was relieved to note. There were more handshakes plus introductions all around.
“I like a man with a strong handshake,” the major said to Sammy’s dad.
“Throwing pots all day long will do that,” Sammy’s dad answered in an equally large voice, as if suddenly competing in the “loud father” match.
“Pots? Pots?” Mrs. Williams stepped forward saying, “My grandfather was a well-known potter in Korea. He said there were potters in the family going back to the Three Kingdoms.”
“We have pottery all over the house. A man has to be careful swinging a stick . . .” Major Williams said, still without moderating his voice, but he smiled when he said it.
They walked into the living room, and Mrs. Williams went right over to the cabinet with the pots. “I see, I see. You are very talented. Do you take inspiration from the Korean?”
Sammy’s dad nodded. “The celadon especially, it is my homage to the Korean masters.”
She bent closer to the glass. “Yes, yes, I see that. You have the simplicity.”
Sammy was astonished. In just a few moments, Mrs. Williams knew more about his dad’s work than Sammy had learned in almost thirteen years.
“Say—there was a Greenburg in my unit in the first Gulf War,” Major Williams boomed. “He was five foot nothing and a hundred pounds, rifle included. Toughest soldier I ever saw. Any kin to you?” His voice seemed to echo off the walls.
Sammy’s dad smiled. “They don’t usually make us Jews real big, that’s true.”
“Excepting Samson. In the Bible,” Major Williams said, the walls echoing.
“Excepting Samson,” Sammy’s dad agreed, though much more quietly. “But no close kin of mine was in the Gulf War. And Greenburg’s a pretty popular name among European Jews.”
“We lived for a while in Israel,” said the major. “Jin and I. When we were first married. I was teaching in the war college. Before Skinner came along.”
Mrs. Williams said, “We Koreans are rarely made this tall, either. But, dear,” and she turned to the major, “we have a six-thirty reservation. We need to go ASAP.”
The major seemed to snap to attention. “Ah, yes.” If anything, his voice had become louder. “At Shim Chung’s. Finest Asian fusion in . . .”
The grown-ups went back to the door, and Sammy shrugged at Skink who shrugged right back. A knowing look passed between them that said it all, all anyone his age felt about having embarrassing parents.
“Basement,” Sammy said, pointing to the door that led to the stairs. “Music room.”
And down they went.
At the bottom of the stairs, Sammy turned around, closing the door behind them—quietly, but with a grateful finality.
“Whew.”
“So,” Skink breathed, and then followed with the best possible thing he could have said ever, “what kind of, like, band are we going to have?”
Sammy didn’t hesitate. “Klezmer.”
“Klezmer?” Skink said, tilting his head to the side. “Where have I heard of that?”
“It’s Jewish music,” Sammy said. “Your dad said they lived in Israel before you were born. Maybe they got some CDs there?”
Nodding, Skink said, “Yeah. That’s probably it. Not sure if I’ve listened to much. What’s it like?”
“Kind of like jazz.”
“I like jazz.”
“And kind of like folk music.”
Skink scrunched up his eyebrows. “Not so sure about folk.”
“And it’s kind of like . . .” Sammy wasn’t sure how to describe Klezmer. Nobody had ever been interested before. As soon as he said “Jewish music” the conversation was usually over. “Let me play you some.”
“Oh—okay.”
Sammy ran to the CD shelves that lined the music area.
Could put on Perlman Plays Klezmer. Can’t beat Itzhak Perlman for pure musicianship. But it might be a little square for someone who likes jazz. And I really want him to love klez. Sammy pondered his choices for another moment. Then he snapped his fingers. Got it!
He grabbed a CD from the rack and held it up. “The Klezmatics!”
“Okay,” Skink said noncommittally. “What’s it called?”
“Jews with Horns.” Sammy grinned.
Skink scratched a spot just over his left temple. “Didn’t people used to think Jewish people had horns?” Then he grinned back. “Oh—I get it.” The horns section of the Klezmatics had just kicked in.
I like this guy! Sammy thought. A smart friend.
Sammy did end up playing Skink some Itzhak Perlman as well. He also played him Klezmorim and Streimel and Brave Old World and all the best tracks from his best CDs.
Finally, after a half hour of listening, Skink spoke up, saying simply: “I like it.”
“Excellent,” Sammy said. “Let’s . . .”
“But,” Skink interrupted, “I think we should play more than just Klezmer.”
It wasn’t something Sammy had ever considered.
“Why?”
Skink frowned. “Well, it kind of limits our audience.”
“I suppose it does.” He grinned. “You don’t think James Lee is a closet Klez-maniac?”
“’Fraid not!” Skink said. “But since you, like, love the music, let’s learn us some Klez.” He bent to open his guitar case. “But then let me teach you some jazz. And some funk. And maybe just a little bit of rock.”
“Rock the clarinet?” Sammy asked uncertainly.
Skink grinned at him. “You’ll certainly get points for originality.”
And points, Sammy thought, for interesting friends.
Skink took his guitar out of its case and began to tune it. His hand seemed entirely healed.
“Doesn’t it hurt even a little?” Sammy asked, pointing to the hand and remembering how swollen it had looked just days earlier.
“Nope. I’m like my dad. My body gets better almost instantly. It’s—like—a gift. That’s why No Nurse . . .” He began to let his fingers run up and down the strings.
“Maybe you’re an alien.”
“I am.”
Sammy’s mouth dropped open. At this point, he was ready to believe anything.
“I was born in Korea. But not to worry. I have an American passport as well. Won’t be able to become president of the United States, though.”
Sammy nodded, oddly relieved and yet oddly disappointed about the alien thing. I mean, if he’d actually come from Mars . . . how cool would that be? But as Skink ran some small riffs, Sammy stopped worrying and really started to listen. Finally, he picked up his clarinet, moistening the reed with his tongue.
He thought about the way Skink was riffing. Not a real tune but just noodling around, playing with the klez tunes they’d been listening to for the past thirty minutes.
Skink’s really good, he thought. Not just good for an almost fifteen-year-old. Good-good!
Sammy listened some more till an idea came to him. He gave his clarinet a few tentative honks and then swung in.
Skink immediately switched to fuller voicings for his chords, providing a deep background of notes for Sammy to soar over. Sammy dipped and dived around the chords, and when he threatened to touch bottom, Skink dove up the neck of his guitar and rattled off a few high runs while Sammy oompahed a faux bass line on the clarinet.
They went on like this for Sammy didn’t know how long, trading licks and exploring rhythms till Sammy went for a note and missed and produced one of those squeaky, creaky squeals that only a clarinet can do, and they both burst out laughing.
“Is that klez—or even close?” Skink asked.
“Are you Jewish or even close?” Sammy asked. “Seriously,
it might not be real klez, but I really like the other styles you were throwing in. Why can’t we be a klezmer fusion garage band?”
“Because,” Skink said, affecting a deep drawl, “we ain’t in no garage.”
That started them laughing again.
“Seriously . . .” Skink said, taking a deep breath, “that’s a rowser of an idea. Klezmer. Fusion. Garage. Band.”
“But there’s only two of us. Not much of a band,” Sammy said. “More like a duo.”
“Exactly like a duo,” said Skink. His nose crinkled as if he were smelling something bad.
More laughter ensued, threatening to turn into more giggles.
“Maybe we could get one of James Lee’s crew to drum for us,” said Skink. “They like to bang on things.”
“And think of all the drummer jokes we could tell,” Sammy said. “How do you know if the stage is level?”
“The drummer drools out of both sides of his mouth,” Skink said. “How do you confuse a drummer?”
“Put a sheet of music in front of him.”
They broke out into hysterics all over again. Finally—and simultaneously—in an attempt to be serious, they began to play, up and down minor scales, in and out of songs they each knew and some that they both knew, trying to give each a wailing klezmer sound.
Sammy had never been happier. To have a friend. To have a friend who plays music. To have a friend who wants to be in a band. Well, a duo anyway. All the past—the bullying, the dunkings in the toilet, the spitting in his food, the not-so-subtle trippings as he walked down the school hallway—even the black eye—he let go. Or rather he put it into his mouth and blew it through the clarinet, until it was gone.
They played for two hours, maybe three, never keeping track of the time. And then a drum started. A series of rat-a-tats. A loud taradiddle.
A drum?
There was no drum. They had no drummer.
Only then did Sammy realize that someone was knocking on the basement door. He stopped playing and slowly Skink stopped playing, too. They both looked expectantly toward the door.
“All right, boys, we’ve finished our meal and are back, and the general says it’s time to go.” The major’s stentorian voice boomed through the door.
Sammy turned to Skink, and mouthed, “The general?”
Skink was already slipping out of the guitar strap and bending over the case to put the instrument away. “That’s what he calls my mom.”
“Oh.” Sammy put the clarinet on the music stand.
Skink smiled. “But not, like, to her face.”
At the door, they all shook hands, smiling, the grown-ups speaking adult pleasantries.
“See you tomorrow,” Skink said.
Tomorrow, Sammy thought. I’ll see my friend tomorrow. In school.
That’s when he remembered all the bad stuff that school had on offer. And he knew as surely as he knew the sun was coming up in the morning that the bad stuff would start all over again. Probably be worse. But at least this time he had a friend to share it with.
6.
Fight or Flight
Monday morning bus ride, no problems. Ditto for morning classes. At lunch Skink and Sammy brainstormed names for their band.
“Could name it Van Halen,” Skink suggested.
“How do you mean?”
Skink put his fork down and flashed his hands out in front of him, exclaiming, “Greenburg!”
Sammy frowned. “Too Jewish.”
“Skink!”
“Not Jewish enough.”
“Metalliklez?”
“Too weird.”
“Well,” Skink said with a sigh, “do you have any, like, suggestions?”
“Not really. I’m still thinking.” Staring down at his tray, he added, “Mostly about what they were trying to do when they cooked this meat, whatever it is.”
Skink shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “I learned a long time ago to not ask those kinds of questions,” he said, chewing, a lot of his consonants lost in the mush. Enough survived for Sammy to catch the sentence’s meaning. “Army food, you know.”
“You weren’t in the army. Your dad was.”
“Yeah. And sometimes he decides to cook.” Skink shuddered at the memory. “But enough about food—we need to name our band.”
Sammy poked at the lump on his plate, not quite ready to eat until he’d positively identified it. “What we need are more band members and—that way—more ideas.”
“That, too.” Skink scooped up some more food. “I might know someone.”
“Chicken,” Sammy said. “I’m pretty sure it’s chicken. Well, almost sure.” He closed his eyes and took a bite. All he tasted was salt. He decided that was probably not a bad thing. “Who do you know?”
“Julia Nathanson.”
Sammy almost choked on his almost-sure chicken. “Julia?” His heart skipped a beat. Either that, or the chicken had tap-danced on it.
“Yeah, the girl who sat with us on Friday. Remember her?”
Only all night long since Friday. Only all weekend long. Sammy didn’t say it aloud. Not even to Skink. Skink might laugh. He might say something snotty. He might—and here Sammy sighed, then quickly covered it with a cough—Skink might even—like—like her.
“She’s in my homeroom. I called her to thank her for her concern and asked how she knew about Hwa Rang Do. Turns out she knows lots of cool stuff. And she, like, plays fiddle.”
“Fiddle!” Now Sammy’s heart was beating overtime. He couldn’t tell if it was because he was mad that Skink had called Julia, or glad. “Do you think . . .”
“I can ask,” Skink said.
“I can ask,” Sammy said.
Skink grinned. “Okay. It’s your band.”
“Naw,” Sammy said, “it’s ours.”
And they would have asked her together only Julia wasn’t in the lunchroom. In fact, she wasn’t in school that day.
Julia didn’t come to school the next day or the next either, which was just as well because the Boyz were back to bashing on Sammy. Before Julia had inserted herself into his life, it hadn’t mattered who knew how often he was picked on. And now, somehow, it did.
He supposed the renewed bashing had to do with his own big mouth. Sammy couldn’t help it. He said something snotty to the Boyz, and in return they knocked the snot out of him. Then he said something even snottier. It had become an endurance contest, though he was the only one doing the enduring. But if Julia had known about the bashings, Sammy suddenly knew that everything would have been worse. A disaster. An embarrassment. The end of his particular world. Of this Sammy was absolutely sure.
So while Sammy wondered why she was absent—family crisis, the flu, a change of schools, possibly a move to another state, time travel, abduction by aliens—he was actually relieved.
Of course, James Lee didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was cornering Sammy. Cornering Sammy without Skink around. Because it had become clear to Sammy that James Lee was not about to face Skink down. Not yet. Not till he figured out Skink’s weaknesses.
“That’s it!” Sammy said aloud as he walked down the hall between classes. He finally understood the main thing about James Lee. He wasn’t good at schoolwork. He couldn’t remember anything about English or civics or math. But he has a positive genius—like a predator, Sammy thought—for finding someone’s weak spot and poking it hard.
Sammy’s weak spot was that he didn’t—couldn’t—fight back with his fists, which seemed to be the only kind of fighting James Lee considered worthy, because he was deathly afraid of being hit in the mouth and ruining his embouchure forever, meaning he might never be able to play clarinet again. So he did everything possible to get out of fighting James Lee and his crew, except he couldn’t seem to shut up when cornered by them. Or when the Boyz threatened
someone smaller. Which meant—he shuddered—one of these days fist and mouth were bound to connect.
But as for Skink, James Lee didn’t know his weak spot yet. Sammy hoped he didn’t have one. Because if he did, James Lee was sure to find it.
Sammy spent the three days Julia was absent skulking around corners. He was late for every class, just making sure he didn’t run into James Lee, which meant he had three days worth of after-school detentions to serve.
He played sick for one period on Monday just so he could use the bathroom off the principal’s office. Another time he sneaked out of the school and peed in the bushes. Yes, he was scared that someone might see him and call him a pervert or something. But he didn’t care, as long as he was safe from another dunking in the toilet.
And his sneaking worked for two days.
Two whole days! It seemed a vacation, a heaven, an eternity.
He and Skink only had gym class together. Since that was a class without James Lee, it was the one time he could relax.
Perhaps, he thought, I’ve relaxed a bit too much. For in the middle of a fast-paced dodgeball game, the big red ball hit him on the side of the head. Not near his mouth, thank goodness. But close to his right eye. He didn’t exactly see stars. They were more like half notes. He shook his head to clear it.
“Hey, sorry,” Bobby Marstall called out. He’d been the thrower and, for once, accurate.
“Nothing broken,” Sammy yelled back, “except my pride. And I’ve got plenty more of that.”
Everyone in the gym class laughed, and Sammy—liking the sound of it— laughed with them.
Skink pounded him on the back. “Careful with that mouth,” he whispered, and it wasn’t clear if he meant that Sammy shouldn’t mouth off, or if he was worried about Sammy being able to play the clarinet.
B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) Page 4