Mr. Griffin, also known as Mr. G, is one of those teachers who thinks it’s his job to mold young minds. He’s actually used those very words. I always think of the molds that come with the play dough factory. If he could mold my mind into a pink giraffe or a yellow elephant I think that would be pretty cool. But otherwise, it seems like a lost cause.
“Quentin, would you like to introduce your friend to us?” Mr. G. says after everyone is seated.
I stand, looking nervously at Moss. I hope he doesn’t pick this moment to start playing with his zipper or tugging at the seat of his pants.
“This is Moss,” I say to the class. “He’s my cousin from California.” I pull Moss up by the elbow. We stand side by side looking like two mug shots of the ten most wanted criminals.
“Welcome, Moss,” Mr. G. says. “Why don’t you tell us something about your school in California?”
A prickly panic rises up the entire length of my body. Moss looks at me to see what to do. “He doesn’t talk much,” I say for him. “He’s really shy.”
“That’s fine, just tell me one thing you like about your school,” Mr. G. says to Moss, like he’s willing to mold a mind from California, too.
Everybody in the class turns around to look at Moss. My flight reflex kicks in and I look for an exit. Moss nudges me, like he’s the one telling me to stay calm. Predators love it when prey runs. My heart beats faster than normal and I imagine the worst: Moss grunts and jumps on top of one of the desks, then plays with his zipper before taking a leak all over everybody. I’ll get the fastest expulsion in middle school history. As a result, I’ll have to be home-schooled and listen to The Voice all day, every day for the rest of my life! I tug at my shirt collar and feel enough sweat in my pits to fill an Olympic-sized pool.
“Tigers,” Moss says finally.
“Your football team is called the tigers?” Mr. G. asks.
“Tigers,” Moss repeats. He looks pleased with himself. I grab his hand right before he grabs his zipper.
“Go, Tigers!” I say, shaking imaginary pom-poms. I pull Moss down into the chair and breathe the longest sigh of relief in the history of close calls. Unfortunately, Moss’ jungle sweat glands have clicked in big time and I wish I’d thought to make him put on deodorant this morning. He smells like an overripe dumpster. In this school, if you smell bad you’re thrown to the wolves. For the first time I understand what that phrase really means. Where he’s from, getting thrown to the wolves means real wolves.
“That was close,” I whisper to Moss.
“Close,” Moss says, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
The guys on the back row, who are gang members in training, cover their noses with their hoodies, but they don’t look willing to say anything to Moss about how he smells.
“Get out your journals,” Mr. G. tells the class. Everyone moans. Mr. G. is real big on journals. He’s kept one since he was a kid. I’ve never known a teacher to admit to being totally uncool. But he honestly believes it’s a way to get to know yourself, which he says isn’t an easy task for people our age.
In a way Moss seems more real than anybody here. Even though he doesn’t know how to read or write––in his world schools and books haven’t been dreamed up yet––he’s smart. I hand him an encyclopedia from the back of the room and he’s captivated again. He thumbs through the pages, looking at all the pictures. He starts to tear one out and I give him The Look and he stops.
“Journal writing helps you discover who you are,” Mr. G. begins. “At first, your thoughts may seem primitive...”
“Is he serious?” I whisper to Moss. “He has no idea what primitive is.”
Moss grunts loudly. People pivot in our direction.
To draw them off his scent, I begin to cough like a peanut the size of New Hampshire is stuck in my windpipe.
“Quentin, do you need some water?” Mr. G. asks.
“No. Thanks.” With a few more coughs I end my performance. The whole class looks a little disappointed that I’ve recovered. If I had choked to death they might have gotten out of class early. Since I already have everybody’s attention, I decide to speak up.
“Mr. G., you make it sound like if we journal we’re going to uncover some kind of cave man part of ourselves,” I say. A few girls give a nervous laugh, like I’m making a total fool of myself and they’re glad it’s not them.
“Cave people had a need to express themselves, too,” Mr. G. says. “Scientists have found cave paintings dating back to prehistoric times.”
I look over at Moss. If Mr. G. knew who Moss really was, he’d be writing non-stop in his journal for the next twenty years. Or maybe he’d write a newspaper story about it. He’s the advisor for our school newspaper. In my imagination I see headlines: Quentin Moss Finds Primitive Boy.
“What should we write about?” I ask Mr. G. Bravery comes easy when you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
“Write whatever comes to you, Quentin,” he says.
“What if nothing comes to me?” I ask. This draws a laugh, but I wasn’t trying to be funny.
“Write like you’re talking to a friend,” he says. “Write like you’re writing to Moss.”
The blank page in my spiral notebook matches the blank page in my mind. I’m not alone. The whole class looks like their minds are computer hard drives that have crashed.
“Get started,” Mr. G. instructs.
I feel unequipped for the task, like I’m attempting to scale Mt. Everest wearing flip-flops, shorts, and a T-shirt.
Moss is watching me, and I decide to use Mr. G.’s suggestion and write to him to see if it will get me started.
Dear Moss,
I’ve had a really interesting day so far, thanks to you. Who would have thought that a dream could become real and that a real live cave boy could end up sitting at the end of my bed? I want to thank the black hole of dreams or my Hungarian ancestors.
The writing goes well after that, as I write about the events of the day. After I see what I’ve written I realize that keeping my thoughts in a notebook instead of keeping them locked away in my head is risky business. Especially if you’ve got secrets. Mr. G. has promised not to read a word, but the rest of the world hasn’t made that promise.
I decide if someone finds my journal I could be in big trouble. Possible consequences, which I write down, include:
(1) Someone calls the news media.
(2) News reporters show up and start taking photographs of me and Moss. YouTube videos spring up everywhere. Bloggers in Hungary are hungry for content.
(3) Photographs appear on websites and newspapers all over the world.
(4) Moss is taken away by the government to an underground military base in New Mexico and I never see him again.
RESULT: I’m a freak of nature––the kid who dreamed up a cave boy. Eventually, I end up living in a cave myself, just to get away from the press.
In sum, I’ll always be remembered as one of the following: a) a hero, b) a nut case, c) the village idiot, or d) all of the above.
My imagination dreams up the worst. Before the media frenzy is over, I’ll have my own reality show devoted to uncovering how a dream crosses over into real life. They’ll show the bed I sleep in, the shower where Moss took his first shower, the tree house, the middle school. They’ll follow my teachers around and ask them about what kind of student I am, especially the ones that don’t like me. They’ll have re-enactments of Moss arriving out of the dream, Moss on the school bus, Moss in biology. . . .
Scientists will hook me up to electrodes to monitor my brain waves while I’m sleeping. I’ll never get a good night’s sleep again. I might quit dreaming altogether.
Since disaster isn’t new to me, I remember one of the worst days of my life that happened last year while sitting on the school bus with Heather Parker during the end-of-the-year field trip. Sitting with somebody on a bus trip means you’re serious, and just as I was getting used to the idea of Heather being my first girlfrie
nd, without any explanation, she collected all her things and moved to the back of the bus. Everybody on the bus saw it, and I was mortified. Rejection with a capital R, which isn’t easy under any circumstances, especially in front of all the other kids. Talk about primitive. In middle school, feeling sorry for a person isn’t allowed. Once they see you’re weak they start to attack. Heather’s friends laughed and made fun of me for the next hundred miles.
Later, I found out Heather Parker liked a guy named Brady more than me and her friends had dared her to sit with me.
Brady Johnson = tall, athletic, good looking, soccer player
Quentin Moss = short, clumsy, average looking, band geek
Afterward, Heather told people that the reason she broke up with me was because my gums showed too much when I laughed. To top it off she said she wouldn’t dream of kissing me because it would be like kissing a horse. She compared me to a talking horse on the Cartoon Network called Mr. Ed. Evidently Mr. Ed has buck teeth and gums the size of a small Buick.
Needless to say, being compared to a farm animal is not something someone of any age wants to hear. The humiliation was so complete it felt like it might affect me in later life, too. Like I would never discover a cure for cancer now or win the Nobel Peace Prize. All because Heather Parker didn’t have anything to do in the evenings and watched Nickelodeon.
For six months afterward I vowed never to laugh in public again. I refused to show my gums for any reason. I avoided Heather Parker and her friends like they carried the plague. Then one day I went to school and took a good look at Heather. What gave her the right to say those things about me, anyway? She had okay gums but a crooked smile and ears that stuck out. I’d rather be referred to as Mr. Ed than Dumbo.
Since Heather’s rejection I’ve grown up a lot. After months of practice in front of the mirror I’ve figured out a way to laugh and not show my gums at all. I’ve also done everything I can to avoid embarrassment. Not that people finding out about Moss would be embarrassing. But it would draw a lot of attention that I don’t think either one of us is ready for.
On a blank page of my journal I write:
Red Alert: For security purposes, while at home I’ll keep this journal in my closet. Nobody can find anything in there anyway, not even me. While at school, I will NEVER let my journal out of my sight.
The bell rings and scatters my thoughts. I secure my journal in my book bag and look over at Moss, whose eyes are glazed over. For the last twenty minutes he’s been watching the second hand of the clock go around. Welcome to my world, Moss, the world of middle school and terminal boredom. He probably never gets bored a day in his life where he’s from. I imagine a typical day for him. He attacks a bear with a stone knife, then skins it and wears its fur on a winter day.
“Home?” Moss asks as we get up to leave.
“I wish,” I say.
One of those prehistoric pouts starts to form on Moss’ face again.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” I add, sounding like The Voice before I got shots at the doctor’s office when I was little.
As we leave class Mr. G. smiles at Moss and says, “Go, Tigers!”
Moss grunts, smiling awkwardly.
I tug him toward the door. “Go, tigers!” I repeat.
We join the chaos of students changing classes. When it comes to the chaos of a hundred kids in one hallway going to different places all at the same time, Moss is pretty fearless now. At least he isn’t out with a hunting party having to kill a woolly mammoth or something. For all I know this may feel like a vacation to him.
The closest I can imagine to what his life must be like is when my family went on our one and only camping trip. We hiked, swam in the river, and had campfires at night. Of course we slept in a tent instead of a cave and all our food came from a grocery store instead of us having to hunt it down and kill it ourselves. But to us, we were roughing it.
Two classes down with three to go. We’ve had some close calls already. I’m not sure how we’ll make it to three o’clock. Plus, the nightmare of my existence is next: gym.
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
Gym class makes no sense. Why get a whole bunch of middle school guys together in one room and run them around until they smell like a landfill on a hot, sunny day?
As usual, the tension in the room is thick as everybody checks out everybody else to make sure the pecking order hasn’t changed. I never have to worry about threatening the bigger guys. Since grade school, some of the same guys have been making fun of my legs. They’ve been called chicken legs, pencil sticks, bean poles. Once somebody even gave me a note that said Colonel Sanders was looking for me. Can I help it that my legs stay as white as the inside of a McNugget, no matter how much I stay outside all summer?
I give Moss my extra pair of gym shorts to wear. He keeps looking for the zipper and looks disappointed that there isn’t one. He lines up like everybody else. We all look like weaklings compared to him. His body has scratches and scars all over his arms and legs like he’s been living in the big cat cage at the zoo. Several of the bigger guys start to whisper. Then one of them says, “Hey, kid, what happened to you? You been in a fight with a weed-wacker?”
Everybody laughs. Moss growls.
Mr. Logan stands in front of the class and blows his whistle. I stare at his chunky, unfit frame. His legs are more like tree trunks than legs and are covered in coarse, dark hair. Not to mention, his gut is so big he looks like he could give birth to a 3rd grader.
“Today, we’re going to be climbing ropes,” he says. He smiles like he enjoys handing out torture. Rope climbing isn’t even allowed in schools anymore because of fear of lawsuits, humiliation and broken bones. But Mr. Logan is old-school and never took down the ropes. We could probably report him and get him in big trouble. But nobody wants to cross Logan.
I’ve never been able to climb those ropes. I’m lucky if I can jump up ten inches and hang on for dear life. Never mind climbing the ten or twelve feet to get to the top. While I dread the next 50 minutes with every ounce of my being, Moss licks his lips, like those ropes are a piece of cake that he can’t wait to take a bite out of.
Before Mr. Logan has a chance to blow his whistle again, Moss jumps on a rope and begins climbing toward the rafters of the gym. At first the guys stand there, like they can’t decide if he’s a show off or just nuts. A couple of the bigger guys look impressed and a little jealous. But then after a few seconds they start to cheer him on. “Go, Tarzan!” somebody yells. Moss is getting the job done in record time.
Once he’s at the top he smiles down and pounds his chest with his free hand like he’s King Kong and has climbed the Empire State Building. The guys are clapping. I start to applaud, too. It’s hard to be jealous of someone who does something so well. He can’t read or write, but Moss is a natural athlete.
“That’s how it’s done, boys.” Mr. Logan smiles at Moss like he’s found a winning quarterback for our losing football team. “Your turn, Quentin,” Mr. Logan adds. “Go up and join your friend.”
Moss is at the top of the rope, grinning from ear to ear.
“I think I’ll skip rope-climbing today,” I say, as if I have a choice.
“I think you misunderstood me, Mr. Moss,” he says, sounding like a drill sergeant in the military. “Go attack that rope!”
I amble over with the enthusiasm of a slug and stand on a double mat underneath the rope. Somehow I’m supposed to grab onto the knot, get my feet up to where my head is, and then pull myself forward with pure upper body strength. If I pull this off, it will be the first time in Quentin Moss-physical-education-history.
I take a deep breath and run and leap at the rope. My feet dangle about a foot off the floor as I cling to my nemesis. The rope swings in large, wobbly arcs. Guys laugh. Then somebody starts to make clucking noises like a chicken. Several other guys join in. Meanwhile, Moss hovers above me like a primeval guardian angel, ready to bless me if I’m willing to accept my mission. I hold on
as long as I can then fall backward onto the mat with a dull thud. Moss grunts with empathy.
The pain in my butt is the only thing bigger than the laughter from the class.
“Try again, Mr. Moss,” Mr. Logan bellows above the laughter.
I drag myself up to face the rope again. I pray for a fire drill or the delivery of an envelope full of Anthrax to rescue me. Then one of the guys points to the ceiling and says, “Hey, look at that.”
When I turn around everybody is looking up. Even Mr. Logan has his eyes transfixed on the ceiling. I follow their gaze to see Moss in the rafters, swinging from bar to bar, like he’s a trapeze artist in a circus. Except this is no high wire with a net, but a ceiling about 30 feet high, without any mats underneath him. Nobody in the room can believe it. Mr. Logan is so shocked he’s not saying anything, and his furry tree legs are shaking like there’s an earthquake.
The attention has switched off me and onto Moss. It looks like getting him out of the rafters may take the rest of the class. And I’m pretty sure Moss did it to help me out. It’s like we understand each other. As a cave boy he probably knows how important it is to distract a herd of charging rhinos. I see him looking at me and wave. He nods back. Now I owe him.
FOOD FIGHT
As soon as gym is over we go to the cafeteria for lunch. Moss is salivating as we stand in line and drool is dripping on his shirt.
“You hungry Moss?” I ask.
“Hungry,” Moss repeats, as one of the cafeteria ladies gasps.
“He’s harmless,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to believe me. I wish now that I’d thought to put a hairnet on Moss. Otherwise lunch could get too gross even for me.
The menu today is a pizza slice, midget corn on the cob, and peaches in a cup. Who comes up with these combinations? Not once have I been to a restaurant where pizza is served with corn and peaches. I don’t think this is something normal people eat. I can’t imagine that the President of the United States is served pizza, corn, and peaches in a cup right there in the Oval Office, along with two cartons of chocolate milk. He might get fed up and start a war.
Quentin and the Cave Boy Page 5