The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  I listened and said nothing. What could I have said?

  On SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, a day full of drizzle and chill,

  Steve Davinski, senior,

  leads a tour of the Highsmith School, a reputable yet no-longer-selective private high school, where Saba Khan also is a student.

  Good morning, folks. Thanks for coming out on a day like this.

  While we wait, everybody please take care to avoid the H there on the floor. This is our school seal. The H stands for Highsmith, of course, and also for Honor. This is considered a sacred spot on campus, a common belief shared by all students, so we need to watch our—

  Ma’am? If you could . . . move your bag a tiny bit, please? Thanks.

  I agree, the campus is very cool, especially since we are so close to the Loop. Some of the buildings are over a hundred years old. Visitors may like how everything looks, but students mostly complain about climbing stairs. Half the campus is stairs!

  Can everybody hear me? Yeah, I know you all can see me. That’s probably why they gave me this job.

  [He smirks, in response to small, polite laughter from the crowd.]

  I am “physically conspicuous,” one might say. Or “vertically enhanced.” Kids around here call me Da-vine-ski, since I’m like a vine, you know? Always growing.

  Obviously I’m not wearing my uniform today, since it’s Saturday. During the week, all Highsmith students wear a standard uniform: dress shirts and khaki pants, belt required, no tennis shoes. Men wear the signature Highsmith necktie, which, depending on who you ask, is either the color of our sacred honor or the color of all the dark red things that could possibly stain a young man’s tie in the cafeteria.

  Nobody likes wearing the uniform, of course, but even I admit it’s for the best. Highsmith welcomes a few lucky students on need-based scholarships every year, always has. The idea behind the uniform is that we all dress the same, no matter what kind of job our parents have, and by graduation, we’ve all had the same valuable opportunities. By then, most of us have a stain or two on our neckties. I mean, we’re only human!

  Please try to stick close as we move around campus, so I don’t have to yell so much. Sometimes after tours, my voice sounds like it’s been through a blender. That’s not good for someone like me. Trust me, I like to talk.

  [He takes out a piece of paper and reads.]

  “In 1911, The Highsmith School was created by Chicago’s wealthiest citizens with an initial endowment of five hundred thousand dollars.”

  [Looks up from the paper.]

  I’m a numbers guy, folks, and no kidding, that was a pile of money back then. I guess it still is, to most of us.

  [Goes back to reading.]

  “Originally the school consisted of only the building we are standing in, but we have grown over the decades and now the campus has a total of four buildings, including the gymnasium, which remains the largest stand-alone school gymnasium in the city of Chicago.”

  [Looks up from the paper.]

  Seriously, wait until you see it. If you’re thinking of coming here, you should definitely come to one of our basketball games this winter. Actually, I’m starting center on the varsity team, so, I mean . . . that’s pretty cool, right?

  [Waits for some perfunctory applause before going back to reading.]

  “Highsmith’s founders believed that a fine school required a handsome campus, no matter how expensive to maintain. They were convinced that the best education—the most progressive thinking—occurs in a beautiful setting. Think back to ancient Greece and Rome, the splendor of Egypt, or the great renovation of Paris during the reign of Napoleon III. All the most advanced thinking took place during a time of revolutionary architectural design—”

  Excuse me? Ma’am, could you speak up, please?

  [Takes a deep breath.]

  Wow . . . wow. You heard about that? Holy cats, that is some fast-moving information. If only my guys were that speedy on the court.

  Well, okay, yes, there has been some whispering the past couple of days about what we might call . . . a discovery . . . here at Highsmith. Something exciting is going on, and I understand your curiosity.

  However, it is totally premature for us to discuss that topic today. There’s no confirmation yet, so at this time—I mean, at any time, it would be wrong for us to speculate about other people’s business. We all agree on that, I’m sure.

  Sorry if this disappoints you, ma’am, but we will not be seeing any strange watercolor paintings on this tour today. This is a school, after all, not an art museum, and that’s where the administration wants to keep the focus for now.

  Okay, then . . . Exit’s right over there. Have a good day, ma’am.

  Folks, please don’t think I’m being rude or anything, but we’re here this morning to talk about the school. Clubs, traditions, that kind of stuff.

  So, yeah.

  Did I mention I’m senior class president? Three years in a row. “Three-peat!” everybody said, last time I got elected.

  DA-VINE-SKI CLINGS TO OFFICE, the headline said.

  Yeah, that was pretty cool.

  Now if we can continue. . . By the way, we’ll be seeing only two of the buildings on the tour. The other two don’t get used so much anymore. Enrollment’s been down, to be honest, so we’re glad you’re here!

  Please follow me. Careful again, folks, not to step on the H. . . .

  Two days later, on MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, during a first-period study hall,

  Javier Conejera, sophomore,

  uses a library computer to write to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. Inadvertently, he uses the workstation that is reserved for catalog searches only.

  A mi hermana Americana—

  Now I am in Chicago, and I remember our good times last year. Now maybe I understand what you felt when you lived with my family in España. Now I am the toad from a different well!

  You will laugh because I walk the streets here holding the GPS that my host family gives to me. I make all the turns the GPS announces. Somewhat embarrassing, yes, but in this way I see all the corners of this brutal, incredible city.

  I tell you some things on the phone, but for others it is better to send via email, because I do not want my host family to learn them. Jen, this family is very strange. They are busy with the activities to the extreme, too busy to know me. I am alone in the house too often—and ay, the house! I do not have words to describe. In this place, the closets and cupboards cannot store the useful objects because they are so filled with the discarded objects. The most important object is the big calendar that tells the family where they need to be at all times. The calendar is in the kitchen. (Not in the “chicken”—I confuse these words at least one time every day!)

  Do you remember, last year P. Hector told our class: “Admire the peacock, so beautiful in the garden. But if you invite it into the house, it will shit on the rug.” The truth is, my host family brings many peacocks into the house.

  However . . . Maybe there is value to the numerous things people keep. For example, at the school, a student named Saba Khan lost her apartment in a terrible fire. We all saw this tragedy on the television. The people included the story on Facebook. This family lost it all, aside from their lives. The father works in a factory. Two children. Very sad.

  Then in the recent days I see posters around the school, asking for all the people to bring things to sell. An auction to benefit this family of Khans.

  The date for the event is the 15 of December. The “season of giving,” no? Many families have donated items for the auction. Extra items from the home, or special items. My host family donated a membership to a golf society. Mr. Hamilton, the teacher of music, donated tickets to the symphony of Chicago. Mrs. Langford, the teacher of psychology, donated five bottles of wine in a basket. All the money raised will go to this family.

  Last week my classmate Kendra asked if I will donate items to the auction. I told her, “Very sorry, but I have nothing to give.” I felt ashamed
, because I have admired this blonde, bold girl very much. One day I asked her for help, and she proofread my essay with such care, as if the work is hers. She helped me earn a B on the essay. Now she asked for help in return. She poked me with her notebook and smiled. “Javier,” she told me, gentle but firm, “all the people have something to give.”

  When she told me this, I felt two things at the same time. First, a burden—a responsibility that I did not believe was mine. But also, like sudden rain falling over the head, this sense of belonging. Kendra suggested that I am part of the community, too, only because I am here in Chicago, present. And that feels like a dream coming true.

  However, how can I help? I told her, “I came to this country with two suitcases.”

  “I have the answer!” she told me very loud. “Spanish. Six free lessons or tutoring sessions, taught by a native speaker. That will be your donation.” She wrote it down before I found words to respond.

  To disappoint such a girl—Jen, this is impossible. She represents beauty on the inside and on the outside. She is tall, and the long hair is straight and light, like the Danish girls who come to our beach. The eyes are pale and sparkle like the sea waves. She is smiling whenever I see her, and that makes me smile, too. Maybe Kendra will be a friend for me in this city.

  I feel lonely still, but also grateful to have the opportunity to spend this school year observing these people. My dream always was to come and study in the U.S. I see how the Americans are on TV—so many groups of friends. Here I want to collect the friends the way my great-grandmother collects the brown sweaters, remember? You know how difficult it is for me always in situations that are social.

  Well, it requires so much time to write to you in this manner. I wish we could Skype. That way we can see each other and talk about ordinary, boring matters, as we once did. I am eager to see you at the spring holiday!

  I must go now. Several students wait to use this computer, even though others are free to be used. :

  Also, to help pay for my ticket to see you, I have taken a job in the school cafeteria (in the “kitchen,” “kitchen,” “kitchen,” not in the “chicken”). The job is good because it puts me with people, and not always in the house of my host family.

  With love from your Spanish brother—now in Chicago!

  Later that morning,

  Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,

  welcomes a reporter from the Chicago Tribune into her spacious, wood-paneled office.

  Fantastic, I am thrilled you’re here.

  Is your umbrella dripping? Put it—wait, sorry, not on the rug. We got that carpet last year, and I spend half my day protecting it from muddy shoes.

  Thank you. Please sit down.

  I hope the traffic wasn’t awful. The one-way streets in this neighborhood can be a bit of a puzzle. They take some getting used to.

  Anyhow, I won’t waste your time. Like I told you on the phone, you’ve got one hell of a story here. This is one of those feel-good stories that don’t happen often enough, but people love to read about.

  What’s happening this month says something important about the school culture here. You should stress that when you write the article. It’s no accident this incredible story is unfolding right here at Highsmith. All the time, I tell prospective parents that our curriculum is designed to make ordinary students into extraordinary citizens. Based on what’s happening now, we are succeeding! Let me tell you, that truly warms the heart of this seen-it-all-before school administrator. I mean, you have no idea.

  In my view, your story—or maybe it’s a series of stories—will highlight the remarkable things that are happening. If we can get something on the editorial page, so much the better, because those are the readers with money to spend, am I right?

  One of the things you want to stress is that the fundraising has been student driven. Teens are leading this effort—young people who make us all hopeful for the future. I’ll make sure you get access to them. Here, I’m writing down names for you. Also, you’ll want to talk to Jean Delacroix in the Art Department, who was the one who noticed last week that nothing short of a miracle may have fallen into our laps.

  Naturally I cannot share any particulars about Saba Khan or her time here at Highsmith. The law protects her privacy. You seem like a nice person, and I’m eager to work with you on this project. But I simply cannot discuss any personal details about Saba or her family.

  Besides, your paper has already covered that aspect of the story. A little too much, if you’ll excuse my opinion. There are children involved. This fire was no accident, I get that. And off the record, I can see that it makes the family look bad. Arson? Whatever the motive, no one wants to be associated with a story like that—including me, to be perfectly honest.

  Also, like I’m telling you, an apartment fire is not the story. The real story here is the inspiring response to the fire. You want readers to learn about the incredible things taking place in the aftermath of this sad event.

  [Standing and moving toward the door.]

  All right, then? I’m giving you full access. Feel free to wander around and ask any questions you want about the fundraiser next month. That said, I do ask that you avoid putting anyone in an awkward position. Let’s leave Saba out of this. Young people are helpful by nature, and having to say “no” is unpleasant for anybody. I’m sure you understand.

  Too bad it’s so ugly outside. Will you be sending a photographer? Obviously I’d love for you to get some shots of the campus. In a pinch, I might have something you can use—the lagoon in springtime, maybe, surrounded by the orange day lilies, or . . . no? You’re right—you’ll get what you need. No hurry. The auction’s more than a month away. Besides, the campus looks spectacular when it’s covered in snow, and we can cross our fingers for that.

  Thanks again for your visit. No, thank you!

  A bit later, during a passing period, the reporter stops

  Kendra Spoon, sophomore,

  at her locker. On one arm, Kendra balances a tray of sugar cookies decorated with pink icing.

  Yeah, that’s me. If you can hold on a sec . . . ?

  Okay, I’m not sure what to say. I’m more comfortable in a behind-the-scenes, stuffing-envelopes kind of role. I’m not a spokesperson or anything. Maybe you can talk to my brother, Kevin? He’s a senior. Seniors should be in the cafeteria by now. Go that way and turn left at the school seal. You’ll know it when you see it—the big red H on the floor. To me, it looks a little bit like a body outline at a crime scene.

  If I can just say . . . I like Saba. No one’s got a problem with Saba. I was on the tennis team with her. And so to me . . . I mean, can you imagine losing everything you have? This family needs help. Someone needs to help them. If we can make sure they’re better off after the fire than before—that’s the only way any of this will make sense. We can make this story turn out okay.

  Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta run to Spanish. We’re having a fiesta de cumpleaños for this girl, Kristin. In class, we call her Marta, because that makes perfect sense.

  Do you want a cookie?

  Minutes later, in a crowded cafeteria that reeks of grease and disinfectant,

  Kevin Spoon, senior,

  pulls two chairs together so that he may speak at length with the reporter.

  No problem, well, thanks for helping us to promote the fundraiser. The auction date will be December fifteenth, right here at school. That’s a Saturday. It starts at ten in the morning. Obviously, you want to talk to the art teacher—

  Why did I get involved?

  Oh man . . . The thing is, my family relocated here in June. We’re new to Chicago, but not new to the situation of being new. My mom sells air. It’s our family joke. Whenever she’s long-winded or going on about some crazy thing, my sister or I will whisper: “Psst—Mom sells air.”

  But she really does! She sells commercial ad spots on the radio. You want thirty seconds of air during the morning rush hour? It will cost you.
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  My mom is awesome at sales. No joke, Monica Spoon could sell milk to cows. People like her. We’ve lived all over the country, mostly towns, but Chicago’s the big league. The bigger the market, the higher her commission.

  Moving to a new place is never easy, but Kendra and I are pros at it by now. When you’re new, you join all the teams, and you bake the cookies, and you hustle like crazy. And maybe in this case, you help to organize a benefit for a family of complete strangers. You want people to like you, you know? That’s something my mom always drilled into us.

  Besides, my sister has some classes with Saba Khan. They’re both on the tennis team. To Kendra, Saba isn’t just a name attached to a random tragedy in the newspaper.

  I wish I could say the auction was our idea, but it was my mom’s. My mom is . . . Put it this way, she’s a big dreamer. Freaking huge imagination. Just between you and me, she’s got a couple of screenplay drafts in a drawer somewhere, in case the whole “sales thing” doesn’t work out for her.

  So at breakfast the day after the fire, Kendra was reading one of the newspaper stories about the Khans. She just about spilled her OJ with excitement, and said something like, “Look, even her initials are the same as mine. Saba Khan, Kendra Spoon, just reversed. Doesn’t that seem like a sign?”

  I said it sounded like a flaky sign to me.

  “Good enough,” my mom said. “Flaky signs often guide us in the right direction.”

  And seriously, within minutes, the whole thing appeared in my mom’s head like a movie trailer, and she was literally performing for us while we ate our oatmeal. She was like, “Picture an auction scene, okay, which is always fabulous in a movie. Very suspenseful, right? And everybody is gathered in the school gym, a gigantic crowd, parents, students, teachers—”

  I mumbled to Kendra, “Maybe a few rich people, too.”