by David Lubar
THIRTY-ONE
Hudson,” Mr. Cravutto called as I was closing my locker. He’d stuck his head out the door of his office, and waved his hand to get my attention. Given the size of his hand, that was sort of like getting waved down by a yellow flag at the racetrack.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
“Okay.” I walked over, wondering what sort of nightmare was about to invade my life.
“You wrote all those sports articles last year, right?”
“Yeah. That was me.”
“Do you know anything about poetry?” he asked.
I’ll admit I was briefly bemused by the totally unexpected direction the conversation was taking. I felt I knew a lot about poetry—thanks to Mr. Franka. I still wasn’t sure where this was heading, so I didn’t admit my passion for the subject, but I did nod and make an affirmative utterance along the lines of “Uh-huh.”
Mr. Cravutto slid a notepad on his desk around so the scrawled words faced me. “Is this any good?”
I read the poem he’d written.
Your eyes are pools of starlight,
Your thighs are full of muscles,
Your laugh is like nice laughter,
You’re as sweet as sprouts from Brussels.
“It’s for Valentine’s Day,” he said.
“It’s very nice.” At first, I felt the opening line was a mixed metaphor, but I guess a pool of water could reflect starlight, or light could pool in other ways. I decided Mr. Cravutto wasn’t going to be interested in a literary analysis that went to quite that deep a level. I moved my attention to the second line. “Do you think the person you give this to will want you to focus on her thighs?”
“She’s very proud of them,” he said. “She puts a lot of time in at the gym.”
“Good to know.” I rescanned the third line. “Maybe you can compare her laugh to something other than laughter?”
He frowned, and I had an image of myself being dribbled into the gym and stuffed through a basketball hoop. Some people don’t cope well with constructive criticism. But then he nodded. “That’s a good point. I’ll work on it. What about the last line? Is it okay?”
“Well, you should feel good you found a rhyme for ‘muscles.’ I don’t think there are a lot of them.” I ran the other candidates through my mind: bustles, hustles, rustles, tussles. Nope, not much to work with. I wasn’t going to advise him to keep looking.
“Thanks. So it’s mushy enough?”
“Absolutely. Can I have a late pass?”
“You won’t need it,” he said, giving me a dismissive wave.
I headed off to art. Once again, all I had to do was start a sentence with “Mr. Cravutto,” and my art teacher gave me an understanding nod and a sympathetic smile.
As I took my seat, I thought about all the pain caused by Valentine’s Day. Maybe it was Cupid, and not Mars, who should have been the god of war.
Zenger Zinger for February 10
Last answer: “It’s a shame to burn the steak,” John Peter said sincerely.
This week’s puzzle: “The preschool eye chart keeps sliding,” John Peter said _________.
Since Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, the dance was tonight, Friday, after school. By lunchtime, I still hadn’t figured out the best strategy for coordinating my moves. I had a present for Lee, and I wanted to ask her to the dance. I wasn’t sure whether to give her the present and then ask about the dance, or ask about the dance, and give her the present there. But if she shot down my invitation to the dance, it would be weird to give her the present. And the present was so totally cool and amazing it would kill me to not give it to her.
Time was running out. I figured I’d just give her the present, and take it from there. I pulled the box out of my pocket. I’d wrapped it in plain green paper. Nothing pink or heart-strewn. I wanted it to be sort of casual.
“Got you something,” I said, sliding the box across the table.
“For me?” She picked it up and tore off the paper.
I remembered a phrase she’d used last year, when she’d given me a bag of black jelly beans. I tossed it back at her, now. “Reciprocity is not mandatory.”
Her grin told me she recognized the words. “Deferred reciprocity has its charms,” she said. She opened the box and stared at the small piece of pewter jewelry inside.
“A fish?” she said.
“A special fish,” I said. I contemplated tossing out the scientific name, Cottidea, but that would make the search for the meaning behind the gift too easy. I knew she’d search. I wanted it to take a bit of work, so the revelation would be that much more powerful and rewarding. I wanted her to gasp when she grasped the significance.
She took the pewter pin from the box and examined it from every angle. “Thank you.”
I contemplated options for my next sentence:
If you’re still perplexed, I’ll tell you after the dance.
Hey, I think there’s a dance tonight.
You can wear it to the dance.
That one might work.
I reached out to point at the pin. My hand hit her soda, knocking it over.
Lee pushed her chair back. “I’ll get some napkins.”
By the time she got back and mopped up the spill, we were rushing to biology.
February 13
Sean, would you like to go to the dance? I know dancing isn’t part of your skillset at the moment. Neither is the ability to say yes or no. That doesn’t matter. I just wanted to actually ask someone the question, to see how it felt. I realize, looking back, I never actually asked Lee to the dance last year. Yeah, I know we went. I won’t go into all the details, but I said something stupid and I hurt her. To make up for it, I told her I was picking her up for the dance. When she scoffed, I told her I’d be at her house to pick her up, and I’d wait outside all night if I had to. Luckily, she answered the door when I knocked. That’s how it played out. And maybe that’s why this is so hard. It’s a lot easier to tell than to ask. You’re less vulnerable.
Anyhow, no need for you to take dance lessons or find some festive diapers. Neither of us is going to tonight’s dance. You’re going to take a nap. And I’m going to see if I can get a ride to the mall.
Wait. Before I go, did you spot the redundancy in the last entry? (Or did your head explode?) If not (neither?), here’s a hint. It’s in this part: “A while back, I mentioned tautology. That’s when you say the same thing more than once.”
Give it some thought.
THIRTY-TWO
Saturday, after lunch, I heard a car pull up out front. A moment later, I heard footsteps run up the porch, followed by the doorbell.
It was Lee. Her folks were at the curb. The pin I’d given her had replaced the three studs she’d been wearing in her right ear.
“That was brilliant,” she said. “Best present, ever!” Her smile alone made all my effort worthwhile.
“I’m glad you figured it out,” I said.
She grabbed my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Thanks.”
I think she might have hugged me if we hadn’t been under parental observation. Or maybe even kissed me. “Glad you liked it.”
“I have to go.” She raced toward the car. Then she stopped, twirled back toward me, and yelled, “Skull pin!” She emphasized the space between the two words. “Pure genius!” Laughing, she returned to her parents, who I imagine were totally puzzled by all of this.
I wondered how long it had taken her to identify the fish I’d given her as a sculpin. And then to figure out the pun. I was sad that the gift hadn’t been my ticket to the dance, but happy that she loved it so much.
Amala walked up to me right after I closed the front door. “You like that girl a lot.”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked.
“Only to someon
e who is highly empathetic and extremely observant.” She awarded me with a wink and a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, Scott, you aren’t wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
“That would not be a great place for it. Though I think Lee would love the idea.” I pictured an actual heart on a sleeve. “Yeah. That would definitely charm her.”
“Have you asked her out?”
“I’ve tried. It’s not easy. I guess I’m just a coward.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Shyness is real,” Amala said. “People don’t recognize that. If you slashed your finger, anybody who saw it would tell you to put a bandage on the wound.”
“Sure,” I said.
“But if you tell people you’re shy, all they say is ‘Get over it.’”
“That’s what I tell myself,” I said.
“Before you even try to get over it, you need to accept it. It’s not a disease or a flaw or even necessarily a bad thing. It’s part of who you are, at this moment in your life. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. It does. Thanks.”
“That’s what big sisters are for,” she said. “If you want me to talk to her, say the word. I speak her language.”
“Not yet. But thanks for that, too.”
February 14
It’s Valentine’s Day, Sean. You’ll probably enjoy it, once you start school. I can already see that you have an abundance of Hudson charm. As for me, I still don’t have a valentine, but I made Lee very happy. Which made me happy. I think when you find someone whose happiness makes your own life better, you’ve found something special.
I know that there’s more to a relationship than gifts, but it made me feel so good seeing her reaction, I thought about other things I’d get her, if I could. Here’s my list:
Some of the Things I’d Buy for Lee if I Had Infinite Funds
A haunted castle
Books
Pluto (the one in orbit, not the dog)
Disney World (just in case she wanted both Plutos)
Bookshelves
A mummy
A top hat for the mummy
Bookmarks
The skull of a famous writer
A beret for the skull
The skull would come from a writer who is already dead. I probably didn’t need to specify that.
Oh, in case you didn’t spot it, the redundant part of the tautology definition (I loved writing that) was between same thing and more than once. Each implies the other. I should have written, “when you say the same thing in different ways.” I think that’s a better definition, anyhow, because different ways is a crucial part of the definition of tautologies.
“Oh, dear,” Mom said.
“What?”
She handed me the local news section of the Sunday paper and tapped the headline of the lead article: Developer Announces Plans to Revitalize Sibert Street.
I read the article. Sherman Construction had bought all the buildings on Sibert Street. There were plans to tear everything down and put in an office building. Demolition was set to start in July. I guess Mr. Sherman wanted to focus all his energy on ruining things for students and teachers while school was in session, and then ruin things for everyone else in town during the summer.
“Does Dad know?” I asked.
“Probably not yet.”
“It’s going to reopen the wound,” I said.
“There’ll be other opportunities to find a place.”
“But that place was perfect,” I said.
“Nothing is perfect,” Mom said.
“It was close to perfect,” I said.
“You’re right,” she said. “It was.”
Zenger Zinger for February 17
Last week’s answer: “The preschool eye chart keeps sliding,” John Peter said emotionally.
This week’s puzzle: “I had to split my box of Valentine’s chocolates with my friend,” John Peter said _________.
February 23
Sean, maybe I don’t want Lee to be my girlfriend. I mean, I want a girlfriend. Desperately. But maybe I don’t want to mess up my friendship with Lee with the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. We’ve really got the friendship thing down pretty well. I see couples breaking up all the time in school, and it’s horrible. But I guess friends break up, too. I hadn’t thought about that. Pay no attention to this entry, Sean. I’m confused.
Zenger Zinger for February 24
Last week’s answer: “I had to split my box of Valentine’s chocolates with my friend,” John Peter said halfheartedly.
This week’s puzzle: “I wish hurdlers and sprinters got paid,” John Peter said _________.
THIRTY-THREE
Lee showed up at my door Sunday afternoon. “Bookstore,” she said. “Are you up for it?”
“Which one?”
“At the college.”
I looked past her shoulder. Her mom was at the wheel. “I’m in.” I told my parents where I was going, then followed Lee to the car.
“Happy hunting,” her mom said when she dropped us off outside the student center.
Lee and I cut through the building and took the stairs up to the bookstore on the second floor. It mostly carried only the required books, but from what I’d seen, colleges required a lot of awesome reading material.
“This is like the first day of high school, freshman year,” I said. The college students dwarfed us. Unlike high school upperclassmen, they ignored us. I guess they were well on their way to becoming adults.
“Without the Heart of Darkness feel,” Lee said.
“‘Heart of Darkness’?” I asked.
“Brutal jungle environment,” she said. “You haven’t read it?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m appalled and dismayed. Call me dispalled.” She cut across to the English lit section, speed-browsed the shelves for nine seconds, grabbed a paperback, and said, “My treat.”
“Thanks.”
She held up a credit card. “Actually, my parents’ treat.”
“Even better.”
Lee headed deep into the literature aisles. I wandered. That was the best way to experience a bookstore. I ended up in the film studies section, which had a nice assortment of movie scripts. Lee eventually tracked me down there. She had a stack of novels in her hands. But she pulled another book from the shelves of the psychology section as we walked to the register.
“Check this out,” Lee said, holding it out toward me.
“The Birth Order Book,” I said, reading the cover. “What about it?”
“Well, yours has changed,” she said. “You’re a middle child now. So you’ll act differently.”
“No way. I mean, I know I changed from being the youngest to being in the middle. But that didn’t change anything about me.” I reshelved the book.
Lee laughed. I didn’t pursue the topic.
March 1
February is over, Sean. I’m glad. It’s a bleak month. Too dark, too cold. I think everyone in Pennsylvania would be happy to teleport to somewhere warm for those four weeks. But March is here. Technically, still winter. But a gateway to spring.
Speaking of progress, you impressed me today, Sean. Banging two blocks together is a pretty awesome achievement for someone who’s been in the world roughly as long as he’d been in the womb. It borders on the entertaining. Keep it up.
Zenger Zinger for March 3
Last week’s answer: “I wish hurdlers and sprinters got paid,” John Peter said protractedly.
This week’s puzzle: “Let’s touch the bare wires together,” John Peter said _________.
Take Your Child to Work Day is the fourth Thursday of April. Whoever picked that date years ago couldn’t have known that Test the Crap out of Sophomores Month would also eventually fall in April. As well as parts of March
and May. Our school decided to relocate the event that was less important to them to the first Thursday in March. As much as I’d enjoyed it last year, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be with Dad at his job right now. Especially since this was the month the garage would have opened.
Lee had a solution. She unveiled it during the first Wednesday in March, which happened to be Try to Guess What’s Really in the Chicken Cutlet Day.
“Let’s switch,” she said.
“Switch what?”
“Dads.”
“No thanks. I want to survive to adulthood. And my dad is unschooled in parenting females.”
“Not the actual dads, although that would be amusing. Their jobs. I’ve already experienced all the glory of a day at a law firm. I’d prefer all the gory of a day of phlebotomy, but doctor’s offices have these stupid rules against stuff like that. I’d love to go somewhere else. Switch with me?”
“That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“Please?”
“No way.”
“Pretty please?”
“It’s hard to resist such a persuasive argument,” I said. “But I’m standing firm. Wait. Actually, I’m avoiding a firm.”
“If it’s hard to resist, it’s persuasive by definition. You’re being redundant. You can thank me for pointing that out by switching with me.”
“Your dad might say no.”
“He already said yes.”
“My dad might say no.”
Lee hit me with the second- or third-best-known Princess Bride quote. “Inconceivable.”
“I might say no.”
“That would be a mistake,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
“Okay. Sure. We’ll switch.” I knew that it would be pointless to resist. Besides, it might be interesting to observe the lion in his lair.
• • •
Mr. Franka pulled me aside after the newspaper meeting. “You know those figures of speech you were learning about before Mrs. Gilroy took ill?”
I was glad he was talking to me again. “Is that a rhetorical question?”