Finding the Worm

by Mark Goldblatt

  “It’s not just today, Julian.”

  “Then I don’t get it,” I said.

  “If Eric the Red asked to race you, I’ll bet you’d race him.”

  “But he wouldn’t ask, because he knows who’d win.”

  “But if he did ask, you’d race him. Wouldn’t you?” she said.

  “I don’t know, Beverly. You’re talking about something that would never happen.”

  Eric picked that exact moment to come out the double doors. He noticed us off to the side and jogged over. Shlomo turned up about three seconds afterward. He looked annoyed. He shoved Eric in the back and said, “Why didn’t you wait for me? Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

  “No,” Eric said.

  “Then you must be as deaf as Danley Dimmel, ’cause I was right behind you.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” Eric said.

  I cut them off. “Did you guys have lunch with Quentin?”

  They both nodded.

  “How did he seem?”

  “He seemed fine,” Shlomo said. “That stupid wheelchair’s the problem.”

  “Plus, he doesn’t even need it,” Eric said. “It’s stupid he had to bring it. It makes no sense. Kids are laughing at him. I mean, they’re not laughing at him. But they’re laughing at how he gets up and sits back down. Maybe Lonnie can talk to Quentin’s dad—”

  “Julian is chicken to race me,” Beverly blurted out.

  “Will you please just let it go?” I said.

  “He’s not chicken to race you,” Shlomo said.

  Eric grinned at her. “He could give you a head start and still beat you by a mile.”

  She looked straight at Eric. “Well, then, what about you?”

  “He’d beat me by a mile too.”

  “You think you can beat me?”

  “Of course I can beat you,” Eric said. But there was a wobble in his voice. You could tell he wasn’t so sure. “I can beat you any day of the week, and twice on Sundays.”

  “What about today?” she said. “What about right now?”

  “I’m not going to race you now.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because we don’t have time. We’ve got to get Quentin back on the bus.”

  “Then we can race afterwards … when we get off the bus,” she said.

  “When we get off the bus,” Eric said, “we have to take Quentin back to his house.”

  “You don’t think Lonnie and Howie can manage without you?”

  “Sure they can. Anyway, it’s too cold to take off our jackets.”

  “Then we can race with them on,” she said.

  “That’s stupid. I’m not going to race you with my jacket on.”

  “Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk!”

  Eric turned to me. “Why don’t you just race her and get it over with?”

  But Beverly shook her head. “No, I want to race you. I’ll race Julian later.”

  As they were talking back and forth, I noticed Devlin come out the double doors. He didn’t notice me, but he also didn’t head down the block toward the buses. He turned and stood about ten yards from the doors. He had on a green snorkel parka, zipped to his throat. He looked as though he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. That wasn’t a good sign.

  Lonnie and Howie wheeled Quentin through the doors a couple of minutes later. The rest of us—me, Shlomo, Eric, and Beverly—hurried over to meet them. As soon as he saw us, Quentin stood up from the wheelchair, and then Lonnie and Howie carried it down the three stairs. When they got to the bottom, Quentin walked down the stairs and sat back in the chair.

  That was when Devlin called out, “Look who’s back … it’s the king of Egypt!”

  Lonnie stepped forward, clenching his fists. But then, without warning, Beverly jumped in front of him. She called back, “Hey, Mouth, why don’t you mind your own business?”

  There were maybe thirty kids still hanging around the front of McMasters who heard her. They were stunned at first, but then about half of them let out a loud, “Ooooh!” It was directed at Devlin. It was pretty obvious what they meant: Are you going to take that from a girl?

  Devlin looked stunned too. “What’s your beef?”

  Beverly took another step forward. “What’s yours?”

  “You friends with the king of Egypt?”

  “Yeah, I am. You got a problem with that, Mouth?”

  Devlin grinned at her. “Why don’t you go play with your Barbies?”

  “Only if you bring over Midge and Skipper.”

  “Shut up!”

  “C’mon, Mouth, we’ll have a big old tea party!”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Then shut your mouth, Mouth!”

  “If you weren’t a girl …”

  “Yeah, and if you weren’t a girl …”

  “I’m not a girl,” Lonnie said, stepping in front of Beverly.

  Devlin looked him up and down, then shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Yeah,” Lonnie said, “I think your bus is leaving.”

  Devlin turned and started to walk away.

  Beverly called after him, “Tell Ken I said hello, Mouth!”

  Devlin’s shoulders hunched up, but he kept going.

  February 4, 1970

  The Other Shoe Drops

  The announcement that I had to report to Principal Salvatore’s office came five minutes before the end of third period this morning. I’d kind of been expecting it for the two days since Monday, when I didn’t turn in another good citizenship essay. It was almost a relief when the crackle came over the intercom and I heard my name. I grabbed my books and coat and headed downstairs.

  Miss Medina was sitting in the office, off to the side. She had a real worried look on her face. Principal Salvatore’s expression was harder to read. I figured I owed him an explanation, so I spoke first. “I’m sorry I didn’t turn in a citizenship paper on Monday. I’ll do two next week. But the thing is, my friend Quentin—”

  “I know why you didn’t turn in the paper, Julian,” he said. “I don’t fault you for your decision.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I do fault you for is the tone of your responses until now.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  “I know it’s kind of disrespectful, turning in stuff like that. But I really and truly didn’t scratch up that painting, and I don’t think I should get punished for something I didn’t do.”

  “I’m glad you used that word, ‘disrespectful.’ It is disrespectful, the way you’ve gone about your business. Even if you’re as innocent as you claim, you were given a specific assignment by the principal of your school, and you’ve treated that assignment with disrespect. You’re a student at McMasters Junior High School. I’m your principal, Julian. When you disrespect me, you disrespect McMasters.”

  “But that’s not what I meant to do. It’s just that—”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t working out.”

  “Am I suspended?”

  “That would serve no purpose because you don’t have a discipline problem. You have an attitude problem. Do you understand the distinction?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “You either did or did not vandalize the painting. There is a dispute over that. But there is no dispute over the contempt with which you’ve responded. Contempt is an ugly response, Julian. It is a childish response, wholly misplaced here. You need to grow up.”

  I bowed my head. I didn’t know what else to do.

  “You’re in our Fast Track Program, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you plan to skip eighth grade, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re a good match for that program.…”

  My heart sank. “But I get good grades—”

  “I’m sure you can do the work,” he said. “But we’re not discussing your intellect. We�
��re discussing your maturity. You were suspended from sixth grade for participating in an attack on a handicapped boy—”

  “But I told you—we apologized to him. He’s our friend now.”

  “I don’t doubt that you have good intentions,” he said. “I doubt that you have good judgment. I doubt that you will be emotionally prepared to start ninth grade in September.”

  “Please!”

  Miss Medina jumped in at that point. “I’m sure Julian understands how wrong he was—”

  “I’m not so sure,” Principal Salvatore said. Then he looked me square in the eye. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “All right, on Miss Medina’s recommendation, I’m going to act against my better judgment. You have exactly one more chance, Julian. You can write one more essay on good citizenship. But I want you to think about it, long and hard, before you write it. You can turn it in anytime before the end of the school year in June. If the tone and the content of it are appropriate, you can remain in the Fast Track Program. But you have zero margin for error. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may go.”

  My knees were wobbling as I walked out. The only thing that kept me upright was the thought that I had until June to figure out what to do. Right then, that sounded like a long way off.

  February 6, 1970

  Cheerleaders in Ponzini

  Quentin got through his first week back at school in pretty good shape. It would’ve gone smoother if not for the wheelchair. But his dad said he had to use the chair for the entire week—since that was what Quentin’s doctors said. End of discussion. Truthfully, though, the first day was by far the worst, on account of the king of Egypt stuff. After that, the kids at school got used to Quentin standing up and sitting back down. For sure, they snickered about it, but no one hung around to watch him do it. Even Devlin laid off, maybe because of how bad Beverly had ranked him out.

  Beverly, meanwhile, kept after Eric the Red to race her. She did that chicken-clucking thing at the bus stop every morning until he said yes.

  The big race came this afternoon in Ponzini. Pretty much the entire block showed up. The only guy missing was Shlomo, who ran straight from the bus stop to Quentin’s house to squeeze in a couple of hours of Challenge the Yankees before the start of Sabbath—which must have seemed weird to Mrs. Selig, since we took Quentin with us to Ponzini.

  The place was more crowded than I’d ever seen it. Even guys who don’t hang around with us, like Beverly’s brother Bernard and Mike the Bike and Victor Ponzini himself, came out for the race. Even a couple of high school girls who live on Beverly’s floor in the Dorado House were there. I don’t know if they were actual cheerleaders, but they sure acted like they were. They were hooting and hollering and shouting out Beverly’s name. They got the crowd revved up. I felt bad for Eric. It seemed like no one was rooting for him except Lonnie, Howie, Quentin, and me.

  As bad as I felt for Eric before the race, I felt even worse for him after. It wasn’t close. She slaughtered him. It was kind of mean, almost, how bad she beat him. She had him whipped after the first few steps, but she didn’t ease up. It wasn’t quite forty yards that they raced, maybe thirty-five, and she must’ve beaten him by ten.

  What made it more painful to watch was that Eric didn’t even know how bad he was losing. He runs with his arms thrashing and his head down, so he had no clue until he crossed the finish line that Beverly had already gotten there, turned around, and waved to her cheerleader friends, who were hooting and hollering even louder than before. She and Eric shook hands afterward, but you could tell how ashamed he was.

  He walked over to us, and we told him it was no big deal, but he looked like he might bawl, so we stopped talking and hustled him away.

  Before we got to the hole in the fence that led out of Ponzini, Beverly called after us, “You’re next, Twerski!”

  “It’s not going to happen!” I called back to her, and kept going.

  Lonnie was pushing Quentin in the wheelchair, and I was next to them, and Eric and Howie were a couple of steps ahead of us. As soon as we got through the alley and out to the sidewalk on Parsons, Eric turned back to me and said, “This whole stupid thing is your fault.”

  “How do you get that?” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He started to walk faster, and Howie kept up with him. I took a step to catch them, but Lonnie caught me by the shoulder and said, “Let him go. He’s just sore now. He’ll get over it.”

  “But it’s not my fault.”

  “Let it go, Jules. He’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  So I hung back with Lonnie and Quentin. When we got to the corner, Lonnie peeled off to his house, which left me to push Quentin home in the wheelchair.

  “You don’t think it’s my fault, do you, Quent?”

  He glanced up at me and smiled. “Beverly’s faster than Eric. How could that be your fault?”

  “Exactly!”

  “You didn’t make him race her.”

  I pushed him another few steps and thought about it. “Well, I kind of made him race her.”

  “You did?”

  “I mean, if I’d raced her, she wouldn’t have bothered to race him.”

  We went half the block without talking again, just making our way along Thirty-Fourth Avenue. Then, as the Hampshire House came into sight, Quentin said, “I guess maybe it is your fault.”

  He started to laugh, and I jostled his wheelchair.

  “Dope!” I said, which made him laugh harder.

  February 13, 1970

  Shlomo Tilts

  Quentin left the wheelchair home on Monday, after his dad said he could, and the rest of us were grateful for that. He really and truly is getting back to normal, except that we have to take things extra slow because he gets tired and can’t catch his breath. But compared with folding and unfolding that chair, and hauling it up and down stairs, that’s nothing.

  Quentin’s biggest headache this week turned out to be Shlomo. Him and that stupid pinball game. Remember how I said it was love at first sight? That was kind of a joke when I said it, but it got less and less humorous. I mean, the way he hunched forward and leaned over the machine while he was playing, it looked like he was about to kiss the thing. Like Romeo and Juliet, except Romeo had horn-rimmed glasses and a yarmulke, and Juliet dinged and buzzed and clacked instead of saying, “Wherefore art thou?”

  The reason it got to be a headache for Quentin was that he couldn’t get Shlomo out of his room. Shlomo came over before breakfast every morning, faking like he was there to walk Quentin to the bus stop, and he played pinball while Quentin got dressed. Then he walked Quentin home after school, and it was the same thing. It was like Howie Wartnose and his crush on Beverly Segal, except it was even worse, because Challenge the Yankees liked Shlomo back. What I mean is he got real good at it. No, he got great at it. He had the five highest scores on the machine. Lonnie started calling him Pinball Wizard Pinball Wizard instead of Shlomo Shlomo.

  You want an idea of how crazy it got? After school on Wednesday, the six of us were hanging out in Quentin’s room, and Shlomo was bent over the pinball machine, and Howie decided to pull a prank on him. He strolled over to the machine like nothing was going on, and then, without warning, he kicked out the plug.

  Shlomo didn’t even realize what had happened at first. He kept hitting the flippers and staring down at the game, trying to figure out why it went dark. Then he mumbled, maybe to himself, or maybe to the machine, but definitely not to any of us, “C’mon, I didn’t tilt!”

  It was only after he heard the rest of us cracking up that he noticed Howie standing next to the plug, and then he noticed the plug hanging out of the wall socket. We figured he’d crack up too at that point. But instead his eyes got real wide, and his head started to shake, and then he charged at Howie.

  It was scary. I mean, Howie could take Shlomo no problem in a normal wrestling kind of fight, but the way Shlomo charg
ed at him was different. It was like he wasn’t even Shlomo. He was a bull charging at a red cape.

  Howie seemed as scared as the rest of us. He jumped out of Shlomo’s way, and Shlomo hit the wall so hard you could hear the windows rattle. But he bounced off the wall and came after Howie again. Except he tripped over one of Quentin’s model planes and fell forward onto the bed. His glasses went flying, but his yarmulke stuck to his head—it was kind of a miracle how it stuck there. Then Lonnie jumped on Shlomo’s back, and Eric and Howie grabbed his arms, and the three of them held him down. That was when Mrs. Selig poked her head into the room and said, “No roughhousing, all right?”

  You’d think the sound of her voice would’ve snapped Shlomo out of it, but even after she slid the door shut, he was still twisting and straining to get off the bed. His eyes were bugging out, and you could see the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing. That was what scared me the most, the veins. I thought the guy was going to have a stroke right on the bed. It took the three of them to keep him there. I don’t think Lonnie could’ve done it on his own. Lonnie, meanwhile, was talking to him in a soft voice, almost a whisper, telling him to calm down.

  Quentin got Shlomo’s glasses off the floor and put them back on his head. They were crooked, but Shlomo’s eyes at least started to focus. It was the glasses, maybe, that started to bring him back. He took deep breaths. Lonnie leaned down and said into his ear, “C’mon, buddy, you’re all right.”

  “I’m real sorry,” Howie said, also in a soft voice. “I didn’t know …”

  After another half minute, Shlomo had simmered down. His eyes were back to where it was Shlomo looking out from behind them, and his breaths were normal speed, and you couldn’t see the veins in his neck anymore. Lonnie let him roll over onto his side, but he didn’t quite let go of him, and the rest of us waited to see how Shlomo would react.

  We got our answer a couple of seconds later, when Shlomo started to laugh. It was a quiet laugh at first, but it kept getting louder. He wound up hysterical, which made the rest of us start to laugh too. Lonnie let go of him, but by then it didn’t matter. All Shlomo could do was curl up like a baby, with his hands holding his stomach, and laugh.