"I wouldn't split you up; I'm sure I can put together the money for both of you."
I could almost see Jury's mind working. I hoped he'd come up with something because, as he would say, I was drawing a blank. How do you tell somebody that you don't want to be helped? And that wasn't true at all; I really did want to learn what I could to make schoolwork easier, but I didn't want to change schools to do it.
"Everybody calls Tully a racist school," Jury said.
That was a good thing for him to come up with. Surely our mother wouldn't want to send us somewhere awful. Angela and Faye were always talking about how the kids at Tully were so stuck-up.
"Now I've thought about that. Any black person who grew up in this town knows how John M. Tully the man was. They built that school to avoid court-ordered busing. But when the residential boundaries were redrawn, each area ended up with maybe three or four black families in each school and apparently most of the racists could deal with that. The ones who couldn't went to Tully."
"And you'd want to pay good money to them?"
"Thirty years have passed, Jury. A lot of African-American and other minority kids go there now ... okay, maybe not a lot, but surely two or three families."
"But Angela says they're the kids of university people from up north. They think our southern schools aren't good enough for their kids."
I knew that would bother her. She used to talk about the "stuck-up northern blacks" who came to the college and acted like they were too good to associate with the natives, or "townies."
"I've thought about all of this, okay? I'm willing to make the sacrifice for my kids."
Her mood was going bad fast. We'd brought up several unpleasant memories in one or two sentences.
"Mama, I talked to my science resource teacher today and she promised to give me a letter grade higher for participating in the Einstein Rally. And I believe Mrs. Norville talked to Miss Hoffer about me. You know how Miss Hoffer is. By the end of the week she will have read everything ever written about dyslexia."
She had started to speak, but I could see that something I said was working.
"That is true. If there's anything a regular classroom teacher can do to help, Miss Hoffer is the one to do it. I hadn't really thought about us doing stuff here and in your regular classroom to help."
"Especially if you'd planned to let us go to regular middle school anyway. Judge might as well learn how to do whatever it is he has to do in the real world. There are no classes of ten over at La Salle Middle School," Jury said.
"You boys go play. I'm going to call Miss Hoffer."
"You have her home telephone number?" I asked.
"Actually, I do, but I was going to try her at school. I'm glad you guys are in the rally, but it's the long term I'm thinking about." She motioned for me to get out of her way and I couldn't imagine why. When I moved, I saw that she was looking at the kitchen wall clock.
"She said for us to go outside," Jury said, giving me a look that told me he wanted to talk.
I followed him outside. He sat down on the top step and didn't say anything for what seemed like a long time.
"What, do you just get up in the morning and try to think up ways to ruin my life?" he finally asked. His expression was serious, like he wanted me to answer.
His question hit me like a punch. Did he really believe I deliberately tried to hurt him or that I had anything to do with our mother's bright idea? If it had been night and we were having one of our "after lights out" talks, I probably would have cried. But it wasn't night, so I took the porch steps in a single leap and walked over to Tommy's.
Chapter 4
Just as I would've predicted, Miss Hoffer promised my mother that she would do everything she could to make sure that I got all the help she could provide. She told my mother that she took a class about learning problems last fall and all the information was still fresh in her mind. Mama said she kept apologizing for not recognizing the problem herself.
"Judge is such a hard worker. I had no idea it was such a struggle for him," Miss Hoffer told her.
"When I told her I would put off sending you to Tully until summer school, she actually sounded like she wanted to thank me for giving her the opportunity to use her fall semester class notes," my mother told us over dinner the next night. She likes Miss Hoffer; what parent wouldn't? I looked at Jury. He hadn't spoken to me since my mother brought up this whole Tully thing. He looked away, as if to say, "So what; I'm still not talking to you."
"I was thinking you guys should use boiled eggs at first. I know the contest calls for raw eggs but we can wait for that."
In spite of his dislike for me, Jury looked at me for an explanation. I shrugged my shoulders. "What are you talking about?" I asked because I knew he wouldn't.
"The egg drop, silly. The way I figure it, if you use boiled eggs in the beginning, at least we can use them for egg salad and other things. There's not much we can do with raw eggs except maybe wash our hair with them."
"Ugh," both of us said.
"That is truly gross," Jury said, rolling his eyes at me like I had told him to wash his hair with a raw egg.
"Egg used to be the thing; you used to be able to buy shampoo with egg in it."
Jury and I just looked at each other. I think he was trying to lighten up. He really doesn't hold a grudge very long, not nearly as long as I can hold one, but it takes me longer to get angry.
"I picked up a copy of the rules today," Jury said.
My head jerked around. He hadn't said anything to me about getting the rules, but then again, he hadn't said anything to me about anything all day.
"Where are they?"
"In my book bag."
"Go get them."
"Now?"
"Yes, now!"
That kind of enthusiasm from her scared me. It always meant work for us.
Jury came back right away with his book bag, but it took him a while to find the booklet because his bag was jam-packed.
"Here it is," he said, his hands still in the bag. He pulled out a glossy, slick-looking pamphlet. On the cover was a multiracial bunch of, apparently, happy kids, each wearing an identical red and white T-shirt. Mama took it from his hand.
She continued eating her dinner as she read out loud. It was the first time I've ever seen her do that during dinner. She's a reader. I've seen her read just about everywhere, even during meals when she's eating alone, but never at dinner with all of us sitting there.
"Hey, this rally is a big deal. It's nationwide, like the science fair."
I looked over at Jury, but he was watching her read. Maybe he was more interested in the rally than he let on.
"This is going to be fun."
"Why do you say that, Mama?" Jury asked.
"There'll be kids there from all over. There's three in the state on the same day. Look at this." She showed us a map of the state divided in three parts. "All the applicants for southwest Kentucky will be over at the college. This sounds like so much fun."
I exchanged glances with my brother.
"It says here, 'The egg must remain uncracked when dropped from the distance of twelve feet.'"
"Twelve feet," I repeated—not because I wasn't sure I heard her, but so I would remember it.
"Okay, I know that ladder out in the garage is nine feet. I wonder what you can use as a surface?" She wasn't asking us as much as she was asking herself.
"What would you say the distance is from the patio awning to the ground?" Jury asked her.
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure it's higher than the ladder."
"Why don't we just build something that can survive the drop from the ladder and then we can test it at school," I suggested.
They both stopped eating and reading to look at me. It wasn't that profound, but that's how they were looking. Since the meeting with Mrs. Norville, they seem to think I'm incapable of a normal thought.
"That's a good idea, Judge. What are they using at school?"
&nb
sp; "Somebody said the top of the gym, but I don't know yet."
My mother stood with her plate. "Why don't the two of you brainstorm about the possibilities. Remember it can't cost more than a dollar-fifty to make."
Last year she went to a P.T.A.-sponsored class on helping children with their homework. The speaker talked about "brainstorming" and "first drafts." Now every time we get ready to do something we have to "brainstorm" first, and every time she reads something one of us has written she'll say, "It's a good first draft." It doesn't matter if it's your last draft or not—she expects you to redo it.
I heard her singing in the kitchen and, with all the banging around, I could tell she was doing the dishes—giving us time to "brainstorm."
Sometimes Jury has an expression on his face that makes me think he's further away than most daydreamers. A couple of times, I heard him say that he'd like to write a book, not just the world's biggest collection of expressions and clichés, but a real novel. It's the only thing he's consistently mentioned since about the fourth grade. As I looked at him, I suspected that he was somewhere far away, inside one of his plots.
"A picture would last longer."
"What?"
"Stop staring at me. What do you want?"
"We're supposed to be brainstorming," I said.
"What is there to brainstorm about? We build a better mousetrap and the world beats a path to our door." After saying that he got up and left.
He was always saying confusing things, and I wasn't sure if he'd finally slipped over the edge or if that was another cliché.
I went into the kitchen and asked my mother; she told me it was an old saying.
"It's a pretty good one, too," she added.
"Why do you say that?"
"It's your brother's way of saying he plans to win the rally."
I just nodded and went upstairs. I'm sure she had read too much into it. All it meant to me was that he didn't plan to do his part.
Things started heating up the next day. For some reason, Faye suddenly had nearly as much enthusiasm for the rally as my mother. I asked Tommy about it since he and Angela were part of Faye's question bowl group.
"I think she likes Jeff Sewell this week," he said quietly. When it comes to friends, Tommy's the best. He has a way of telling you stuff that I'm trying to copy. He just says what he wants to say; you never know how he feels about it unless you ask him. Jury says I "wear my heart on my sleeve." That's Jury's way of telling me that people always know what I'm thinking.
If Jury and Faye hadn't had a big argument about Jeff Sewell, I wouldn't have known what Faye's crush had to do with anything.
Faye asked us if she could put one of us down as the alternate for her group.
"That's cool," I said. "Use Jury's name. I don't do well under pressure. That's when my dyslexia really kicks in."
"Is that okay with you, Jury?" Faye asked.
"I'd like to know why you asked Jeff in the first place. I didn't hear Ms. Hennessey say anything about GATE teams. In fact, she made an announcement during our regular class. Am I right?" Jury said.
"Yes, but..."
"But what?" he interrupted. "What's up with you asking Jeff ? It would be different if you went and asked somebody who's obviously smarter, but my grades are better than Jeff's. And Jeff can't talk!"
They went back and forth like that. Angela even got involved in it. Finally Angela and Tommy said that Jury could be the main selection if it meant that much to him.
It was pretty confusing. I didn't think he wanted to be in the event he was already in, much less two.
"I didn't say I wanted to be the main selection," he finally said, after everybody had joined in the argument. "I just want to know why my best friends never asked."
That really set Angela off. She accused him of jerking them around and making the rally a test of friendship. You'd have to know Angela to know that she's not a person you test.
Angela jumped up in his face and asked him if it was just some kind of test. They were nose to nose, and to some people it probably looked like they were getting ready to fight. I looked at Tommy and we both started cracking up. That started Jury and Angela laughing too. Faye ran off, which is normal for her; she can be a little too dramatic sometimes.
There were four other egg-drop groups—each was made up of kids I know and like. The really great part was that we were using the top of the multipurpose building. The building is really just one huge room. There's a stage and chairs, like an auditorium, but most of the time it's used as an extra classroom for music or a special assembly. I guess it was chosen because the top is flat.
Mr. C. (Carlisle), the vice principal, showed us how to get to the roof by pulling down a kind of ladder from the top of the storage closet. My grandparents have the same kind of setup to get into their attic. Mr. C. was nervous about letting us be up there. He spent fifteen or twenty minutes giving us a bunch of rules to follow. I noticed he looked at me and Jury a lot while he was talking, especially when he said no roughhousing. Jury didn't notice because, like the rest of us, he was looking at the dead pigeon that was laying right behind Mr. C. The roof was loaded with cool stuff like that. There were balls and Frisbees and even a dead cat. But the best thing was the view. From the roof you could see everything going on around the school and most of the neighborhood.
Miss Bailey, a student teacher, was our supervisor and she was nice. She was as interested in the dead cat and pigeon as the rest of us.
I knew things were going to be all right when Jury came up to me and handed me a Frisbee after Mr. C. left. I threw it at a group of girls who were standing near the girls' restroom. They didn't have a clue where it came from.
"This might be okay after all," he said, as we ducked down so the girls couldn't see us.
Chapter 5
I was hoping Jury would start to take an interest in what I was doing when it became obvious I was building our first egg container.
He didn't.
After breakfast on Saturday morning, I took the four eggs that we had left and boiled them. My mother smiled at me when she saw me getting the old pot we use to boil water and eggs. She has this theory that you shouldn't cook food in your water pot because, the way we wash dishes, she could end up with greasy instant coffee. I guess I should have felt pleased about her "good boy" smile, but I didn't. It made me feel stupid. There was my brother, the one they sometimes call the "other half," just sitting there picking at some runny yolk on the edge of his plate. I know he was humming some dumb jingle or seeing the revenge of the yolk people over the syrup patrol or something just as foolish. First he'd drag his fork through the runny yolk and then the stem of his spoon through the leftover syrup. Sometimes I'd like to be the one sitting around wasting time while he's being the "good boy."
While the eggs were boiling, I cut two pockets from the egg carton. He put his plate in the sink and then stood at the refrigerator door and drank some orange juice from the carton.
"I wish you'd stop doing that," I told him.
"I wish you'd stop talking to me." He put the carton back in the refrigerator.
"Like we want to drink your backwash in the orange juice!"
He ignored me. The next thing I heard him say was to Angela on the telephone in the other room.
"Go figure, two good months before Easter and the boy's in there playing with egg cartons."
I think Angela must have told him he should be helping me because I heard him say, "Who asked you?" That was when I figured he must have been in a really bad mood to be taking on Angela.
, Although we spend more time with Tommy now, Angela used to be our best friend in the posse—in the world for that matter. Our mothers are friends and our fathers are friendly. Our fathers don't call each other or go places together, but when they're together they seem comfortable. It's kinda hard on kids when their mothers are friends because they end up telling each other all kinds of embarrassing stuff about their kids. I remember walking through the kit
chen one time when I was in the third grade and hearing my mother telling Angela's mother that I had wet the bed the night before. I could have died. I couldn't think what to do, so I did the first thing that came to my mind. I ran over to my mother and hung up the telephone. She screamed because she thought something terrible must have happened to me or my brother. I screamed because I thought her scream meant that she was so mad she was about to hit me. Jury came running in from the back yard, grabbed a steak knife from the drawer, and started yelling, "Where, where?" because he thought somebody was attacking us. Then I started crying.
When my mother finally got me calmed down I told her that she couldn't tell Mrs. Collins things about us that Mrs. Collins might tell Angela. My mother tries to be what she calls "progressive," but she was raised in an old-fashioned southern black home and, I know—now—it was hard for her to accept what I was saying. She called Angela's mother back and apologized for hanging up. She wanted me to stand there and listen while she told Mrs. Collins that I had had that accident for the first time since I was a baby and she'd appreciate it if she didn't mention it to Angela. I don't know how much of our personal business is shared with Mrs. Collins, but over the years Angela hasn't been able to tease us about inside information any more than we've been able to tease her.
Angela must have made Jury feel a little guilty because the next thing he did was come back into the kitchen and ask me what I was doing.
I explained to him that I was trying to approach this egg-drop thing in a logical way. It seemed to me that egg cartons would be the best approach to take because protecting eggs were their jobs already.
"So there is a method to your madness?"
I just smiled. I didn't know if what he said was a good thing or not, but he looked pleasant enough.
"Are you going to help?" I finally asked, when it seemed he didn't have anything else to say.
"Have you ever known me to cut off my nose to spite my face?"
"No, but are you going to help?"
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