The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  We finished our round and Dad shook hands with Mr. Smith. “Seymour, you’ve done us a big favor, and I’m grateful,” he said.

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Smith. “Lunch?”

  “Well,” said Dad thoughtfully, “would you consider doing us another favor?”

  Dad explained and Mr. Smith smiled. “If only all wishes were so easily granted, I’d be a magic genie.”

  When the four of us walked into Fanatics the servers on duty shrieked with delight. I was disappointed that Jasmine wasn’t there, but the waitresses who were gave us plenty of love. After hugs all around, Beth grabbed my right arm and Helen grabbed my left, and they both tried to drag me to their section. It looked like a tug of war over a stuffed animal, and I have to say I enjoyed being the teddy bear.

  “Better flip for it before you tear him in half,” said Dad. Beth lost, and Dad slipped her a twenty as we headed for Helen’s section.

  At Dad’s urging, Mr. Smith ordered a ribeye, medium rare, with a beer. To our surprise, Dad got iced tea.

  “No brew, Dad?” said Moss.

  “Been on the wagon for a couple months,” said Dad.

  “You’re not drinking?” I was having trouble processing this news.

  Dad shook his head. “Seemed like it had something to do with…the situation. So…” He shrugged. “To be honest, it hasn’t been a big deal.”

  Moss and I looked at each other. We thought it was a big deal. “Even after a round of golf on a hot day?” I asked. We knew that had always been prime time for a cold one.

  Dad winced comically, and we laughed.

  “Do you feel like a new man, or anything?” asked Moss.

  “I can’t say I do,” Dad laughed, a little embarrassed. “But I have lost a few pounds, and that feels better. Easier on the knees.”

  Mr. Smith’s eyes widened after the first bite of his steak, and he declared, “I know where I’m going to be watching the playoffs.”

  “Glad you like it,” said Dad, pleased.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “Really? Good lease?”

  “The best,” said Dad. “I own it.”

  Mr. Smith carefully put down his fork. “You own this building?”

  Moss and I watched with interest, not entirely understanding what was going on, but knowing from Mr. Smith’s reaction that it was important.

  Dad nodded. “Bought it early on, before real estate shot up. Janice got the house, I got this.”

  “Mortgage?”

  Dad held his thumb and forefinger close together.

  “Wise decision, David,” said Mr. Smith. Then realizing that Moss and I were paying a bit too much attention, he abruptly changed the subject.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Joseph Kony 2012

  Our first monitored visit with Dad was more successful than I’d ever thought it would be. Both Moss and I really liked Mr. Smith, and we were glad that Dad did, too. It probably helped that when Dad hesitantly inquired about Mr. Smith’s relationship with Mom we could honestly answer that they really were “just friends.”

  Employing the services of Mr. Smith as an escort was not a long-term solution, but it was a first step in breaking Mom’s embargo on Dad. Moss and I felt as triumphant as if we’d just dressed up as Indians and pulled off the Boston Tea Party. We could only hope that King Mom would not overreact and send in the redcoats.

  When she found out about our golf game she wasn’t happy, but she had agreed to the plan in the first place, so she could hardly go ballistic. For our part, Moss and I decided it was probably better, both for Mr. Smith and for us, not to tell her we knew he’d been in town all summer. Admitting she was wrong was not among my mother’s virtues. Even so, it was entirely possible she might find some new way to rein in the rebels.

  Before I could stew on this, my life took another turn for the weird as I embarked on the adolescent rite of passage known as “public high school.” Going to middle school had been a bit of a shock; ascending the next link on the food chain was bizarre.

  The first thing that struck me was the incredibly organized and premeditated cliquishness of the campus. We’d had a bunch of little groups in middle school and a few clubs, too. But the choices in high school were mind-boggling. In just one summer, three basic flavors had evolved into the panoply of frozen offerings from Ben & Jerry’s.

  Apparently the administrators were afraid that any kid who didn’t have a little group of pals might either kill himself or everyone else. Hence, we were all required to officially join one of more than eighty sects. There were clubs that catered to academics, such as the Math Club, Chess Club, Robotics, French Club, Spanish Club, Mandarin Chinese Club. Do-gooders had lots to choose from, including American Red Cross, Because I Care, Breast Cancer Awareness, Children’s Cancer Society, Feeding America, and a bunch of others that were even more depressing. On the lighter side, there were plenty of choices for active people—Cycling Club, Equestrian Club, Tennis Club, Golf Club, Guitar Club, Passion for Dance. There was even a Sandwich Club, where I suspect they ate club sandwiches. Naturally the Christians had 34,000 groups, but I didn’t see a single club that catered to atheists, let alone, anti-theists. Outta luck there.

  I’ve always had trouble making up my mind when there are too many choices, especially when none of them sound particularly appetizing. I’m not much of a joiner. On a whim, I opted to tail a pretty girl to see where she’d end up for the designated “Club Meeting” period. “Hey—I’m in Detective Club,” I thought to myself.

  Trying to be sleuthy, I walked behind at what I hoped was a discrete distance, appreciating the swing of her hips and her short brown hair. She entered a bungalow and I snuck in like a shadow. Uh-oh—lost her. I peeked in the first open door and I made her.

  She made me, too. “Come in!” she exclaimed. “Greetings! Welcome!” She had a slight overbite that looked really cute, along with her bangs and librarian glasses, so I took a few steps inside.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Uh…welcome to what?”

  “You’ve come to the first meeting of the Invisible Children of Uganda Club. I’m the president. Sarah Nellis.” She stuck out her hand and we shook, smiling at each other. She had a sudden thought and her hand went limp. “You did mean to come here, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I improvised, “if you’re the president.”

  Rather than being flattered, she was annoyed. “This is a serious club. What’s your name?”

  “Moon Landing.” She frowned at me, so I added, “Seriously.”

  She thought for a moment, and said, “Are you Moss Landing’s brother?” I nodded, and she shook her head, as if to say it wouldn’t do.

  “He got the athletic genes, and I got the serious genes,” I explained. “And I’m wearin’ ’em.” I tugged on my pants for emphasis.

  She snorted. “See, you’re joking. Do you know the first thing about the Invisible Children of Uganda?”

  I shook my head apologetically. “I’m an empty vessel for you to fill, Sarah.”

  She frowned at me again. “Are you a freshman? ’Cause you don’t talk like a freshman.”

  “I’m as surprised about that as you are.” Which was true. I guess the tutoring sessions with Jasmine had made me feel comfortable to actually do a little flirting. And it wasn’t so hard. “Uganda’s in Africa, right? Idi Amin country?”

  “He’s been dead since 2003.”

  “I think I did hear something about that. You want to tell me about the Invisible Children and I’ll be quiet?”

  “First of all, they’re not literally invisible. If you’re looking for something like that, you’d better head for the Comic Book Club,” she said with a sniff, daring me to leave.

  “Nothing against the X-men, but I’m staying here.” I made a show of getting as comfortable as a human could in a school chair. “In what way are they invisible?”

  “They are invisible because the world is not aware o
f their suffering,” she continued, sounding like a professor. “Since 1987 a despicable military leader named Joseph Kony has kidnapped more than 30,000 children, given them training and weapons, and used them as an army to terrorize small communities throughout central Africa. Usually the first thing he has them do is kill their parents. He prefers that they chop their mother and father to death with a machete since it seems more ‘personal’ than just shooting them.”

  “That’s twenty-five years,” I said. Sarah nodded. “And nobody’s stopped him?”

  She shook her head. “But we will.” I raised my eyebrows, and she continued. “Not just you and me. I want you to watch this.”

  I noticed she had an open laptop hooked to some external speakers. She clicked on an icon and a video called Kony 2012 began to play.

  It was a very slick, highly-produced piece of work. It told the story of a young man named Jason Russell and his friendship with a Ugandan boy named Jacob, who was one of the children abducted by Joseph Kony. I guess Jason Russell had the habit of capturing his life on video, because the film dramatically included footage of a promise Jason made to young Jacob that he would do everything in his power to stop the atrocities.

  Unlike most of us, Jason took his promises seriously. “Everything possible” became his life’s work for the next nine years, as he tried and failed to enlist the support of American politicians to intervene in the conflict. Republicans and Democrats alike explained the cynical truth: that if the United States’ economic interests weren’t directly involved, military forces weren’t going to be committed to save the lives of strangers in a foreign country.

  That’s where Jason got creative. The rise of social media made it possible to build enormous human coalitions across states, nations, and continents, and he resolved to make Joseph Kony famous—or rather, infamous. He believed that if the public mobilized and made repeated demonstrations of outrage, governments would have no choice but to act. The movie claimed the strategy was starting to work—the Obama administration had finally committed a hundred military advisors to assist the Ugandan military in pursuit of Kony. However, he still had not been caught, and Kony’s troops continued to rape, kidnap, loot, terrorize, and murder.

  “Why are Kony’s kids called the ‘Lord’s Resistance Army’?” I asked suspiciously. “Is this some kind of religious movement?”

  “Kony claims to be a prophet, and says his goal is to create a society based on the Ten Commandments,” said Sarah. “However, he seems to break most of them every day, especially ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

  I shook my head disgustedly. “You’d think legitimate Christian groups would be offended by someone who commits such horrific acts under the pretense of religion.”

  “No comment.”

  “From you, or from them?”

  “From me. I don’t know about them.”

  “Well, count me in. What do we do now?”

  “For a start, we get T-shirts. I hope you like red.”

  “Oh, I do,” I said. “Especially on you.”

  She snorted and blushed. “Big talker. You have a credit card?”

  “No….”

  “Neither do I,” she admitted. “But my mom gave me her number. You have twenty-five bucks?”

  “Stiff for a T-shirt. Are you getting a cut?”

  “No. It all goes to the cause. Can you afford it?”

  “Sure. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

  She looked up from the computer. “You better. What size?”

  “Have they got an extra extra large?”

  She looked up again and measured me with her eyes. “Large’ll do.”

  “If you already knew, why’d you ask?”

  “Bad habit.”

  A bell rang announcing the end of “Club Time.” I hefted my backpack. “So I’ll meet you for lunch tomorrow,” I said. Sarah looked up, surprised. “You know, to give you the money.”

  She nodded dully. “Are you sure you’re a freshman?”

  “Cafeteria. Twelve thirty.” She nodded again and I headed for the door. “I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe I’m a senior.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I might be,” I yelled. “I forget.”

  “You’re not.”

  I smiled to myself as I walked to geometry, thinking about Sarah; about Joseph Kony; and about a man who made a promise to a boy, then spent his life living up to it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Esutbo

  In middle school, no matter how dumb, lazy, or absent you are, you move forward. No one fails, no one repeats. It’s like prison: you do your time and you get released. It’s absurd to have a culmination from middle school. If you’ve got a pulse, you get a diploma. If you don’t have a pulse, you get a death certificate.

  High school is another matter, which comes as a shock to many students. You actually have to pass classes and accumulate units to progress through the system. At the end of their first year in high school, many students are surprised to find out they’re still freshmen, since they failed so many classes they didn’t achieve sophomore status. High school teachers don’t go out of their way to let students in on the change in the academic game rules. They mention it in passing, sort of under their breath. I guess they love the look of amazement in the eyes of kids who never turned in a homework assignment and figured they’d get away with it. Mom says that’s what they refer to as “non-monetary compensation.” Teacher humor. It’s not for everyone.

  I worked my way through middle school and took the academic demands of high school in stride. However, many others were not so fortunate, particularly when it came to math classes.

  There were quite a few upperclassmen in my geometry class. Boosh and Wee Wee were among them. They had failed algebra, passed it in summer school (a joke), then failed geometry. Due to the latest budget crisis, there was no summer school make-up option, and they were back for a second dose. Thanks to Moss, they became new clients for my tutoring service.

  Though not nearly as cute as Jasmine, they actually had plenty of mathematical ability, which school had never managed to tap. Skateboarders have a working knowledge of geometry, and they just need a little help to translate it into formal mathematical terms. Mainly I scraped away academic jargon so they could apply what they already knew.

  Our first session started with a review of angles.

  “Why’s it called a three-sixty?” I asked.

  Boosh shrugged. “It’s two one-eighties.”

  “Yeah, that adds up,” agreed Wee Wee.

  I tried another tack. “Then why’s it called a one-eighty?”

  Boosh grinned. “’Cause it’s half a three-sixty.”

  I raised my eyes in defeat. Wee Wee came to my rescue. “I have a feeling you want to tell us something.”

  I nodded. “It goes back to the Babylonians.”

  “The Baby-who?” said Boosh.

  “Ancient civilization—very advanced in astronomy. They were the first to peg the measure of a circle at three hundred sixty degrees.”

  “You’re saying it’s called a three-sixty because the board makes a full circle,” concluded Wee Wee. I nodded. “Why’d they pick that number? It’s kinda off-the-wall.”

  “They were primarily farmers. So the most important circle in their life was the one the earth makes around the sun, which determines the seasons. And that circle takes approximately—”

  Boosh jumped in, pressing an imaginary buzzer. “Bzzzzzt! Three hundred sixty-five days. So why doesn’t a circle have three hundred sixty-five degrees?”

  I began to think there was hope for both of them. “Their number system was different from ours. It was based on sixty, and three hundred sixty is six times sixty. It’s also a great number to work with—you can divide it by two, three, four, five, six, eight, nine, ten, twelve—a lot of numbers.”

  The two skateboarders were looking at me with surprised interest. Boosh was particularly delighted. “That’s a rad once-upon-a-time, bro.
Is that shit for reals?”

  “I think so.”

  “Screw the fact check,” said Wee Wee. “It’s a good story.”

  “Affirmative. Dr. Boosh prescribes one of those to start each tutoring session, and the patients,” —he indicated Wee Wee and himself—“will recover.”

  “I’ll see what I can do…”

  “Try those medical marijuana places,” said Wee Wee. “I believe they have them in stock.”

  I thought for a moment, then picked up two pens. I held them up to form a small angle. “Once upon a time a baby angle was born. Babies are cute, so it was called an…”

  “Acute angle,” they both answered.

  I continued to rotate a pen to make the angle larger. “But it kept growing to become a…”

  “Right angle!”

  “Which measures…”

  “Ninety degrees!”

  “So an acute angle is what, greater or less than ninety?”

  “Less!”

  “But it keeps growing to become an…

  “Obtuse angle!”

  “Which is what, greater or less than ninety?”

  “Greater!

  “But less than a straight angle, which measures…

  “One-eighty! There it is! Half a three-sixty! Boo-yah!” yelled Boosh.

  It’s tough to find a student who doesn’t like school when he knows the right answers, and Boosh and Wee Wee were no exceptions. Pushing my luck, I picked up a protractor. Boosh cringed and comically hid behind Wee Wee.

  “Little problem with the protractor?”

  “Hate ’em. Like bloodsuckers hate the cross, Superman hates kryptonite, pappy hates taxes.”

  “Well, you’ve lumped this guy in with some bad company, and he doesn’t deserve it. This here’s a simple tool for measuring angles,” I said mildly. “Just put the little X-marks-the-spot on the vertex of the angle.”

  “Vertex? There you go again.”

  “It’s just the ‘point,’ dude. Chill,” said Wee Wee.

  “Then line up the zero on one of the rays, and see what number the other one goes through.”