Sasquatch in the Paint

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  Everyone laughed. Except Brooke.

  “I also marched with Martin Luther King Jr. in support of civil rights, and I protested against the Vietnam War. Man, those were some crazy times.”

  Brooke: “You’re too young to have done that.”

  Mr. J: “You’re right, I am. I guess that wasn’t me. Which makes me wonder why you think I’m a hippie?”

  Daryl shrugged. “Your hair. The posters. The way you act, all…hippielike.” He shrugged. “Mostly the hair.”

  Mr. J: “If I didn’t have ‘the hair,’ would you still have asked if I was a hippie?”

  Daryl didn’t say anything. Theo could see he sensed a trap.

  Mr. J went to his desk, rummaged inside the drawer, and came up with a huge pair of scissors. Then he grabbed his ponytail and started cutting. The students—even Brooke and Rain—stared in disbelief. It took almost a minute for him to saw through the thick hair. When he was done, he used the rubber band that had held the ponytail together to bind the cut hair into one clump. He tossed it onto Daryl’s desk.

  Mr. J: “There you go. Now I’m not a hippie. Right?”

  No one said anything. They’d never seen a teacher do anything so radical in a class. Once, in drama, Mr. Bandeer had burped the alphabet, but that was it.

  Theo: “Mr. J, are you all right? You aren’t having a stroke or something, are you?”

  Mr. J laughed. “I’m fine, everybody. I just cut off some hair. You act like I stabbed my dog.”

  Tunes raised his hand. “Mr. J, I have the feeling this was supposed to be some kind of lesson. Teachers never do anything unless there’s some Big Message attached. But I don’t get it. What’s the lesson?”

  Theo didn’t get it either, but he didn’t want to admit it in front of Rain.

  Mr. J: “No lesson. I’ve had long hair since high school, and I wondered what I’d look like without it. I took a leap of faith.”

  Tunes: “A what of who?”

  “A leap of faith. That’s when you do something risky because it’s more important to see the outcome than to worry about looking foolish.” He turned to Daryl. “Daryl, who invented the first mechanical calculator?”

  Daryl: “Pascal.”

  Mr. J stared at him.

  Daryl: “French mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal invented the mechanical calculator in 1642. It could add, subtract, and multiply.” He looked at Rain as if expected her to disagree. She didn’t.

  And so it went for the next half hour, with most of the questions going to Daryl and Tunes. They knew the answers, though Mr. J had to keep prompting Daryl to expand on his responses. Occasionally, he would whip a question at Brooke, and she would reply calmly and coolly with a thorough answer.

  Theo was relieved that Mr. J was ignoring him. Despite his every intention to study more, he was so far behind that he wasn’t sure he could do well today. Maybe Mr. J was trying to protect him from Brooke’s attacks. Maybe Mr. J really was his friend after all.

  Theo looked at the wall clock. Three minutes until algebra. Three minutes until safety.

  Then, like a sudden crack of thunder on a sunny summer day, Mr. J’s voice split the air. “Well now, Theo, let’s see whether you still have a place on this team.”

  Theo’s stomach lurched as if it had been Tased for Daryl’s cookbook.

  MR. J: “First question: Why is bird poop white?”

  Everyone looked at Theo expectantly.

  Theo: “Because birds don’t pee.”

  Tunes: “Mr. J, should he say ‘urinate’ instead of ‘pee’? What will the judges want?”

  Mr. J: “‘Pee’ is fine. Continue, Theo.”

  Tunes and Daryl snickered.

  Mr. J waited, his eyes fixed on Theo. No one else moved or breathed. The only sound was the squeaking of Brooke’s bright red lips sliding across her shiny teeth as she formed a nasty grin—though Theo may have imagined that.

  Theo (after a deep breath): “Birds’ kidneys extract nitrogenous wastes from the bloodstream like ours do, but they don’t dissolve it in urine like we do. It comes out of the cloaca, which they use to both poop and pee, as a white paste.”

  Daryl and Tunes snickered again at the poop and pee talk.

  Mr. J: “Theo, what is the most expensive substance in the world?”

  For a moment, Theo’s mind went blank; all he could think of was popcorn at the movies. Then he remembered (he hoped).

  “Californium. A radioactive substance used in starting nuclear reactors. It costs about twenty-seven million dollars a gram. A gram is about the same weight as a paper clip.”

  Mr. J nodded. “Nicely done. The paper-clip reference was a nice touch.”

  Theo nodded back, his mouth too dry to respond. Fortunately, he’d just read about bird poop and Californium last night. Thank goodness Mr. J had not gone deeper into the study material, because Theo was about fifty pages behind.

  Mr. J: “Tunes, Mozart composed his first complete symphony at what age?”

  Tunes (formally, as if talking to the police): “Mozart composed Symphony No. 1 in E Flat when he was eight.”

  Mr. J: “At what age did he write his first minuet?”

  Tunes: “Mozart wrote his first minuet at six. He died when he was thirty-five, but he was so poor that he was buried in a mass grave. No one knows for sure where he was buried.”

  Mr. J: “While all that is true, Tunes, his death wasn’t part of the question. Don’t pad your answers with irrelevant details. The judges will deduct points. Theo, what information should he have included?”

  Theo: “What a minuet is.”

  Mr. J: “Exactly.”

  Tunes (still robotically): “A minuet is a social dance for two people, usually in three-quarter time. It originated with the French.”

  Theo looked at the clock. Two minutes left. He’d made it. He’d bluffed his way through practice, securing his place for another day. Tonight he could catch up on the study guides.

  Everyone had started to gather up their books and backpacks when Mr. J held up his hand and said, “Theo, tell me everything you know about Scarabaeoidea. You have one minute.”

  Theo felt as if someone had just reached into his stomach to yank out his intestines.

  Theo: [Silence]

  Mr. J: “Do you need me to repeat the question?

  Theo shook his head, but didn’t answer.

  Daryl, Tunes, Brooke, Rain: [Deafening silence]

  Theo rummaged through his brain like a thief searching a house for valuables. He came up empty. The question was from the material he had not yet read.

  Brian: “Mr. J, why are all your questions to Theo about poop and pee? Not that I’m complaining, because it’s funny as heck—I’m just curious.”

  Thank you, Brian, Theo thought, knowing Brian was trying to stall Mr. J and give Theo time to think.

  Mr. J: “Which logical fallacy did Brian just express?”

  Brooke: “Hasty generalization. He drew a conclusion from a small sample—in this case, just two out of the dozens of questions asked today.”

  Mr. J: “Correct. Now, Theo, has Brian’s diversion given you enough time to come up with an answer?”

  Theo: “No. I don’t know the answer.”

  Mr. J: “Anyone else? I realize that you all study only your own subjects, but this is a good one for general knowledge.”

  No one raised a hand. When the kids in this group didn’t know an answer, they looked down like a dog in shame for chewing the TV remote. Everyone looked down. Except Rain.

  Mr. J: “The dung beetle feeds mostly on poop. The Scarabaeoidea is the superfamily, composed of five thousand species. Some dung beetles roll big balls of dung wherever they go, which they use for food and breeding.…”

  Theo’s heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely heard the rest of what Mr. J said. Something about how these poop-pushers were called scarabs in ancient Egypt, and they were considered sacred, which he knew from the Mummy movies. The Egyptians thought
their rolling balls of dung resembled the god Khepri, who rolled the sun across the sky every day. Crazy stuff like that.

  When Mr. J was done, he turned to Theo again and asked, “What causes champagne to fizz when it’s poured into a glass?”

  Theo looked at the clock. One minute. Could he stall for one minute? Not with the way Mr. J was staring at him.

  Theo: “Carbon dioxide?”

  Mr. J: “No. The fizz occurs when it comes in contact with dust or dirt particles in the glass. If the glass were completely free of dust molecules, the champagne would be still.”

  Daryl: “Are you allowed to ask us questions about alcohol?”

  Mr. J: “Theo, paper or plastic?”

  Theo: “Huh?”

  Mr. J: “Which is better for the environment?”

  Theo (guessing): “Paper?”

  Mr. J: “Nope. Manufacturing paper bags requires more energy than manufacturing plastic bags. Recycling paper also requires more energy than recycling plastic.”

  Theo (struggling to save face): “But paper is more biodegradable.”

  Mr. J: “Wrong again. Since landfills are mostly airtight beneath the surface, neither plastic nor paper biodegrades.”

  The silence was weird. It was as if they’d just been told Taylor Swift had been arrested for punching a baby.

  Brooke raised her hand. “Mr. J, I think it’s clear that Theo is not taking the Brain Train seriously and it’s time to replace him with Constance Rodriguez. She’s been studying the science manual and is not only caught up but has read far ahead.”

  Theo held his breath, hoping Mr. J would dismiss Brooke’s attempts at assassination. The bell to change classes sounded before the teacher could reply.

  Saved by the bell, Theo thought, grabbing his backpack.

  “Hold on, everybody,” Mr. J said.

  Everyone froze.

  Theo’s legs went numb and he sat back down.

  Mr. J: “Theo, I’ve been warning you that this could happen.”

  Theo: “I’ve fallen a little behind because of basketball. I can catch up.”

  Mr. J: “How? Have you quit basketball?”

  Theo: “No. I’ll just try harder.”

  Brooke: “Too late. We have to face Lansing in two weeks, and Constance is ready now.”

  Mr. J picked up his severed ponytail and smacked it a few times against the palm of his hand.

  Suddenly Rain said, “Why not have a showdown, Mr. J? Constance versus Theo. The winner is on the first team.”

  Theo spun to glare at Rain, but she ignored him, waiting for Mr. J’s answer.

  Brooke didn’t know what to say to that.

  In the hall, students were passing noisily to their next class. Mr. J didn’t have a class this period, but the others would all be late if they didn’t leave now.

  “Done!” Mr. J said. “Friday morning, right here, we will have a showdown between Theo and Constance. May the most prepared win.”

  Friday? Theo already had a Friday deadline from Motorpsycho.

  Outside the classroom, he pulled Rain aside. Brian, Daryl, and Tunes formed a semicircle around her. From his height, Theo could see Brooke grabbing Constance out of the stream of students. Undoubtedly, she would be quizzing Constance every possible minute until Friday.

  “Why’d you do that?” Theo asked Rain.

  “I saved you,” Rain said. “He was about to kick you to the curb, dude.”

  “True dat,” Daryl agreed.

  Theo said, “No one says ‘true dat’ anymore.”

  Daryl frowned. “Really? I like ‘true dat.’ I’ll miss it. Maybe it can be a retro thing.”

  “I’m going to be late,” Rain said, starting for class. The boys followed.

  Daryl smiled. “I’m going to bring ‘true dat’ back. I’ll make it a campaign. Posters. A website.”

  “Why a showdown?” Theo asked. Meaning: he didn’t want to be humiliated in public.

  Rain stopped and faced him. “Look, Brooke is going to be on your case every day until Mr. J gets rid of you.”

  “She’s evil,” Brian said.

  “But is she wrong?” Rain said. This was the second time she had asked that question. Whose side was she on?

  The boys didn’t respond. Theo realized why. Brooke wasn’t wrong.

  Rain walked away. Over her shoulder she said, “You have to step up, Theo, if you want Brooke to lay off. Meantime, we have to stop her, in public. ‘When you kill a king, you don’t stab him in the dark. You kill him where the entire court can watch him die.’”

  Tunes chuckled gleefully. “Dude, she just quoted Saint Leo in Gangs of New York! How awesome is that?”

  Daryl shouted after Rain, “You realize in four years you’re going to have to go to prom with all of us.”

  “I know just the T-shirt I’ll wear,” Rain said as she walked away.

  Tunes grinned. “She didn’t say no.”

  “True dat,” Daryl said.

  “MR. Hudson?” Weston Zheng said without raising his hand. Weston never raised his hand. When he had something to say, he just said it. Didn’t matter who else was talking, even Mr. Hudson (who had been, in fact, discussing S. E. Hinton’s novel The Outsiders, something about conflict in Ponyboy and Sodapop’s relationship).

  “Yes, Weston.” Mr. Hudson lowered the book. The muscles at the back of his jaw flexed in anticipation. Weston never answered questions, even those directly asked by teachers, so they no longer bothered to ask him any. Weston only spoke when he wanted something.

  Weston got away with it because his mom was the president of the PTA and his dad’s face was on about a thousand real estate signs in the area. This was only middle school, but a lot of the adults already knew which students were going to be the hotshots of the future. Mr. Hudson was still in his twenties, so he’d probably be around to teach Weston’s kids someday. He didn’t want to risk any grief now or later. These were, after all, dangerous times of teacher layoffs.

  “Uh, basketball practice is early today, so can me and Theo leave?”

  “Now?” Mr. Hudson said, making a show of checking his watch. Class had only begun ten minutes ago.

  “We have a big game coming up Friday.”

  “But it’s only Tuesday,” Mr. Hudson pointed out.

  “Coach wants us to get a few extra practices in. Right, Theo?”

  Theo heard a sound come out of his own mouth. It might have been a groan. Or a squeak like a rabbit might make when a drooling timber wolf has him cornered.

  This wasn’t the first time that Weston had asked to leave early. Usually, he pulled from a grab bag of reasons: dental appointment, doctor’s appointment, therapist’s appointment, family vacation in Hawaii. This was the first time he’d used basketball practice as his excuse. And it was the first time he had included Theo.

  Theo finally found his voice. “I don’t think Coach—”

  Then Theo saw the panic in Mr. Hudson’s eyes. He had been about to contradict Weston and say that he didn’t know anything about an early practice. But that wasn’t what Mr. Hudson wanted to hear. He wanted to put on a show of being annoyed, but he didn’t want to actually catch Weston in a lie and deal with the political fallout. If Theo told the truth, Mr. Hudson would have no choice but to investigate, which would lead to a parent–teacher conference, which would put Mr. Hudson, his wife, and his three-month-old daughter in the sights of a powerful family.

  Theo cleared his throat and started again. “I don’t think Coach would want us to be late.”

  Mr. Hudson’s body seemed to sag in relief. His voice was stern, but also a little shaky, when he said, “Okay, go on. But don’t make it a habit.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hudson,” Weston said, already on his way out the door.

  Theo quickly gathered his books, notebooks, and pencils and hurried after Weston. Weston hadn’t bothered to take out any materials in class, so he was able to make a clean getaway.

  Once outside, Theo felt a hand grab his arm and yank
him to the wall. “Dude, you almost ruined everything,” Weston growled.

  “Sorry.”

  “No worries, man. It’s all good.” He slapped Theo on the shoulder as if they were old friends instead of guys who’d never spoken more than ten words to each other. The ten words that had been spoken had all come from Weston on the court, and they included such classics as “Stop dogging it!” and “You suck, dude!” and the ever-popular “Play D, dawg!”

  They headed silently toward the gym. In movies, schools were usually big boxes with hallways jammed with kids changing classes. In Orange County, most schools looked like spiders, with the principal’s office and front desk where the spider’s body would be, and all the classrooms radiating outward like legs. Each classroom had two doors, one that opened to the hallway, and another that opened to the outside. Since it was almost always sunny, students usually used the door to the outside.

  Weston and Theo walked past classroom after classroom jammed with imprisoned students. The kids inside watched them with obvious envy. Theo had to admit that seeing them trapped at their desks while he strolled freely across the grass gave him a feeling of power and privilege. He suddenly realized he liked power and privilege.

  “So, I heard you were in some kinda fight at the park,” Weston said.

  “Not really. I accidentally bumped a kid during a basketball game, and he took a swing at me.”

  Weston nodded, as if giving each word considerable thought. “I’ve never been in a fight, ’cept with my brother. My dad says he was in lots of fights when he was a kid.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “What was it like? Were you scared?”

  “Yeah. But also relieved.” Until Theo had said those words, he hadn’t realized it himself.

  “Relieved? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you grow up hearing about your dad getting into fights, so you figure it’s inevitable. One day you’re going to have to fight. You build it up in your mind, worry about whether you’ll lose an eye, or accidentally kill somebody. I don’t know. It’s just that now I did it and it’s over, I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”