Also Known as Rowan Pohi

by Ralph Fletcher

  I nodded and smiled. "I have this fantasy that I could walk up to you and introduce myself: 'Hi, I'm Bobby Steele.' And we could start over again."

  Her blue eyes were beautiful but cold.

  "That's why they call it a fantasy. Because it doesn't happen that way in real life."

  "C'mon, Heather, I'm still the same guy you hung out with in your pool, aren't I?" Sheepishly, I smiled. "I'm throwing myself on the mercy of the court."

  Trying to make a joke of it, I knelt down in front of her.

  "Get up." She wasn't amused, so I stood up.

  "You know what you are?" she said slowly. "You are like one of those bugs that imitate other bugs we studied in science. You snuck into this school by wearing a disguise. You acted like us. You dressed like us. You pretended you were one of us. But you were never one of us. Never."

  "It's way more complicated than that," I told her, but she had already walked away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I WAS LOOKING FOR ROBIN. INSTEAD I RAN INTO SETH, standing in front of his locker.

  "Did you get expelled?" he asked eagerly.

  "Change of plans!" I spread my arms wide, feigning disbelief. "Believe it or not, they decided to let me stay. What's up with that, Seth?"

  Seth's smile died. "Bullshit."

  "Word," I told him. "You can take it to the bank, Seth. I'm not even getting punished. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

  Seth's face looked pained, like I'd just struck him.

  "This isn't over," he warned.

  "Yes, it is." I took a step toward him. "I haven't told LeClerc that you guys were trying to blackmail me. Yet. I'll keep quiet about it, so long as you leave me alone."

  I put my hand on Seth's shoulder; he violently shook it off. I could feel him staring as I walked away, whistling "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah."

  By the time I found Robin, I felt like I was punch-drunk, emotionally exhausted. But today was a reckoning day. I needed to talk to her.

  "What's all the commotion?" she asked.

  "I'm not Rowan Pohi," I blurted out. "I'm Bobby Steele. Seriously."

  "But, when, you said ... How?"

  "It's way too long and complicated for me to explain now."

  She folded her arms. "Okay, I'll take the condensed version."

  I took a deep breath. "See, my friends and I created an imaginary kid. We filled out an application, faked a letter of recommendation, and got him accepted to Whitestone. Then I pretended to be him."

  She nodded, like that sort of thing happens every day. "Oh."

  "Someone squealed on me, and I almost got expelled," I added. "There's a lot more, but I'd need a couple hours to explain it to you."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "So your name is...?"

  "Bobby Steele."

  "Bobby." She said the name slowly, trying it out on her tongue.

  "Do you hate me, Robin?"

  She shook her head. "I thought you were interesting the first time I met you, and you're even more interesting now." She paused. "But I do feel kind of sad about one thing."

  "What?"

  "I'll never talk to Rowan again." She blinked. "I liked that kid."

  For the second time it hit me that Rowan Pohi had really and truly gone out of existence.

  "Rowan was cute too," she added. "That boy was baberrific!"

  "That isn't a word!"

  "Listen to you!" She sounded indignant. "You invent a whole new person and you're giving me a hard time for making up a puny little word?"

  I laughed, feeling grateful that at least one kid at White-stone was going to accept me as Bobby Steele.

  I found Throckmorton sitting at his desk in his office. He froze when I told him. He started to speak, then seemed to change his mind.

  "Well, I guess you must have had your reasons for doing what you did."

  "I did."

  He regarded me thoughtfully. "Can I still call you Ro? As a nickname?"

  I shrugged. "Fine with me."

  "Go see the trainer, Ro," he told me. "He'll fit you for a helmet and pads. We're doing full-contact drills today."

  Later that afternoon, after practice, I met Marcus and Poobs at the IHOP and told them I would buy the sundaes.

  "How come you're treating?" Marcus wanted to know. I told them what had happened that day, and they leaned forward, hanging on every word. When I finished, they laughed in amazement. Then we traded high-fives all around.

  "So Big Bobby came through," Marcus said with grudging admiration. "When it was crunch time, he had your back."

  "Yeah."

  "You dodged a major bullet, dude," Poobs put in. "And now you're officially a Stony."

  I scooped up the last puddle of hot fudge. "I hope I don't turn into a snotty preppy."

  "Not an option," Marcus assured me. "We're going to bust on you just like before."

  "I do feel bad about a couple of things."

  "What?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. It doesn't seem right. I'm going to Whitestone, and you guys are still going to Riverview."

  "Who says life is fair?" Marcus replied.

  "Thing is, it didn't have to be me who went to Whitestone. It could have been either one of you."

  "No, it couldn't," Marcus replied emphatically. "There was no way in hell I was going to walk into that school."

  "Me neither," Poobs put in.

  "Don't kid yourself, Bobby," Marcus said. "You were the one. It had to be you. And you'd be an idiot to feel bad about it."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THAT NIGHT DAD GRILLED SIRLOIN STEAKS. WHEN THE three of us sat down to eat, I noticed that something was different.

  "Where's your Indian feather?" I asked Cody.

  Dad and I stared. Cody's feather was gone.

  My brother shrugged. "Being Spider-Man is way cooler than being a Indian."

  My father put down his fork. "Spider-Man? So you're not an Indian anymore?"

  "Nope." Cody put a chunk of steak into his mouth and started to chew. I glanced over at my father, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing more. I was thinking of that expensive Indian necklace I'd gone back and bought at Kopsky's. When I surprised Cody with it, he was totally blown away, almost knocked me over with a hug. Good thing I gave it to him before his Indian phase wore off.

  "I used to wear Spider-Man pajamas when I was in second grade," I said. "Remember, Dad?"

  He smiled. "Sure I remember."

  Cody almost choked with excitement. "You did? Can I wear them, Bobby?"

  "I think Mom packed them away in my closet," I told him. "I'll look for them after supper."

  For months and months I'd been obsessing about my mother. I constructed elaborate and detailed scenes in my head, exciting adventures where I would search and finally find her in some distant city. We would fall into each other's arms in a tearful reunion. Bobby, Bobby, if you only knew how much I missed you and Cody...

  I knew now that those were pipe dreams, fantasies. That's why they call it a fantasy, Heather told me. Because it doesn't happen that way in real life.

  I was only beginning to realize how angry I was at Mom for leaving us like that. I had cast Dad as the bad guy and Mom as the innocent victim, but it wasn't that simple. She was the one who walked out on us. But she was paying a huge price for it. She was missing all the important stuff from Cody's life: loose teeth, dumb jokes, birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese, the zany finger-paintings he did in kindergarten. She'd miss my first football game against Phillips Exeter. She was missing everything.

  Still, some things are so real, so vivid, they can't easily be erased from memory. Like Mom's hermit cookies, just out of the oven. I can still taste them. I can still see the dreamy look she got stirring her morning coffee. Those little things, and a million others, make it hard to face the truth.

  Goodbye, Mom.

  Then there's Heather. I doubt I'll ever forget that afternoon we spent in her pool. For nearly an hour I had the whol
e world in my hand—two lush planets actually, or binary stars—but that world is gone. I will never get back in that pool with her or touch the trunk of that indoor tree. I will never get to ride Onyx down a wooded trail. Heather had cut me loose. Early release. I could still see the final, closed look on her face, like a deserted beach house before a hurricane with every door and window boarded up.

  Goodbye, Heather.

  Robin Whaley was surprisingly sympathetic when I told her about it later. We sat outside on the stadium stairs, watching the cheerleaders practice.

  "I'm real sorry she broke up with you, Bobby. Really, I am. It's her loss."

  "Apparently not," I said with a wry smile.

  "Well, you've still got me," Robin murmured after a moment. "Unfortunately, I don't have legs up to my eyeballs like Heather."

  "Overrated," I told her.

  She smiled. "No, it's not. But thanks for saying that."

  When she turned to look up at me, I noticed the pretty sparkle in her eyes.

  "There's a film festival at Whitestone this Saturday," she said.

  "I already have tickets," I said.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, okay."

  I pulled two tickets out of my wallet and showed them to her. "One for me, and one for you."

  "Oh." She tried to play it cool but couldn't suppress a big grin.

  Things got back on track at Whitestone, though I had to spend a lot of time explaining to teachers, coaches, and other kids who I really was. In grade school I once had a friend named Jake Goodwin whose mother remarried. All of a sudden his name changed to Jake Baver. That was weird enough, but at Whitestone my entire name changed. I had to bid farewell to someone who had been with me his whole life.

  Goodbye, Rowan.

  But not entirely. Once in a while teachers and kids still called me Rowan. Old habits are hard to break; I still answered to that name.

  And maybe some of Rowan's confidence—his chutzpah—had rubbed off on me. Case in point: That girl Robin and I observed from the library conference room, the goddess with red hair, transferred into our English class. She sat right behind Derrick.

  "I'm Bronwyn," she said, flashing me a dazzling smile.

  In the old days it would have been terrifying to be talking up close and personal to a hottie like that. But now I calmly smiled back at her.

  "Nice to meet you. I'm Bobby."

  A week later Nardone passed back the essays we'd written on To Kill a Mockingbird. I got an A-minus. Bronwyn got a C-minus.

  "Writing is not my thing," she whispered when she saw me glance over at her. "I plan it out, but every time my sentences get all knotted up. I wish somebody could help me untangle them."

  She looked at me hopefully.

  I saw the opportunity but decided to let it pass. "You should check out the writing center. They're open every day after school."

  "Oh, okay," Bronwyn said.

  I knew I was doing the right thing; still, I mentally sighed, seeing the disappointment in her eyes.

  So all in all, my life is solid. I climbed back into my old name— Hello, Bobby—and I really like who I am, for the most part. I have a job, friends at two different schools, and a little brother who needs me. Throckmorton says I've got a decent chance of making varsity as a wide receiver. I'm focused. Gradewise, I intend to kick some serious butt at Whitestone. I went to the guidance department and met with Mr. Nylander. He said if I do well at Whitestone I have a great shot at getting accepted to a good college.

  As for Dad and me, well, things aren't always perfect, but we know how to make it work. He's been extra busy lately. With the bad economy, people are hanging on to their old cars longer, so business has never been better at his garage. I'm trying to cut him a little slack, to stop mentally correcting him when his grammar gets messed up. He is who he is.

  I think about Rowan Pohi more often than you might expect. He was kind of like an imaginary friend, but he was also more than that, much more. He will always have a special place in my heart. Some nights while I'm running or in the moments before I fall asleep, I laugh out loud when I think of the stunts he pulled, walking into Whitestone on a wing and a prayer and a fake ID. That kid had balls. I guess we both did.

  I'm grateful to Rowan. I really am. I couldn't have done it without him.

  More by Fletcher:

  Fig Pudding

  Spider Boy

  Flying Solo

  Please enjoy this sample chapter of Flying Solo.

  7:03 A.M.

  Rachel White

  Rachel lay in bed, reading, waiting until the last possible minute when she absolutely had to put down her book and get out of bed.

  Many people believe that it is the air passing under the wings that supports the plane as it flies, she read. In fact, it is the air passing over the wings that provides the lift that keeps the airplane in the air.

  "Rachel!" Mom yelled. "C'mon, gal, shake a leg!"

  Rachel sighed and looked up from her book at the posters around her bedroom. Amelia Earhart. Charles Lindbergh. Sally Ride. John Glenn. It was hard to believe that they all had to go to school, too.

  Rachel swung her legs out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. She didn't look forward to school much these last six months. There wasn't much to enjoy, except for Mr. Fabiano. He was by far the greatest teacher she had ever had. Smart and funny. And simply gorgeous, with black-black eyes that could always find a place deep inside her. She had a crush on him, all right, not that she was alone. Most of the other sixth-grade girls had crushes on "Mr. Fab."

  She would never call him that nickname. No way. It made her think of Fab laundry detergent. She would always think of him as Mr. Fabiano.

  Rachel leaned forward to wash her face with cold water. She brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth, and cleared her throat.

  The guttural sound startled her. There was a hint of her voice in that sound and she had not heard her voice in the past six months.

  She remembered the day it happened. Tommy Feathers, a kid in her sixth-grade class, had brought to class some raspberry pies he'd made at his parents' bakery. Tommy had brought a wedge of pie for everyone, but he put the biggest piece of pie on her desk.

  Tommy smiled at her. He had a rather big head, and an annoying habit of humming loudly in class. He was a little slow-already he had been kept back twice, so he was two years older than anybody else in sixth grade. It was no secret that he was in love with her. Every day he tried to give her cards, stories, seashells, and now this huge chunk of raspberry pie. She tried not to be mean, but sometimes he really got on her nerves.

  "I don't like sweets," she said, pushing the pie back toward him.

  After school Tommy showed up at her house, something he had never done before.

  "I made you a whole pie," he said, grinning and holding it out to her. "A whole pie made from yellow raspberries. They're like gold. Gold is my favorite color."

  "Golden raspberries?" Mom exclaimed. "Really? How marvelous! I never heard of such a thing."

  "We picked them in New Hampshire," Tommy explained, still flashing that foolish grin. "In New Hampshire."

  "I told you I don't like pie," Rachel told Tommy. "I don't eat sweets. How many times do I have to tell you?"

  Tommy lowered his eyes and bit his lower lip.

  "Well, I certainly do," Mom said, taking the pie from him. "Thank you, Tommy. I'm going to enjoy every bite."

  That was on October 28. Next morning her best friend Missy phoned to tell her the news. Tommy Feathers was dead.

  "He died in his sleep," Missy said.

  "Oh my God," Rachel whispered into the telephone.

  She stared at the TV, a stupid cop show. A detective had just handcuffed a suspect, and the man looked guilty: scruffy beard, haunted eyes, wild hair. The detective started to read the man his rights.

  "You have the right to remain silent," he began.

  "What does that mean?" the suspect interrupted.

  "It means you have the right t
o be quiet," the detective snapped. "Now shut up and listen."

  Rachel was half-aware of Missy's voice in her ear, talking over the telephone, but she couldn't get beyond those five words. The right to remain silent. She could see them in her head: The right to remain silent.

  "What happened?" Mom asked when Rachel put down the phone, and Rachel tried to answer. She tried to say it- Tommy Feathers is dead- she reached deep down inside herself to find those words, but they were cold when she touched them. Frozen. She knew those words could never fly.

  Things got pretty crazy after that. Mom talked to her. Pleaded. Begged. Cried. That night, and for many nights after, Mom held Rachel in her arms. Mom wept and talked and begged some more.

  "Why won't you talk to your mother?" Mom asked.

  "I can't," Rachel wrote on a small pad of paper.

  Oh my God. Her last word: God.

  Her father telephoned all the way from his cattle ranch in New Mexico. Rachel held the phone against her cheek and tried to picture him, the hat and expensive boots, while she listened to his voice.

  "I don't get it," he said. "A boy in your class dies and you stop talking. It makes no sense. What's the connection?"

  Rachel breathed into the phone.

  Mom set up appointments with counselors, psychologists, therapists. A specialist named Dr. Bang-Jansen diagnosed her as a selective mute: a person who chooses not to speak. She explained to Rachel and her mother that often this kind of reaction is caused by some kind of profound emotional trauma.

  "The condition is temporary," Dr. Bang-Jansen said. "Usually."

  Sometimes Mom wrote notes, too. They'd make a pot of tea and sit at the kitchen table, both of them silent, writing back and forth.

  I'm so worried about you.

  I'm okay, Mom.

  Your father said it is as if your voice died along with that poor boy. I told him: Her voice isn't dead-it's only sleeping.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe it's just frozen. There must be some way to thaw it out.

  Writing notes back and forth helped to reas-sure Mom a tiny bit. But now there was a panicky light in her eyes.