“C’mon,” I told Howie and Ira, “we’ll talk in the basement,” which is the place we always talk about important things. Ours is what you call a finished basement, although it really should be called a someday-will-be-finished basement, because no matter how much work we put into it, there always seems to be a bare wall with insulation that’s never been covered up. It probably has something to do with my dad, who keeps putting in the wrong wiring, or my uncle, who got cheap insulation that just happens to cause cancer. Whatever the reason, walls keep having to come out. Still, the basement had become like our own military bunker where we discuss national security and play video games that my mother is convinced will rot out my brain even faster than professional wrestling. And it really pisses her off when we play the wrestling video game.
But today we’re not playing games. Today is a war council about the weird kid everyone calls the Schwa.
We sat on the floor, and I told them what I found out in the course of my investigation. “I’m not a hundred percent sure how the Schwa got his last name, but my aunt’s hairdresser’s brother is his next-door neighbor, so the story must be pretty reliable.” I paused for effect. “The story goes like this: The Schwa’s great-grandparents came over from the old country.”
“Which old country?” asked Howie.
“I don’t know, one of those old countries over there.”
“China’s an old country,” says Howie. “He doesn’t look Chinese.”
Now I know why Howie always buzzes his hair, because if he didn’t, he’d have millions of people trying to pull it out.
“He means somewhere in Eastern Europe,” Ira said.
“Anyway,” I said, “his great-grandfather’s last name is Schwartz, and for his whole life, all Great-Grandpa Schwartz wants to do is to get out of the old country and come to America, because the Statue of Liberty’s got this invitation: ’Give me your tired, your poor, your reeking homeless—”
“'Huddled masses,’” said Ira. “'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’”
“Yeah,” says Howie. “If you’re gonna misquote something, at least misquote it right.”
“Okay, fine. So, like everybody in the old countries says, 'Hey, I’m a huddled mass,’ and they all wanna come over. That’s how come my great-grandparents came from Italy, and why Ira’s came from Russia, and why yours, Howie, came from the moon.” Howie punched me in the arm for that one.
“So, anyway, Old Man Schwartz, he’s stewing out there on his beet farm, or whatever, saving his pennies to buy a ticket for himself and his wife and kids so he can take a boat to America. 'I want to die on American soil,’ he says. Finally he saves up enough money, and they pack ’em onto a boat with like, fourteen thousand other families, and they cross the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Don’t tell me they hit an iceberg,” says Howie.
“Different boat,” I said, “but around the same time, I guess. Anyway, they get into New York Harbor, pass the Statue of Liberty, everybody starin’ up at the flame going ooh and ahh like tourists without Hawaiian shirts—because, you know, they’re poor, they can’t afford Hawaiian shirts. Anyway, they let everyone off the boat at Ellis Island and they get in this long line standing in the hot sun, all sweaty in heavy coats, because these people don’t yet know to dress for the weather, because it’s always subzero in the old country. Finally they get to the front of the line. Old Man Schwartz, he’s sweating from the heat, and hyperventilating from the excitement. There’s this guy in the front of the line with a fountain pen and a big, fat black book taking down names and letting you into the country. He says, ’Your name, sir?’ And—get this—the old man says, ’Schwa—,’ then puts his hand over his heart, has a massive heart attack, and drops dead on the spot.”
“He got his wish,” says Howie. “He died on American soil.”
“Yeah. So anyway, those guys at Ellis Island, they were like your cafeteria workers of today—they didn’t care what they stuck you with, as long as they got you through the line. So they marked down the family name as ’Schwa,’ and it’s been that way ever since.”
Ira, who had been quiet for most of the story, finally spoke up. “That’s not all I heard.”
I turned to him. “What’d you hear?”
“Weird stuff—not just about him this time, but about the whole family.”
“Weird, like Twilight Zone weird?” Howie asked. “Or weird like Eyewitness News weird?”
“I don’t know,” said Ira. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
“So what did you hear?” I asked again.
“I heard his mom went to the market one day and disappeared right before everyone’s eyes in the ten-items-or-less line. Nothing was left but a pile of coupons and a broken jar of pickles where she stood.”
“Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared?”
“And why a pile of coupons, if all she had was a jar of pickles?” Howie asked.
“It’s just what I heard.” Then Ira gets real quiet. “Of course ... there’s another story.”
Howie and I leaned close to listen.
“Some say the Schwa’s father cut her up into fifty pieces and mailed each piece ... to a PO box ... in a different state ...”
“Not Puerto Rico?” says Howie.
“Puerto Rico’s not a state,” I reminded him.
“It’s almost a state.”
“Fine, so maybe he saved a piece to send to Puerto Rico when it becomes a state. Okay, are you happy?”
To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe either of Ira’s stories. “If any of this stuff happened, the whole neighborhood would know about it—wouldn’t they?”
Ira leaned in close and smirked. “Not if it happened before he moved here.”
“When did he move here?” asked Howie.
But neither Ira or I knew for sure. The thing is, there are always kids moving in and out of neighborhoods, and no matter how quietly a kid tries to come into a new school, he can’t do it without being noticed. But the Schwa did.
“I guess he kinda slipped in under everybody’s radar,” I said.
“Has anyone bothered to check if the color of his eyes really changes?” Howie asked.
“I don’t want to get that close,” said Ira.
There was silence for a second, and then Howie let off a shiver that I could feel like a tremor.
3. Quantizing the Schwa Effect Using the Scientific Method, and All That Garbage
Mr. Werthog, our science teacher, has a weird twitch in his lip, like he’s always kissing the air. It’s something you never can get used to, and might explain why my science grade keeps dropping. You just can’t concentrate on his words when you look at him. The only time it gets him into trouble, though, is during parent conference night. One guy punched him out for making kissy faces at his wife.
Now he stood in front of a science experiment featuring a large beaker filled with ice and a long thermometer. On the board he writes 34°, then turned to us. “The scientific method (kiss) is one of hypothesis, trial (kiss), results, and conclusion (kiss, kiss).”
Someone next to me taps my arm. “Hi, Antsy.”
I turn, actually surprised to see someone there. It’s like I never realized there was even a desk next to me in science. For an instant I don’t recognize the face—like no part of it is distinctive enough to stick to my memory—a face like mental Teflon.
“It’s me—Calvin Schwa.”
“Hey, Schwa—how ya doin?”
“Mr. Bonano, are you (kiss) with us today?”
“Uh ... yeah, I guess.” I don’t kiss back, on account of I once got dragged to the office for that. Mr. Werthog is sensitive that way.
“As I was saying, (kiss) can anyone give me the hypothesis leading to today’s experiment?”
The Schwa’s hand is up in an instant, before anyone else’s. We’re in the third row, right in the middle, but Werthog looks over his hand to Amy van Zandt, in the la
st row.
“Water at room temperature will boil if left in the sun.”
“Abominably incorrect!” He pours a packet of powder into the icy beaker, and stirs it. The water turns cloudly. “Anyone else?”
The Schwa’s hand is still up. Werthog calls on LoQuisha Peel.
“Lemonade reacts with ice to quench thirst?” LoQuisha says.
“Even more wrong (kiss, kiss).” He pours in a second packet of powder. The ice in the beaker begins to melt quickly. By now the Schwa is waving his hand back and forth across Werthog’s field of vision like a signal flare. Werthog calls on Dennis Fiorello.
“Uh ...” Dennis puts down his hand. “Never mind.”
The Schwa turns to me, grumbling beneath his breath. “He never calls on me.”
That’s when I raise my hand.
“Ah! Mr. Bonano. Do you have the answer?”
“No, but I’ll bet the Schwa does.”
He looks at me like I’m speaking Latin. “Excuse me?”
“You know: Calvin Schwa.”
Werthog turns his head slightly and his eyes refocus. “Calvin!” he says, like he’s surprised he’s even here. “Can you (kiss) give us the answer?”
“The reaction between reagents A and B is an exothermic reaction.”
“Excellent! And is our hypothesis proven, or disproven?”
“Proven. All the ice melted when you added reagent B, so it’s exothermic.”
Werthog pulls out the thermometer, marks down the temperature on the board, 89°, and continues his lesson.
The Schwa turns to me and whispers, “Thanks. At least now he won’t mark me absent today.”
I shake my head and laugh. “I swear, it’s like you’re invisible or something.” I say it like a joke, but then I catch the Schwa’s eyes—eyes that match the gray clouds outside the window. He doesn’t say anything, and I know I just stumbled onto something. He turns back to his notebook, but I can’t concentrate on my work. I feel like my foot is pressed down on a land mine that will blow the second I move.
***
Howie, Ira, and I got together the next Saturday morning to detonate Manny. I had told the Schwa about it the day before, but in a way I was hoping he wouldn’t show—almost as much as I hoped he would. I call it the “film-at-eleven factor.” You know, on the news, how they say, “Horrible train wreck. Graphic footage. Film at eleven.” And then for the rest of the night you’re disgusted by how much you actually want to see it, and you’re relieved if you fall asleep before it comes on.
The thing is, I can’t get past the feeling that there’s something... unnatural about the Schwa. I don’t do well with unnatural things. Take spiders, for instance. I mean, sorry, I don’t care what anyone says—there can’t be anything natural about spinning a web out of your butt. And then there’s those Hindu coal walkers. The way I see it, if God meant us to walk on hot coals, He would have given us asbestos hooves instead of feet—but first He probably would have smashed us in the head a couple of times to knock some sense into us, because why would we want to walk on coals in the first place? And don’t even get me started on my aunt Rose’s Christmas tree. First of all, it’s aluminum. Second of all, it’s pink. I mean, like the color of Pepto-Bismol, which makes sense, because I get sick to my stomach just looking at it.
Not that the Schwa is anything like a spider, or a coal walker, or a pink tree, but he is unnatural in his own disturbing Schwalike way.
So anyway, it’s seven on Saturday morning as we prepare Manny Bullpucky for detonation. I’m busy taping an M-80 firecracker to his forehead, but my mind’s obviously not on my work because I bury the whole fuse beneath the duct tape.
“You’re a real pyrotechnic wizard, Antsy,” says Ira as he pulls off the tape and redoes it.
Behind me, Howie’s upturning lawn furniture, building a barricade for us to hide behind when Manny blows.
“I’ve been thinking about the Schwa,” I said, loud enough for both Howie and Ira to hear.
“Yeah, so?” said Ira.
“I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with him.”
“Like he’s retarded, you mean?”
Howie’s disgusted by this. “The proper term is 'mentally handicapped,’” he says. “Otherwise retards get offended.”
“No,” I tell them. “The Schwa’s not mentally handicapped—it’s something else—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Hey, didn’t I say there was something weird about him?” Ira said. “I mean, like the way he always just appears, like he’s spying on you. He’s sneaky. Weaselly ...”
“I don’t think he means to be,” I told them. “It’s just . . . It’s just like he always happens to be standing in your blind spot.”
“Yeah, and when he’s around, every spot is a blind spot,” said Ira. “It’s friggin’ weird. It’s like he’s a ghost, or something.”
“You gotta be dead to be a ghost,” I reminded him. “No . . . It’s more like he’s ...” I search for the right word. “It’s like he’s functionally invisible.”
“The proper term is 'observationally challenged,’” Howie says.
“Whadaya mean 'proper term’? How can there be a proper term for it when I just made it up?”
“Well, if you’re gonna make something up, make up the proper term.”
I keep trying to think this through. “It’s like when he’s in a room and doesn’t say anything, you could walk in, walk out, and never know he was there.”
“Like the tree falling in the forest,” says Ira.
“Huh?”
“You know, it’s the old question—if a tree falls in a forest and no one’s there to hear it, does it really make a sound?”
Howie considers this. “Is it a pine forest, or oak?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Oak is a much denser wood; it’s more likely to be heard by someone on the freeway next to the forest where no one is.”
I know I’m in over my head here, because Howie’s logic is actually starting to make sense. “What does a tree in the forest have to do with the Schwa?” I ask Ira.
And the Schwa says, “I know.”
We snapped our heads around so sharply, it’s like whiplash. The Schwa was there, leaning up against my backyard fence! It’s like we’re all too dumbfounded to speak.
“I know what it has to do with me,” he said. “I’m like that tree. If I stand in a room and no one sees me, it’s like I was never there at all. Sometimes I even wonder if I was there myself.”
“Wh-when did you get here?” I asked him.
“I got here before Howie and Ira did. I was hoping you’d notice. You didn’t.”
“So ... you heard everything?”
He nodded. I tried to run the whole conversation through my mind, to see if I had said anything bad about him. His feelings didn’t appear hurt, though—like he was used to people talking behind his back in front of his face.
“I’ve wondered about it myself,” he said. “You know—being observationally challenged ... functionally invisible.” He paused for a second, then looked at Manny all strung up like a scarecrow. “You ought to find a seam in the plastic, and tape the M-80 there.”
“Huh?” It took a few seconds for me to drag my mind back to the reason why we were all here. “Oh! Right.” I went to Manny, pulled off the duct tape, and felt around his bald head for the plastic seam. I retaped the fat firecracker on the back of his head, relieved not to have to look at the Schwa. Ira fiddled with his camera, and Howie finished up our protective barricade.
“How long will it take the fuse to burn?” I asked, as illegal fireworks are not my particular academic strength.
“Twelve point five seconds,” says Howie. “But that’s just an estimate.”
We let the Schwa light the fuse, as he seemed to be the only one not afraid of blowing up, and he quickly joined us behind the barricade.
“You know, there’s
gotta be a way to quantify it,” Howie says while we wait for the fuse to burn down.
“What?”
“The Schwa Effect. It’s like Mr. Werthog says: ’For an experiment to be valid, the results must be quantifiable and repeatable (kiss, kiss).’”
“We should experiment on the Schwa?”
“Sounds good to me,” said the Schwa.
Then a blast knocks me to the ground. My ears pop and begin to ring. The blast echoes back and forth down the row of brick duplexes. When I look up, Manny’s body has flown six feet, and his head is gone again.
Ira zoomed in on the body. “Thus perished Manny Bullpucky.” He turned the camera off. Right about now every window in Brooklyn is snapping up as people wonder what morons are setting off fireworks at seven in the morning.
We hurry inside so we don’t get caught. Once we’re in, I look at the Schwa. “After that, you really want us to experiment on you?”
“Sure,” he says. “What’s life without excitement?”
I had to hand it to the Schwa. Any other kid would have flipped us off if asked to be a lab rat, but the Schwa was a good sport. Maybe he was just as curious about his own weirdness as we were.
***
LAB JOURNAL The Schwa Effect: Experiment #1
Hypothesis: The Schwa will be functionally invisible in your standard classroom.
Materials: Nine random students, one classroom, the Schwa.
Procedure: We set nine students and the Schwa seated around an otherwise empty classroom (if you don’t count the hamsters and the guinea pig in the back). Then we dragged other students into the room, and asked them to do a head count.
Results: Three out of five students refused to go into the classroom on account of they thought there’d be a bucket of water over the door, or something nasty like that, which is understandable because we’ve been known to play practical, and less practical, jokes. Eventually we managed to round up twenty students to go into the room, count the people in the room, then report back to us. Fifteen students said that there were nine people in the room. Four students said there were ten. One student said there were seventeen (we believe he counted the hamsters and guinea pig).
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