Navigating Early

by Clare Vanderpool

  She was also like the sand that archaeologists dig through. Layers and layers of sand that have kept dinosaur bones together for millions of years. And as hot and dusty and plain as that sand might be, those archaeologists are grateful for it, because without it to keep the bones in place, everything would scatter. Everything would fall apart.

  I glanced once over my shoulder, but the boy was gone.

  2

  The next day was filled with boys, boxes, and bulletin boards. Suitcases, books, and pillows. And everywhere there were moms giving bosomy hugs and tear-filled kisses.

  I spent most of the day in the library, wandering from shelf to shelf, breathing in the familiar smell of books and wood polish and India ink. It felt good to be closed in among the stacks, which didn’t pitch and sway. They were solid and stable. Maybe that’s how cows feel when they come into the barn after a day in the open field.

  The librarian introduced herself in a quiet, librarianly manner, saying her name was Miss B. She smiled and said it was short for Bookworm. I didn’t say much, so she gave me a quick tour of the library, showing me the fiction section and resource books, and she got particularly excited at the poetry collection. When I didn’t match her level of enthusiasm for Longfellow and Hopkins, she just smiled, encouraged me to have a look around, and returned to her card catalog. I wandered around the stacks until I found the National Geographic magazines. Standing in front of those bright yellow spines all lined up in numerical order, it felt, for a moment, like I had a place, a tiny spot where I belonged.

  Then the door was flung open and two boys poked their heads in. Glancing around, they apparently didn’t find who or what they were looking for and left.

  There had been no opportunity for introductions, but even if there had, I wasn’t sure what I would have said. Hi, my name is Jack. I’m from Kansas and I wish I was still there. Still, it would have been nice to have had at least a couple of names to put with those faces. There was a large trophy case on the far wall of the library. Maybe some of those boys’ pictures will be in there, I thought.

  The case was full of trophies and plaques from years of Morton Hill Academy victories. Basketball, football, track and field. Mixed in were pictures of young men in their team uniforms, smiling with the joy of winning and standing with arms over each other’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. I studied the faces—ripe, ruddy, youthful, as if they were faces from history. That was pretty much what they were, as the dates stretched all the way back to the late 1800s.

  As I walked the length of the trophy case, the faces spanned the years, one blurring into the next. Then one stood out.

  An older boy stood in a picture all his own. His hair was slicked back, and he had a strong, handsome face. Written at the bottom in white ink were the words Morton Hill All-Team Captain, Rowing and Football, Class of 1943. The picture rested against a jersey with the player’s name and number on the back: FISH–67. But it wasn’t the jersey or the trophy that held my attention. It was his face. His smile. He smiled as if he held life in that championship cup and he could drink from it whenever he liked. He smiled as if that victorious moment would last forever.

  Then I noticed my own reflection in the glass. My face was different. Not just because it was younger. Not just because I wasn’t smiling. But because the past summer had taught me a lesson that, from the looks of it, the all-team captain had yet to learn: life can’t be held in a cup, and nothing lasts forever. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Number 67 and all he didn’t know.

  Monday morning came like a cool Kansas rain shower on a hot, humid day. In other words, it was a relief. Because now at least I had a schedule. I knew that history came first, followed by Latin, English, and math. Science and phys ed were held in the afternoon.

  I figured if I knew what was coming, maybe I’d get my bearings. That was what I needed. Bearing. At home you could walk outside and see for miles in every direction. You could always figure where you were, based on which church steeple or windmill or silo rose like a beacon out of the horizon. They were landmarks that served to keep a person rooted. Grounded. But then it struck me: to have landmarks, you had to have land. And the salt air filling my lungs reminded me that most of what surrounded me in this place was water. Constantly moving, changing water. I started feeling queasy again.

  The history teacher was a short man with stubby fingers who seemed very excited about a bunch of Greeks who all must have been from the same family—Oedipus, Perseus, Theseus. His name was Professor Donaldson. He called roll, and every kid said “Here” except for one. Early Auden.

  Latin. Mr. Hildebrandt. Same roll call. Same kid absent. Early Auden.

  All the way until math. Then who showed up? Early Auden. And I recognized him. It was the kid from the beach. The boy with the sandbags. He was a little fella, about four foot something. His feet dangled just above the floor when he sat at his desk.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” The math teacher greeted us as he set down his mug of steaming coffee. “My name is Professor Eric Blane,” he said as he began writing on the chalkboard. “As many of you know, this is my first year at Morton Hill, and I’m looking forward to getting acquainted with each and every one of you.”

  He turned to face us, and we all stared at what he’d written on the board.

  The Holy Grail

  “We all know from the legend of King Arthur about Sir Galahad and his search for the Holy Grail—that sacred, mysterious, and oh-so-elusive chalice used at the Last Supper. For centuries it has been revered as a miraculous vessel and has been sought after by kings and princes, humanitarians and tyrants. There is supposedly a brotherhood of guardians to keep it safe. Or, might we say, keep its mysterious allure from being evaluated in the light of modern-day knowledge and skepticism.”

  Mr. Blane sat on the desk at the front of the room. “We’re not here to discuss the authenticity of the Grail, but rather the nature and merits of a quest. Why does one embark upon a quest?” Mr. Blane looked down at his seating chart and glanced around the room. “Sam Feeney?”

  A pudgy kid sitting next to me squinted an eye. “Arrgh. To find buried treasure, matey.”

  The other boys laughed.

  “Spoken like a true pirate,” said Mr. Blane. “But yes, to search for something. It can be treasure. However, it can also be a search for something less tangible. Ever hear of a quest for happiness? Or a quest for justice?”

  “Buried treasure sounds a little more exciting,” said Sam.

  “Maybe. But what about a quest for the truth? Perhaps that was really Sir Galahad’s goal. To demystify the miraculous. What if he was looking for the Grail—that miraculous vessel—to show that it was just a cup?”

  The boys looked at the teacher with furrowed brows. “Jeez, Mr. Blane, you sure know how to take the fun out of a good story,” said Robbie Dean Meyer, a red-haired kid I’d sat by in Latin. “And besides, isn’t this math class?”

  “Precisely. So what does this have to do with math?” said Mr. Blane. “What is the holy grail of mathematics? Something that is so mysterious as to be considered by many almost miraculous. Something woven throughout the world of mathematics. A number that is nothing less than never-ending. Eternal.”

  Several hands shot up at the last clue.

  “Preston Townsend?”

  “That would be pi, sir,” answered an athletic-looking boy in the second row. His hair was precisely combed, and the way he sat back in his chair, poised with pencil in hand, he looked like he was about to call an important meeting to order. I figured his father must be a banker or a politician. Or maybe the governor of the great state of Maine.

  “Yes, pi. The holy grail of mathematics. That mysterious number that has entranced mathematicians for millennia. It originated with the Babylonians, was used by the Greeks in measuring the Earth, was thought to be a miraculous number by some and the work of the devil by others. So what is the number pi? Robbie Dean?”

  “That’s a trick question, Mr. Blane. Ev
eryone knows that pi starts with 3.14 and keeps on going. We all had to memorize the first one hundred digits last year. But pi is—”

  The whole class joined him in saying, “A never-ending, never-repeating number.”

  “See, everyone knows that,” concluded Robbie Dean.

  “You mean everyone has accepted that as fact,” countered Mr. Blane.

  We shifted in our seats, unsure of what he meant.

  “Alongside Sir Galahad, I believe, we can add another name to the list of great seekers. His name is Professor Douglas Stanton. He’s a mathematician at Cambridge who is on a quest of his own. He has spent much of his career studying this number and has a theory that, contrary to popular belief, pi is not a never-ending number. That yes, it is an amazing number that has over seven hundred digits currently known, and thousands more that haven’t been calculated yet. But he believes it will, in fact, end.”

  Mr. Blane brushed the chalk dust from his fingers. “Why do I mention this today? Because this year, we are going to embark on a quest of our own to expand our minds, to challenge what we think we know, and to push the boundaries of mathematics. If pi, the most venerable number, can be proven to end, what else are we blindly believing that might be put to the test? So”—Mr. Blane loosened his tie—“let’s get down to the business at hand. Open your textbooks to page one, and let’s begin.”

  I glanced behind me, but Early’s desk was empty and the classroom door quietly shut.

  3

  Walking into the cafeteria that first day, I remembered the headmaster’s words of advice about sitting with a group in the lunchroom.

  As much as I would have preferred to be by myself right then, I made my way through the lunch line, picked up my tray of meat loaf, green beans, and Jell-O with banana slices, then ventured over to a table of boys I recognized from some of my classes.

  One boy—it was the chubby Sam Feeney—moved over easy enough as he continued the conversation. “Anybody who thinks you can outrun a cutter with a gig is a pinhead. Let’s ask the new kid. Baker, which is faster? A cutter or a gig?”

  I had no idea what they were talking about, so I took the safe way out. I shrugged and said, “Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

  “Well, what about the oars?” asked Robbie Dean. “Do you prefer whiffs, wherries, or rum-tums?”

  “Oh, you know. Whiffs or wherries, usually. But rum-tums’ll do in a pinch.”

  They looked at me steadily, I’m sure wondering what to make of me, when Preston Townsend said, “So, what brings an inlander like you to Maine?” The way he asked the question, I decided his dad was probably a lawyer instead of the governor.

  I felt my face get hot. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess,” was my weak reply.

  “I hear it’s so flat in Kansas that you can see all the way to the next state in every direction,” Sam said. “Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “What with the waving wheat and the brilliant sunsets, I guess we don’t bother to look too far away.” I was putting up a good front, but my diversionary lines were running out. One more question and my jitters would probably show through in either spilled milk or dripping sweat. Thinking fast, I decided to shift the focus to someone else’s strangeness. “So, what’s with the kid who never shows up to class?” I asked.

  “Early Auden?” Preston answered. “Not much to tell. His dad was on the board of trustees, had a heart attack and died. So now the kid gets a free ride here, but he picks and chooses what classes he wants to show up for. Sometimes he takes a seat and then leaves as soon as the teacher says something he disagrees with. He’s so weird that nobody does anything about it.”

  “Yeah,” Sam piped in. “Last year he walked out of biology class and never came back just because Mr. Nelson said there are no venomous snakes in Maine. Early insisted there are still timber rattlesnakes up north and walked out.”

  “How come he’s so sure there are timber rattlesnakes?” I asked.

  “Who knows. He’s all-fire sure about most things. Sometimes he has these weird fits when his eyes go all blank and he kind of twitches. They think having those fits messed up his brain somehow.”

  The bell rang, ending any further discussion about the odd boy. But I knew there had to be more to the story than that.

  “See you at PE, Baker. And don’t forget your rum-tums.” Preston smirked as he got up from the table.

  Coach Baynard stood at the deep end of the indoor pool, light reflecting off the water, which was in turn splashing ripples of light on the tile wall. The air was thick and moist, with the sharp scent of chlorine. He gave his whistle a firm blast that echoed around the room. Boys in black swim trunks lined up, displaying an assortment of bare legs: long, short, mostly skinny, a few chunky, hairy, white, knobby kneed, gangly, awkward.

  Coach blew his whistle again, “All right, you yay-hoos, let’s see what you can do with this.” He hefted a ten-pound weight off the floor and threw it into the deep end. “Dive in, then push or carry the weight as far as you can without coming up for air. Once you surface, that’s your distance. Robbie Dean. You’re up.”

  Dean stood at the pool’s edge, raising his spindly arms with hands clasped above one shoulder, then the other, as if he were the reigning underwater-weight-moving champion of the world. “Let me show you how it’s done, fellas.”

  After a few catcalls from the crowd he grinned and dove into the water.

  The rest of us watched from the deck as he frog-kicked his way to the bottom, first pushing, then pulling on the weight. Robbie Dean got it halfway up the sloped floor before he came to the surface, sputtering and grinning. “Beat that, boys,” Robbie Dean called.

  The boys on deck pointed and hollered as the weight slipped back to its starting position at the bottom of the deep end. “You really showed us. Yeah, give us another lesson, why don’tcha?”

  Sam Feeney was next. He got the brick up the incline before he had to come up for air. Preston Townsend did the best, pushing the brick halfway across the pool.

  The coach called out another name. “Baker. You’re up.” I looked around, surprised, thinking there must be another Baker, then realized he was looking at me. “Come on, son. You know how to swim, don’t you?”

  Of course I could swim. My mom took me to the pond near our house from the time I was little. I could swim faster and hold my breath longer than any boy close to my age.

  “I can swim,” I answered, taking my place at the pool’s edge. My big toe pressed into the eight-foot marker, etched in red. The lights playing on the tile wall left me feeling unsteady. But with everyone’s eyes on me, I dove in.

  I swam easily to the bottom, down by the drains. There was the ten-pound brick, waiting for me to be the first one to push it all the way across the pool. But something else caught my attention. Something shiny, glimmering. A ring? I knew it had to be my imagination. My navigator ring was nowhere near this pool. Still, something shimmered near the drain. I’d been so excited when my dad gave me the ring, just before he left for the war. That was back when I thought it could make me a navigator like him, guiding a ship by the light of the stars. And that with that ring, I could always find my way. But after the scout survival camp last July, which I barely survived, I knew these things weren’t true. Like I’d told my mom, it was just a stupid ring. But now it weighed heavily on me, pulling me under.

  I reached for it in the bottom of the Morton Hill pool, the deep water pressing in around me. My ears hurt and my lungs were bursting. Then I couldn’t see it anymore. Nothing glimmered. But it had been there. I pulled on the metal drain cap. It wouldn’t budge. I felt sleepy, like my eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. But I had seen it. It had been there.

  Suddenly, I felt strong hands clamp around my arms and pull me toward the surface. Air. Light still splashed on the tile walls. And lots of faces stared at me.

  Coach pulled me toward the side and some other hands dragged me out of the water.

  “Is
he breathing?” Robbie Dean whispered.

  I sputtered and coughed, answering his question.

  “Move out of the way,” Coach barked. “Hey, Baker? What were you doing? You were under for over a minute and didn’t even touch the brick.”

  “I … I …” Tears were lurking just behind my eyes. “I feel kinda sick,” I muttered.

  “Right. You do look a little pale. Hit the locker room, kid. You’ll get it next time.”

  It had been there, that shiny ring.

  I grabbed a towel and stumbled my way to the locker room, only to hear a group of upperclassmen whooping and snapping towels at each other. I’m no genius, but even as cloudy-headed as I felt just then, I knew my skinny white legs would be all too easy a target in there.

  So I opened the first door I came to and followed the stairs down a flight, to the open doorway of a dimly lit workroom. My head still spun as I leaned back into the coolness of the metal door marked Custodian. I closed my eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass, remembering.

  Our Boy Scout survival outing was in the woods of northeastern Kansas. The scout leader set each of us out on a course that we’d have to navigate using only landmarks, the stars, and our wits. We’d been preparing for weeks. We’d gone over the North Star, the Big Dipper and Little Dipper—all the constellations. I could identify them all. But that day the sky was overcast. It was only supposed to be a mile out and a mile back. We’d have to rely on landmarks unless the clouds cleared. I knew I’d be done before it got dark and wouldn’t need to use the stars anyway.

  But as I walked on that humid July evening, each tree looked like every other. One bush blended in with the next. Rocky paths meandered this way and that, leaving me so turned around, I could barely tell which way was up.

  It was almost ten o’clock at night before I heard the scoutmaster and the other scouts calling for me. The whole way home I had to listen to the boys’ teasing—how I couldn’t find my way out of a bushel basket and how they were glad my dad had a better sense of direction than I did, or his ship would have never found the shores of Normandy on D-day.