Sophomores and Other Oxymorons Page 18

  “It’s a club,” Sarah said. “I imagine we can do what we want.”

  “We should have some kind of radical humor,” Edith said.

  “We have cartoons,” Dan said. “That’s enough.”

  “No. We need written humor, too,” I said. “Something real edgy.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremy said. “It would be cool to do something funny.”

  “Like what?” Sarah asked.

  I thought about the first day in history class. “We could have three facts. No, make it ten, about a teacher, and kids will have to guess who it is.”

  “What’s so funny about that?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ll make up the facts. It will be a satire,” I said. “We can all do it. Except me, of course. We’ll have a suggestion box. Everyone who wants to will put in fake facts. We need stuff that will point to the person, but be ridiculous. Like, if we were doing Mr. Franka, since he has that Marine tattoo, one of the facts could be I have a Hello Kitty tattoo on my butt.”

  “Or I steal comic books from little kids,” Edith said. “If they complain, I make them read sonnets.”

  “Good one,” I said. Everyone knew Mr. Franka had a whole drawer of graphic novels and comics. “That’s exactly what I mean. At the meeting, we’ll pick the best ones.”

  “Let’s do it,” Richard said. Everyone nodded.

  “Don’t sign your ideas,” I said. “That way, we can be really fair when we pick the best ones.”

  “Good idea,” Sarah said. “So, who is our first victim?”

  “How about Mrs. Gilroy?” I said.

  “Perfect!” one of the juniors said. “I had her last year, and she was brutal.”

  “She’s kind of old-fashioned,” Sarah said. “Do you think she might get offended?”

  “I think she’ll be thoroughly bemused,” I said.

  And so it was decided. I went right to work when I got home, since I planned to contribute. That’s the real reason why I’d suggested we keep the submissions anonymous.

  I needed to come up with some killer “facts” about Mrs. Gilroy. She always wore those white shirts with the long sleeves. That was a good target. I grabbed a pen and wrote, “I hide my heroin addiction from the world by covering my tracks.”

  To my credit, no more than five or six seconds passed before I muttered, “No way,” and crumpled the paper. I’m happy to say I also sank a three-pointer into my wastebasket. The shirt was a good target for satire. Everyone was familiar with it. But I had to find the right approach.

  I only buy the finest shirts made by sobbing six-year-olds in Cambodian sweatshops.

  Crumple. Swish. Three points!

  Child labor wasn’t funny. Satire was tricky. I didn’t want to harm innocent bystanders.

  What else did a white shirt imply? Purity? Ewwww. No way was I going in that direction. The thought made me shudder. I put the shirt aside and looked for other ideas. Ten minutes later, I had three good facts, and two others that would be okay if nobody came up with anything better:

  Fake Facts about Mrs. Gilroy

  I was drawn to my profession after dating William Shakespeare in my youth.

  My teeth aren’t false. They’re just undecided.

  I got tossed off the Mayflower for correcting every-one’s grammar.

  I have a great sense of humor. I laugh when I hand out bad grades.

  During the summer, I earn extra money working for local farmers as a scarecrow.

  That seemed like plenty—especially since the rest of the staff was going to be contributing, too. As I was getting ready to move on to my real work, another one hit me.

  I make all my own shirts from a pattern I found in Dressing Dreadfully Magazine.

  Not bad. And I might be able to think up a way to tweak it a bit. After that, I’d print them out and cut each into a strip. I figured that if I just put the whole list in the box, someone might recognize my style.

  • • •

  I went to the meeting room at lunch time and put my strips in the box. I hoped the first piece was a success. I had plans for suggesting Ms. Denton next. Latin Club vengeance is sweet vengeance. I’ll bet that sentence would sound even sweeter in Latin.

  When the meeting started, Sarah dumped the contents of the box onto the table. I was relieved to see plenty of other strips.

  “Wow, lots of ideas,” she said. “Let’s do a quick sort, and then narrow it down. I’ll read each one. Raise your hand if you want to keep it under consideration.”

  She started reading. I heard some pretty funny suggestions. Three of mine made the first cut, including the one about the shirt. From there, we kicked around our thoughts and cut the list to the ten best entries. Two of mine survived—the shirt and the Mayflower. Someone else had come up with a better one about Mrs. Gilroy’s false teeth. Based on his smile each time it was read, I figured the author was Jeremy.

  “Good job,” Sarah said as she typed the ten survivors into her laptop. “This will be fun.”

  For sure, I thought, relishing the idea of hitting Mrs. Gilroy with some writing she wasn’t going to be able to shoot down or slap with a bad grade.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  January 9

  We read “The Monkey’s Paw” in English, Sean. It was creepy, but not really scary. I think, ages ago, when we weren’t flooded with TV shows and movies filled with special effects, it would have totally freaked me out. I’ll bet it was the first story to use that sort of twist. But a zillion writers have borrowed the idea since then. The more we move into the future, the harder it is to get scared by the old stuff. But there are always new fears to take the place of the old ones. And that classic advice—be careful what you wish for—is as good in the real world as it is in the fictional one.

  Dad’s ears perked up as the rumble came through the walls. It was Saturday, and we’d just finished lunch. Actually, it was lunch for my parents, breakfast for me.

  “Ferrari,” Dad said.

  He got up from the table and headed for the front door. I followed. Nobody we knew had a Ferrari.

  It was a red one. I think that’s their natural color in the wild. Wesley waved at me from the driver’s seat.

  “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

  “My dad’s friend was over,” Wesley said. “He asked me to get it washed.”

  “The car wash is right down the street from you,” I said.

  “The closest one is,” Wesley said. “But what fun would that be?”

  “I see your point,” I said.

  “Go for a ride?” he asked.

  I was about to nod, but then I realized he was talking to Dad.

  Dad looked at me. Then he looked at Wesley. They had a brief conversation made up entirely of glances and nods.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I think you’ll appreciate it more.”

  “Tell your mom I’ll be back in a bit,” Dad said. He slid into the passenger seat.

  I went inside to deliver the news to Mom. She understood.

  I heard the rumble again about an hour later. Dad was behind the wheel, and Wesley was in the passenger seat. Both of them were laughing. As they got out and walked past the front of the car, they exchanged a high five. Then Wesley got back in the driver’s seat.

  I caught Wesley’s eye before he took off and mouthed, “Thanks.”

  He responded with a grin.

  “Fun?” I asked Dad.

  He shook out his hand. Wesley had a hard slap. “Yeah,” he said. “As long as your mom never finds out about the speeding tickets.”

  “Tickets?” I couldn’t help noticing the plural.

  “Tickets,” Dad said.

  • • •

  In geometry on Tuesday, I opened Lee’s copy of the paper and pointed to the “Ten Amazing Facts about Me” article. The art staff had added some
killer illustrations. I watched Lee’s eyes as she read. And I watched her mouth, waiting for a grin. Her expression shifted through a variety of responses, none of which conveyed amusement.

  When she was finished, she closed the paper and said, “Kind of harsh.”

  “Kind of deserved,” I said.

  Throughout the day, I caught snatches of conversation about the piece. It seemed to be a hit. I forced myself to pause when I reached the door of English class. I was wearing the crazy smirk of vengeance delivered. That would give me away. I backed off, and tried to rein in my joy. When I felt ready, I walked into the room. As I turned toward my desk, I risked a glance at Mrs. Gilroy. She looked as stern as usual. But maybe there was an extra glint of displeasure in her expression. I couldn’t be sure. Well, if she hadn’t seen the article by now, she’d see it eventually. Or someone would tell her about it.

  I took my seat and watched the door. At least half the kids who came in had the paper. Some of them must have read the piece. Josh pointed at it, then pointed at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “Did I what?” I asked, playing stupid.

  “Never mind. But whoever did this is a genius.”

  It was hard, but I kept my mouth shut. When class started, Mrs. Gilroy swept her gaze slowly across the room, as if to connect with every pair of eyes. I stared back, unblinking as she locked in on me. I held steady until she moved on.

  “We’re going to put Eudora Welty aside for the moment,” she said, “and examine a major aspect of literature.”

  She walked to the board and wrote “SATIRE.”

  Or most of that word.

  Halfway through the E, she dropped the chalk. And then, she dropped. It was a slow fall. She clutched the edge of the chalk tray on the way down and knelt, like someone in church. From there, she crumpled over. She didn’t hit the ground hard. But she ended up on her side on the floor. Her right hand clutched at her heart. I stood there, frozen, hoping she was playing some kind of cruel joke on me. I heard sneakers slapping tiles as kids raced to get the nurse.

  Paramedics came. I stood there the whole time. After they took Mrs. Gilroy away, Lee put a hand on my back. I realized I was shaking.

  “My fault . . . ,” I whispered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

  “I gave her a heart attack.”

  “You’re not that good.”

  My head snapped toward her.

  “Sorry. Just trying to make you feel better,” she said.

  “It’s not working.”

  “Seriously, you can’t blame yourself. You don’t even know if she read it.”

  I went to Mrs. Gilroy’s desk and picked up the paper. I couldn’t tell whether it had been opened. But she’d had time to read it. So she’d probably taken a look. The written word was her life. I hoped it wasn’t her death.

  • • •

  “We killed her,” Jeremy said after we got on the bus.

  “She’s not dead,” I said.

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “She can’t be. There’s no way we can live with that,” I said. “She has to be alive.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  January 13

  I suck, Sean.

  Before I left school, I’d asked Chuck Peterson to let me know if he heard anything. He told me he’d ask his mom when she came home from her shift at the ER. Late that night, I got a message that Mrs. Gilroy wasn’t dead. That’s all Chuck knew. The message didn’t wake me. I was up.

  • • •

  “We’re not murderers,” I told Jeremy the next morning.

  “Yeah. Just thugs and bullies,” he said. “I never pictured myself as a bully.”

  “I never pictured you that way, either.”

  “Power is seductive,” he said. “So is anonymity. It’s easy to hurt people when they can’t look you in the eye.”

  “I guess that’s why the Internet is so popular,” I said. “And so vicious.”

  • • •

  When I got to English the next day, I saw a very familiar face.

  “Oh, no . . . ,” I said to Lee.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I thought about the best way to explain the problem, but then I realized it would be more interesting to watch her expression as she discovered it for herself.

  “Albayer substoot ferda raysta dawake, orayven langa” the man at the front of the class said. The whole time he spoke, he also enthusiastically chewed a wad of gum, punctuating the words with random wet smacks.

  Most of the kids were obviously puzzled. Several, like me, knew what was going on. And we knew what was coming.

  A kid in the front row raised his hand.

  “I didn’t understand you,” the kid said.

  Here it comes, I thought.

  “Nwarries, smite!” the teacher said.

  I knew he was saying No worries, mate! That was the only phrase of his I’d ever been able to decipher. I settled back in my seat.

  “What’s going on?” Lee asked.

  “That’s Mr. Kamber,” I said. “He’s from Australia. I had him for Spanish last year.”

  “Spanish?” Lee said. “That’s unimaginable.”

  “Pretty much. And unintelligible.”

  “English isn’t going to be much better,” she said.

  “I suspect you’re right.”

  • • •

  I thought about skipping the newspaper meeting. But I wasn’t quite that big a coward. Mr. Franka was already there when I came in, sitting with his chin propped on his hand. He didn’t look at any of us as we took our seats.

  Finally, after what felt like a century, he sighed, as if he was about to start talking. Then, he dropped his forehead onto his hand, like he was totally at a loss for words. He shook his head.

  “Forget it,” he said. Though he used a different F word. He got up and walked toward the door. “You know exactly what you did. You don’t need a lecture.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Do better. You’re journalists. Just . . . do better.”

  He went out.

  “It’s my fault,” I said. “I’ll quit. I’ll take all the blame.”

  “You can’t quit,” Jeremy said. “Because you’re not a member.”

  “And you can’t take the blame,” Sarah said. “Or everyone will know we let an ineligible student come up with ideas for the newsletter.”

  “So, what do we do?” I asked.

  “We write an editorial about satire and responsibility,” she said.

  “I’ll do it.” I blurted that out, and then wished I could blurt it back in. “Sorry. I’ll just shut up.”

  I kept quiet for the rest of the meeting.

  Throughout the week, all of us waited to be called down to the office. Or for the principal to disband the Latin Club. But nothing happened.

  I never thought that not being punished would be such a painful punishment.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The last time I’d been to the hospital was right after Sean was born. That was a happy memory. But the time before that, I’d gone to visit someone who’d tried to kill himself. This time, it was someone I might have almost killed with my stupid idea for a satire.

  I was relieved that Mrs. Gilroy seemed totally alert. I was also dismayed. I’d hoped for the saving grace of a bit of sedation to take the edge off her sword.

  “Mr. Hudson,” she said, “this is a surprise. I know you aren’t here to tell me you’re nominating me for teacher of the year.”

  “Yeah. I mean, no, I’m not.” I seemed to have lost most of my basic English skills.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “The thing in the paper . . . ,” I said.

  My unfinished sentence remained dan
gling.

  “It’s my fault. My idea. I didn’t write all of it, but I wrote some of it,” I said.

  “I recognized your style,” she said.

  “So you read it?” I asked.

  “I do have a professional interest in the writing of Zenger High students, many of whom find their way into my honors English class,” she said. “Your flaws reflect poorly on me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That was a plural pronoun. You are far from unique in being flawed. You owe me no apology for that.”

  “But I gave you a heart attack,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Of course you did. You meant harm. That was your purpose. This was personal. Don’t try to deny it. You picked me as the target of your satire because you wanted to hurt me.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Don’t think something as silly as a sophomoric attempt at humor could affect my health in the slightest,” she said.

  “But you had a heart attack,” I said. “I was there.”

  She shook her head. “For a professed writer, you are not a very keen observer.”

  I thought back to when she’d collapsed. I remembered her clutching at her chest. I’d assumed she was reacting to pain. But maybe she’d been doing something else, and I’d misinterpreted it. She always wore a necklace with a large locket. “Were you reaching for some kind of medicine?”

  “That’s better,” she said. “What else do you notice?”

  I looked at her. That felt weird. I was used to seeing her in her long-sleeved white blouses, not in a hospital gown. I noticed a needle in her right arm, on the inside, right past the bend of the elbow. But it wasn’t a regular IV needle. It was like there was a tube in her arm, or some kind of port.

  I pointed at it. “That’s why you wore long, loose sleeves.”

  “You’re clawing your way up from a C minus,” she said. “I wish you didn’t move at such a glacial pace. If you’re putting me at risk of anything, it’s death from old age and boredom. Try to accelerate your epiphanies.”

  “It’s for medicine of some kind. Right?”

  “Right.”