Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (15 page)

S
aturday afternoon, I was in my room, wondering whether it would set a bad precedent if I got out of bed before 11:00
A.M.
Sean had been more quiet than usual during the night, so I'd gotten some uninterrupted high-quality sleep. Dad was in the garage. Mom was midway between us, in the living room, when the phone rang.

Mom's shriek brought both ambulatory males running at full speed. I grabbed my baseball bat on my way out of the room. Dad was a bit closer, but I had gravity on my side as far as clearing the stairs, so we reached the living room at about the same time. Upon arrival, we both slid to a stop and contemplated my mom/his wife sitting there with a huge smile on her face and a phone in her hand. Based on the scream, I'd have anticipated the presence, at the very least, of an enormous spider, or a deeply evil person wearing a hockey mask and brandishing some form of bloodstained cutting tool. The fact that Dad was clutching a hammer provided one more
bit of evidence that we were a lot alike on the inside.

Mom spoke, nodded, spoke, squealed, then finally noticed the hovering protectors.

“Bobby's engaged!” she said. She immediately returned her attention to the phone.

“Bobby's dating someone?” I asked.

“Apparently,” Dad said.

He put a hand on my shoulder and backed me away from the couch. “We'll both go crazy if we try to pick up the facts from one end of the conversation. She'll fill us in soon enough.”

“I can wait,” I said.

“Me, too,” Dad said. “But it is exciting.”

“Uh, yeah.” I doubted it. I'd been to only one wedding, back when I was in third grade. It was my aunt Zelda's second marriage. Pretty much all I remembered was that you could get as much food as you wanted, and that cherry punch doesn't do much to make vomit look any less nauseating.

“Want to hang out in the garage?” Dad asked. “This could take a while.”

“I'm working on a novel,” I said.

“How's it going?”

“Slowly.”

Dad tilted his head toward the garage. “Sometimes, it's good to take a break and give your mind a rest.”

“You're right.” I followed him to the garage. “It won't hurt to take a breather.” Maybe a change of scenery would inspire
me. Maybe I could set the novel in a garage. That was worth thinking about. There could be an evil car. Yeah! A car that tries to kill people. No. Crap. Stephen King did that one already.

When Mom got off the phone, she tracked us down and shared all the details. “Her name is Amala Alverenga. He's actually known her for several years. She works as a publicist for small bands.”

And that's all we knew.

“Bobby's kind of young to get married,” I said.

“It might be good for him.” Dad said. “Your mom and I got married pretty young, and that seems to be working out okay.”

“Good point.”

November 15

Bobby's engaged. That means we'll have a sister-in-law. If he actually goes through with the wedding. He doesn't have the best track record when it comes to finishing what he started, or establishing long-term relationships. Except with music. Even there, he needs a push sometimes. But he's a really good guitarist. He's starting to make a living with it, which is pretty cool.

Time flies. Or, as they say in Latin,
tempus fugit.
The weekend fugited away, and I was once again sitting in homeroom.

• • •

“Scott Hudson, please report to the office.”

First, I'll report that sophomores are not mature enough to resist spouting variations of “
Ooooohhhh
. Someone's in truhhhh-bullllll. . . .” when the target of that announcement is within earshot. And eyeshot. And, I guess, mouthshot.

When I got to the office, the secretary told me to go see the principal. He wasn't alone. A middle-aged guy sat in a chair on the left side of the desk, wearing a suit and tie. He looked like he'd just eaten a lemon.

“This is Mr. Sherman,” the principal said. “He is the head of the school board.”

“Hi,” I said. I'd never met him, but I knew who he was. Everyone in town knew his name. You could see
Sherman Construction
signs all around this part of Pennsylvania.

Mr. Sherman didn't bother to return the greeting. Instead, he waved the Latin Club application in my face. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No,” I said. “We want to make the club more active.”

“They don't teach Latin here. We eliminated it years ago. You don't speak Latin.” He smirked like he'd just caught a three-year-old in a lie. “Go ahead, say something.”

As my brain started to slip into panic mode, I remembered the phrase I'd memorized. “
Aedificare in tuo proprio solo non licet quod alteri noceat
,” I said, letting the words from Lee's
needlepoint gift for her father roll off my tongue. I had a feeling I could have just as easily mouthed a string of gibberish for Mr. Sherman, and he wouldn't have known the difference. But Principal Hedges would probably be able to tell if I was faking it. There was a diploma on the wall behind him from Montclair State for his bachelor's degree, and one next to it from Temple for his Master's in Education. Even if he hadn't studied Latin, he'd have been exposed to enough of it to recognize the real thing.

Mr. Sherman glared at me. “That's a pretty hefty budget for a newsletter,” he said.

“It's within the amount allowed for the club. I broke down the expenses,” I said. “Everything's been properly allocated.”

“A weekly newsletter?” he said. “What's the point of that?”

“There's a lot to discuss. And we want to share the news. The more we tell people about the club, the more members we can get. We're very enthusiastic about keeping a dead language alive.”

His frown deepened. From what I'd heard about him after the election, he really didn't like education. He didn't like knowledge. But I guess he realized, whether he liked what I was doing or not, I was within my rights. He tossed the application on the principal's desk, and said, “I'll be keeping my eye on you.”

I appreciate that, sir
. I kept my sarcasm to myself.

“We're finished,” Principal Hedges said. “Good luck with the club.”

“Thanks.”

As I left the room, I heard the principal say to Mr. Sherman, “It could be a good thing.”

The door closed before I could hear the reply, but I was pretty sure it wasn't enthusiastic. Mr. Sherman was a real grump.

First period had started, so I headed for geometry. I was tempted to open the door, fall on the floor, and drag myself to my chair like a kid who'd just been beaten close to death. But I decided that it probably wouldn't be as funny as I thought. And I didn't want to mess up the good relationship I had with Mr. Stockman. So I settled for walking in, taking my seat, and offering a shrug to the inquiring eyes of those who'd heard me being summoned to the office.

I waited until lunch to tell Lee how her needlepoint had saved the day.

“You're being very altruistic,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I knew Lee didn't misuse words, but altruism is when you make a sacrifice to help others. I was doing all of this as much for myself as for the rest of the staff.

“Aren't you—” She cut off whatever she was going to say next, and glanced away.

“What?” I asked.

“Did you look at your report card?”

“Sure. I looked at it, and it sucked. So I looked away. What's the problem?”

“Take a closer look.”

I still had the report card in my backpack. I pulled it out and scanned the various numbers and letters scattered across the sheet. My eyes locked onto something I hadn't even noticed before. A single word at the bottom of the slip had snagged me and slain me.

Ineligible
.

“That means . . .” I said.

“No clubs, sports, or activities for this marking period,” Lee said.

I swore and ripped the report card in half. “That's not fair.”

“Agreed,” Lee said.

“I'm still going to the meeting Wednesday,” I said.

“Good luck,” Lee said.

I told Jeremy the same thing during the ride home. “Maybe they won't even know,” I said.

“I'm sure there's a list,” he said.

Zenger Zinger for November 18

Last week's answer:
“The weapon was a lead pipe,” John Peter said bluntly.

This week's puzzle:
“It's a shame to burn the steak,” John Peter said
_________
.

I
expected an alarm to go off when I walked into the meeting and took my seat. Or maybe everyone would leap to their feet and scream, “Unclean!”

Nobody seemed surprised to see me.

“Hi, Scott,” Mr. Franka said.

I heard giggling next to me. I looked over at Jeremy, whose face had been conquered by smugness. “What?” I asked.

“I was right. There was a list. Club presidents get it. So do club advisers.”

“So why haven't I been kicked out?” I asked.

“I looked up the club rules,” he said. “Any student can sit in on a session of any club. Nothing is secret or private. And the specific definition of
ineligible
only mentions club membership.”

“So I'm not here as a member. But I can sit in.”

“And participate in discussions,” Jeremy said.

“Can I write articles?” I asked.

“No. Sorry,” Mr. Franka said. “That's clearly out while you're ineligible.”

“What about the Zenger Zingers?” I asked. “They're anonymous.”

“We can't take that chance,” Mr. Franka said. “We violate rules, we might get shut down. We can't risk that. Besides, it's just for one marking period. Right?”

“I hope so,” I said. “Look, if someone else wants to write the Zingers right now, that's okay with me.”

Nobody wanted to step in. I was glad everyone felt it was okay to wait until I could come back.

Later, when Mr. Franka headed out, I followed him. “Got a minute?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Do you have to go to college to be a writer?”

“No. You don't
have to
go to college for that. But if you plan to be a writer, you
should
go to college to study something. It's not just about knowledge. It's about experience.”

“A lot of writers got their experience out in the world,” I said.

“True. Some of them by choice. Some of them because they never had the opportunity to do otherwise. It really depends on the type of writer you want to be.”

“I want to be a good one,” I said.

“Then expose yourself to every experience you can find or afford. That definitely includes college, if possible. And it is almost always possible.”

“Thanks.”

November 19

I nearly had to make up some fake Latin the other day, Sean. Here's the crazy thing. If you toss out some Latin-sounding stuff to try to appear smart, amazingly enough, there's a word for that.
Cacozelia
. I love that, because it sounds like caca, which is slang for crap. There are a couple other words that are related to cacozelia. Here's the best one. If you use a word that sounds right but isn't, that's a
malapropism
. Like if someone said that self-rule was
metonymy
. As much as I'd rather have anyone else for an English teacher, some of the words Mrs. Gilroy introduced us to are, as they say in Latin,
retortocerebemic
. Guess what? I made that up. You've been
cacozeliad
. Looks like there's more than one Hudson who can deliver the caca, you little diaper stuffer.

Thursday, when I saw they were holding auditions for the play, I wandered down to the auditorium to watch. I was ineligible to try out. That was okay. I had no interest in acting. I just wanted to check things out.

When the director spotted me, a look of horror rippled across his face. I guess he hadn't forgotten my audition from last year. Then the horror was replaced with relief. He pointed at me and said, “Stage crew. Right?”

“Yup. But I might not be able to do it this year.”

“That's a shame. What's keeping you away?”

“Grades,” I said.

“Well, if you manage to fix that, you're welcome at any time.”

“Thanks. What's the play this year?”

“We're doing a musical version of
Goodnight Moon
,” he said.

“That's a picture book.” I tried to imagine it being brought to the stage.

“Every object in the room has a story to tell. And a song in its heart.” His grin was followed by a sigh.

“What's wrong?”

“I wanted
The Giving Tree Opera
, but it was too expensive. The new school board is killing us with their cuts.”

“Hey, maybe next year . . .” I figured I should let him get back to work. I was about to join the stage crew members who'd come to watch the auditions when Kyle walked into the auditorium and headed in their direction. Great. He probably wanted to get on stage crew to be near Kelly, who was likely to get a role in the play. Whatever his motivation, if he was going to be part of the crew, I definitely didn't want to get involved.

• • •

I heard a car pull into the driveway. “I'll bet that's Bobby.” I got up from the couch, where Dad and I had been camping, watching the college games.

Dad nodded. “Definitely him. He told me he'd rescued a '68 Plymouth Satellite from the junkyard.”

I opened the front door. Yeah. Bobby was there, driving an enormous old muscle car I now knew was a Plymouth. He got out and headed for the trunk.

“Need a hand?” I shouted.

“Sure. Grab a bag.”

A woman got out of the passenger side. She was tall and curvy. Nearly as tall as Bobby. I feel weird saying this about my future sister-in-law, and I'm only going to say it once, but she had a great body. Her skin was dark. Her hair was abundant.

“You must be Scott,” she said.

“Somebody has to be,” I said.

Bobby gave me a weird look. He doesn't always get me. But Amala laughed. “And you were chosen for the role,” she said.

“Right. I beat out all the weaker contenders.” I grabbed a suitcase from the trunk.

Mom and Dad joined us.

“Welcome to our home,” Mom said. She held out her arms.

They hugged.

Dad held out his hand. Amala took it. I realized I hadn't offered her either a handshake or a hug. I hoped she didn't think I was a jerk. Though Bobby had probably already told her every horrifying and embarrassing story from my infancy and childhood.

Mom swept Amala off for an in-depth tour of Sean World. Dad and I helped Bobby carry their stuff up stairs.

“Is she . . .” I pointed downstairs in the general direction of Amala, Then, I pointed to Bobby's room. “. . . here?”

“Unless you want me to move in with you,” Bobby said. “We still have the old bunk bed stored in the basement.”

“No way I'm ever sleeping in that thing again.” I spent two years waiting for the top mattress to crash down and
smother me into the deep sleep of death, while Bobby lay above, oblivious, sleeping the deep sleep of sleep. Maybe that's why I liked reading Poe so much.

“Don't worry,” Bobby said. “You won't have to.”

“Your mom and I had a long discussion about this,” Dad told me.

“Mom's cool,” Bobby said.

“I wouldn't go that far,” Dad said. “But she's . . .” He looked at me for the right word.

“Tolerant?”

“Yeah.” Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “But don't you get any ideas.”

“No ideas,” I said.
Dreams, yes; ideas, no.

November 23

Sean, Bobby's fiancée is really smart. She has a degree in public relations from Kent State. I'm not sure where she's from. I mean, she grew up in south Jersey, but I can't figure out her ethnicity. If I had to guess, I'd say she's from south of the equator. But I guess I don't have to guess. She'll tell us. Or Bobby will. Or they won't. We'd learned in history about how at one time in parts of America, it was illegal to marry someone from another race. I can't imagine that. Talk about voting for stupid. . . .

Amala fit right in at Thanksgiving dinner. And she preferred thighs to drumsticks, so I didn't have to exercise altruism. Mom ground up a tiny piece of turkey for Sean, to go with his sweet potatoes and beans. She should have ground some up for Aunt Zelda, too. At least my messiest aunt and my messiest brother were seated near each other, so there was only one zone of repulsion for the eye to avoid.

Lee called me after dinner. “Don't make any plans for tomorrow,” she said.

“I was going to work on my novel,” I said.

“For NaNoWriMo?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“That's highly ambitious. How much do you have left?” she asked.

“Some . . .”

This was greeted with silence.

“A lot . . . ,” I said.

More silence.

“Pretty much all of it.”

“Do you even have a title?” she asked.

“I figured I'd save that for last.”

“First chapter?”

“Nope.”

“First paragraph?”

“Still working on it.”

“Opening line?”

“Soon. I've come pretty close.”

“You know the month is nearly over,” she said.

“Yeah. I'm not sure how that happened.”

“I give you my permission to fail,” she said.

“I don't need your permission,” I said.

“True. That's been emphatically demonstrated recently. But I'm still giving it to you. See you tomorrow. We'll pick you up around 12:30.”

“We?”

“Dad and me.”

“Yay. See you then.”

“Wear comfortable clothing,” she said.

“That's all I have.”

November 27

There's a lot of satisfaction in writing short things, Sean.