Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (2 page)

I
was trying to cross a six-lane highway. Cars shot toward me from both directions. Just after I leaped over the center divider, the highway turned into a football field. Cars converged from all directions now, as if I'd wandered into a demolition derby.

Horns blared.

What the heck!

I sat up, and tried to blink away the darkness. But it remained blinkproof. I checked my clock. 5:30. A horn blared again. I stumbled to the window. There was a delivery truck at the curb. Bongo's Bagels. Both the
o
's in “Bongo's” were made of sliced bagels. And the l in “Bagels” was a knife with cream cheese smeared on it.

I saw upstairs lights flick on in two of the houses across the street. I suspected lights might also be turning on in houses on either side of us.

A guy wearing a white cap got out of the bagel truck
and headed for my front door. Even from above, I knew that walk. It was Wesley. My pal. My scary, dangerous, awesome friend. And, apparently, my friend with no concept of time or adolescent sleep requirements.

I opened my window, and tried to get Wesley's attention with a whispered shout before he started pressing the doorbell. “What are you doing?”

He craned his head back and waved at me, then pointed at the truck. “I got a new job. Delivering stuff. To the
school.
How's that for a lucky break? I can give you a ride every morning, just like last year. So you don't have to take the bus. Come on down. I'm running late.”

Teeth unbrushed. Bladder unemptied. Stomach unfed. Eyes unfocused. Brain unactivated. No way. “Thanks. But I'm running late, too. I'll call you after school.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Hey, a couple bagels spilled out when I hit the curb. They're still hot. I'll get you one.”

“That's okay,” I called. But he was already sprinting back to the truck. He leaned in through the passenger window and grabbed something from the foot well. I was still sliding up the screen when he chucked the bagel, flinging it at me with the form and force of a champion Frisbee thrower. Both my hands were occupied. The bagel hit my head, then ricocheted into the room.

Ouch.

It felt like a salt bagel. At least he hadn't been delivering pies. Or bricks.

I slid the screen down, closed the window, and went back to sleep.

Briefly.

Sean started crying at 5:45
A
.
M
.

This was going to be a long day.

The third time I rose—with the help of my alarm—it felt like someone decided to explore the depths of my ear canal with an electric drill. And something seemed to be missing. But I couldn't figure it out right away.

As I walked downstairs, I realized the two things that weren't there—bacon and blueberry pancakes. That's what Mom always made for the first day of school.

There was nobody in the kitchen. I guessed Dad had already left for work. I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk, then hunted through the cabinets for cereal.

Mom walked into the kitchen. “You're up early.”

“That's because I have school,” I said.

Her eyes widened as the words sank in. “Oh, Scott! I'm so sorry. I totally forgot. I got so involved talking with your dad about the garage. He's really excited. Then Sean woke up several times. And somebody was honking a horn right outside the house. Sit down. I'll make breakfast.”

That's what I call “the Sean effect.” Last night, Mom had mentioned school. So she knew about it. This morning, after
getting up two or three times to take care of Sean, she'd totally forgotten about school. I wished I could let my teachers borrow Sean when it was time to hand out homework assignments.

Mom snatched an egg from the fridge and the milk from the table, and then grabbed the pancake mix. I checked the clock and did the math. As good as Mom was with a spatula and a frying pan, pancakes would take a while. So would the bacon.

“That's okay,” I said. “I don't want to miss the bus.”

“I can give you a ride.”

I pictured her trying to make breakfast, get dressed, buckle Sean into the car, and then drive me to school.

“It's really okay.” I retrieved the milk and poured some on my cereal. Mom looked so sad that I added, “We can have a first-week-of-school breakfast on Saturday. That way, I can take my time and enjoy everything. Your pancakes are too good to eat in a hurry.”

“That's a great idea,” she said.

While there wasn't time for pancakes and bacon, there also wasn't any need to gulp down my cereal. Freshman year, I'd been so anxious about everything, I was the first kid at the bus stop. This year, I took my time.

“Have a great day,” Mom said as I headed out.

“I will.”

“Be sure to make a good first impression.”

“No problem.”

When I was a block away from the bus stop, I saw that half a dozen kids were already there. I recognized some of them from middle school. I was pretty sure, based on their neatly ironed clothes and lack of height, that they were all freshmen. I paused at the curb to study them. Which one would have been me last year? There was a boy reading a book. Even from far off, I could recognize the cover.
No More Dead Dogs.
Good choice. Another boy and a girl were talking. The remaining three freshmen, two girls and a boy, stood there in isolation. The boy standing the farthest to the right was wearing a knitted hat with a pompom on top. Bad idea. He was the shortest of the group, which was also a bad idea.

A cluster of older kids—mostly sophomores, along with a handful of juniors and two seniors—headed toward the stop from the other direction. When I'd started ninth grade, the seniors had looked like giants to me. This year, the new crop of seniors still looked big, but they no longer reminded me of mythical monsters. During the past year, I'd gained a bit of height, and they'd lost a bit of stature.

The cluster reached the reader. One of the new juniors, Liam Dortmund, knocked the book out of the kid's hands as he passed by him, almost as an afterthought. The kid waited until the whole group moved by, then reclaimed the book and resumed reading. He was safe for the moment. The mob had spotted the pompom.

Another of the juniors, Bram Eldicott, snatched the hat from
the kid. He tossed it to Liam. The kid who'd been de-cap-itated let out a yelp of protest. If the cry had been one octave higher, I think windows would have shattered. Bram and Liam tossed the hat back and forth, while the kid played the monkey in the middle, leaping fruitlessly in an attempt to snatch the hat in flight.

I remembered the mindless bullying that had victimized Mouth Kandeski and some of the other freshmen at the bus stop last year. I'd had my own problems with bullies on the bus, and in the halls of Zenger High. I decided to test the theory that one person could make a difference.

Liam had his back to me. I walked up behind him, waited until Bram lobbed the hat his way, stepped past him, and snagged the hat before it landed in his hands, like a defensive end intercepting a touchdown pass.

“Hey!” Liam shouted.

I ignored Liam and returned the hat to the kid. He was skinny and had frizzy blond hair that still bore evidence of his recently removed headwear. He wore glasses with thick lenses that made his eyes seem enormous. Beneath his jacket, his tan button-down shirt had become halfway untucked, thanks to his failed attempt at airborne-hat recovery.

“Here,” I said. “Put it away. It's too warm for a hat.” I didn't bother to add that it's always too warm for a hat if you're a freshman at a bus stop.

“Thanks!” He plucked the hat from my hand and started to put it back on his head.

“Seriously,” I said, pointing to his backpack. “Stow it.”

“My mom said—”

“Your mom isn't here. Trust me. She'd want you to do this.”

As the kid shoved the hat into his jacket pocket, I shifted my attention to Bram. He was the one who could take this to a more aggressive level. Liam was his henchman, blindly following Bram's lead. The fact that Bram hadn't tackled me from behind was a good sign. He was casually mean, as opposed to being pure evil or a full-time bully. Still, I'd ruined his fun. Our eyes locked. I kept my face calm, though my heart was getting an aerobic workout. I really didn't want this to escalate. A fistfight wasn't the best way to start the school year.

Bram shrugged. The bus turned the corner, giving both of us something safe to look at. As our city-supplied transportation pulled to the curb, I checked to see if we were going to be stuck with the same driver as last year. Nope. No sign of The Shouter. That was a relief. Maybe he'd exploded during the summer, like an overused pressure cooker forced to make one meal too many. This driver was an old guy, wearing a Sixers Windbreaker. He didn't even bother to look at us as we piled on. That was fine with me. I'd rather be ignored than yelled at. I walked toward the middle of the bus, dropped into an empty seat on the left side, and slid over to the window. Julia Baskins, who I'd had a huge crush on last year, boarded the bus with her friend Kelly Holbrook. I hadn't seen them since school ended. Julia, still heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, smiled at me when I
caught her eye. I nodded and smiled back. Kelly nodded, too. I guess we'd both moved on from harboring bad memories. They grabbed seats together near the front.

“Thanks for the rescue. You're awesome.”

Hatboy had plopped onto the vacant part of my seat. Apparently, even now that I was over my crush, Julia had the power to distract me from environmental hazards.

“It was no big deal.” I looked out the window, hoping the kid would take the hint and stop talking.

“Oh, wow. She's beautiful.”

I knew who he was talking about even before I checked. He stared at Julia with the dazed eyes of someone who's just gotten his first look at a Michelangelo masterpiece.

“Don't even think about it. You'll just do stupid stuff in a doomed attempt to get her attention. Trust me. I know all about these things.” I returned my attention to the world beyond the window.

“So, what's it like?” he asked.

I pretended I hadn't heard him.

That earned me a triple tap on the shoulder, and a repeat of the question. I don't like getting tapped on the shoulder. I spun around and glared at him.

He cringed and let out a whimper. I felt like I'd just snatched a bowl of food away from a puppy. I guessed it wouldn't hurt to answer his question.

“It's big, crowded, and confusing at first,” I said.

His shoulders slumped. “I'm dead.”

“Keep your mouth shut and your head down, and you'll be okay,” I said.

“That won't help. I'm still dead. It's like I was born with a target on my back.” He leaned forward in his seat, as if to allow me to admire the imaginary bull's-eye between his shoulder blades. “Today will be terrible.”

I looked at him, all hunched and scrawny in his seat. “You'll be fine.” I doubt he believed me, especially since I didn't believe myself, but it seemed like a charitable enough lie. Sort of like how they used to offer the guy facing the firing squad a last cigarette. It wasn't good for him, but it really couldn't do any harm.

He said it again. “I'm dead.”

“Probably.” I realized there was no point giving him false hope. “But it will be a survivable death.”

He lapsed into silence. As did I. Then he pulled something from his backpack. At first glance, I thought it was a game. That would definitely be snatched from his hands before the ride ended. But it had only a small display window. I realized it was a calculator. I turned my attention to the scenery as we rolled through the free world, toward the captivity of school.

Two minutes later, another tap interrupted my motion-lulled mind.

“What?” I asked, snapping again.

He had quite a leap for a little guy. After he got up from the
aisle and climbed back onto his seat, he said, “According to the blueprint I studied, the school has nine doors, not counting the loading dock, which I assume might be inaccessible. Is one entrance to the building safer than the others?”

“They're all risky.” I took a moment to picture the maze that is Zenger High. “But the door behind the left rear corner of the building, near the Dumpster, puts you in the hall by Mr. Pangborn's room, and he likes to keep an eye on things, so nobody will bother you when you come that way. Just don't linger by the Dumpster, or someone might toss you in.”

“Great. Thanks. And what about—”

“Stop it!” I said.

Man, he startled easily. Long ago, I'd read a book called
5,000 Amazing Facts
. The title was about thirty percent accurate, but that still left plenty to savor. One of the amazing facts I'd read was about fainting goats. If you shout at them, they pass out and drop. Hatboy was more of a leaping goat. As tempting as it was to see if I could get him to hit new heights, I decided to try not to startle him again.

After he'd dropped back onto his seat, I told him, “Look, I just spent a year giving advice to a fetus. I'm not in the mood to mentor another embryo.”

“A fetus?” he asked. “You gave advice to a fetus?”

“My little brother. Before he was born.”

“Your little brother is a llama?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“It would be nine months, at most, for a human, assuming you learned of the pregnancy immediately. Not a whole year. Even llamas don't always take that long. Horses and dolphins do.”

“Whatever.” I turned away.

“I learned that in a book called
10,000 Amazing Facts.
”

Oh, great. I was riding through town with a mini-me.

“Gestation is highly variable,” he said. “I came out in seven months. I was really small.”