THE SMARTEST KID IN PETALUMA
ROB LOUGHRAN
Published on Smashwords by
BUBBA CAXTON BOOKS,
a division of FOUL MOUTHED BARD PRESS
P.O. Box 2344
Windsor, California 95492
Copyright Rob Loughran, 2011
All rights reserved
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used in reviews.
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Chapter 1
“Norman, catch that flying sack of feathers and put him back in his cage!” screamed Mrs. Babbit from the kitchen.
“Luigi is not a sack of feathers, Mom. He’s a Glaucidium gnoma, a Pygmy Owl,” said Norman from the top of the stairs. He was used to his mom’s screaming.
“I don’t care if he’s the King of Denmark, GET HIM OUT OF MY KITCHEN NOW!” Mrs. Babbit slurped her herbal tea, glanced at the morning paper and said, “And Luigi is a silly name for a bird.”
“Doris is a stupid name for a sister,” said Norman as he scrambled down the stairs, “Petaluma is a stupid name for a city; artichoke is a stupid name for a vegetable.” He reached the bottom step. “But I have a sister named Doris, I live in Petaluma, and we had artichokes for dinner last night.”
Doris, who sat watching cartoons turned, waggled her tongue at Norman and said, “Stupid Norman.”
“Maybe if you didn’t watch TV all day you could do something besides sticking out your tongue,” said Norman. Doris flapped her tongue up-and-down, rolled her eyeballs, and shook her head violently back and forth. “You’re doing better already,” said Norman.
“Doris,” said Mrs. Babbit, “making faces will give you wrinkles.”
“Might be an improvement,” said Norman as he motioned to Luigi. The owl deserted his perch on the spice rack and glided directly to Norman’s shoulder. The bird had sharp talons, but was used to Norman’s touch and never scratched him. Luigi perched on Norman’s shoulder, surveying the kitchen.
“Do we have any bacon, Mom?” said Norman.
“No. Red meat is bad for you.”
“I’ll cook it til it’s brown.”
“Brown meat is also bad for you.”
“What do we have?”
“Mom just made some fresh carrot juice,” said Doris.
“Wonderful,” said Norman. “Do we have any eggs?”
“No,” said Mrs. Babbit. “I’m going shopping after work. I’ll pick some up.”
“Get some Oreos,” said Doris, eyes still locked on the TV.
“You know how I feel about sugar, Doris. It’s harmful, nearly poison, for growing children.”
“What is sugar good for growing?” Norman smiled.
“Cavities,” said Mrs. Babbit, sipping her tea.
Doris flipped to The Cartoon Network, just in time for The Jetsons while Norman grabbed an apple from a hanging basket of fruit. He took two bites and chewed silently, lost in thought. As Norman drifted, Luigi tiptoed down Norman’s arm and inspected the apple.
“Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit.
No reply.
“Norman!”
No response.
“NORMAN!!”
“What?” said Norman softly.
“You were drifting again, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit. “You know how it upsets me when you drift.”
“I was thinking about my science project.”
“You were drifting. Please don’t drift. Get me another cup of tea. And don’t let that thing eat your apple.”
“Luigi doesn’t even like apples. He’s a carnivore. So am I. We’re meat eaters,” said Norman as he refilled his mother’s teacup. “Being a vegetarian is a choice—”
“A choice I’ve made for the good of my family.”
“—but eating meat is an instinct. All we ever eat around here is parakeet food. Nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Couldn’t we ever, just once, have some sizzling, greasy, tasty bacon with eggs sunnyside-up, and pancakes smothered in maple syrup? With hot chocolate?” He returned the teapot to the stove and said, “Do you realize I’m the only kid in the whole seventh grade who likes hot lunch at school?”
“Where are you getting money to pay for hot lunch, Norman?”
“You know I work at McCormick’s Grocery, a couple of days a week, after school.”
Mrs. Babbit shook her head. “You’re not supposed to eat hot lunch, Norman. It’s filled with chemicals and preservatives—”
“And meat, and sauce, and cheese. All the kids say, This pizza stinks. Last night at Round Table we had a large sausage and pepperoni with extra cheese and black olives. So they give me their school pizza and ask me what I had for dinner last night. You know what I tell them?” Mrs. Babbit sipped her tea, Luigi looked at Norman quizzically, Doris blew her nose. “I tell them I had brown rice and artichokes.”
“Tonight we’re having stuffed eggplant,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“Can’t wait,” said Norman as he trudged up the stairs with Luigi.
“Aren’t you going to finish breakfast, Norman? It’s the most important meal of the day,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“Luigi and I’ll share a couple of mice upstairs.”
Mrs. Babbit finished her tea and said to Doris, “I wonder if we have enough slivered almonds for the eggplant?”
Doris smiled and said, “I wish we had a house like the Jetsons.”
Norman entered his room and placed Luigi on his perch, a coyote skull on Norman’s nightstand. Luigi stood seven inches tall, small even for a pygmy owl. He lacked the characteristic tufts of feathers that look like ears on owls. He had two black patches on the backside of his neck, giving him the appearance of having eyes in the back of his head. Luigi’s head swiveled as Norman plopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Norman had broken a small mirror and installed the glittering shards in the configuration of various constellations. On the ceiling he had, the Big Dipper, Orion, Ophiuchus, and Casseopia. In the far corner of the room, directly above his small, homemade telescope was the largest chunk of glass; Sirius, the Dogstar. Below the Dogstar, taped to the closet doors were posters of Norman’s heroes: Albert Einstein and Jack London. Einstein because he was a great scientist. London because he left home when he was fourteen, hopped on a ship and sailed to the Yukon.
Norman sprawled on the bed dreaming of the Northern Lights and listening to his stomach growl when his brother Marcus entered the room. Marcus wore his Casa Grande High School Wrestling t-shirt and was sweating from every pore. “How far?” asked Norman. Luigi fluttered from the coyote skull to the computer monitor.
“Just three miles,” said Marcus, “I’ve got baseball practice this afternoon.” Marcus dropped to the floor and started cranking out situps: One, Two, Three. “How’s school, Sport?” Marcus asked through clenched teeth.
Norman glanced up at the constellations and thought about taking down Opiuchus and putting up the Pleiades. “Fine. Perfect.”
“You sure?” Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen. Sweat dripped into Marcus’ eyes.
Norman decided against the Pleiades and wished he could tell Marcus about Mr. Forrester, Tom Allen, and a girl named Darcy. “Yeah, everything’s just excellent.”
“I don’t believe you, Sport,” Marcus grunted. Thirty-two, Thirty-three, Thirty-four.
Norman shrugged. “There is one thing that’s going great. My science project. Watch this.” Norman bounced from the bed to the computer. Forty-eight, Forty-nine, Fifty. Marcus finished his situps with a groan. Luigi deserted his perch on the computer and returned to the coyote skull. Norman touched his lucky nickel, taped to the base of the monitor, punched two keys and a multi-colored bar graph exploded onto the screen. “Here’s the data so far.” Norman removed his glasses, cleaned them on his t-shirt, and replaced them. “It indicates that my assumptions about the mice’s reaction to a frequency of three-thousand-eight-hundred Cycles Per Second are correct. There are a few minor inconsistencies, like—”
“Are you trying out for the track team this year?” asked Marcus as he rolled over and began his pushups.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Norman’s fingers flew over the keyboard and a new bar graph appeared. “Because I don’t like to sweat.”
“Sweating is good for you.”
“Yeah,” said Norman, “if you’re a pig.” Norman glanced over his shoulder at Marcus, who had just finished his pushups. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. “Sorry, Marcus.”
Marcus waved away the apology. “I worry about you, Sport. All you do is study.” Marcus popped to his feet and rumpled Norman’s hair. “You’d better get ready for school. Do you want a ride?”
“No. I’ll walk.”
“Why don’t you ride your bike?”
“It’s got a flat.”
“Fix it.”
“I’m too busy.” Norman studied the computer screen, punched a key and said, “I like to walk. It gives me time alone to think.”
“You’d better hurry,” said Marcus as he closed the door.
“Yeah. See you later.” Norman stared at the computer screen another minute before backing up his work and shutting it off. He dressed for school and, as usual, his stomach tightened and he felt the familiar ache that accompanied him to school every morning.
Norman never thought seventh grade would be like this.
Chapter 2
Norman shuffled through his math papers and thought about today’s lunch menu:
Chili-n-chips
Veggie sticks with Ranch Dressing
Pear cup
Brownie with Cool Whip
Milk
A textbook slammed into Norman’s left shoulder, interrupting his delicious daydream. “How’s Norman-the-Nerd today?” said Tom Allen.
Norman didn’t reply.
“I’m doing fine. Thanks.” Tom examined the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Just fine, except for one little problem. I don’t have my math homework.” Tom laughed, with his mouth wide open and his head thrown back.
Norman saw that bits of food were lodged between his yellow teeth. “You should brush your teeth more often. Maybe twice a month?”
“That’s real clever,” Tom laughed again, reminding Norman of a dog-faced baboon he’d seen on The Discovery Channel. “Real clever. That’s why I’ve let you do my math homework for the past two months. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
“Thanks,” said Norman.
“You’re welcome,” said Tom. He snapped his fingers. “Hand it over.”
“I didn’t have time to do it last night,” said Norman, straightening his glasses. “I was busy with my science project.”
“Your science project?” Tom pressed his face close to Norman’s. “Have my homework done by lunchtime.” He punched Norman on the shoulder and sauntered down the hall.
Norman returned to his math homework, but only for a moment. The bell rang, signaling the last moment, mass migration to homeroom. Norman tucked his math papers away, picked up his books and scurried down the corridor. Kenilworth Junior High School’s halls were cold and dimly lit, they reminded Norman of the caves he and Marcus explored last summer. While walking with his books he imagined that the students leaning against lockers were bats that hung in groups from the ceiling of the caves.
And the biggest bat of all was Mr. Forrester.
He had beady eyes, a screechy voice, and radar. No matter where Norman was or what he did, Mr. Forrester seemed to know. Norman reached the homeroom door just as the tardy bell rang. Big Bat Forrester leaned against the blackboard and said, “Cutting it a bit close, eh Mr. Babbit?”
“I prefer to think of it as having good timing,” said Norman.
Mr. Forrester’s dark brown, almost black eyes glared at Norman for a moment, then he blinked and moved away from the blackboard. His glasses perched on the end of his slanted nose. He wore white socks with black dress shoes. The teacher hurried through roll call and read the day’s announcements. Then he massaged his pointy chin and said, “It has come to my attention,” he paused, “that there are students who are doing their fellow students’ homework.” His eyes swept the class. “This, of course, is grounds for suspension. I need not say more, eh?” His moist eyes settled on Norman for a moment before Forrester sat and shuffled papers on his desk. “Radar,” said Norman softly, “just like a bat.”
The spitball hit Norman in the neck, behind his left ear. Norman’s hand searched out the soggy lump, seized it and flicked it into a garbage can. Without turning around he said, “Hi, Chris.”
“Hey, Normy,” said Chris, “how you doing?”
“Okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.”
“That’s because I’m not,” said Norman. “I was lying.”
Despite the fact that Kenilworth had strict rules against eating in hallways Chris bit into an apple the size of a softball. “So what’s wrong?” said Chris, juice dribbling down his chin.
“I think Forrester found out I’m doing Tom Allen’s homework.”
Chris took a huge bite and said, around his food, “You’re not doing his homework. You’re a victim. Tell Forrester the creep’s making you do it. If you didn’t, he’d stomp you.”
“What would Tom do if I told Forrester?”
“Stomp you.”
“So what should I do?”
Chris finished the apple and tossed the core at a wastebasket. He missed by three feet. “I think you should do two sets of math homework every night.”
“Thanks for your help, Chris.”
“Hey,” Chris pounded Norman on the back, “what are best friends for?”
“There are times I don’t know,” said Norman.
“Are you working at McCormick’s after school?”
“Not today. I’ve got some homework to do,” said Norman.
“On your science project?”
“Yep. It’s due next week.”
“I know,” said Chris. “I’d better get started on mine.”
“You haven’t started?”
“Nope,” said Chris. “Let me borrow that little telescope you made for the fifth grade science fair.”
“That wouldn’t work.”
“Why not? We’re big seventh-graders now, at Kenilworth Junior High, Petaluma, California, U.S.A.”
“But our seventh grade science teacher helped judge our fifth grade science projects. Remember?”
“So I’ll paint it purple.”
“Chris—”
“It was worth a shot.”
They turned a corner and slipped into English class. Chris sat down, inserted a stick of gum and actually managed not to doze as Mr. Carlson reviewed yesterday’s assignment. Norman pulled out Tom Allen’s homework, hesitated, then worked the first problem.
Lunchtime at Kenilworth was an organized brawl. Brown-baggers scooted into the cafeteria, plopped down on the cold metal benches and started gobbling. The hot lunch line snaked along the far wall and out into the hall leading to the eighth grade wing. Eighth graders readily gave cuts to seventh and eighth graders, making the sixth graders wait until last. Vegetable missiles and unwanted desserts flew from table to table. Once a week, on cue, two students would start fighting in the hot lunch line. When the teacher supervising lunch ran to break up the fight the students would pelt each other with carrot sticks, peach cobbler, and empty milk cartons.
Today the air traffic was minimal. A pear cup flew from the eighth grade table toward the seventh graders but Howard Bennett spotted it in flight and yelled “Heads up!” Two girls ducked and the airborne pears plopped harmlessly to the tiled floor. Mr. Lopez, the PE teacher, stormed over to the eighth grade section and started interrogating. When Mr. Lopez’ back was turned Chris scooped up the squashed fruit and hurled it at the eighth grade table.
The fruit cup hit Billy Golding on the shoulder. Golding stood and glared at the seventh graders until he saw Chris laughing and pointing at him. A strict system existed at Kenilworth: the eighth grade ruled the seventh and the seventh ruled the sixth. It was tradition.
But tradition faded when the seventh grader was Chris Forte. Chris was 5’11” and the son of a former professional boxer. Chris was one of the best football players in the school and had beaten every upper classman on the wrestling team. Billy Golding saw Chris, then sat down, pretending he preferred pear stains on his shirt.
Chris elbowed Norman, “Those jerks pick on every sixth and seventh-grader except me. What a bunch of chickens.”
“What?” said Norman.
“I said they’re a bunch of chickens.”
“You’re right,” said Norman. “And here comes King Chicken now.”
“Hello children,” said Tom Allen, as he approached the table. “I believe Norman-the-Nerd has something for me?”
Norman handed Tom the completed math homework.
Tom slapped him on the back, “Nice doing business with you, Norman. I’ll see you in Algebra.” He walked slowly away, nodding to Mr. Lopez as he passed.
“I’ll be doing his homework for the rest of the year,” said Norman.
“We only have three months left,” said Chris.
“That’s a comfort,” said Norman. He started to get up from the bench.
“Norman?”
“Yeah?”
“You want my pear cup?”
Norman nodded and sat down. He gulped down the pear and swallowed the sweet cling syrup.
Mr. Lewis leaned back in his chair, pretending to nap. His General Science class milled around finding seats at the lab tables. Stools scratched floors; voices hummed and buzzed. Norman sat in the back watching Mr. Lewis. Without opening his eyes Mr. Lewis grabbed a 500 ml beaker from his desk. He raised it to shoulder height and dropped it.
The crash quieted the room.
Eyes opened, Mr. Lewis said, “What principle have I just demonstrated?” He gazed at a sea of puzzled faces. “Darcy,” said Mr. Lewis, “do you know?”
Darcy twisted her soft brown hair around a finger, shook her head and said, “No.”
She is so pretty, thought Norman, I wish I had the guts to ask her to a dance.
Mr. Lewis asked Clarence Bleeker the same question. Clarence said, “You’ve demonstrated the fact that, that, if…if you drop glass it breaks.”
“When you woke up this morning, Clarence,” said Mr. Lewis, “did you know that glass breaks when you drop it?”
“Yeah,” said Clarence.
“Then what have you learned?”
“Nothin’.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Lewis. “Norman? What principle have I destroyed school property to demonstrate?”
Norman stopped staring at Darcy. “The First Law of Thermodynamics.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Lewis. “What is the First Law of Thermodynamics?”
“The energy,” said Norman, “going into a system, minus the energy coming out of a system, equals the change in energy stored in the system. In this case, the energy holding the molecules of glass in the shape of a beaker was released as sound when it shattered.”
“Excellent, Norman. Perfect.”
Norman wished he could disappear into his lab table. Why did teachers always call on him when they wanted THE ANSWER? Why did he always feel badly about being smarter than the other students? They were bigger, stronger, and faster and they never let him forget it as they elbowed him out of the way in lunch lines or PE.
Mr. Lewis roamed through the classroom explaining another Principle of Science.
Norman gazed at Darcy, thought of stuffed eggplant for dinner, and tried to remember if he had left water for Luigi.
Chapter 3
“C’mon Chris, please?” said Norman. “I’ll help you with your homework.”
“You already do.”
“I’ll help you more. I’ll do your science project for you.”
“You’re too busy with your own project,” said Chris.
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Why do you want to learn how to box? Fighting never solves anything.”
“That’s because you win all your fights,” said Norman.
“Norman, you’ve never been in a fight.”
“That’s because I run away.”
“Then go out for track. Go jogging with Marcus.”
“No,” said Norman. “I want to learn how to box. I need to know how to fight.”
“Okay,” said Chris, “put these on.” He tossed Norman a pair of gloves.
“Thanks.” Norman looked at the gloves and fiddled with the laces. “How?”
“This should be fun,” said Chris.
Chris Forte’s garage doubled as a gym. A bench press stood in a corner. Bicycles suspended on hooks hung from the ceiling. Barbells and dumbbells littered the floor. A punching bag hung from a beam. Norman, stripped to the waist, threw futile, lifeless, listless punches at the bag.
“HIT IT!” yelled Chris.
“I am hitting it,” said Norman, poking at the bag with his right hand.
“Stop,” said Chris. He removed Norman’s glasses. “Now at least you look like a fighter.”
“There’s a big problem with me looking like a fighter, Chris.”
“What?”
“I can’t see the punching bag.”
Replacing Norman’s glasses, Chris said, “Hit it. Put your body into it.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” He held up his fists. “What are these?”
“Put your body into it.” Gloveless, Chris attacked the bag with a swiftness and grace that only existed in Norman’s imagination. Left jab, left jab, right cross. Chris stepped back and said, “What did you notice?”
“You hit the bag hard. Quick and hard,” said Norman. “I want to do that.”
“Like Mr. Lewis says in science class, observe.” Chris threw a three-punch combination. “What did you observe?”
“Fists. Contact. Power.”
“Did you see my feet?”
“No.”
“Watch my feet.” Chris launched a four-punch combination.
“I saw that,” said Norman. “Leverage. You planted your feet and used your body as a fulcrum. That brings the large muscles of the back and legs into play, increasing the power and velocity of your punches. I get it.”
“You’re amazing, the way—”
“Thanks.”
“—you can even make boxing sound boring.” Chris smiled, “Try doing it.”
Norman swatted at the bag. His punches were slightly brisk. He worked an almost quick combination.
“Plant and throw a punch,” said Chris. “Use your body.”
Norman nearly rocked the bag with a right. Chris watched him flail at the bag for another minute. Sweating, Norman stopped and smiled at Chris.
“Norman?”
“What?”
“Why do you want to box?”
“I have my reasons.” Norman pushed his glasses up with the thumb of his glove and started swinging.
“Come and eat, Norman,” screamed Mrs. Babbit. The stuffed eggplant steamed in the center of the table. Doris and Marcus waited patiently.
“Norman!”
No reply.
“NORMAN!”
“I’ll go get him,” said Marcus.
“No. That boy has to pay attention. He’s always drifting.”
“Mom, he’s studying,” said Marcus.
“He studies too much,” said Doris. “He’s weird. He has cages full of mice and a bird that eats grasshoppers.”
“Hi,” said Norman, stepping into the kitchen.
“Norman, I’ve been yelling for five minutes.”
“Sorry Mom,” said Norman. “I was reading.”
Doris stuck her tongue out at Norman and dug into the eggplant, scooping sections of the purple vegetable onto her plate. Marcus helped himself to a giant serving of eggplant and four scoops of brown rice. His sideplate contained a huge salad with sprouts, cherry tomatoes, and sunflower seeds. Norman’s mother had a smaller version of Marcus’ dinner. There was never any conversation at the Babbit’s dinner table. Mrs. Babbit insisted that each bite be chewed at least twenty times to insure proper digestion. It was difficult to speak while chewing so intensely. Dinnertime also reminded her of Mr. Babbit who was killed in a car accident the year after Doris was born. The dinner table was not Mrs. Babbit’s favorite place.
Norman, empty plate in front of him, shattered the silence, “I wonder why they call it eggplant? It’s purple.”
“Eat something, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“At least it’s shaped like an egg.”
“Eat,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“It doesn’t taste like an egg. If they named it after how it tasted they’d call it a Slimy-Shiny-Rubber-Plant.”
Marcus laughed; Doris and Mrs. Babbit did not.
Norman turned to Doris. “Get it? Eggplant doesn’t taste like eggs.”
Doris slapped at Norman and knocked over her glass of iced tea. Mrs. Babbit pushed away her plate and threw her napkin on the spreading puddle. She said, “Another dinner ruined. I do my best for this family, but nothing ever works out.”
“And it’s all Norman’s fault,” said Doris. “Like usual.”
“I’ve got a migraine,” said Mrs. Babbit. “I’m going to bed.” She left the table.
“I’m not cleaning this mess up,” said Doris.
“You knocked it over,” said Norman, “you clean it up.”
“No,” said Doris. “The Lion King is on television.” She hopped over the sofa that divided the kitchen and the TV room. She flipped on the TV and flopped down on the couch.
“Even for a first-grader,” said Norman, “she’s a brat.”
Marcus, chewing, nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“Yeah, I’ll have some toast.”
“I’ll finish up and help you with the dishes.”
“Take your time.” Norman smiled, “Chew your food. Chew your food.”
“You’re a funny little dude, Sport.”
Making toast was a ritual for Norman. It had to be white bread toasted to the perfect golden color. Then a one-quarter inch layer of chunky peanut butter had to be spread from crust to crust. Then cinnamon and sugar had to be sprinkled evenly over the top. Then the toast was packed back into the toaster oven to re-warm. The toast was perfect when he bit through the gooey peanut butter and felt his teeth crunch into the crusty toast. Then the bread wasn’t chewed twenty times. It’s chewed three times, maybe four if the peanut butter sticks, then swallowed.
Quickly.
Norman ate toast as a meal at least four times a week. Tonight’s four-piece-batch was perfect and Norman smiled as he and Marcus cleared the table.
“How’s school?” said Marcus.
“Fine.”
“Are you having problems with someone?”
“No.” Marcus, thought Norman, you sound so adult.
“You sure?”
“I’m not having a problem with someone. I’m having problems with everyone.”
Marcus filled the dishwasher with soap, shut the door and switched it on. “Junior high is tough, Normy.”
“I know,” Norman wiped the counter with a dishrag. “I know.”
Norman sat in his room staring at Tom Allen’s math assignment. “I’m not going to do it,” he said to Luigi, who was perched on the computer. The bird flew to Norman and perched on his leg. Norman looked at the posters on his wall. Jack London smiled crookedly; Einstein gazed into the distance. Norman shook his head, “Okay Luigi, Doris is a brat, school stinks, Mom thinks all problems are dietary, Dad’s gone, Marcus wants to take Dad’s place and can’t—and I’m talking to an owl.” Luigi hopped from Norman’s leg to his arm. “Here’s problem Numero Uno, Tom Allen and Mr. Forrester. Tom makes me do his homework and somehow Mr. Forrester knows. If Mr. Forrester catches me I’m in trouble. If I tell Marcus what Tom is doing he’ll beat Tom up, then Tom will beat me up and I’ll be known as Norman-the-Nerd who can’t fight his own battles.”
Norman snapped his fingers.
“I’ve got the solution. I’ll just ask Marcus to beat me up; you know, cut out the middle man. I’m going to bed, Luigi. You’re lucky you’re a bird.”
Chapter 4
“Norman!” said Mrs. Babbit. “Wake up! Get that bird off your bed.”
“Grumpf?”
“Wake up or you’ll be late for school.”
“Huh?”
“Right now, Norman.”
Norman sat up, Luigi perched on his shoulder. Norman mindlessly stroked the owl’s light brown feathers.
“I wish you’d get rid of that bird.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Cucumber juice and banana bread,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“Can I have a couple of scrambled eggs?” said Norman. “Please?”
“If you hurry, yes.”
“Mom?”
“What, Norman?”
“Can I borrow dad’s big telescope tonight? The moon is eclipsing Spica and—”
“Your father’s telescope isn’t a toy, Norman.”
“I’m not a child, Mom.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Mrs. Babbit left the room. Norman sprang out of bed and said, “I’ll consider it, which means, No Way.” He put on his glasses, grabbed clean clothes and sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. With luck he’d beat Doris to the facilities this morning. He rounded the corner; the bathroom was empty.
Norman washed his face, pulled his pants and shirt on and began to brush his teeth. He spit, rinsed, and spit again. He said to himself in the mirror, “If I can just account for the minor loss of weight in the CONTROL group. Maybe if I recalculated the amounts of food I’d find the difference.”
Chewing on the minty-tasting toothbrush, he walked down the hall to his room. Norman nudged the door open with his foot. Luigi slept, perched on the coyote skull. Norman approached the computer, touched his lucky nickel, and booted up. He read the flashing screen and accessed another file. He made a note to recalculate the data, stored the information and turned the computer off.
He returned to the bathroom, but the door had been locked. He pounded on the door and said, “Let me in!” But it sounded like, “Lemme min!” because his mouth was filled with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and saliva.
“What?” said Doris from inside the bathroom.
“Lemme min mow! I haffa smit!” (“Let me in now! I have to spit!”)
“What?”
Norman pounded on the door, “Lemme min, I fas in fere virst!” (“Let me in, I was in there first!”)
“What?”
“I haffa smit.”
Mrs. Babbit appeared in the hall, “Norman? Why are you bothering your sister? She’s getting ready for school.”
“Fe fon’t lemme min the vatrum.” (“She won’t let me in the bathroom.”)
Mrs. Babbit said, “What?”
“Fe fon’t lemme min the vatrum.”
“Norman, I can’t understand you.”
“Vat’s cooz Foris fon’t lemme in the vatrum. I haffa smit.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re saying, Norman.”
Norman shook his head, groaned slightly, and swallowed twice. “Nevermind.”
Kenilworth Junior High was an ancient, drafty building that reminded Norman of a funeral home. It dominated the top of East Street and was surrounded by houses, which except for their color were identical. Three-bedroom, two-bath houses with as much individuality as the miniature, green Monopoly houses. The only break in the houses was Kenilworth Junior High and Mr. McCormick’s Grocery. McCormick’s, located at the bottom of the East Street hill, was owned and operated by Paddy McCormick. Norman had worked at McCormick’s, on and off, for over a year. He swept, stocked shelves, and broke down boxes. Norman’s goal was to save enough money to buy a real telescope, like his dad’s. But between trips to Burger King for double-bacon cheeseburgers he had only saved fifteen dollars.
Just about enough for a lens cap.
Mr. McCormick usually had a joke or a riddle for Norman, but today, as Norman passed the store, Mr. McCormick barely managed a wave. Norman shuffled into the store, “How you doing, Mac?”
“Not well, Sonny. Not well.”
Norman scrutinized the store: apples and oranges were scattered over the floor, eggs were smashed, groceries were scattered. “What happened?”
“Kids. Probably no older than you.” He shook his head. “The second time this month. They break in, have a smash-up and leave. They don’t even steal anything. I’m asking you Norman, whatever happened to good old-fashioned burglary?”
Norman shrugged.
Mr. McCormick bent slowly and plucked an apple from the floor. He tossed it to Norman. Put a shine on it, Sonny. It’ll be good as new.”
“Thanks, Mac.” Norman started munching.
“Hadn’t you be running along to school?”
“No. I’m early. I’ll help you clean up.”
“Suit yourself, Sonny.” Mr. McCormick started sweeping fruit and torn cereal boxes into a corner. “’Tis a crime worse than thievery. This, when people are starving worldwide.”
“Did they break a window to get in?” Norman stacked magazines on the counter.
“No.” Mr. McCormick tossed aside his broom. “C’mon to the storeroom with me.”
Janitorial supplies were piled in the far corner of the damp storeroom. Canned foods were stacked neatly on shelves. Produce bins held corn, potatoes, and carrots.
“Why didn’t they mess up the storeroom?” said Norman.
“Then they couldn’t see the fruit of their labors. The game, I suppose, is to chuckle at me when they stop by after school to buy a fifty-cent candy bar.” Mr. McCormick yanked a giant handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose like a foghorn. After carefully folding the baby-blanket-sized-kerchief he said, “Quite a honker, this nose?” He winked. “We all have certain gifts in life, mine are this store and this oversized nose. And, despite these allergies, my nose is certainly better off than my store.” He smiled again. “Come here, I’ll show you where the little buggers get in.”
The odd duo weaved through the produce bins. “In the old days, before these fancy refrigerators, we kept things cool with real ice. There was an iceman with a horse drawn wagon full of ice. He’d drop off block ice twice a week. More often in summer, less in winter.” Mr. McCormick pointed to a 3’ X 3’ hole in the wall.
“I always wondered what that was,” said Norman.
“The iceman would drop the ice in here from the outside and cover it with sawdust.”
“Sawdust?”
“For insulation. The sawdust was packed around the ice and kept it from melting. And it’s through this hole that the bleeding vandals enter.”
“Why don’t you board up the hole?”
“I have.” Mr. McCormick pointed at a piece of corrugated tin that was propped against a case of Campbell’s Chicken-n-Stars. “I nailed these inside and out—against the cats and possums. But the humans rip the outside sheet off, slide down and kick this one in.” He shook his head. “If I could afford it I’d fill the passage with cement. It’d be a shame, though, filling the ice-chute up. Like destroying a wee bit of history. A taste of the past.”
“Will you be here after school?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll stop by and help you clean up.”
“You’ve got your studies, Sonny. They are more important than an old man pedaling comestibles.”
Norman was halfway to the door and accelerating. “See you later, Mac.”
“It has come to my attention,” said Mr. Lewis as he paced through the rows of lab tables, “that some students have yet to choose a subject for the science fair.” He glanced at Chris, who had just popped a Twinkie into his mouth.
The whole Twinkie.
“May I remind the class that the science fair is less than a week away?” Mr. Lewis returned to the front of the classroom. At last glance we had three undecided students. “Clarence Bleeker. Have you found a project?”
“Yes. Photosynthesis.”
“Very good. Mike Caldwell, have you chosen a topic?”
“Butterflies,” said Mike.
“Again, quite good. Chris Forte, what will your project consist of?”
Chris swallowed, “Science. A whole bunch of science.”
“Excellent, considering this is a science project. A book report on Moby Dick would hardly be suitable—”
“Moby Dick’s a whale, Mr. Lewis. That’s science.”
“Moby Dick,” said Mr. Lewis, “is a metaphor.”
“That’s funny,” said Chris, “I thought whales were mammals. I saw on Animal Planet—”
“Chris,” said Mr. Lewis, “what is your science project?”
“My project,” said Chris, “is concerned with Industrial Chemistry and is entitled, The Miracle of Teflon.”
“Wow, could you tell the class more?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Top Secret.”
The bell rang as Mr. Lewis began to reply. Instead he said softly: “Class dismissed.”
Norman found Chris in the hall. “The Miracle of Teflon? What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know. I’m hungry and I was thinking about pancakes and my mom makes these great flapjacks on this big Teflon griddle dad bought her for Christmas last year. I just made it up.” Chris ripped open a bag of Fritos, “Want some?”
Norman grabbed a handful of chips. “Chris, Mr. Lewis will be expecting a project about Industrial Chemistry.”
“I know, I’d better think of something, huh?” Students swirled and jostled around Norman and Chris. “I’ll see you in the cafeteria,” said Chris. He handed Norman the bag of Fritos. “I’ve got to stop at my locker.”
Norman nodded and shoveled Fritos into his mouth. He thought about Mac’s store, dinner, and his science project. Another few Fritos made it from the bag to his mouth. Norman strolled around the corner and bumped into Mr. Forrester. “Mr. Babbit,” said the teacher, “are you eating in the hallway again?”
“No,” said Norman.
“What do you mean, No? I saw you chewing and there is food in your right hand, eh?”
“I meant, ‘No, I wasn’t eating in the hallway again.’”
“Allow me to rephrase the question. Are you eating in the hallway, Norman?”
Norman looked at the bag of chips. “Yes.”
“You know what that means?”
“Detention?”
Mr. Forrester scribbled on a small pad of pink paper, ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Norman. “Today after school.”
“But I can’t today. I promised Mr. McCormick—”
“Don’t be late.”
Norman shook his head and extended the bag of corn chips, “Want some Fritos?” Mr. Forrester pointed at a wastebasket and walked away. Norman dumped the chips and said, “He probably sleeps upside-down in his garage.”
Chris was already busy forking food into his mouth. “What took you so long?”
Norman waved the pink detention slip.
“Your first one?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Chris snatched the slip from Norman, ripped it up, and tossed it at Norman.
“Why’d you do that?” Norman brushed the pink snowflakes from his shoulders.
“They aren’t serious about those things.” Chris munched. “If you don’t show up, they just call your parents.”
“That’s all?” Norman stared at his lunch tray. “Do you know what my mom will do? She’ll say, I can’t begin to tell you, Norman, how sorry and disappointed and absolutely ashamed I feel.”
“She’ll say that?”
“She always does when I’m in trouble.”
“I’m lucky, my mom just whacks me with the nearest kitchen utensil.”
“I’m not done. Then she’ll say, What am I going to do with you? I feed you properly, I give you a good home and this is the thanks I receive? Marcus is a Senior in high school and he has never, not once, gotten a detention. Then a migraine will send her to bed for the day. Thanks, Chris.” Norman pushed away his hot lunch.
“You gonna eat that, Normy?”
Norman shook his head, glanced up and saw Tom Allen.
“Got something for me, Norman?” said Tom.
“I haven’t done it yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been busy.”
Tom looked at Chris and said, “What are you staring at?”
“You.”
“Chris,” said Norman. “Please don’t.”
“You too stupid to do your own homework, Tom?” said Chris.
Tom stepped forward and Chris started to stand.
“Sit down, Chris, I’ll do his homework.”
Chris settled back onto the bench. Tom said, “See why I have Norman do my homework? He’s smart.” Tom turned and retreated through the cafeteria.
Chris slammed his fist into the table, rattling the lunch trays.
Norman opened his math book.
Chapter 5
Norman’s afternoon schedule varied from the normal seventh graders’. Before lunch he had General Science with the seventh graders; but then he had eighth grade Algebra when other students his age had PE. As a result he had to take PE during sixth period with the eighth graders.
He hated PE.
The coach bellowed instructions and the hotdog jocks pushed everyone around. Showers were mandatory and towel snapping was another time-honored Kenilworth tradition. On Fridays Norman and several others ran a gauntlet of eighth graders armed with wet towels. Mr. Lopez was always conveniently deaf on Fridays. He’d hate to give his star baseball players detentions. They would miss practice and that would hurt the team. Who cares if Norman and the others had welts that wouldn’t allow them to sit comfortably again until Sunday?
This month’s sport was soccer, which suited Norman just fine. He could jog along the fringe of the action knowing no one would ever pass him the ball. He stayed close enough to the game to keep the coach from shrieking at him, but distant enough to avoid contact with any sharp elbows, knees, or cleats.
Today, as he shadowed the soccer game, he made and re-made lists in his mind:
THINGS TO DO
1) Finish my science project
2) Try and get out of PE. Maybe take Spanish?
3) Help Chris with his Science Project
4) Learn to box
5) Beat up Tom Allen
No. New priorities
THINGS TO DO
1) Prove Mr. Forrester is a bat and have his body donated to science
2) Find a traveling circus that would buy Doris
3) Speak to Darcy
4) Learn to box
5) Beat up Tom Allen
THINGS TO DO
1) Talk mom into meatloaf for dinner
2) Get out of detention
3) Find a way to use dad’s telescope to view the eclipse
4) Buy a gun
5) Shoot Tom Allen
Yes!
That’s not a bad idea. Murder Tom Allen and get sent to prison. They serve meat in jail, I could write to Darcy and I wouldn’t have to deal with Doris.
Satisfied, Norman glanced to his left. Fifteen combatants, seven dressed in red, eight in blue, charged toward him. Norman turned and sprinted away from the mob. Like a pack of dogs they pursued. He cut to his right and realized they weren’t after him, they wanted the soccer ball. When they were ten feet away Norman spotted the slowly rolling ball. Out of fear he stepped forward, swung his leg and kicked the ball.
The black-and-white ball sailed softly over the heads of the fifteen, bounced once and was booted into the goal by a red-shirted player as the coach’s whistle blew. “Red team wins,” bellowed the coach. “Nice pass, Babbit.”
“Since I kicked it with my eyes closed,” said Norman to no one in particular, “I’d say it was an exceptional pass.”
“C’mon,” screamed Mr. Lopez, “let’s get in there and shower. C’mon Ladies, let’s move it.”
Norman jogged off the field, again lost in thought. He was jarred from his drifting by a shoulder to his back that knocked him to the ground. He rolled over, straightened his glasses, and saw two blue jerseys. One of them mimicked the coach, “Nice pass, Babbit.”
“Thanks,” said Norman. “Jerk.”
A blue jersey pulled Norman to his feet, “What’d you say?”
“Jerk.”
The blue jersey flung Norman to the ground.
“Jerk,” said Norman, again.
He was yanked to his feet again, “What’d you say?”
“I’m going to say, Jerk, and you’re going to knock me down again,” said Norman. “Right?”
“Right,” said the blue jersey, who hurled Norman to the turf. The blue clad warriors marched away laughing.
“You know,” said Norman, “I’m actually looking forward to detention.”
“Mac?” yelled Norman. “Are you in there?” He glanced at his watch, 4:17 PM. Why was the store closed? “Mr. McCormick?”
“Go away.”
“It’s me, Mac. Norman.”
“Go away.”
Norman pounded on the door, “I need to talk to you.”
The door inched open, “I thought you were dropping by after school?”
“I had detention for an hour. Why aren’t you open?”
Mr. McCormick swung the door open, “C’mon in, Sonny.” Norman entered the store. The floor was swept clean, but the shelves were bare. “I didn’t open today.”
“Why not?”
“There isn’t much to sell. Look around, Norman.”
“You have all that stuff in the back. I’ll help you stock the shelves.”
Mr. McCormick shook his head and smiled. “I’m tired, Sonny.”
Norman had never considered the grocer an old man, he was just another adult. But now in the weak light of the store, Mr. McCormick looked ancient and fragile and dusty. The Irishman shook his head and continued, “I’ve received some bad news from home.”
“Did they vandalize your house too?”
“Not my house, Sonny. Home. Ireland.”
“Oh.”
Norman’s Oh wasn’t a question, but Mr. McCormick answered, “My brother died today.”
Norman stared at Mac: gray hair, wrinkled hands.
“I’m no young spring chicken,” he winked at Norman, “and my brother was nearly ninety-years-old. But it’s still a loss.”
“My father died when I was five,” said Norman.
Mr. McCormick ruffled Norman’s hair. “See there, now, but it’s a cruel and funny world. I’m here all day crying in my beer like a milksop sissy because my brother’s gone.”
“It’s okay to feel bad. Until this year, I didn’t talk about how I felt—except to Chris. He was sitting next to me, in Kindergarten, when my mom came in crying. I didn’t go to school for a week and when I returned Chris was the only kid who’d talk to me like he used to. He said, ‘I know how I’d feel if my father died’ and that was it. So I know how I’d feel if my brother died, Mac.”
Mr. McCormick extended his right hand. Norman shook it solidly. “You’re a better man than I, Norman Babbit.”
“I’m sorry about your brother, Mac.”
“And I about your father,” said Mr. McCormick. “Run along now, Sonny. I have to make some phone calls.” Mr. McCormick closed the door softly behind Norman.
As Norman walked down the street he heard the deadbolt click into place.
Chapter 6
“And where have you been until this hour of the evening, young man?” Mrs. Babbit clattered her teacup down on the table. The noise informed Norman and Marcus that a migraine was due in four minutes. Even Doris momentarily unglued her eyes from the TV. “We finished dinner an hour ago.”
“I stopped to talk with Mr. McCormick.”
“Until seven PM?”
“No. Then I went to Chris’ house.”
“Couldn’t you call from Chris’ house?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Three minutes to migraine.
“Because,” said Norman, “you can’t dial a phone when you’re wearing boxing gloves.”
Marcus smiled, “Boxing gloves?”
“Yeah. Chris is giving me boxing lessons and I’m helping him with his science project.”
“Why do you want to fight?” said Mrs. Babbit. She raised a hand to her left temple. Two minutes to migraine.
“Because,” said Norman.
“Because why?” said Doris who had traded the TV for the drama unfolding in the kitchen. “Is someone beating you up?”
Norman stared at Doris until she turned away. Then he said to his mother, “Yesterday and today after school, I was at Chris’ and he gave me a couple of boxing lessons. That’s all.”
Mrs. Babbit shook her head vigorously. Under one minute and counting. “Doris, go to bed. Marcus, finish the dishes. Norman, just—” She turned, waved and trudged up the stairs. “Say goodnight to the boys, Doris.”
“Good night, Marcus. Good night, Stupid-Weirdo-Norman.” Doris followed her mother up the stairs.
Marcus waited until Mrs. Babbit and Doris had reached the top of the stairs, then said, “What’s up with the boxing, Sport.”
“I’m good at science. Why not the science of boxing?”
“It’s as good as anything else. Do it; go for it,” said Marcus. “Have you eaten?”
“I’ll have some toast.”
“That’s all you ever eat.”
“That’s all I like. Besides meat. Barbecued beef, burgers, chicken livers.”
“Chicken livers?” said Marcus as he unloaded the dishwasher.
“Dog meat. Horse meat. Monkey meat. I’m a carnivore, a meat-eater.”
Marcus tossed Norman a towel. “You’re also a dishwasher. C’mon.”
“How come Darling Doris, the TV addict, the obnoxious second grader can’t help?”
“Mom thinks she’s too little.”
“Last Saturday I saw her beating up the little Mendez kid next door.” Norman swiped lazily at a dish with his towel and placed it, still wet, in the cupboard. “I should get her to teach me how to fight. The Mendez kid says something to her, kid stuff, and she pushes him, then bops him in the face. His hands go up to his face and she kicks him in the shins. Then Mrs. Mendez steps outside. Doris sees Mrs. Mendez and lets the kid take a swing at her. The poor kid doesn’t even come close but the mom swoops off the porch and starts walloping the poor little guy. Too little? No way.”
Marcus placed the last dish in the cupboard and said, “Norman?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you having trouble with someone?”
Norman listened to the evening house-sounds: his mother running bath water; Doris sneaking in ten more minutes of TV in Mrs. Babbit’s bedroom. He nodded.
“Who?”
“Lots of people.”
Marcus hopped up on the counter, a forbidden maneuver in the Babbit household. “C’mon Sport, a name.”
Norman hopped up beside his brother. “An eighth grader named Tom Allen.”
“Donald Allen’s brother?”
“Red hair? Big stupid grin? Bad breath?”
“Sounds like a miniature Donald. He’s a punk, too.”
“Must be hereditary. Tom Allen makes me do his math homework.”
“You said Tom was in eighth grade.”
“I’m in eighth grade math.” Norman punched his brother in the arm. “I got the brains in the family.”
Marcus pretended that Norman’s thump had hurt his bicep. “And that’s why you want to learn to box. To stomp Tom Allen?”
“Yeah.”
Marcus slid off the counter. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No.”
“Tell a teacher.”
“Then I’d be a squealer.”
“Tell the Principal.”
“No.”
“So,” said Marcus, “what are you going to do?”
“Tom’s homework,” Norman laughed. “He’ll flunk the final.”
“But if you—”
“Marcus,” said Norman, “I know you feel more responsibility since dad’s not here. But I’ll work through this myself. Thanks.”
“Fighting never solves anything.”
“I’ve heard that.”
In the silence that followed the boys heard the bathtub draining and music from The Wheel of Fortune.
“I’m tossing Doris into bed,” said Marcus.
Norman sprang off the counter and stumbled as he landed. He shadowboxed leisurely, then started making toast. He’d finished the first piece of golden-toasted-whitebread-smeared-with-peanut-butter-and-sugar-cinnamon when Marcus returned.
“Will you be done soon?” said Marcus. Norman’s mouth was too full to answer. He nodded Yes, swallowed, and stuffed in another slice of toast. “You want anything to drink?” asked Marcus.
Norman pantomimed milking a cow.
“Milk?”
Norman nodded. Marcus poured two large glasses of milk and returned to the table. Norman sipped, swallowed and said, “Thanks.”
“I’m worried about you,” said Marcus.
“Why?”
“All you ever do is study.”
“I like studying.” Norman wiped away his milk mustache with the back of his hand. “And, I work at Mr. McCormick’s. I have hobbies: astronomy, my rock collection, my science project, Luigi.”
“That’s studying, Sport.”
“Are you embarrassed to have a nerd for a brother? Marcus I like studying. Do you want me to be a boneheaded, homerun hitting, jumpshooting, bowling jock?”
“Bowling?”
“Bowling or armwrestling or badminton—”
“Horseshoes?”
Norman laughed, “I can’t stay mad at you, Marcus.”
“That’s mad?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t you tell?”
“I worry about you, Sport.”
Norman finished his milk. “Do you remember much about dad?”
“What brings that up?”
“What do you remember?”
“Swimming in the summer at Spring Lake. We’d have waterfights. I’d stand on his shoulders and jump off. You were usually in the waterweeds, collecting polliwogs and minnows.”
“Do you think Doris remembers him at all?”
“He died when she was one. Probably not.”
Norman finished his milk. “I remember his smell.”
“What?”
“His smell. When he came home from work he’d smell like sweat and sawdust. Then he’d shower and shave and smell like ice.”
“What does ice smell like?”
“That blue stuff he put on after he shaved.”
“Aqua Velva.”
“Right. He smelled icy, like the North Pole. That’s the stuff I’m gonna wear when I start shaving. Aqua Velva.”
Marcus pinched Norman’s cheek, “Only five more years, Babyface.”
Norman stood in the middle of the kitchen and raised his fists. “C’mon chicken.”
Marcus stood, faked a punch and whipped Norman into a headlock. “Say uncle.”
“Aunt.”
“Say uncle.”
“Cousin.”
Marcus increased the pressure slightly, “UNCLE!”
“Niece.”
Marcus released him, “God, you’re stubborn.”
“Tough. I’m tough.” Norman shadowboxed. His ears were crimson from the headlock.
“Okay, you’re tough. You want to watch some TV?”
“No,” said Norman, “I’m going out back with my telescope.”
“Mind if I tag along, Professor?”
“Why not?” said Norman. “You might even learn something. Jock.”
Norman, hunched over the eyepiece, scanned the northern portion of the sky. “Those are the pointer stars of the Big Dipper, Dubhe and Merak. Look.”
Marcus hunkered over the telescope. “Why are they called pointers?”
“Because,” said Norman, “if you connect them with a line and continue the line northward you will be able to locate Polaris. The North Star. Watch.”
Marcus stood; Norman sighted down the tube of his reflecting telescope and located Polaris. “Take a peek.”
Marcus squinted through the eyepiece, “Too cool.”
“And,” said Norman, “if you follow the handle of the Big Dipper in the opposite direction, you’ll always be able to locate the bright star, Arcturus. Move over, dummy,” said Norman. He swung the telescope around. “Follow the arc to Arcturus.” He bent over and centered the star in the viewing field. “Look.”
“It’s like a diamond,” said Marcus.
“If I had dad’s scope I could show you binary stars and optical doubles. I could also show me, I’ve only read about most of this stuff.”
“This homemade scope’s just fine, Sport.” Marcus stretched. “I’m freezing. You coming in soon?”
“Yeah. The eclipse is in half-an-hour.”
“It’s bedtime for this guy.”
“Do me a favor, Marcus?
“Yeah.”
“Wake me up in the morning. I want to go jogging with you.”
“You got it, Sport.”
Chapter 7
Halfway around the track Norman stopped. Marcus strode away. He said, “I told you I wasn’t going to wait.”
“I know,” said Norman.
Marcus nodded and powered into the far turn. Norman resumed his jog-shuffle around the crushed-brick track. The early morning air was thick and soupy with fog. Petaluma was only thirty miles from the Pacific and morning fog was common in the spring; Norman was just happy the misty blanket hadn’t obscured his view of last night’s eclipse.
The track at Casa Grande was surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees. Rock hard eucalyptus berries and dead crescent-shaped leaves littered the track. Two overweight ladies shared the oval with Marcus and Norman. The pair was dressed in matching purple jogging suits and reminded Norman of Christmas ornaments with legs. No matter how slow Norman scuttled or walked he moved faster than the purple ladies.
Norman wasn’t feeling as pooped as he’d expected, despite the fact that he hadn’t run since last year—except for PE—when Chris secretly entered him in the Junior Olympics mile run. As his feet crunched the brick and his lungs sucked in the moist morning air, Norman drifted:
PROBLEMS
1) Collect final data and type up science project conclusions
2) Deal with Tom Allen
3) Find time to work at Mac’s and SAVE THE MONEY FOR A TELESCOPE
4) Learn to box
5) Get Darcy to acknowledge my existence
SOLUTIONS
1) Weigh the mice and compare before and after results
2) Hire a hit man?
3) Work at Mac’s today and DON’T STOP AT BURGER KING!
4) Work out with Chris after dinner
5) Win the Nobel Prize?
While pondering these problems and possible solutions Norman had plodded twice around the track. He had passed the Christmas ornaments once and had been passed by Marcus twice. But he wasn’t aware of passing or having been passed as he circled, drifting on automatic pilot. Marcus eased down to Norman’s pace, “Hey Sport, that’s enough for the first day. You’ve done six laps.”
No reply.
“If you don’t stop now you’ll be too sore to run tomorrow.”
No reply.
“NORMAN!”
“What?”
Marcus shook his head. “It’s time to get home.”
“Good. I’m hungry. Are there any eggs in the house?”
“Yeah, mom went shopping yesterday.”
“Any bacon?”
“Good one. Amusing.”
“Just hoping. I love bacon. Crispy, hot greasy bacon. Bacon in sandwiches with lettuce and tomatoes. Bacon and melted cheese on burgers. Cold bacon crumbled over salads.”
Marcus latched onto Norman’s sweatshirt and towed him across the parking lot to the van. “Bacon’s not good for you.”
“If it makes me happy, it’s good for me. That’s health food.”
“Get in the van.”
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and grapefruit Norman bounded up the stairs to his room. “I’ve got a great idea, Luigi.” The owl didn’t reply, but Norman continued, “I’ll do Tom Allen’s homework, but I’m gonna do it wrong. I’ll teach that Neanderthal to mess with Norman Babbit.” Luigi flew from the coyote skull to Norman’s shoulder. Norman smiled, sat at his desk, and for the first time in his life, purposely miscalculated an Algebra equation.
“Hey Normy,” yelled Chris, “wait up.” Chris, his mouth stuffed with an entire box of raisins, caught up with Norman in the crowded hallway. “Did your mom blast you last night for getting home late?”
“A little. No big deal.”
“You coming over today?” Chris gulped down the raisins and fished a bag of Korn Nuts from his backpack.
“Yeah, but after dinner.”
“Why don’t you—crunch, crunch—just eat at my house,” said Chris. “We—crunch—could box after dinner.”
“And when we’re done boxing, I could help you with your science project.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Chris. “I’ve—crunch—finished it.”
“In two days, without opening a book, you’ve finished a project on Industrial Chemistry?”
Chris nodded twice, Crunch, crunch.
“You can’t even spell Industrial Chemistry.”
Chris finished the Korn Nuts and dropped the bag on the floor.
“That’s littering,” said Norman.
“No it’s not. I’m creating work for the janitor. If it wasn’t for slobs like me, the school district would fire him. He wouldn’t be able to support his wife and kids. In a year he’d be homeless. By not using wastebaskets I’m creating employment and stimulating the economy.”
“What a patriot,” said Norman.
“We all have to do our part.”
The duo rounded a corner and entered English class. If Mr. Forrester was a bat, Mr. Carlson, the English teacher, would be a weasel. Squinty eyes, sloped nose. He even moved like a weasel, with short, choppy steps. He could walk sideways as quickly as he could forward. His brown weasel-hair was streaked with gray. Mr. Carlson’s eyes were always bloodshot and he dressed like an usher at a funeral: black pants and coat, shiny black shoes, white shirt, and a thin black tie. The shoulders of his coat were dusted with a permanent powdering of dandruff.
“Today,” said Mr. Carlson, as the students settled into their seats, “we will be diagramming sentences.” He scanned the class with his bloodshot eyes. “Row three will rise and advance to the blackboard.”
Row three: Howard Bennett, Lois Thompson, Chris and Norman, Mike Caldwell, and Darcy Norton walked to the board. Howard tripped and the class laughed. Norman stood to the left of Darcy. He smiled at her; she didn’t seem to notice.
“The sentence you will be diagramming is,” everyone stood poised and ready to write as Mr. Carlson said, “A sense of humor keen enough to show a man his own absurdities will keep him from the commission of all sins, or nearly all, save those worth committing.” After reciting the quotation three times, everyone had it copied and Mr. Carlson said, “Do you know who said that?”
“I sure do,” said Norman. He felt warm from his jog and content from a big breakfast.
“Who?” said Mr. Carlson.
“You did,” said Norman.
“It was,” said Mr. Carlson, looking down his bony weasel nose, “Samuel Butler. You may proceed with the exercise.”
The sound of squeaking chalk filled the room. The complicated sentence caused the student’s diagrams to look like cracks in a windshield. Norman, as usual, was the first finished. As usual, he was correct. As usual he felt guilty. Howard Bennett scratched his head. Darcy printed neatly and precisely, but didn’t have a clue.