Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (4 page)

“Think of it as brunch,” Lee said.

“Brunch is for adults,” I said. We weren't close enough to
see the food yet. I sniffed the air. “And I don't think tacos or chicken cutlets are traditional brunch items.”

“How do you do that?” Lee asked. “It all just smells like a barely contained grease fire to me.”

“It's a gift. Hey, speaking of which, why did you give me three Venus flytraps for the Fourth of July?”

“Because I know from numerous sad experiences that two-thirds of them die right away,” she said. “How many do you have left?”

“One.”

Lee grinned. “As my dad likes to say: asked, and answered.”

We both got the tacos. I bought chocolate milk. Lee got a soda from the machine. They'd tried to replace all the soda with water and juice last year, but the mayor's brother is a hotshot executive for a major soda company, so carbonated beverages had a lot of support in our town.

If I'd been by myself, I would have stood amid the tables for five minutes, trying to figure out where to sit. Freshman year, my social circle had been torn apart and stitched together. I'd lost old friends, and gained new ones. But Wesley had been a senior last year. So he was gone, leaving Lee and me as our entire high school clique.

Lee grabbed a seat at an empty table. She would have done the same thing even if we weren't together. Or she would have sat with the most popular kids in the room, like she did last year, just for fun. She didn't seem to worry about stuff like
social structures, clique hierarchies, and the intangible nature of popularity.

I joined her. I was happy not to have to figure out where I'd fit in best.

Richard Elkhart hovered nearby. I knew him from the paper. I pointed at the empty seats, inviting him to take one. Edith Cutler, also from the paper, joined us. We compared schedules. We all had the same English class. That was good. Richard was in my Spanish class, and Edith was in bio.

The kid I'd thrashed in history walked over. I clenched my fists, ready to protect myself if he took a swing at me, or flung the food on his tray at my face.

“That was funny,” he said.

“Funny?”

“Yeah. You really got me good.” He looked down at the table. “Can I sit here? I don't know anybody.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” He sat, and doled out basic data.

His name was Bradley. He'd just moved here from Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Apparently, where he came from, insults were exchanged between adolescent males as readily and forcefully as high fives, and didn't lead to fights.

That was a new way to make friends. One more miracle this morning and I was going to apply for sainthood.

I scanned the room to see whether there had been any major social upheavals or revolutions during the summer. Things looked pretty much the same. Except for one thing.

“Kyle and Kelly aren't together anymore.” I pointed to where Kelly sat.

“Maybe the alliteration was too much for them,” Lee said.

“That theory is as good as any,” I said. I examined “Scott and Lee” for any signs of intolerable cuteness. The conjunction seemed fine, marred only by its current status as just a theoretical pairing.

“I heard she dumped him over the summer,” Edith said.

“Ouch.” No matter what had happened between Kyle and me, I felt a bit sorry for him. I knew how badly he'd wanted a girlfriend last year.

I turned my attention to my lunch. I ate the French fries first, since the cooler they got, the less they resembled food. The tacos weren't bad. They were only flawed by being small and few. As a rule of thumb, a taco should never be smaller than your hand. Or your thumb. I ate both of mine pretty quickly. My tacos. Not my hands. Lee nibbled at one of hers, made a face, and put the other one on my tray. “Want it?”

“Sure.” There are some things you never turn down. After I finished my taco, my cubed pale crunchy fruit in sugar water, and my red sugary gelatin desert, I wiped the tortilla-shell grease from my hands and grabbed my notebook. As I sipped my chocolate milk, I compiled a list.

Scott Hudson's List of Things You Should Never Turn Down

A pristine taco of any size.

A ride in a sports car.

The volume.

Advice from a magical talking fish.

Scott Hudson's List of Things You Should Always Turn Down

A seat next to Lyle “Sardine Breath” Sabretski (even if he ever gets a sports car).

A bite from a half-eaten caramel apple.

Advice from a talking fly-infested pig's head on a stick.

Lee took a small sip from her soda. This was only her third tiny slurp, at most. She held the soda out to me. “I can't finish this. Want it?”

“Sure.” I put the nearly full can on my tray, slugged down the rest of the milk, then chugged the soda, and added it to my list. I'd never seen Lee drink a whole soda. That worked out pretty nicely for me.

The bell rang. “Time to conquer the next class,” I said.

“Someone's feeling invulnerable,” Lee said.

“Hey, we're sophomores,” I said. “There are no pitfalls left for us.”

“Here's hoping irony doesn't bite you on the butt,” Lee said.

Irony, it turns out, has a big mouth, sharp teeth, and a craving for Hudson butts.

D
espite the popularity of various housing clusters of little pigs, assorted tradesmen in a tub, gruff billy goats, blind mice, and other well-known trios, three is not always a good number. I probably could have survived the smell, if it had been alone in its assault on my senses. I might have survived the sight, if it hadn't struck me immediately after the smell. Toss in the third element, which in this case was itself a dangerous trio in the form of gobbled cafeteria tacos, and I didn't have a prayer. Or a convenient tub.

The smell hit me right after I walked through the classroom door, as I turned past the large lab table at the front of the room. If you mixed nail-polish remover with paint thinner in a bucket, tossed in a couple of raw chicken thighs, a mackerel, and assorted slices of deli meats, and let the whole thing sit outside in direct sunlight for a week or two, the stench would seem like fresh-baked apple pie compared to the air in the classroom.
Nothing solid, liquid, or gaseous that Sean had blown out of his lower intestines came close to being this awful. And Sean could clear a room.

The sight smacked me as I looked for the source of the smell. A cat—actually, make that something that had once been a cat—was pinned, belly-up, to a wooden board on the table. Make that belly-up and belly-open. His mouth was agape, as if he were still trying to come to grips with the horror of his current situation. I turned away from the sight as the third taco, which was the last one to go down, exploded from my stomach and rocketed up my throat. I guess it was eager to clear a path for the second and first tacos, which enjoyed a flume ride on the waves of chocolate milk and soda that had tasted so good going down.

I hadn't thrown up in a long time. Not since I had the flu in sixth grade. I saw another splatter of vomit near mine. An instant later, I heard someone behind me joining the puke party.

Now what?

A young teacher stood by the far wall, leaning against the windowsill, her arms crossed in front of her chest like she was waiting for a bus. I guessed that was Ms. Denton. When I caught her eye, she pointed next to her, where five buckets and mops had been lined up. On the windowsill behind each mop, I saw a bottle of water.

I walked across the room with my fellow upchuckers, and
grabbed a bucket. I was relieved to see that Ike Yamamoto was part of our wretched trio. He was a wrestler, and pretty tough, so nobody was going to make fun of us. At least, not as a group. Our third gastric buddy was Chelsea McCabe, whose father was the chief of police. I was pretty sure she was immune from teasing. From what I'd heard, guys were even afraid to ask her out. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of the law.

After I'd mopped up my mess, and rinsed my mouth with one of the water bottles, Ms. Denton had us take the buckets back to the janitor's closet. At least Lee had saved a seat for me. I dropped down in it and assured myself that the worst part of the day was over.

“That is totally unacceptable,” Lee said. “I'm writing a letter to the school board.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It does seem kind of cruel.”

“Cruel? What are you talking about?” she asked.

“What are
you
talking about?”

“The bottled water,” she said. “There's no excuse for that. It's a waste of resources, and an unnecessary expense. The local tap water is fine.”

“I thought you were talking about the cat,” I said.

Before Lee could respond, Ms. Denton, who'd moved to the front of the room, got things started. She leaned against the lab table, just to the left of the cat. “Welcome to biology,” she said. “You'll get used to it.” She paused a moment before adding, “Or fail.”

Sheila Bergstrom, who was about to regret her decision to wear pink today, and her parents' decision to pass along their Nordic heritage in the form of blond hair and blue eyes, raised her hand. “Is that . . . ?” She pointed at the cat.

“Relax, Barbie. That's for AP,” Ms. Denton said. “College prep biology doesn't require you to dissect a cat.”

Relief flowed through the room, mingled with scattered sighs of deep disappointment from the science crowd. My own relief was two-pronged. I was happy that I wouldn't be getting intimately familiar with the inside of a cat. I was also pleased that Sheila might have just won the role of least-favorite student. If so, I could add another slick escape to my achievements for the day.

“No cat for this class,” said Ms. Denton. “We'll have to settle for a fetal pig.”

The image of baby-sized strips of unborn pig sizzling in a pan almost booted the few remaining drops of digestive juices and tortilla sludge from my stomach, but I managed to choke back the nausea.

Lee patted my arm. “Fear not. I'm sure little Hamlet died of natural causes.”

As I got ready to point out the unlikeliness of that, she laughed and shot me a
can't-you-tell-when-I'm-kidding?
look.

I returned my attention to the front of the room, where Ms. Denton had started taking attendance. She frowned when she reached my name. “Scott Hudson . . . ,” she said. “Any relation to Bobby?”

Oh, great. . . .

I contemplated lying, but settled for saying, “Brother.”

Last year, I'd managed to live down, or transcend, my brother's reputation with any of my teachers who'd encountered him during his stormy and incomplete passage through Zenger High. I guessed I was going to run into a new batch of teachers who'd encountered him during his sophomore year.

“You're not like him,” she said.

Her tone was so flat, I couldn't tell whether her words were a statement, a question, or a wish. I settled for replying, “No. I'm not.”

When the bell rang, I swung to the side of the room, keeping as far from the front table as possible. Lee walked over to the cat, pointed at something within, and asked, “Is that the heart?”

Ms. Denton moved to her side, glanced down, and said, “Yes, Morticia.”

Lee ignored the name, though I'm sure she recognized the Addams Family reference, and shifted her finger. “Liver?”

Ms. Denton nodded. Ironically, she was the one, like Morticia Addams, who had long, dark hair and a pale complexion. She picked up a probe and touched something.

“Kidneys?” Lee guessed.

Another nod. “Very good. You should think about transferring to AP. It's not too late.”

“I'll give it some thought,” Lee said.

As we left the room, I said, “Maybe you really should. . . .”

“Nope,” Lee said. “That would cause all sorts of parental expectations that I really don't want to have to live up to.”

“You shouldn't not do something just because your parents would approve if you did it,” I said.

Lee patted me on the back. “Double negative with a half twist. But you stuck the landing. Nice job, English geek.”

“I'm not an English geek,” I said.

“My apologies,” Lee said. “You're a multi-faceted geek, with broad skills in a variety of disciplines, and a brain crammed with more than five thousand amazing facts.”

“Okay. I'll admit to that. But you're dodging the issue. If you don't take AP just because it would please your parents to see you strive, you're cheating yourself.”

“If I take AP, who's going to pat you on the back and offer comforting words after you spew tacos and fudgy bubbles?” she asked.

I let it go. Sometimes, arguing with Lee was like playing table tennis with an octopus. There was no way to get a shot past her.

She checked her schedule, pressed the back of her hand against her forehead in a fake swoon, and said, “Alas, it is here we part. I will try to be brave until we reunite.”

“See you ninth period,” I said. I added, “Morticia,” when she was almost out of earshot.

She saluted at me over her shoulder with her middle finger. I took that as a sign of affection.

I headed for Life Skills. I had Ms. Pell, again. That was fine. She told us we'd be spending our first week learning how to balance a checkbook and reconcile an account statement. That was also fine. After an uneventful 5th period of checks and balances, I headed for Spanish.

“Hola, mi estudiantes. Me llamo Señorita Morena
,” sayeth the teacher.

“Hola, Señorita Morena
,” sayeth the class.

And that's pretty much all there was to sayeth about sixth period.

I had Mr. Cravutto again for gym. I'd sort of hated him last year, until I'd started to get in shape. Kyle was in my class this year. We'd been friends since kindergarten, and then, one day, we weren't friends anymore.

He caught me staring at him as we headed into the locker room. To my surprise, he smirked, like he'd played some sort of joke on me. That was a change from the guilty look he'd worn right after he'd betrayed me last year, and the ensuing anger at one's victim that often followed guilt. The look worried me. I made a note to keep my eyes open. Especially in the locker room.

We suited up and went outside. Mr. Cravutto didn't bother giving us an introductory talk. We didn't need it. We knew the drill. And talking wasn't a big part of his skill set.

“Renzler,” he said, pointing at one of the kids from the JV football team, “warm-up exercises.”

“Yes, COACH!” Renzler said.

Apparently, among those who participate in a large amount of extracurricular athletics, the word “coach” can never be spoken at a conversational volume.

Randy Renzler got in front of the class and ran us through the usual exercises while Mr. Cravutto stood to the side and scanned the double doors that led in and out of the gym as if he were waiting for an important package from UPS.

After we'd been thoroughly warmed up, Renzler shouted, “Now what, COACH?”

Mr. Cravutto pointed to the track. “Laps,” he said.

Sadly, he didn't mean for us to sit and form them.

Right before we finished our first lap, the girls' class came out, carrying field-hockey sticks. They headed to the field. Mr. Cravutto headed over to the girls' teacher and started talking.

So that's where his mind was.

We ran.

He talked.

Apparently he had a lot to say. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I could guess parts of it, based on his hand gestures. He was telling her all about his sporting skills. Or he was playing a very active one-sided game of charades, trying to get her to guess the phrase, “struck by lightning.” She kept nodding and glancing toward the field, where the girls had divided into two teams and started a game.

We kept running.

Eventually, a couple kids flopped to the grass next to the track. Soon after that, several more draped themselves over seats in the bleachers. I slowed down, but I figured I could keep jogging for a while. Mr. Cravutto had to notice us sooner or later.

Or so I thought.

When my legs and lungs signaled that they were going on strike, I dropped out. It pleased me that I'd lasted so long. The only remaining runners were three kids from the cross-country team, and two football players who must have been desperate to impress their coach, but were totally unaware that he would never notice their amazing acts of loyalty and endurance while a female member of the sweatclothes-and-whistles clan was in the vicinity.

Mr. Cravutto had more stamina than I did. He was still shooting his mouth off when the bell rang.

The bell!

We were supposed to be showered and changed before the bell.

Both gym teachers looked at the building as if they'd been startled out of a deep sleep, then turned toward us and blew their whistles.

Some of the kids ran for the locker room. I didn't care if I was late for art. I walked. There was no way I could sprint. After I took the quickest shower in the history of perspiration removal, I got dressed and headed for Mr. Cravutto's office for
a late slip. There was a line of kids ahead of me. I heard Mr. Cravutto repeating, “You don't need a slip. Tell your teacher I said it was okay.”

I figured that waiting around until I reached the front of the line would just make me later. So I headed for art.

The late bell had already rung.

The teacher, Mr. Belman, lobbed a sneer in my direction. “Nice of you to join us.”

Oh, great. I didn't want to get on his bad side. I liked art. I launched into my excuse. “Mr. Cravutto—”

“Say no more,” Mr. Belman said. The sneer melted into a grimace of sympathy. “You're excused.”

“Thanks.” That was a relief. All the seats were taken, except for one next to “Sardine Breath” Sabretski. Great. But I guessed, right then, I could give him some competition in the aromatic department. It could have been worse. At least it wasn't a class that required massive exhalations, like chorus or candle snuffing. I dropped down on the stool and drew in a big sigh of relief, just as my neighbor let out the sigh of someone who's lost personal space.

As I sat there trying to purge my lungs, I noticed that one of the counters under the windows was filled with empty glass bottles. There were all sorts, from tiny perfume bottles in fancy shapes to large bottles that looked like they once held wine or olive oil. There were even several milk bottles from the dairy store that had closed way back when I was little.

“Pick three bottles,” Mr. Belman told the class. “Make sure they are different in as many ways as possible—height, circumference, profile, shape.”

Before the last long vowel of the last word of his sentence had left his mouth, we'd all leaped to our feet and stampeded toward the windows. I snatched at bottles, trying to get the best ones, even though I had no idea what defined “best” in this situation. It reminded me of those scenes on the news from Black Friday, when people trample their fellow humans in a frenzy to get the best bargains.

After I'd returned to my seat with my trophies, I thought about the way my whole nervous system had responded to the unexpected competition. My immediate fear had been that there wouldn't be enough bottles for everyone. I had to make sure I got mine. It turned out to be an empty fear. There were plenty of bottles left on the counter after the onslaught, though not all of them were still standing. The unchosen bottles didn't look any better or worse than the ones I'd grabbed. I couldn't shake the worry that I'd made bad choices. As I scanned the room, and noticed how my classmates sat slightly hunched over their bottles, as if to protect them from being snatched away, I wondered what would have happened if there'd been a shortage.