Special Topics in Calamity Physics (12 page)

My peers too—they were not exactly airheads or fools
(pasta,
as Dad called every kid at Sage Day). When I'd raised my hand in AP English to answer Ms. Simpson's question regarding Primary Themes in
InvisibleMan
(Ellison, 1952) (which turned up on Summer Reading Lists with the regularity of corruption in Cameroon), incredibly, I wasn't
quite
fast enough; another kid, Radley Clifton, pudgy, with an eroded chin, already had his fat hand in the air. While his answer wasn't brilliant or inspired, it also wasn't crude or Calibanesque, and it dawned on me, as Ms. Simpson handed out a nineteen-page syllabus solely covering Fall Term, perhaps St. Gallway wouldn't be such Child's Play, such Easy Victory. Perhaps if I actually wanted to be Valedictorian (and I think I did, though sometimes What Dad Wanted blatantly made its way into What I Wanted without having to go through Customs), I'd have to launch an aggressive campaign with all the ferocity of Attila the Hun. "One is only eligible for Valedictorian once in one's life," Dad noted, "just as one only gets one body, one existence, and thus one shot at immortality."

I also didn't respond to the letter I received the next day, though I read it twenty times, even in the middle of Ms. Gershon's introductory AP Physics lecture, "From Cannonballs to Light Waves: The History of Physics." Paleoanthropologist Donald Johanson, when stumbling upon early hominid "Lucy" in 1974, probably felt the way I did when I opened my locker door and that cream envelope fell at my feet.

I had no idea what I'd found: a wonder (that would forever change history) or a hoax.

Blue,

What the heck happened?? You missed out on a nice broccoli cheddar baked potato at Wendy's. Guess you're playing hard to get. I'll play.

Shall we try this again? You're filling me with longing. (Kidding.)

Same place. Same time.

Charles

I also ignored the two letters discovered in my locker the next day, Wednesday: the first in the cream envelope, the second written in pointy cursive on celery green paper emblazoned at the top with an elaborate tangle of initials: JCW.

Blue,

I'm hurt. Well, I'll be there again today. Every day. Until the end of time. So give a guy a break already.

Charles

Dear Blue,

Charles has obviously made a mess of this situation, so I'm staging a family intervention. I'm assuming you think he's stalkerish. I don't blame you. The truth is, our friend Hannah told us about you and suggested we introduce ourselves. None of us have you in a class so we'll have to meet after school. This Friday at 3:45 go to the second floor of Barrow House, room 208, and wait for us there! Don't be late.

We're DYING to meet you and hear all about Ohio!!!

Kisses,

Jade Churchill Whitestone

These letters would have charmed the average New Student. After a day or two of wordy resistance, like some silly eighteenth-century virgin, she'd tiptoe into the dark shadows of the Scratch, excitedly biting her cherry-plump bottom lip, and await Charles, the wigged aristocrat who'd carry her away
(culottes
flying) to ruin.

I, on the other hand, was the implacable nun. I remained unmoved.

Well, I'm exaggerating. I'd never received a letter from someone I didn't know (rather, never received a letter from someone who wasn't Dad) and there is an undeniable thrill when faced with a mysterious envelope. Dad once observed that personal letters (now alongside the Great Crested Newt on the Endangered Species list) were one of the few physical objects in this world that held magic within them: "Even the Dull and the Dim, those whose presences can barely be stomached in person, can be tolerated in a letter, even come off as mildly amusing."

To me, there was something strange and insincere about their letters, something a little too "Madame de Merteuil to the Vicomte de Valmont at the Chateau de — ", a little too "Paris. 4 August 17—".

Not that I thought I was the latest pawn in their game of seduction. I wouldn't go
that
far. But I knew all about knowing people and not knowing people. There was drudgery and danger in introducing a newcomer into that exclusive circle of belonging,
le petit salon.
Seating was limited, and thus it was inevitable someone old would have to move (a horrifying sign of losing one's foothold in the court, of turning into
une grande dame manqué).

To be safe, the newcomer was best ignored, if her background was obscure enough, shunned (coupled with insinuations of illegitimate birth), unless there was someone, a mother with a title, an influential aunt (affectionately called
Madame Titi
by all) who had the time and power to present the newcomer, to squeeze her in (never mind that everyone's birdcage wig knocked together) rearranging the others to positions which were comfortable, or at least bearable until the next revolution.

Even more bizarre were the references to Hannah Schneider. She had no grounds to be
my
Madame Titi.

I wondered if I'd come off at Surely Shoos as a particularly sad and despondent person. I
thought
I'd exuded "watchful intelligence," which was how Dad's colleague, hearing-impaired Dr. Ordinote described me when he came over for lamb chops one evening in Archer, Missouri. He complimented Dad on raising a young woman of "startling power and acumen."

"If only everyone could have one of her, Gareth," he said, raising his eyebrows as he twisted the knob in his hearing aid. "The world would spin a little faster."

There was the possibility that during her ten-minute exchange with Dad, Hannah Schneider had set her romantic sights on him and resolved that I, the quiet daughter, was the small, portable stepladder she'd use to reach him.

Such had been the machinations of Sheila Crane of Pritchardsville, Georgia, who'd only encountered Dad for twenty seconds at the Court Elementary Art Show (she tore his ticket in half) before she decided he was Her Guy. After the Art Show, Miss Crane, who worked part-time at the Court Elementary Infirmary, had a habit of materializing during Break near the seesaws, calling out my name, holding up a box of Thin Mints. When I was in close proximity, she held out a cookie as if trying to tempt a stray dog.

"Can you tell me a little more about your daddy? I mean," she said nonchalantly, though her eyes bored into me like an electrician's drill, "what kinda things duzzie like?"

Usually I stared blankly at her, grabbed the Thin Mint and spirited away, but once I said, "Karl Marx." Her eyes widened in fear.

"He's homosexshull?"

Revolution is slow burning, occurring only after decades of oppression and poverty, but the exact hour of its unleashing is often a moment of fateful mishap.

According to one of Dad's little-known history texts,
Les Faits Perdus
(Manneurs, 1952), the Storming of the Bastille would never have happened, if one of the demonstrators outside the prison, a barley farmer by the name of Pierre Fromande, had not noticed a prison guard pointing at him and calling him
un bricon
("fool").

On the morning of July 14, 1789, Pierre was on a short fuse. He'd had a fight with his voluptuous wife, Marie-Chantal, for her flirting
sans scrupule
with one of their field hands, Louis-Beige. Pierre, overhearing the insult, dimly aware the prison guard had the same chunky Roquefort torso of Louis-Beige, lost all self-control and charged forward screaming,
"C'est tout fini!"
("It's all over.") The frenzied crowd followed, believing he was speaking of the reign of Louis XVI, though Pierre was, in fact, referring to the image of Marie-Chantal screaming in pleasure in barley fields, Louis-Beige melting all over her. Yet, Pierre had misunderstood the well-meaning guard, who'd simply pointed at Pierre and shouted, "Votre
bouton;"
when dressing that morning, Pierre had missed the third button on his chemise.

According to Manneurs, most of history has played out under similar circumstances, including the American Revolution (the Boston Tea Party was the work of 1777-era frat boys) and World War I (Gavrilo Princip, after a day with his drinking buddies, the Black Hands, fired a few rounds into the air, simply to show off, just as Archduke Ferdinand cruised by in his royal arcade)

(p. 199, p. 243). Hiroshima was unintentional too. When Truman told his Cabinet, "I'm going in," he wasn't, as was believed, referring to a Japanese invasion, but giving voice to the simple desire to take a dip in the White House pool.

My revolution was no less accidental.

That Friday, a Know-Your-School Sorbet Social was held after lunch. Students mingled with teachers on the stone patio outside the Harper Racey '05 Cafeteria, feasting upon a selection of exclusive French sorbet, doled out by the Head Chef, Christian Gordon. Eager students (including Radley Clifton with his belly peeking out of his partially untucked shirt) swarmed around the key Gallway administrators (doubtlessly those in charge of end-ofyear honors; "Brown-nosing in this day and age backfires," Dad attested. "Networking, hobnobbing—it's all painfully out of season."). After saying modest helloes to a few of my teachers (smiling at Ms. Filobeque who stood rather forlornly under a hemlock, though in reply she only pursed her lips) I headed to my next class, AP Art History in Elton House, and waited in the empty classroom.

After ten minutes, Mr. Archer appeared, carrying his tub of Mango sherbet and I'M EARTH FRIENDLY biodegradable satchel (see "Red-eyed Tree

Frog,"
The World of Ranidae: From Frog Princes to Tadpoles,
Showa, 1998). He had so much sweat on his forehead he looked like a glass of iced tea. "Would you mind helping me set up the slide projector for the lecture?" he asked. (Mr. Archer being EARTH FRIENDLY was APPARATUS HOSTILE.)

I agreed, and was just finishing loading the 112 slides, as the other students began to arrive, most of them with big, slurpy grins on their faces, tubs of sorbet in hand.

"Thank you for your assistance, Babs," Mr. Archer said, smiling at me and affixing his long, sticky fingers to the top of his desk. "Today we finish up with Lascaux and turn to the rich artistic tradition that emerged in the area that is now southern Iraq. James, will you get the lights?"

Unlike Pierre Fromande, I'd heard the man correctly. Unlike Truman's cabinet members, I'd understood his true meaning. Certainly, I'd been given aliases by teachers before, from Betsy and Barbara to "You in the Corner" and "Red, No, I'm Kidding." From years twelve to fourteen, I actually believed the name was cursed, that it was whispered among instructors "Blue" had the erratic properties of a ballpoint pen at high altitudes; if they uttered the name, a permanent blueness, dark and inexorable, could very well leak all over them.

Lottie Bergoney, Instructor of the Second Grade in Pocus, Indiana, actually telephoned Dad and suggested he rechristen me. "You won't believe this!" Dad mouthed, cupping his hand over the receiver, gesturing for me to listen on the other line.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Van Meer. The name's not healthy. The kids in class make fun of it. They call her navy. A few of the smart ones call her cobalt. And cordon
bleu.
Maybe you should think about alternatives."

"Might you suggest some possibilities, Miss Bergie?"

"Sure! I don't know about you, but I've always loved Daphne."

Perhaps it was Mr. Archer's particular choice of name, Babs, the nickname of a restless wife wearing no bra during her tennis lesson. Or perhaps it was the confidence with which he said it, without a trace of uncertainty or second thought.

Suddenly, at my desk, I couldn't breathe. At the same time, I wanted to leap from my chair and shout,
"It's Blue, you sons of bitches!"

Instead, I reached into my backpack and removed the three letters, still tucked into the cover of my assignment notebook. I reread each one, and then, with the same clarity that overtook Robespierre as he lounged in a bath and
liberté, égalité
and
fraternité
sailed into his head—three great merchant ships coming into port—I knew what I had to do.

After class, I used the student payphone in Hanover to call Dad at the university. I left a message explaining I wouldn't need a ride home until 4:45; I was meeting with Ms. Simpson, my AP English teacher, to discuss her Great Expectations for research papers. At 3:40, after confirming in the Hanover ground-floor ladies room that I had sat on neither gum nor chocolate, that I had nothing in my teeth and had not accidentally pressed my ink-stained hand against the side of my face leaving it a mosaic of black fingerprints (as I had once before), I walked, as composedly as I could, over to Barrow. I knocked on the door of 208 and was instantly greeted with a few flat, unsurprised voices: "It's open."

Slowly, I opened the door. Four flour-pale kids sat at desks in a circle at the center of the classroom, none of them smiling. The other desks had been pushed to the walls.

"Hi," I said.

They stared at me sullenly.

"I'm Blue."

"You're here for the Dungeons & Dragons Demonology Guild," a kid pronounced in a squeaky voice like air being let out of a bicycle tire. "There's an extra player's handbook
there.
Right now we're choosing our roles for the year."