The Genius of Little Things (6 page)

“I hope you don’t use that argument with clients.” Carl smiled, as if expecting everyone to laugh. Levi did, but he rumble-laughed at just about everything, so it didn’t mean much.

Janet poured another glass of wine.

“Maybe you should go slower with that,” Carl said.

“Maybe you could get a job that pays a living wage,” she responded, perkily.

The muscles in Carl’s jaw contracted, as if he were chewing a baseball-size wad of taffy. Even Levi stopped rumble-laughing.

A witty anecdote or two from me would have lightened the mood. But I could only think of stupid jokes I heard at science camp, and they would have been useless because I always got the punch lines mixed up. Anyway, it was not my job to make jokes or prevent arguments. This was another reason why I didn’t want to have dinner with them.

Levi’s eyes opened wide. He said he realized that his parents expected him back at a certain time. He leapt up and made some kind of strange bow—strange because there was no need to bow, and also because he was six-foot-six. Carl and Janet barely noticed his exit. They were now engrossed in a full-fledged spat.

I caught up to Levi outside. “Forgetting something?”

“Oh yeah. Tell your parents thanks again for the Thai… um, thing.”
Foster
parents, I wanted to remind him. How many times had I told him this?

He shoved two twenties at me. It was more than I needed for an aborted session. I was about to inform him that I didn’t have change, but he had already wedged himself inside the Lincoln.

“They’re nice, your folks.” He said it like he actually meant it.

Later that night I saw a note on the refrigerator white board.
We still need to talk
. It was directed at me, of course.

The “talk” was impromptu and happened the next morning, in part because I hate defecating with an audience.

I need to make another quick, explanatory digression.

None of the stalls in any of the boys’ rest rooms at Firebird High had doors. To avoid needing to use the stalls during school hours, I made a plan. I set my alarm one half hour earlier and spent ten minutes drinking coffee. To improve morning momentum I would hum a song, “Urge for Going.”

Another digression. “Urge for Going” is a real song by Joni Mitchell, one of my BiMo’s favorite artists. The title has nothing to do with bodily functions. Though there was no scientific proof, my BiMo believed musical lyrics had a subliminal effect on our thoughts and even bodily functions. So I hoped I would not hear this song, which I now associated with defecation, at an inopportune time. Commuting on the bus would be such a time.

On the morning of the first day of my coffee/bowel routine, I ran into Janet in the kitchen. If I hadn’t been humming that song, I could have grabbed a cup of coffee and slipped away unnoticed.

“Do you have a minute?” Before I could respond, she said they had been out of line at dinner. “We shouldn’t drag you and your friend into our personal shit.”

Carl appeared in the doorway, behind me. I tried not to consider it an ambush.

“Things have been rocky for us lately,” Carl said. “Janet’s real estate business is slow, and of course, in this economy, the state is cutting back on education. I’m down to part time, unless I want to teach in Reno for two days a week. That wouldn’t be so bad, but the gas to commute wouldn’t be worth it. There is no high speed rail in this country and there won’t be for the foreseeable future.”

Carl had Levi’s inability to come to the point.

Janet cut him off. “We fight. It happens.” She was about to say something else, but her cell phone rang. She snatched it off the counter and started using some business terms and swear words.

While she was on the phone, Carl asked me about my long-term plans. I told him I planned to attend Caltech and follow an undergrad degree with a Master’s, a PhD, and then post-doctoral work.

“What about
us
?” he said.

“I don’t know what your plans are.” Was this a trick question?

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

Janet slammed the phone down then looked up, like she had forgotten I was still there.

Carl continued. “Family services called us and asked if we wanted another foster. We wanted to run it by you.”

I felt sick. I began counting prime numbers in my head. But that would only work for so long. They were staring, waiting for an answer.

“I’d prefer not to move away. If that’s what you’re asking about.” My voice was constricted and weak-sounding.

Janet frowned. “We mean the department asked whether we would take an
additional
foster child. We’re considering it, but if you’re bothered, tell us.”

“Whatever is best for you,” I said.

“We’re asking you what’s best for
you
.” Janet was talking slowly, as if trying to explain the concept of kinetic energy to an eight-year-old. I had attempted that once in a tutoring session, so I knew the look.

“I like being the only one.”

“Settled!” Janet said.

Carl declared it a “healthy” discussion, and told me to have a good day.

I left the house, still wondering what exactly had transpired. By the time I was six blocks away, I realized their discussion had caused me to forget my morning ritual. Between first and second periods my coffee kicked in and I availed myself to a door-less stall in the boys’ rest room.

That night, I went to the kitchen for Cap’n Crunch, but the box,
my
box of cereal, was gone. I distinctly remember there being enough for at least a half-bowl. In its place was a new, unopened box of generic muesli.

A note was attached.
Tyler, this is so much better than that sugary junk. See if you like it. Carl.
There was a smiley face on the note.

I hated muesli. It was pebbles and things picked up from the bottom of a forest. On the refrigerator white board I wrote,
Please do not throw out my things without asking!
It seemed jerky, so I erased the note.

**

September 19. FoPas who take in the “less desirable” fosters—those with behavioral or physical problems and old ones like me—generally fall into two camps: young couples who want to practice parenting skills, and those who do it for the money. Carl and Janet need money to maintain their lifestyle. Carl said things were tough for them. I need a free place to live, until emancipation. It is an arrangement. Janet’s Lexus lease is exactly the amount they were bringing in from the state, $600. I am worth a luxury car. That should be encouraging.

**

Saturday morning, Carl and Janet were gone, but there was no note on the refrigerator white board telling me of their whereabouts. I went outside to study on the patio. The curtains and blinds in the neighbor’s windows kept opening and closing, which bothered me.

I went inside collapsed on the suede sofa. For several minutes I listened to nothing. There was a shelf of vaguely world art-like objects that may have been procured in Asia and Africa. There was a huge flat screen TV I never watched. A stereo was hidden in a rustic dark wood cabinet. On an ornate pedestal was a jade dancing Buddha with a maniacally happy expression and arms stretched upward. It was a goofy pose for a supposed god, in my opinion. I hadn’t spent much time in their living room. I couldn’t be sure whether some of their furniture was missing, but it seemed as though the room were becoming emptier. I was sure about one thing. They had no photos in any of the common areas. Usually FoFa photos were spread out on every conceivable surface. Everywhere I went, in every FoHo, there were reminders that I was a stranger.

I did find pictures when I accidentally-on-purpose drifted into Carl’s office. The door was slightly ajar. On a bookshelf were snapshots of Carl and Janet in younger years, all in frames and scattered randomly between books. There were other adults I didn’t know. There was a photo of a young woman in what looked like a skin-tight black leather jump suit. She had her arm around two shirtless guys in tight pants. Another person kept popping up in the photos, a kid, at various ages. He had sandy blonde straight hair. There was a picture of him posing in a baseball uniform. In another, he held a wet dog.

I heard Janet’s car pull up. I dropped a photo of the kid. The glass shattered on the floor. I shoved the photo, broken glass and all, under my shirt and waited in the office, like a cornered animal. When I heard Janet’s click-clicking heels on the kitchen tile, I snuck back into my room, as the broken glass poked my torso.

I would have to replace the glass before anyone noticed the photo was missing. I would do no more investigating. If I wanted them to respect my privacy, I had to respect theirs. I measured the frame and placed the picture in my Box o’ Crap.

FIVE

My well-rounded nature is best exemplified by my participation in Firebird High’s Polynesian Club. My efforts on the club’s (TBD) committee, in which I have succeeded in (TBD) show that I have, in addition to a scientific mind, a strong talent for (TBD). I have always been drawn to Polynesian culture. One of my biological mother’s favorite songs was a Hawaiian-sounding medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World” by (LOOK UP NAME OF HAWAIIAN SINGER).

CUT! DON’T WRITE ABOUT BIMO!!!!!

**

Polynesian club might have been an option if it had existed. The faculty advisor said it should have been taken off the official list of Firebird’s clubs, because there hadn’t been a meeting in over a year. She said I could petition to have the club restarted. I considered this for a day, but it was not clear what my participation would mean to the admissions committee. Did Caltech need a South Seas go-to guy who could make poi or a grass skirt? I surmised it did not.

There were other extracurricular possibilities. Over two weeks I rejected them one by one. Marching band? I couldn’t learn instrument in seven weeks. Literature club? Boring. Forget athletics. I hadn’t thrown a ball in years. No, no, no to nerd clubs, including
After Math
and
Physics is Phun
, which should be doubly rejected due to their names.

News reporter had potential.

I stopped by the office of the school newspaper, the
Clarion
, and met with the editor. He was a paunchy guy with trendy black-framed glasses and un-trendy greasy hair. I made the case that it was a small leap from writing research papers, in which I excelled, to reporting for a daily student paper, in which I had no clue.

I offered story ideas that were variations on articles I had read in
Scientific American
.

“Have you even
read
the
Clarion
? You want to report on the mystery of lupus? Give me a break.” I got the point but the guy kept going on and on about how reporters needed to be “plugged in” to school life. He added, with some perverse pleasure, that there was a long waiting list to get on the staff, so it was not worth my time.

Out of curiosity, I started reading the
Clarion
. There was story that exposed the reason behind the missing rest room stall doors. They had been removed to prevent drug activity. It was not clear how this would cut down on drugs. The reporter said it was Principal Nicks’ idea, and that he was on a “drug-rooting crusade.”

There was another story that piqued my interest. The Student Government Association vice president had been caught carrying painkillers, without a prescription. Consequently, Principal Nicks removed him from the organization.

Mrs. Bates, the administrative assistant, told me Principal Nicks planned to leave the SGA vice president position empty unless there was a groundswell of support for filling it. I asked her what a groundswell would constitute. She seemed peeved by my question and told me to stop by after she discussed it with Principal Nicks.

I returned after seventh period and received my answer. I would need a petition with 100 signatures for a special election. I promised to have the signatures in ten days.

I used a simple pitch to my classmates. “If you believe it’s important that Firebird High have an SGA vice president, sign here to hold an election.” Many students were ambivalent about the organization and the need for a vice president. I received a lot of blank stares. A guy who sat behind me in calculus unleashed a torrent of questions. “What has the SGA done in the last two years? Weren’t elections in the spring? Are you doing this for your college application?”

Answers. “Nothing that I’m aware of but I can change that. Yes, but the vice president had illegal painkillers. No, I am doing this to serve the school.”

After a week, my signature count was forty-one. Then, I hit the mother lode of signatures by accident. A pixie-ish, out-out-of breath girl bumped into me in the corridor near the band room. Even though it was a no-fault collision, she apologized profusely. I asked her to sign the petition. The bell rang. She panicked and ran with the sheet. At the end of the period, I rushed back to the band room and caught her coming out. She handed back the sheet filled with more than 50 new names. No explanation. She bolted down the hall before I could thank her or ask her name.