Also Known as Rowan Pohi (2 page)

"Nope."

"Nope."

"Nope."

"I count one nope and two dopes," I declared.

I expected Marcus to belt my arm, so when he did I was ready for it. I didn't even flinch.

O
N THE WAY HOME I STOPPED AT THE POST OFFICE AND
bought a stamp and an envelope. I copied the correct address, tucked the application into the envelope, put on the stamp, and sealed it. When I handed the letter to the clerk, she took a close look at the return address. Then she glanced at me.

I thought she might say
You're Bobby Steele's kid, aren't you?
Instead, she handed the envelope back. "Put it in the mail slot right over there."

I walked to the other side of the room and mailed off Rowan Pohi's application to Whitestone Preparatory School.

We were living on the top floor of a three-story brownstone in a long, narrow apartment. From the small entrance, you passed through the TV room to get to the kitchen. When Mom lived there, the place usually smelled like fried onions or whatever tasty food she had simmering on the stove. Now when you walked in, you smelled only cat litter.

I found my little brother, Cody, in the den, crumpled in front of the TV with Turf, our cat, dozing beside him. Mrs. Richards watched Cody in the afternoon; she must have let him in. Cody had a feather in the back of his hair, sticking up Indian-style.

Not too long after Mom left, Cody started insisting that he was 100 percent Native American. I knew for a fact he didn't have any Indian blood in him, not one single drop, but I didn't argue. I figured if it made him feel better, what the heck, no harm, no foul. Every morning, Cody put a feather in his hair when he got dressed. Once in a while, if my father wasn't around, I even dabbed some war paint (green face cream Mom left behind) on his face.

"Bobby, how many days till I go to school?" He asked the question without taking his eye off the cartoon he was watching—
SpongeBob.

"A week till kindergarten," I told him. "You getting excited?"

"Yeah." Though he didn't sound excited.

I went into the kitchen. My father had a regular schedule for supper, and we followed it religiously. Wednesday was spaghetti night, so it was my night to cook. I used premade sauce, the kind you buy in a jar, but I doctored it up with fried onions and garlic to improve the taste, the way Mom showed me once. After that I filled a pot halfway full with water for pasta and turned on the oven to warm up the garlic bread. Then I made the salad. My father liked to eat at six o'clock sharp, which suited me fine.

He came home looking hot and grimy, like he usually did after work. My father owned CarWorks, an auto-repair shop on the corner of Fifteenth and Remington. There were three other mechanics and three lifts at his garage. I had a part-time job there, mostly doing oil changes and vacuuming out cars, and earned enough money to buy things I needed.

"Hi," I said. "We can eat whenever."

"Okay, gimme ten minutes." He hung his keys on the hook next to the refrigerator and headed into the bathroom. A moment later I heard the shower turn on.

During supper we watched our cat chase a housefly around the room. We got Turf at the hardware store a little more than a year ago. Cody, Mom, and I were walking through the gardening section and found a small gray cat sound asleep on a green square. The sign above said
ARTIFICIAL TURF SALE
. One of the clerks noticed our interest and mentioned that the cat needed a home, so Mom agreed to make her part of our family. Cody named her Turf.

My father reached for a piece of garlic bread and pulled it apart. Cody pushed his spaghetti around on the plate. We had run out of Kraft Parmesan cheese. "I can't eat it without cheese," Cody complained.

"It don't matter," my father said. "Eat."

Doesn't
matter, I mentally corrected him. My father's bad grammar really bugged me.

I favored my father: pale blue eyes, sandy hair, freckles, and long legs. With his compact limbs, dark eyes, and curly black hair, Cody looked like Mom. A
lot
like Mom. The spitting image, isn't that what they say? It was freaky. No matter how many times I looked at Cody, I always got a little jolt. It was like having a mini-Mom in the house. It must have been weird for my father too.

"Today I was working on a 'ninety-nine Camry," he was saying. "Do whatever you gotta do, the owner told me when he dropped off the car. That's what he said: Do whatever you gotta do. Car needed a new water pump, so I got one from my supplier and tell Jimmy to put it in. Cost a hundred and fifty, with labor, but when the guy comes to pick up the car, he goes apeshit, says I'm charging way too much. Says, 'I didn't authorize it, and I'm not paying.'"

Cody grinned. " Apeshit!"

My brother was like a myna bird when it came to repeating my father's curses. If he heard a swear even once, it got stuck in his head forever.

"Don't say that," I told him.

"But Daddy did."

I ignored him and glanced at my father. "So what did you do?"

"I says, Okay, fine," my father said. "You wanna play stupid, I can play stupid too. I had Jimmy take out the new water pump and put back the old one. What a fruitcake!"

While my father was talking I tried not to stare at his hands, which were bigger and darker than the rest of his body. It was as if a larger man's hands had somehow been grafted onto his arms. At CarWorks, my father's hands got coated in every kind of oil, lubricant, and engine grime you could imagine. After twenty years, all those greasy fluids had soaked into his skin. He used a special soap that washed off the filth, but only the top layer. The other stuff was still there just below the surface. His hands would never be deep-down clean.

Turf finally caught the fly she had been chasing. She curled up a few feet from the table, allowing us to hear the sound of the trapped fly buzzing around in her mouth. You'd think Turf would swallow it, but she kept that fly in there, alive, flying around. Cody giggled.

"That is one wacked-out cat," my father declared.

After supper we cleaned the kitchen. He turned on the Sox game. I put on my gym shoes and went out for a run.

Running right after supper seems like a bad idea, but it didn't bother me. You've got an iron stomach, Mom used to say. My belly might be stuffed with spaghetti and garlic bread, but I didn't want to miss running, not for anything. It was the one time of day that really felt like mine.

We didn't live in the worst part of the city, but our neighborhood had definitely seen better days. Running down Robertson I passed two liquor stores, a pawnshop, and a bank, followed by Luquer's, a secondhand clothes store. The next block was a row of apartment buildings and then a huge, faded brick building.

Welcome to my high school.

The school was named Riverview High, except a few years ago they erected two wide office buildings on the west side, eliminating any view of the river. I guess nobody thought to change the name. Through the chainlink fence you could see the parking lot all torn up by construction. The school board passed an improvement plan to add parking spaces and a running track, but it got halted last year due to the newest round of budget cuts. In two weeks I would begin my sophomore year.

I passed the school, crossed onto Cherry, and headed south toward People's Park, which ran along the reservoir. I did four long blocks, then crossed diagonally through Wilson Square before heading west on Birch. It was a clear evening, and I found myself chasing a lazy red sun.

Some people do complicated things when they run: monitor their stride, breathe in rhythm, and keep their hands low. For me, running has always felt as natural as walking or breathing: I just ran. I never thought a lick about it. And I was fast too, faster than any kid in my grade.

The reservoir appeared on the left. Sunlight glistened on the water while I ran along the boardwalk. This was my favorite part of the day. I pretended the lake was mine. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed ripples in the water, probably a fish rising to the surface to feed. Maybe later I'd take my imaginary girlfriend out in my imaginary boat and do some fishing. Fish like to feed at twilight. I got a whiff of chicken cooking on a grill, and the smell made my mouth water, even though I'd already eaten.

I ran along the reservoir: stride, stride, stride, stride. A line of huge ancient elms blocked any view of the sunset, but glancing in the other direction I could see the distant buildings of Whitestone up on the hill, looking down over the city.

I tried not to think about Whitestone, but I couldn't help it. Beyond the hype and the snob factor, it really was a terrific school with A-list teachers.
First class all the way,
Mom used to say, and I had no reason to doubt her. More than once I wondered if I might fit in better at a school like that. At Riverview, kids called you geekster or nerdling if you dared show any interest in history or literature, so I had to hide that side of myself. Kids at Whitestone really wanted to learn, from what I'd heard, so there was nothing wrong with paying attention or speaking up in class.

Two girls waved as I passed a girls' softball game, and I waved back. I felt airy and loose and free. I wasn't winded either, not even a little bit. I felt like I could keep on going forever. It was a perfect August evening. At that moment, running in the opposite direction from home, feeling it get farther and farther away, I could almost understand why Mom had kept going and didn't turn back.

I passed Jitterbug's Coffee Shoppe and spotted the sign for Vanderbilt Boulevard half a block ahead. That was my signal to turn right.

I wasn't really angry at Mom for leaving. I couldn't hold it against her. Not after what my father did. I could understand why she skipped out on us. Almost. But I couldn't do what she did. I didn't feel like I was better than her; just different. Whenever I went out to run, I curved like a boomerang, traveling far and wide but then bending around and heading toward home. I always came back.

T
HREE DAYS LATER I FOUND IN OUR MAILBOX A SLENDER
envelope with a single sheet of paper inside.

 

Dear Rowan,

We appreciate your interest in Whitestone. During the past two years we have worked hard to bring in a more diverse student population. After carefully reviewing your application, plus the enthusiastic letter of recommendation from Mr. Ramón García, the admissions committee has decided that you would be a strong addition to our learning community. Congratulations, Rowan! Allow me to extend my personal welcome to Whitestone Preparatory School.

A detailed letter will follow. Please do not lose it! This letter will contain important information pertaining to necessary medical forms, the academic calendar, scheduled tuition payments, and school uniforms. The first day of school is August 26. I look forward to meeting you then.

 

Sincerely,

 

Melody Ryder

Director of Admissions

 

PS: This acceptance is conditional upon our receiving a satisfactory transcript (including grades) from your previous school in a timely fashion.

 

Sitting on the cement stairs, I slowly reread the letter. A car alarm started beeping, but I didn't even look up. When I was convinced that the letter was real, I ran inside, grabbed my phone, and texted Marcus and Big Poobs.

Urgent. Meet at IHOP 3:30.

When I got there it was after the lunch hour but too early for dinner, so the restaurant was nearly empty. The hostess let us have our favorite booth by the window.

"He got in!" I blurted out.

The blank way Marcus and Big Poobs stared at me, you would have thought I was speaking Mandarin Chinese.

"He got accepted!" I repeated.

"Who?"

"Rowan! He got accepted at Whitestone!"

Marcus smiled. "Bullshit."

Big Poobs wasn't buying it either, so I had to whip out the acceptance letter. They lunged at it like two piranhas hitting a piece of bloody meat—I swear, they practically ripped it in half—and still didn't believe me until they held that letter in their hands and read it with their own eyes.

Then all three of us erupted. We started laughing, high-fiving, power-bumping, whooping it up so much the waitress gave us an evil look and marched toward our table.

"Shut up!" I hissed at Marcus and Big Poobs. Today of all days I didn't want to get thrown out.

"Sorry," I mumbled to our waitress.

She glared at me but took our drink order and left.

"That is money!" Marcus softly exclaimed, pointing at the letter.

"Not bad." I was trying to be cool but couldn't keep the goofy grin off my face.

Big Poobs looked both happy and bewildered. "What the...? I mean, how did—?"

"It worked!" Marcus whispered softly. "We did it! Rowan rules!"

At that moment four Whitestone students entered the restaurant and settled in a few tables away. The sight of four actual flesh-and-blood Stonys caused us to lose it completely. We collapsed into uncontrollable laughter, especially Big Poobs. He howled silently until he had tears running down his fat face.

"But now what?" Marcus finally said.

The waitress brought our drinks, and for the next minute we sipped without saying a word. We didn't know what to do next, not really. Deep down none of us ever thought Rowan would actually get accepted to Whitestone.

"I propose a toast," Big Poobs said, lifting his root beer. "To Rowan Pohi!"

"Hear, hear!"

I fired a finger gun at Marcus. "That letter of recommendation from Ramón García did the trick."

"Yeah,
Señor
García laid it on pretty thick," Marcus admitted. "Did you know that Rowan started a tutoring program for underprivileged kids?"

I grinned. "Nice touch!"