Also Known as Rowan Pohi (7 page)

"Catchy," she admitted. "But it wouldn't be very juicy, at least my part of it."

I gave her a sleepy grin. "I'm not buying that."

"Next!"

A young man motioned for me to sit in front of the camera.

"Smile, Rowan."

Flash. Three minutes later I was holding an official White-stone ID card for Rowan Pohi. With my own mug. If only Marcus and Big Poobs could see me now. I got a funny pang thinking of my two buddies—guilt? regret?—but pushed it out of my mind. I'd have to deal with that later.

"Let me see."

Heather Reardon came out of nowhere and playfully yanked the ID out of my hands. She was wearing white shorts and a neon blue T-shirt that said
ASK ME.

"Hi there." I was glad to see one familiar face.

"Hell-oooo." She peered at the ID card. "Very handsome."

I pointed at her shirt. "Can I ask you a question?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Shoot."

"What is the meaning of life?"

Heather laughed and grabbed my hand. "They've got doughnuts to die for, but they're going fast. C'mon."

I waved at Robin as Heather led me to the refreshment table. There I helped myself to two doughnuts thickly crusted with sugar. Yum.

"The upper school is grade ten through twelve, just over a thousand students," Heather was saying. The room had suddenly gotten noisy, so she had to stand close to me to be heard.

"Most of these kids went to Whitestone Middle, right?" I said. "So there already must be lots of cliques."

Heather shook her head. "Not really. There are three hundred fifty kids in the ninth grade class. And there are lots of new kids coming in from other schools, states, even other countries. Don't worry about it. This will be a whole new game for all of us."

Most of the kids around me were rocking the green White-stone T-shirt. With my black Bob Marley T-shirt, I stood out like a sore thumb.

"I feel sort of ... underdressed," I told Heather.

"No worries. Uniforms are optional this week."

"Shouldn't they call it Greenstone?" I suggested. "Or at least make these shirts white?"

Heather regarded me with mock-serious eyes. "Don't make that joke again, Rowan. Ever."

"I won't," I promised.

She handed me a glossy Whitestone-at-a-Glance brochure. I skimmed the first paragraph:

• Named one of the top five preparatory high schools seven years in a row
  
• 1:5 teacher-student ratio
  
• Outstanding faculty
  
• Encourages student initiative and independent study
  
• 99 percent of Whitestone grads attend four-year colleges
  

"Read it carefully," Heather advised. Playfully, she wrinkled her nose at me. "I may have to quiz you later."

"Rowan Pohi."

A young woman had appeared and was looking around, and I realized she wanted me. She led me into a small room and motioned for me to take the seat on the other side of the table.

"I'm Melody Ryder," she began. "Welcome to Whitestone, Rowan."

"Thank you."

She seemed no older than twenty-five, maybe even younger. Her dark brown hair was cut short and curled forward on the sides.

"Mrs. Ryder," I remembered. "You're the one who sent me the letter."

"
Ms.
Ryder," she corrected me. She wasn't wearing any wedding ring. "Yes, I'm director of admissions here at Whitestone."

How should I act? I wanted to seem confident, like I belonged in this school. But a new student at Whitestone would most likely be nervous, or at least shy, wouldn't he?

"Hmm, Pohi is an interesting name," she began. "Is that Native American?"

I shrugged. "Uh, possibly. My mother thinks there may be some Native American blood in the family, but we're not a hundred percent sure."

She lifted a piece of paper. With a start I realized it was the original application, the very same one that we filled out that fateful day at the IHOP. I tried not to stare at the darkish stain on the lower right, remembering exactly how it happened, Big Poobs accidentally dribbling pancake syrup. For a split second, my confidence wavered.

What the hell am I doing here?

"We're going to need it as soon as possible," Melody was saying.

"What?"

"Your high school transcript," she explained. "Your old high school hasn't sent it to us yet, and we really do need it. Would it help if I gave them a call?"

I swallowed. "No, that's okay. I'll call them."

"All right. Hopefully they'll send it right along. And you never gave us your phone number."

"Uh, our home phone has been disconnected," I said, stalling.

"Do you have a cell phone number?" she asked.

I gave it to her and watched her write it down. Then she studied the application. "You had a three point six grade point average—that's impressive."

"It would have been even higher," I put in, "except I took a pre-calculus course that was, like, impossible."

She smiled sympathetically. "I'm not much of a math person either. I see that you played football in Arizona. Your football coach sent a glowing letter of recommendation."

I nodded. "Coach Garcia is the man."

"Is Pinon down by Phoenix or in the northern part of the state?" Ms. Ryder asked.

A stab of panic.

"I'm terrible on geography," I admitted. "We only lived there a few years."

"Well, I know Pinon is desert," she said. "It must have been hot during some of your football practices."

"Like an oven," I agreed.

"We have an excellent football team here at Whitestone. Are you planning on going out for the team?"

"I'm considering it. Yeah, definitely."

"I see you were National Honor Society, Rowan. What sorts of activities did you do?"

I blanked. Activities? I figured the National Honor Society was just a bunch of kids with high grades sitting around telling each other how smart they were. Ms. Ryder was waiting, so I had to make up something, quick.

"We did pancake breakfasts," I blurted. "To raise money. To, you know, buy books for some of the underprivileged kids in the area."

"That's wonderful."

She put down the application and briskly rubbed her hands together. "I'll help you fill out your class schedule, Rowan. But before I do, you must have some questions for me."

"Ah, um, I d-don't know," I stammered. Questions?"Well, yes, there is one thing. How about school uniforms? I know the school has a dress code."

She handed me a slip of paper. "This will tell you exactly what you need. You can get everything at the school store, which is in the union building."

I stared at the list: two green jerseys, khaki slacks, white shirt, blue tie, blue blazer, school sweatshirt, school athletic shorts, and T-shirt. This stuff would cost a small fortune.

"I didn't bring any money."

"Don't worry, you can bring a check on Wednesday." She smiled again, flashing perfect teeth. "Wednesday is the first day of school." She cleared her throat. "Now, as to the matter of tuition and fees. Will you be applying for financial aid?"

I nodded. "Probably."

"Then please follow me."

Ms. Ryder led me to the office of Jon Throckmorton, the man who ran the financial aid office at Whitestone. Throckmorton had thick wrists and pale blue eyes; his hair was cut in a military flattop. The dude was ripped.

"Hello, Rowan," he said, motioning me to take a seat. He slid a thick packet over to me. "Your parents have to fill that out, okay?"

I glanced at the packet but didn't touch it.

"That, uh, might not be possible," I managed.

"Why not?"

"I live with my father, and, well, he can get kind of crazy."

His eyes narrowed. "Crazy?"

I nodded. "My father's got a wicked temper. He's got anger-management problems, seriously. Sometimes when I ask him the simplest question he flips out on me."

Throckmorton rolled up his sleeves to reveal lethal forearms. You would not want to meet this guy in a dark alley. "Well, someone has to fill out these forms. Your father, your mother, or your guardian, if you have one."

"My father won't," I insisted. 'And my mother doesn't live with us."

"I don't know what to tell you, Rowan." Throckmorton folded his arms. "This school may have lofty goals, but at the same time, we all have to live in the real world. An education at a school like Whitestone is very expensive. Somebody has to pay for it. Otherwise we'd go broke. Understand?"

I nodded.

"You've got a couple of options." Throckmorton raised three blunt fingers, one after the other. "Your parents can write a check. If they fill out these forms, you might be able to get financial aid from our office. Or you might win a scholarship."

I blinked. "Scholarship?"

"Yes, we do have a limited number of scholarships endowed by wealthy benefactors," he explained. "They're extremely competitive."

"What kind of scholarships?"

"They're all different." Throckmorton picked up a slender white folder and opened it. "Let's see. Here's one for a promising science student. This one is for 'exceptional aptitude in music.' One is for theater. Have you done much acting?"

"No." Except now.

"There's one for excellence in writing," Throckmorton said.

"I am a pretty good writer," I blurted out.

He regarded me closely. "You'll have to give a writing sample. Five hundred words."

"Okay." That didn't seem too hard. "When would I do the writing?"

"You can do it right now."

T
HROCKMORTON LED ME TO A TINY ROOM WITH A CHAIR, A
desk, and one exam booklet. He said I would have up to forty-five minutes to write the essay. After he left, I opened the booklet and read what was printed on top of the first page.

What do you consider to be your greatest personal strength? What impact has this strength had on your life? (Note: Essay must be at least 450 words
.)

Staring at those sentences, it hit me that the whole White-stone adventure would not have gotten this far without my complete disregard of how the real world works, plus luck, plus guts. I was winging it, pure and simple, and I couldn't back off now. If I did, everything I had done to this point, every chance I'd taken, would be wasted. It would be a miracle if I could win this writing scholarship. To do so, I'd have to write an awesome essay. Nothing less would do.

 

It has been said that a person's strength is also their weakness, two sides of the same coin. Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson were phenomenal performers, but in the end they became performers in their own lives. Like Icarus, they flew too close to the sun. The bright lights of celebrity melted their wings.

Im no Elvis (and definitely no Michael Jackson) but I realize the same thing is true in my life. My strength is also my weakness. I am an impulsive person. The dictionary defines this word as "not thinking something all the way through. This part of my character has gotten me into trouble, for instance when I was four and thought my crayons felt too cold so I put them on a radiator to warm them up. My parents were not very happy to see our radiator decorated with rainbow streams of melted wax
.

But being impulsive has its upside, too. I have never been afraid to reach for the golden ring. That's part of my personal philosophy. Im a fighter. I believe that if you want something, you have to go for it. Period
.

When I think of the term "personal strength the thing that comes to my mind is something I once read about a Native American tribe (the Navajos, I think). This tribe had fierce and fearless warriors. Those men had a unique and peculiar way of stalking their enemies. On noiseless feet they would sneak up close to their foes. They would shrink the distance, moving closer and closer, until they were so close they could hear the sleeping breath of the enemy warrior. Close enough to feel the heat of his blood
.

At this distance a warrior could easily kill his foe, but he does not. Instead he reaches forward and taps his enemy on the shoulder. Then, before his "victim realizes what just happened, the attacking warrior disappears into the forest. The message is clear: I got to you. I could have ended your life, but I didn't. I had the stealth and I had the strength, but I didn't have to use it.

Imagine this from the victim's point of view. He is awoken from a sound sleep to find his mortal enemy has touched him gently on the arm. What could be more demoralizing? After having his life spared in this way, the warrior would return home in shame and defeat
.

This story made a lasting impression on me. It represents the kind of personal strength I admire most—having plenty of power in reserve, but only using that power if forced to do so, with no other choice
.

 

I finished writing and signed the bottom of the sheet—Rowan Pohi—putting a bold dot above the final
i.
Next I counted words—not quite 450, so I went back and inserted a few more adjectives. I reread the essay. I still had plenty of time left, so I read it again. The phrase
the heat of his blood
worried me a little—too violent?—but in the end I decided to leave it in. There would be essays from other kids trying to win this scholarship. I needed strong images that readers wouldn't easily forget.

I stepped out of the test room and handed the booklet to Throckmorton, who was sitting at his desk. "How did you do?" he asked. I shrugged. "Okay. I hope you like it.""I'm not one of the readers," he said. "We have a team of people who score the essays."

I nodded. "You remind me of my junior high football coach."

For the first time, Throckmorton managed a smile. "As a matter of fact, I am the football coach here at Whitestone."

"Oh."

He peered up at me. "Plan on trying out for the team?"

"Maybe. I played wide receiver."

"Are you fast?"