Gifted (11 page)

“Well! That was fun to watch. It's a shame he didn't break his neck, though. I would have paid to see that.”

It was Mrs. Love's voice. There was no mistaking it.

Then Mrs. Bruder's kind, motherly voice said, “Look on the bright side, Marjorie. It knocked the wind out of him. It may have knocked some of the conceit out of him, too!”

I froze against the wall and stopped breathing. They were talking about me.

Then I heard Mr. Caruso.

“I'd sure like to knock the wind out of that know-it-all myself! Except Mr. Clark would have my head on a platter. So I just smile and nod … even though I'd like to strangle him.”

“He's pretentious!” a heated male voice chimed in, but I couldn't identify it because my ears felt suddenly on fire. “He's obnoxious! Completely obnoxious! The ‘authority' on everything. Altogether too pleased with himself! Thank God this is his last year.”

“It's going to be a very long year.”

“Oh, he's not
that
bad,” said the Bruder, defending me. I thought,
Not that bad? Whatever happened to gum-drop with a capital “G”?

“He is
that
bad! He's pompous and overbearing!”

“Still, he
is
gifted,” said Mrs. Love thoughtfully, summing me up in her own neat way. “I suppose Mr. Clark thinks we're lucky to have him.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air as the teachers mulled this over, or maybe they'd only paused in order to curse me under their collective breath. I didn't really know.

What I did know was that time stood still, and for a long while I just sat there. Not thinking. I couldn't think. It was like I was numb all over. If somebody had come along and kicked me hard in the stomach, I probably wouldn't have felt it.

So I just sat there.

There's no telling how long I might have sat there. What brought me morosely to my feet were the words, “Gifted? He's just a pompous snot with a superiority complex!” uttered passionately by that anonymous male voice. I got up slowly and, taking the long way around the mess hall, staggered off in a daze to the solitude of Cabin F. I'd left my ginger ale untouched in the sand. It must have been its discovery that made my music teacher come looking for me.

I don't know how he found me. I had become as invisible as possible, buried deep inside my sleeping bag with just the tip of my nose sticking out. I would have kept that inside, too, and zipped the bag up over my head and let that be the end of that except I didn't think I'd have the stamina. I'd just have to let Sam and Jason finish me off in Their own way whenever They had the time. Granted, Their way would not be quite as neat as my way would have been, but I felt sure it would be considerably quicker. I would leave it to the
experts and make everybody happy. Suddenly a hand shook my shoulder.

“George, you need to see the nurse. No arguments now. I can see that you're hurt.”

“I'm not hurt.”

“Then what's the problem?”

The problem? My mind had just flashed
The George R. Clark Story: Random Scenes from the Past
. Stupid memories like Mr. Caruso sitting beside me on the bench and agreeing that any idiot could hit a line drive but it took a special person to keep the score as neatly and as accurately as I did.
The big liar
. But one could expect as much from a man who chewed the same wad of gum twenty-four seven, even while sucking down Gatorade. A man whose cross-trainers were always sparkling white because he never took part in his own war games. He was just a clapper and a whistler! A pair of ladies' four-inch stiletto heels would have served him just as well! I didn't care what he thought.

What
hurt
was remembering all the time I'd spent in the science lab with Mrs. Love. And all the talks. Deep, intellectual talks, usually about something I'd just read in
Popular Science
involving two-headed livestock. Come to think of it, Mrs. Love had never really said much when we'd talked, but she'd always looked awfully enthralled. At least she'd moved her eyebrows up and down a lot as I spoke. Now I knew she was just praying silently that when the bell rang, I would go home and trip over a rug wrinkle and break my neck. She would have paid to see that.
Oh my God!

And all the carefully misspelled notes slid through the vents in my locker asking me to make the world a better place and just die already. I had always imagined they
were from some of the more academically impaired members of the student body. Now I wasn't so sure. They might easily have been put there by the begemmed hand of Mrs. Bruder after a couple of swift looks over her shoulder.

I could have kicked myself for being so gullible. And I would have done so had my sleeping bag provided more leg room. It was humiliating! The whole world had lined up against me, and now I had nobody. Even Anita was gone. Well, I would never go back to that school again. Not ever. I'd find a new school where people would appreciate me, and I'd kiss these jerks good-bye. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The Music Man was patting my back, so I dried my face and rolled over to look at him. His eyes held none of the hostility I'd grown so accustomed to, only kindness now, and his gleaming cranium seemed to shimmer with newfound compassion. Even his coffee-stain mustache seemed concerned. He leaned forward.

“Tell me what's wrong, George.”

I sighed. Here stood the one teacher who had never troubled to hide his feelings of disgust for me, and I had been ungrateful. Those had been good times. I should have treasured him, for he was an
honest
man. Pitiful, but honest, and I would miss him in a way.

“Mr. Zimmerman,” I announced, sitting up. “I've given the matter a lot of thought, and I've decided I won't be going back to school.”

He looked surprised. “You like it here that much?”

“No. What I mean is Conrad T. Parks has seen the last of George R. Clark. I'm going to transfer to a private school.”

“When did you decide this?”

“Just now. You see, Parks Middle School fails to address my needs properly. I know my parents are trying to mainstream me, but it isn't working. I need to be with my own kind. Nobody's fault, really.” I gave his arm a return pat. “These things happen.”

“If you're worried about Jason Barton and Sam Toselli …”

“Oh, They don't enter into it at all.”

“I want you to know that I've had a talk with those two. They denied your story about what happened last night. Denied it categorically. They said putting mustard on me was entirely your idea, that they knew nothing about it.”

“Is that a fact,” I said bitterly.

“But I didn't believe them. I didn't believe them, because I believe you, George.”

I gazed at him with new eyes. How I could have described his face as “revolting” was beyond me. It was really just mildly unappealing.

“And,” he went on, “I've had a talk with Mr. Harris. Sam Toselli and his gang will no longer be staying in Cabin F. We thought it better to separate them from you tonight, and Mr. Caruso very cordially accepted them into his cabin. Five of his boys will be moving here into ours.”

Well, I guess that was something, but it didn't make me feel as good as it should have. I sighed and let my head fall to my pillow with a bang. I'd left my CD player underneath it.

“So, do you still want to leave us, George?”

“It isn't about that,” I said, sitting up, rubbing my head. “Really. I'm just mentally unstimulated. And I'm beginning to get headaches. Which is why I think I fell down
out there.” I couldn't tell him what I'd heard. It was too embarrassing.

“You fell down because you're mentally unstimulated?”

“Yes, and it catches me right here.” I massaged my temples. “It's very painful.”

“George, there's something you're not telling me.”

“Fine,” I snapped, dropping the pretense. “Would you believe it's because everyone here hates my guts? It takes a lot out of a person, being hated and everything.”

Mr. Z nodded. “You get used to it. But that's not entirely true, is it? You still have your girlfriend, Anita Newell. She doesn't hate you. It seems rather the opposite to me.”

Honestly! And for the last time!
“She is NOT my girlfriend! And we're not friends anymore.”

“But you two seemed so close,” he persisted.

“Not anymore.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don't care to discuss it.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Z said, “we won't.”

There followed a brief moment of silence, a nice peaceful moment that was interrupted by the sound a bunk bed makes when it is straining under a fleshy music teacher who's just taken a flying leap to the top. I clutched the rocking sidebars as Mr. Z maneuvered himself until he was sitting beside me with his legs dangling over the side. It appeared that we were going to have a cozy chat. The Music Man must have thought that he'd finally found a friend … in me, of all people! I dropped my head to my pillow with a quiet moan.

“Anita Newell,” he murmured, obviously thinking I was upset over her. “You know what's funny, George?”

“I thought we weren't going to discuss it.”

“Oh, we're not, we're not. I was just going to say that Anita Newell reminds me very much of a girl I used to know. A girl who was
my
best childhood friend. Same hair, same figure, same … oh … awkwardness.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I was just remembering how surprised I was by her transformation. How surprised
she
was. It happened in high school.”

“
What
happened in high school?”

“Why, her metamorphosis! One day that chrysalis—her awkward, ungainly, schoolgirl chrysalis—just sort of fell away, and out of it emerged a butterfly. A strikingly beautiful butterfly, I might add. A thing worth waiting for.” He eyed me meaningfully. Then his mustache twitched at me meaningfully.

This was too much.

“As far as I'm concerned, Anita can stay in her cocoon until she rots! We aren't friends anymore. She happens to be disloyal,” I told him by way of explanation. “And if she has to live out the rest of her days as a caterpillar, I couldn't care less!”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. Then he smiled. “You know what else is funny, George? I've never noticed it before, but you remind me very much of myself when I was your age.”

“Funny,” he says!

“And I'm glad I had the opportunity to punish you today because it's given me the chance to get to know you. I hope you don't leave us now. If you're worried
about Sam and Jason, believe me when I tell you that I've faced my share of bullies in my younger days, and the only thing to do is to stand up to them.” He raised his fist. “Stand tall! Face your fears and overcome them. Never let a group of bullies decide your fate. Do you know what Beethoven said? He said, ‘I want to seize fate by the throat,' and that's just what you should do. Seize it by the throat!”

“Is that what you did when you came to work at our school? Seized fate by the throat?” I asked him. The Music Man looked so taken aback that I immediately wished I could have taken it back. I tried to soften the sting.

“I mean, we're really glad you did, of course.”

“Well …” he said, staring off into space for some time, “it wasn't quite what I'd envisioned for myself. But …” After another long moment he shook his head and looked down at his watch. “It's five thirty, George, and I am keeping you from your dinner. The time has come for you to join your classmates in the dining hall.” He lowered himself to the floor. “You are officially off the hook.”

He was leaving me!

“Mr. Zimmerman! Wait! I'm not hungry. We could finish the sets together. I like working with you. I'd like to work with you all night!”

“That's very kind of you, George, but my esteemed colleagues feel my talents can best be utilized elsewhere. I am required to pack up our food stores and cooking supplies for our evacuation in the morning. So for now, you and I must part company.

“But if you want my advice,” he said from the doorway, “you'll stand up to those bullies and show them
they have no power over you. And you'll make up with Anita. Because in this world, George, if you're lucky enough to find a friend, you must be very careful not to lose her. A good friend is the greatest gift you'll ever have.”

With the music man gone, I lay back down on my bunk in a sullen mood, so sullen that when a big black water bug crawled across the ceiling to a spot over my bed, I never thought to fly off the bunk in terror as I would have done under everyday circumstances. Instead, I slid down into my sleeping bag and gave myself up to some pretty deep thinking. But all I could think deeply about was food. Because I'd lied about not being hungry, and the tantalizing aroma of chicken patty on a roll with zesty potato rounds and mouthwatering carrot coins wafting at me through the open doorway was too much to bear. I reached inside my jacket and counted them: thirteen Hershey bars left, but two would suffice. I rolled onto my stomach and ate one, and was just unwrapping the second when it occurred to me that a little dinner music might be nice.

I slid my hand under my pillow to pull out my CD player, but what I pulled out looked very little like a CD player and much more like a rock. A rock with a note
taped to it. A note that read, “YOUR TIME WILL COME, WORM!”

I gasped. The Bruise Brothers were on the prowl.

Well, I would take Mr. Z's advice. I would apologize to Anita. Because Anita, being a girl, could stay mad indefinitely unless you said you were sorry, but then she'd melt like butter, and I would stick with her until lights-out. Now, finding Anita and apologizing would carry its own risks, a woman scorned, et cetera, but it was a chance I would have to take.