Simon Says (5 page)

But I figured out why he did it He didn't care about the name. He cared because other kids heard at recess. I can call him names when we're alone and he doesn't mind. He even likes some of the names I come up with. But I'll remember not to do it where other kids can hear, so I don't get punched again.

Ifs getting late. I have to figure out what to write down in this book, and what to keep in my head. It's hard work being a writer.

August 21 (Fourth Grade)

First day of school, and I wanted to tell Mom about my new teacher. I got a man this year) Too cool. But Dad was home early-weird. And he was really mad. He and Mom went to their room and talked forever. Dinner was late.

There was some account that Dad was supposed to get at the bank, but something went wrong and the account went to City National, instead. That's a bigger bank than the one where Dad works, but Mom always says Dad's too good for City National. I don't know what she means. Dad beams when she says it, though, so I guess it must be true.

Anyway, my stomach was growling. I was about to beat on the door and beg for food, but then I started listening. Last year Mrs. Ferris told me to practice writing conversations, but I never heard anything interesting to write down. Trading insults with Mike didn't seem like enough.

But this time, it was like I was hearing Mom and Dad for the first time. I couldn't see their faces, just hear their voices. Mom's voice was all soft and comforting, but Dad's was harsh and kind of scary. So I sat in the hall and listened, and I'm going to try to write it down the way I remember it.

"Why did Mr. Harris go to City National, Andy? That's so silly." Mom sounded helpless and understanding at the same time. She sounds that way sometimes, but only with Dad. Never with me.

"No, if's not They have more branches and more of a reputation." Now Dad didn't sound so angry, just tired. He gave a little laugh. "Reputation I Sure didn't do much for mine. We can kiss that promotion good-bye."

I got a little spooked at that Would not getting that promotion mean that things might change at home? And it was funny listening to Dad talk like that He never says things like "kiss it good-bye" to me. They're different together than they are when I'm around.

"Well, you've got lots of other accounts," Mom told him. Her voice was so low I could hardly make it out.

"Sure. They'll look at my track record-l can still bring in plenty of accounts without Jim Harris. I'll get that promotion yet" Now Dad sounded almost happy. The account was still lost, but he sounded like he didn't care so much anymore.

"Of course you will."

Mom's voice was so soft it blurred, and Dad laughed and
his voice got low and kind of thick, and I couldn't understand him anymore. I felt sort of strange, so I went back to my room. When Mom came out, she made pork chops and twice-baked potatoes, so dinner was okay. And Dad was in a good mood. We watched a cool science fiction movie on cable, and he just laughed at the weird aliens. Usually he changes the channel.

December 4 (Fifth Grade)

Football on TV, and I've got my book hidden in my school binder so I can write. Dad's cheering for the Redskins, but I can't get excited unless ifs baseball.

Mom said I should work on settings-describing rooms and houses and places for my stories. She said ifs important for the reader to be able to see the setting so he feels like he's in the book. Makes me feel like a magician, casting a spell and pulling somebody out of their reading chair into my story.

Okay-so, my room at home. It isn't too big, but ifs all mine. I can shut the door and pretend ifs my own private world-until Mom comes in, that is. Actually, I don't shut the door much. Walls-painted pale blue. And I've got pictures of baseball players taped up everywhere. My bed's pushed into a corner so I have more room on the floor. There's a blue-and-white bedspread tangled up somewhere on the bed, but I don't see it too often because I pile up sweatshirts and games and junk on top.

That gives me more room on the floor-polished wood, not so waxed that I skid on it I've got an army of plastic knights set up in one corner of the room. But there's an ambush of infidels waiting behind my closet door (painted blue,
too-the door, not the infidels!). They'll leap out and slaughter the band of noble knights any minute. I've stationed a troop of armored cavalry beside my dresser, though, so reinforcements are on the way.

I know-eleven is too old to play with toy soldiers. And I've got some excellent battle video games. But I still think ifs more fun to lie on the floor, moving the knights around, than it is pushing some joystick. I'll probably put them away next year. I shove them under the bed if Mike or the other guys come over to visit.

What else? There's a desk, of course-like polished wood, only it's really pressboard with some sort of veneer. It came in pieces and Dad had to assemble it-he muttered a lot of stuff under his breath until Mom said it was the best they could afford. Then he kept quiet, even when the screwdriver dug into the pressboard, skittered off, and gouged his hand. I can still feel the uneven rut along the inside corner. I've got the desk placed under the window, so I can see outside when I sit there. Not much to see-trees, and a neighbor's yard through the leaves. In the winter I can see the sky. I like it when it storms and the sky gets dark. It looks like clouds of black ash you could drown in.

On the desk are piles of papers and books. Mom groans, but I know where all my junk is. And I can shove everything onto the bed if I need more space to write. There's a cold, bright white lamp there, not at all like the soft yellow light in the ceiling. When I sit at my desk under that cold light, I feel like I'm in some sort of a writing office, just like Dad's office at the bank. It makes ma think really seriously about the sorts of things I want to write. What I like about reading a good story is that it makes me think about ideas I hadn't
thought about before-l don't always agree with what the writer says, or what the teacher says about the ideas, but it makes me think about them. That's what I'm going to do in my stories: Make my readers think about ideas.

I spend some time at my writing job every night, which thrills Mom. "My son, the writer," she says. And she shakes her head and smiles. Dad rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too.

December 5 (Fifth Grade)

The Redskins were way behind at halftime and Dad got really mad, so I hid my book and went up to bed. I was lying there in the dark, thinking about having a writing office, and a real writing job, and I wanted to write about that before I go to school.

Am I a real writer? Am I going to write stories, and maybe even books, for the rest of my life? Maybe. I mean-l guess I am. Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like to be a professional baseball player. I said that once to Mom, and she laughed. So I got mad and said I really meant it I shouldn't have done that! Mom really blew her stack. "Don't say that," she yelled at me. "I didn't sacrifice everything so my son would turn out a ballplayer!"

I don't like it when she talks like that She dropped out of college because of me, and she says ifs all right because I'll do everything she didn't do. I'll be a famous writer, and I'll make it all worthwhile for her. I should have shut up when she started to talk about everything she'd sacrificed, but I was thinking how good the leather in my mitt smelled after I oiled it, and how great it felt to stretch for the ball, one toe on the base, knowing it was going to be close but still knowing I'd
get the runner out and everybody would cheer. So I said something dumb like, "But I
want
to be a baseball player."

She grabbed the TV remote and threw it across the room at me. I ducked and it hit the wall behind me, so she grabbed a box of
tissues
and threw them at me, too. Then she started to cry. And she didn't have any tissues. So I picked up the box (the corner was kind of smashed in, but the tissues were okay) and brought it back to her. Then I went to get the remote. The battery compartment had come open when it hit the wall, so I had to crawl around on the floor for the batteries. And Mom's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-but you're such a good writer, Graeme, and you like writing, don't you? Don't you really? And the doctor said you have a heart murmur-you can't be a professional athlete with a heart murmur! Be honest, Graeme-don't you like writing better than baseball?"

What could I say? There was no point in trying to remind her that the doctor said I could play ball, that it was even good for my heart She needed to hear me say yes, she really did. And I do like writing. I really like it a lot So I said, "Sure, Mom. Sure I do."

March 16 (Seventh Grade)

Mom said I should practice character descriptions. She told me that every novel needs characters that the reader can believe in, and that makes sense to me-the characters are the ones who have the ideas that make the reader think, after all. She said I should practice describing my friends at school, so here goes.

My best friend is Michael Raynor. He's been my best
friend since he moved here in second grade. We used to fight when we were little kids, and we still do, but we're totally close. Mike's the captain of our baseball team, and he's the best pitcher we have. I play second base, and we've got the timing down for awesome double plays. It's a fun sport, but I probably won't keep playing in high school. Ballplayers there are thinking about playing baseball in college, maybe even going on to the minors, and I'm not that serious. It's just a game, just for fun.

I guess I haven't really shown a reader much about Mike, have I? Well, he's taller than me, and he's got brown hair that he wears kind of long, with a braided pigtail in the back, and he's got these big brown eyes. He sings in the school choir, like me, but his voice is starting to break and that bugs him a lot He's easygoing about most things, though, and he's pretty smart, especially about animals. His dad takes him hunting, and he knows all about different kinds of animals and where to find them. I went with them once, but I decided I didn't really like it, and Mom was horrified at the thought of me going hunting. I can't tell whether Mike likes it himself, or if he just says he does because his dad likes it He probably likes being with his dad all alone, without his mom or his sister around.

Mike doesn't like school much, even though he's smart He'd rather play baseball or soccer. He's a terrific pitcher, but he's not so great at kicking the ball. I don't say anything, though, just go to his soccer games and cheer. And I don't tell him I like school pretty well myself. He'd just think I was weird, and I like playing baseball with him okay. Anyway, ifs not important The way to keep a friend is by just doing what they want-l mean, as long as it doesn't really matter.

School—yeah, I like it Actually, I like the teachers more than the other kids, mostly anyway. My homeroom teacher this year is Mr. Lester, and he talks to me about all sorts of stuff. He was trying to teach me how to speed-read the other day, and that was pretty interesting. I didn't really want to learn (actually, I like reading every word in a book and getting totally involved in the story), but I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He's old, with thinning gray hair. But he's got these bright blue eyes, and he's really smart We talk about all kinds of things, stuff that doesn't have anything to do with school. He's married, but he's only got daughters. Maybe he likes talking to a boy sometimes.

Then there's this one English teacher, Mr. Shaw. All the kids jump all over him, but I kind of like him. I go in to talk to him during lunch period sometimes. I think he's scared to eat in the cafeteria. He tells me about Shakespeare, because I told him I liked Shakespeare. What"s a guy who likes Shakespeare doing teaching middle school, anyway? He should be in a college somewhere, where ifs safe. He's about twenty-five, I guess, with blond hair and hazel-green eyes, and he wears glasses and looks spooked most of the time-l guess because he knows the kids trash him behind his back. But he's got a nice-looking face when he relaxes, and he smiles at me whenever he sees me in the hall. I almost wish he was my English teacher-except I wouldn't want to let on that I liked him in front of everybody else.

Ifs easier when you're one-on-one with someone. You can see what they're like, and what they expect of you. That makes things easier than being with a bunch of people who are all different Maybe I should practice writing about
crowds, like the guys on the baseball team, or the whole choir, or the whole seventh grade at assembly!

But that's all I have time to write now. I like describing people I know. If's like looking through a window to see what someone's doing when he doesn't know you're looking. And I can do it by just sitting back and seeing inside my own head.

"You'll find things here different than what you're accustomed to, Charles," Mr. Brooks tells me. "More structured."

He smiles patiently. Acting laid-back in jeans and a baggy sweater (despite the sticky heat outside, his office is a deep-freeze), he's the perfect image of the wise and kindly older mentor who will guide young talent to success.

"Your audition paintings were most impressive, but you still have an undisciplined approach. Very undisciplined. This often happens with artists who are self-taught—the talent and inspiration are there, but adequate training in the fundamentals is lacking. As you're a junior"—he shakes his balding head regretfully—"you'll be taking some advanced classes, of course. But I really think you'd benefit from some basics." When I don't say anything, he elaborates. "I'd like you to take Still Life, to give you precision, and Anatomy and Modeling, to give your human figures greater accuracy and better proportion."

He glances at me across his sleek black desk slab, but I keep my mouth shut. He can put me down for any classes he likes, even introductory finger painting, if he'll just tell me where my studio is. Despite what I wrote in my application, I didn't come to Whitman expecting to be taught anything about painting. I thought Graeme Brandt was the only instructor I needed, but I expected him to teach me how to
show
my art, not how to do it better.