Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie (12 page)

• • •

“Take arms against a sea of troubles,” Mr. Franka said. He always paced in front of us when he recited stuff, as if the power of the words gave him so much energy he couldn’t stand still. “Recognize it?”

A bunch of us said, “Shakespeare.”

“Right. But think about that line. ‘Take arms against a sea of troubles.’ Anyone troubled by it?”

I’d heard that line a bunch of times, but I’d always let the words run through my brain without examining them. Now I saw the problem. I was pretty sure that
arms
meant weapons or battle or something like that. Why would you take weapons against a sea of anything? It didn’t make sense.

As I sat there deep in thought, Julia raised her hand. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said.

“Exactly!” Mr. Franka increased his pacing speed. “It’s what we call a mixed metaphor. In Shakespeare’s case, he can pull it off. But lesser writers can really drop the ball. Or, to use a mixed metaphor, they can fumble the beans.”

He gave us a couple more examples, then asked us to come up with some of our own. Toward the end of class, he said, “In a similar vein, we have oxymorons. Words that seem to contradict each other.
Jumbo shrimp
is a classic example. Those are words that just don’t belong together.”

Like Julia and Vernon
, I thought. They definitely didn’t belong together. Mr. Franka might be able to explain all about language, but I needed to take this particular issue to a different expert.

“Why do girls go out with jerks?” I asked Mom when I got home from school.

“Lots of reasons. Maybe they don’t think the boy is a jerk. Or maybe they’re just going through their bad-boy stage.”

“Bad-boy stage?” That didn’t sound encouraging.

“Don’t worry. Most of them grow out of it. And then they’ll notice there are nice boys like you to date.”

“How long does that take?”

“It depends. Not long for the smart girls.”

Well, that, at least, was a glimmer of hope. Julia was definitely smart. Not that she’d leap into my arms if she left Vernon. At least, not outside my dreams.

h
e’s trying to kill us,” I gasped. Bits of frost coated my words as they left my mouth.

“Cold air is good for us,” Kyle said.

“Maybe if we were TV dinners.” I couldn’t believe Mr. Cravutto was still dragging the class outside. “Doesn’t he own a calendar? Or a thermometer?”

I wasn’t the only one complaining. Nearly everyone tried to point out to Mr. Cravutto that the weather had turned slightly brisk. He didn’t care. He stood there and shouted, “Suck it up, babies. Make your own heat! Come on,
hustle
!”

I wondered what it felt like to have sweat freeze on your face. I had a sinking suspicion I was going to find out. All I could think about was those Jack London stories where people were stuck in the Yukon wilderness as the temperature plunged to forty below zero. I really didn’t want my toes to break off. Or my nose. If that made me a big baby, I could live with it.

Mom and Dad spent most of the weekend shopping for a mobile to hang over the crib. They hadn’t bought a crib yet, but
the logic and order of their purchases was just another of the many mysteries of birth.

Monday, after school, I went to my first student-council meeting. All we did was talk about ways to improve school spirit. I tried to suggest some ideas, but the older kids completely ignored the freshmen. This did little for our spirit.

Tuesday, life took an unusual twist. Everyone has something he checks out. Dad’s interested in cars. Mom notices babies. Ever since Kyle got a Rolex watch from his rich grandfather last year, he’s always looking at people’s wrists. Patrick knows every brand and style of sneaker. The way he walks around gazing at feet, he’s going to end up with a bent neck.

As for me, if I see anyone carrying a book, I try to spot the title and author. It’s always nice when someone’s reading something you like. Though half the time I look at books now, I end up staring at whatever junk Mouth just reviewed.

On the way out of homeroom, I noticed that Lee was carrying a paperback. I didn’t recognize it. I sped up and glanced at the book as I went by, figuring I could do it without her noticing. I’d expected something really dark, like Anne Rice or H. P. Lovecraft. Instead, peeking out at me from the front cover, I saw the name S. Morgenstern. I was so surprised, I stopped walking.

I guess she noticed I was staring. Which she should be pretty used to, what with the pins in her face, the green hair, the eight pounds of mascara, the weird shirts, and all.

I didn’t want her to think I was staring at her face or clothes or anything, so I pointed to the book and said, “Morgenstern …” One of the best books ever is
The Princess Bride
. It’s
by William Goldman. The cool thing is, the book itself is supposed to be about a book that Goldman read when he was a kid. So Goldman made up this author, S. Morgenstern. As far as I knew, the only book “written” by S. Morgenstern was
The Princess Bride
.

It’s always great to find out that a favorite author has a book you didn’t know about. It’s like thinking you finished your soda but then you grab the can and there’s still some left. Only it’s a thousand times better.

She held up the cover.
The Silent Gondoliers: A Fable by S. Morgenstern
. “You like Goldman?”

I nodded. Now that we were face-to-face, I really didn’t want to start a conversation. Ick—I think she’d just gotten another ring in her nose. Not that I kept count. If civilization ever broke down, she could probably survive for months by bartering all that metal for food.

“You like
The Princess Bride
?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Ah, I see you’re the strong, silent type.”

While I was trying to think of something to say, or some way to avoid saying anything, she tucked the book under her arm and headed down the hall. On the back of her shirt, in a sea of black, a yellow pair of Cheshire-cat eyes, hovering above a smug smile, stared at me.

Later that afternoon, between sixth and seventh period, she glanced toward me as we passed in the hall. I sort of nodded, out of reflex. But I hurried away. I didn’t want her to start talking to me. She was just too weird.

• • •

If “music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,” then why are there so many hyperactive geeks in the band? I’d caught a ride to the game with them again. It wasn’t bad until the bus broke
down on the way back. They all took out their instruments and started playing Sousa marches while we waited for the school to send another bus.

I expected them to start thrusting woodwinds at me and screaming, “Join us!”

The marches didn’t lift my spirits. I was still angry with myself for not saying hi to Julia that morning. I’d almost done it, but then I’d lost my nerve. I still couldn’t understand how Mouth could walk up to anyone in the world and just start talking.

The whole day was pretty much a disaster. Until I started working on my article. That was fun. I borrowed an idea from English class. Last week, we’d read this story called “The Waltz,” by Dorothy Parker. Mr. Franka told us a lot about her. She was a master of sarcasm. Someone once asked her, “Do you mind if I smoke?” She replied, “I don’t care if you burn.”

In “The Waltz,” the reader hears what this woman is thinking, and then what she’s saying. Nothing else. She’s talking to this guy who’s asked her to dance. Everything she says is polite, but then you find out what she thinks. And what she thinks is far from nice. It’s a brilliant story. Reading something like that for the first time is an amazing experience.

Dorothy Parker also wrote book reviews. I should be so lucky.

Saturday, I went to the garage for advice. Dad was under the ‘vette, so I had a conversation with his legs.

“How long did it take before you finally talked to Mom?”

“A couple months.”

“How come it took so long?”

“I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“So, what’d you say to her?”

“Hi.”

“That’s it. Just hi?”

“Sure. It’s about the easiest thing there is to say. Especially when you’re nervous. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

Monday morning, I decided it was time for that act of bravery. Julia was already at the bus stop. I figured I’d flash her the Hudson smile and say, “Hi, Julia,” then walk past. That’s all. Smile and say hi. It was a start.

This time, my courage held. I moved toward her. Oh God, she was beautiful. I opened my mouth. And made sounds. The syllables shifted across several broken octaves, creating a noise that was somewhere between the creak of an ancient door hinge and the gasp an asthmatic kid makes when he gets punched in the gut.

My voice was changing.

Julia glanced toward me, frowning as if she was trying to make sense out of the noise. I forced my gaze straight ahead and sped past, praying that she didn’t realize the pathetic purpose of my croaking.

“Even you can’t think this is a good idea.” I stood next to Kyle, shivering.

“It’s just flurries,” he said. “No big deal.”

“Suck it up, babies!” Mr. Cravutto shouted.

There had to be some sort of state law against this. He got to stand around in a sweatsuit and a jacket, with his hands in his pockets, while we shivered and tried to “make our own heat.” On the other hand, if I froze to death, I wouldn’t have to run my failed conversation with Julia through my mind another six million times.

After calisthenics, we played touch football. Now I knew why they called it a huddle. We all huddled together for warmth. Well, as much as guys can huddle.

“This is crazy,” I said when we headed into the locker room.

Kyle stared at me. “Hey, your voice is changing.”

“I noticed.”

Tuesday was Patrick’s last day. “I’ll come over for a while,” I told him when we were heading toward our buses.

He shook his head. “Everything’s packed. We’re leaving as soon as I get home.”

“So, like, you’re gone?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m gone.”

Across the lot, my bus was almost loaded. I knew the shouter wouldn’t wait for me. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said as I dashed off.

“Right.” Patrick waved. “I’ll e-mail you when we get unpacked.”

As I got on the bus, I realized I might never see him again.

i
happened to walk past Lee’s table at lunch. She had this book of Byron’s poems. I figured if anyone knew stuff about vampires, it would be her. “You like him?” I asked.

“Big fan,” she said.

“Do you know any vampire poem he wrote?”

A couple of the girls at the table frowned at me with the same sort of annoyed look you’d give a horsefly approaching a bowl of potato salad. I figured I should leave. I really didn’t want to get into any sort of long conversation with her, anyhow. Before I could move, Lee grinned and started reciting lines of verse in a voice barely above a whisper:

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. What an amazing poem. It was wonderfully creepy. As she finished the last line, she plucked a french fry from her tray and licked a glob of ketchup off the tip. There was a stud piercing her tongue. It was shaped like a tiny skull. Past her, the popular girls were completely ignoring us now. Great. I guess they’d lumped me in with Lee as somebody to avoid.

“
Corse
means
corpse
, of course,” she said. “But you probably figured that out.”

I glanced around to make sure nobody else was watching us talk. “Is that the whole poem?”

“No way. It’s huge.”

“What’s it called?”

She told me the name. It sounded like “The Jawer.” I pointed at the book. “Is it in there?” I was dying to read the rest of it.

“Nope. But I have it at home. Want me to bring it in?”

I had this image of her handing me a solid black book with pins stuck in the cover. And maybe a bit of dried blood crusted on the pages. “No thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Thanks anyhow.”

When I got to our table, Kyle snickered and said, “Learning witchcraft from Weirdly?” That’s what everyone called her. Weird Lee.