Sophomores and Other Oxymorons (27 page)

June 18

Good morning, Sean. This is the last day of school. It's hard to believe another year is almost finished. Or that I'm at the midpoint of my path through high school. I'm not going to summarize the year, or reflect on it. You can read this journal any time you want.

Father's Day falls on the overmorrow. Good news: you bought Dad a nice present. Bad news: your piggy bank is now empty. Great news: besides the expensive bottle of aftershave you bought him, Dad is going to get a present he'll never forget. We managed to get everything put in place to go ahead with the limited partnership. It's going to happen. A lot of people are eager to sign up for a share. Lee took a photo of the garage, and put
Hudson and Sons, Mechanics and Wizards
on the sign. It could just as easily have
been called
Hudson and Friends
, since Kyle's, Lee's, Jeremy's, and Wesley's folks each have a share. Mom got a frame for the photo. I can't wait to see Dad's face when he unwraps it.

It turned out I had a bit of matchmaking skill. Mr. Bartock and Mr. Fowler discovered they enjoyed working together. They liked it so much, they were going to look for other deals to put together.

Mom had a surprise of her own to spring on us at dinner. She's going to run for the vacant position on the school board. We were all awash in amazement at the announcement. Except for you. You were awash in apple juice.

As for my own personal future (yup—
my own personal
was doubly redundant), that's looking good. I know I'll always have family to watch my back. And friends. Even a girlfriend.

Everyone says you work your hardest during your junior year. I guess I'd better do as much relaxing as I can this summer. I'm not going to slack off again in the classroom. You worked pretty hard this year, too, on fine motor skills and linguistic acquisition. I wish you'd hurry up with the latter, so we could have these discussions in a more interactive format. But there are small signs you're turning into an actual human being. So am I.

Hey, I'm babbling. Or, as Mrs. Gilroy would say, committing
macrologia
. Yeah, there's a word for that. There's a word for just about everything. The trick is to know when to use that word. And when not to. Because these are funny words. Not in the “what a weird spelling” sense. But in how they function. Sure, if I want to discuss poetry with Lee or Mr. Franka, I can point to where the poet employed
antistrophe
or
epanalepsis
(don't even bother looking them up). But really, these are my wrenches. Dad looks at an engine in need of repair, and knows which wrench to take from the toolbox. He doesn't hold it up and say, “Five millimeter metric socket,” for the benefit of others who might be in the vicinity. And he doesn't try to drive a nail with a pair of pliers. If I'm writing a humorous story, I know antanaclasis would be a good tool. A persuasive essay is one place where chiasmus is very powerful. That's it in a nutshell. Writers have tools. The tools need names. Not for anyone else. For the writer. For me.

I have to go. I have a bus to catch.

Kyle didn't say much while we waited at the bus stop. He seemed distracted. Right before the bus pulled up, he walked over to Kelly and whispered something. She smiled and nodded. Kyle smiled back.

That surprised me. He hadn't said anything about trying to get back together with her. But if that was what he wanted, good for him for stepping right up to the plate.

When we got on the bus, Kelly walked past her usual spot. Kyle took the vacant seat next to Julia, and started to talk with her.

Gooder for him.

• • •

It was a half day. I could tell all the teachers were as ready for vacation as the students. Each teacher had some parting wisdom for us. Each one wished us luck. Each one told us it was a joy to get to know us.

Anaphora.

In geometry, Lee smiled at me and said, “I don't know if the year rocked, but our worlds sure did.”

“Yeah. It's been an adventure.”

Up front, Mr. Stockman said, “Trig is tricky.”

Alliteration.

In history, Ms. Burke told us . . .

No. I'm not ending the year with a flood of rhetorical styles, terminating each class with a cleverly appropriate figure of speech. That's too easy, too obvious, and too much of a gimmick.

Damn. I seem to have sunk into an anaphoric rut.

Let's swap the anaphoric for the euphoric, and cut to the final bell, after our sophomore honors English class had been wished farewell and Godspeed by Mrs. Gilroy.

“I'll meet you in a moment,” I told Lee.

“You can't resist taking one last shot at digging your own grave, can you?” she said.

“It's become sort of my hobby,” I said. “But it beats cutting classes. Besides, you're fond of graves.”

“True,” Lee said. “Be sure to leave this grave to me in your will.”

“Of corpse.” I walked over to Mrs. Gilroy's desk.

“Yes?” she asked.

I pictured myself thrusting a spade into soft cemetery soil. “I think there's a mistake in my grades.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Someone showed them to me.”

“Let's see.” She pulled a file folder from her desk drawer, and removed a sheet of paper with my name at the top. The grades were handwritten. Maybe that's how the mistake had happened. Whoever put them in the computer had messed up.

“Is this what
somebody
showed you?”

The numbers on the sheet matched the ones on Mr. Franka's tablet.

“Yeah, that's what I saw. But that's not what they used to be. You changed them.”

“Your powers of observation are increasingly impressive,” she said. “Perhaps you could seek summer employment spotting forest fires from a lookout tower.”

“I didn't know you could change grades after a report card
came out.” As the words left my mouth, I could already hear her response in my mind. She didn't disappoint me.

“There are many things you don't know, Mr. Hudson.”

“But . . . why . . . ?”

I expected her to ask if I'd prefer for her to change the grades back. Instead, she said, “You have a gift. I gave you a difficult time after your disappointing performance the first week. I pushed you beyond the bounds of what would be viewed as the rubric of the sophomore English Honors curriculum. You showed spirit. My health may have affected my temperament earlier in the year. In my defense, I'd been told before school started that you were a gem, and yet you made an entrance that reminded me more of a turd.”

The coarse word from an unexpected source had a lot of power. “I can't argue with any of that. I was a turd.”

“As was I,” she said. “That's enough scatology. Let us return to the topic at hand. I believe the adjusted grades I gave you are a fair reflection of your work. You also did well in classroom participation, despite facing some challenges.”

“Challenges? You shot me down every time I spoke!” I didn't shout. I wasn't feeling angry. Just relieved, grateful, and perplexed.

“I can get a bit overzealous in my peregrinations.”

“Peregrinations?” I said. “That's not the right word.” I froze. I had to be careful not to ruin everything by getting her angry.

But she smiled, and I realized she'd made the mistake on purpose. “Nicely done, Mr. Hudson. Be careful. Most people don't appreciate being corrected—especially people who are tasked with instructing you.”

“I know.”

“I do have to say that your opinion piece on terminal prepositions was well thought out, well written, and thought-provoking.”

“You read it?” I asked.

“One of my coworkers was kind enough to share it with me,” she said. “He felt I'd appreciate the enthusiasm with which you approached the topic.”

“Mr. Franka?” I asked.

“That would be the most likely
somebody
.”

“Well written?” I asked.

“Don't grovel for praise. You heard me the first time. Don't you have somewhere you're supposed to be? Don't you have someone young and lovely waiting for you?”

“I do. Thanks for this.” I pointed at my grades. Then I pointed at the figures of speech on the board. “And thanks for that.”

“Thank me by doing something with your gift,” she said.

“I will.” I thought about my grades again. “This is sort of a
deus ex machina
way to end the year,” I said.

“Sometimes, Mr. Hudson, if you are very fortunate, or very deserving, life imitates bad art,” she said. “When that happens, take the gift and be grateful.”

Before I left, I reached into my backpack and pulled out my copy of
As a Breath into the Wind
and asked for her autograph. She thought for a moment, and then wrote two words below my name and above her signature: “Amaze me.” I promised I'd try.

• • •

As I walked through the corridors of J. P. Zenger High School, with Lee by my side, I thought back over our history. One slow dance last year, one long hug last September, pats on the hand, a kiss on the cheek. An embrace. Finally, a whole evening of dancing, and an act of courage in front of her dad. A first kiss. More kisses. More embraces. It was good. But I needed to stop being a slacker in one more aspect of my life.

“We should celebrate,” I said. I remembered when she'd used that phrase, and I'd failed to follow up.

“We should,” Lee said.

“How about a movie?”

“Sure.”

I realized
a movie
could mean anything. Two friends just hanging out. A dance, a walk, a trip to the library—all of those were socially ambiguous. I seized the clichéd, stereotypical date, so there'd be no doubt what I was asking.

“How about dinner and a movie? I'd love to take you out tonight.”

Lee smiled, faced me, and took both my hands in hers. “It's a date,” she said.

I enjoyed the warmth of her hands in mine. Dad had nailed it. I couldn't picture a world without Lee. “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

So, finally, clearly, unmistakably, and far later than I should have, I'd asked Lee out on a date. That might seem like a distinction without a difference to anyone who doesn't live inside my head. But it was important to me.

We flouted the personal-displays-of-affection rule, and walked hand in hand to the bus lot, flaunting our relationship. “And here, we part,” I said.

“But not for long,” Lee said.

As I floated toward my bus, a long white limo pulled up in front of it. Wesley, wearing a chauffeur's outfit, got out and waved me over.

“You have to finish the year in style,” he said.

“I thought you were too young to do this,” I said.

“I can't drive customers. But I can drive friends.”

“You mind a few more passengers?” I asked.

“The more, the merrier,” he said.

I called Lee, Jeremy, Kyle, Julia, Kelly, Edith, and Richard over.

As everyone settled onto the long seat in the middle of the limo, I motioned for Jeremy to join me way in the back.

“I have the perfect nickname for you,” I told him. It had come to me just moments ago, inspired by my conversation with Mrs. Gilroy.

“Great. All I need is for you to stick something belittling
on me,” he said. “A nickname from you is like an uppercut from the world heavyweight champ.”

“No. I'm serious. It's awesome.”

“Okay. Let me have it.” He squeezed his eyes shut and hunched down, as if my words would have enough mass and velocity to cause damage.

“Deuce,” I said.

“Deuce?” He opened one eye and frowned. “Like in the tennis score?”

“No. That's not what I had in mind.”

“Playing card?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Bathroom reference?”

“Ewwww. Absolutely not.” That one hadn't even crossed my mind.

“Then I don't get it,” he said. “And that's a rare situation for me.”

“You saved the paper. You brought down Mr. Sherman. You came out of nowhere, like in the old Greek plays.”

“
Deus ex machina
!” Jeremy shouted. Both eyes were open now. “How cool. Yeah. You can call me Deuce. I like that. Deuce Danger. You're tweaking the pronunciation a bit, but that makes it like our own secret code.”

“That was my plan, Deuce.”

“Scott and Deuce, dynamic freshman and sophomore crime fighters.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. He barely jumped. “Sophomore and junior,” I said.

“You're right! I'm a sophomore. I survived my freshman year, thanks to you.” His grin of achievement gave way to a wavering smile of uncertainty. “There's a whole new world of terror and obstacles for me to conquer.”

“Fear not, Deuce,” I said as I realized I'd neglected to give myself credit for one major sophomore-year accomplishment. “I have a manual I can sell you.”

There are people to thank. This book would not exist were it not for Julie Strauss-Gabel, who said to me, “Let's make this book exist.” (I'm paraphrasing.) It would not have existed on the tenth anniversary of
Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie
, were it not for Kathleen Doherty, who urged me to take a risk and take on the tough deadline Julie proposed, and for Susan Chang, who gave me a pep talk at a crucial time, and taught me many ways to become a better writer. I would not exist, were it not for my wife, Joelle, who pretty much did everything around the house, and delivered food at key moments, while I stayed in my chair and rediscovered Scott Hudson. She is also my expert resource on things as diverse as culinary arts, plant biology, and muscle cars.

There are others who were essential in various ways. My daughter, Alison S. Myers, is my go-to
source for anything that happens in an English literature classroom, and my go-to peer for philosophical dialogues and epistemological explorations. She also dispenses calmness and wisdom far beyond her years at essential times when Dad is feeling stressed or frantic. (This seems like a good place to thank Mark Myers for a suggestion that became a key theme in the book.) Shannon Tyburczy is my source for the workings of AP History class, the sociology of sophomores, and all things historical. Doug Baldwin is my grammar guru. His wisdom was especially crucial as I navigated the hodgepodge of rhetoric. He also excels at the difficult and demanding task of being one of my close friends. Assistant editor Melissa Faulner served as the perfect central command for what, at times, was a very hectic process, and copy editor Rosanne Lauer's keen eye kept me from looking like a total dunce. I am in their debt.

The people to whom (possessive pronoun in the objective case!) this book is dedicated didn't necessarily have anything to do with this particular volume of my work, but they, too, deserve thanks. All have been called upon for help, advice, support, or companionship at critical times. None (singular!) has ever been too busy to be there when I needed aid, advice, or the second sitter at a table for two. It would take many
hours to list all that they have done for me. I fear I have left someone out. But my friends are forgiving, and there's always the next book.

Last, and first, there would be no sequel, were there not a demand for it from you, the readers who embraced Scott, Lee, Wesley, and the gang, and the teachers who made that book a part of their curriculum (and who may very well prefer you don't end a sentence with a preposition, as is their right). I thank you for your enthusiasm, and for sharing my joy of exploring the magic that is our English language.

You can take the writer out of the sequel, but you can't—

. . . never mind . . .