The Genius of Little Things (4 page)

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Stupid names for Thai restaurants, like Thai Foon or Thai Away Home, or Thai Me Up, or Thai One On. Thai Me Down is the worst, because that is where my BiMo had her last supper.

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Shirts with sayings like
Do unto others… then split
. A smelly, wobbling guy with this exact shirt sat next to me on the bus yesterday. I worried that he would do something unto
me
, like barf on my new Converse sneakers.

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When FoPas put pointless restrictions on you.

**

I began taking my lunch to the biology lab because I wanted a quiet environment for working on my Caltech essays. It was empty except for the teacher, Mr. Proudfoot, who graded papers or read a book while clipping his fingernails.

As I unpacked my ham and cheese sandwich, I noticed a phrase carved into the lab table.
Proud Feet Suck
. I assumed it was a slur against the teacher. But I didn’t understand why it was plural, unless it was not about him. It may have been a deeper social commentary about hubris and feet.

Mr. Proudfoot stood behind me, breathing onions. I slapped a pile of college brochures over the engraved aspersion, lest he accuse me not only of slandering him, but of doing so with bad grammar.

“Looks like it’s that time again.” He pointed to the early admissions application. “Did I mention I attended Caltech?”

“No.” We hadn’t spoken more than ten words since the first day of class. But his point in bringing up Caltech was not to make chitchat. It was coercion. He said he remembered my name from the past two science fairs. Firebird High had gone seven years without placing in the state science fair, he said, and he hoped
I
would end the school’s losing streak. He was tired of the tech and science magnet schools claiming all the prizes.

“You’ll help out your new school, won’t you?”

The truth was, I hadn’t planned to work on a science fair experiment. After one win and two honorable mentions, any more science fair achievements would be overkill. Plus, I was thinking of getting a second job. Then again, a recommendation from a Caltech alumnus was worth ten from non-alums.

“Of course,” I told him.

Though I still hated the name of the class, Creative Soul was turning out to be not terrible, partly due to the presence of a certain student who was almost too beautiful to be human, and I mean that in the best way. I shall describe her later. First, I should explain why I chose to enroll.

The Foster-go-Round transferred me to Carl and Janet’s house close to the start of my senior year, in their typically capricious and nonsensical way. By the time I registered, most desirable D-level electives were full, including an astronomy class, which might have been excellent. Still open were
Gangsters, Gamblers and Growth
, the history of Las Vegas,
In Stitches
, a sewing and needlepoint class, possibly with intermittent laughter, and Creative Soul.

Mrs. Bates, the administrative assistant, called Creative Soul “a hybrid of games and interactive techniques to tap the wellspring of creativity.” When I pressed her for more information she said it was “a mishmash of music, acting, visual arts, and writing.” That sounded awful, and I still didn’t understand what soul had to do with creativity. At least the class could be taken pass/fail. I didn’t have time to make a cost/benefit analysis, so I made the decision on the spot.

I had a bias against anything creative. On more than one occasion, my BiMo responded to a put down—be it from a boyfriend, her own mother, or a kid at a supermarket who made fun of her orange hair and wooden clogs—by saying “I’m not crazy, I’m
creative
.” In my mind, creativity and craziness, or whatever afflicted my BiMo from time to time, were the same.

The Creative Soul teacher didn’t seem crazy at all. Ms. Gurzy had an unruly dark perm and wore enormous peasant skirts over ample hips. She made exaggerated O sounds, which made her seem Canadian. After a week, her good humor grew strained with the barrage of questions about our required daily journals. What is maximum length of the entries? What should not be included? How personal should we be? Will you read them or skim them? Do we have to write on Saturdays and Sundays? Can we get extra credit for writing more? Are lists still all right?

Ms. Gurzy’s answers became increasingly curt. “I want you to get in touch with your feelings. The journal will let them floohh freely. There is no wrong way to do the daily pages. This is nooht a writing class. They will nooht be graded. Just do them, oohh-kaay?”

The aforementioned girl with otherworldly beauty and hypnotic, brown eyes addressed the class without being called on. “I’ve been writing journals for years,” she said. “It’s fabulous and it has helped my acting immensely. I did three journal pages before I auditioned for the role of Dorothy in a production of ‘The Wiz’ and I got the role. And great reviews.”

“
Thank you
, Zoe.” Ms. Gurzy said this in a tone people use when they don’t want to hear any more. I must have been staring at Zoe, because she smiled at me. Or maybe she was smiling at the guy next to me. Or it was a smirk.

When I say Zoe’s eyes were hypnotic, I do not mean they literally hypnotized me. I do not believe in hypnosis. If I were a poet I could better describe what her eyes did to me. Technically, they made my pulse race, my throat tighten and my intestines gurgle.

I was on my way to the library when I saw Janet in the kitchen. She was caressing a mug that said
Realtor of the Year
. She sold houses. I made a mental note.

“You can run but you can’t hide,” she said. I hadn’t been running or hiding.

Janet looked at my arms and chin, and grimaced as if I had been in a bike accident, which I had, as I’ve mentioned. I gave her an abridged version of how my bike missed the SUV and hit the pavement. I thought it was an upbeat story of triumph. She was appalled.

“You ride around on a bike in Las Vegas traffic? It’s a wonder you’re not dead.” I thought she was being overly dramatic, and I was uncomfortable with her gaze, so I said I had to go. But she wasn’t done with me.

“Dinner at last? Or do we still have the cooties?”

I had never suggested they had “cooties.” But a few days before this, on the refrigerator white board, I had seen what I considered to be an ominous message, written in Janet’s handwriting.
Tyler, we’re not contagious
. I knew what she meant. They wanted a “family” dinner. There was no need for it. I was
not
family.

I said I would be free next Tuesday, even though I didn’t know my work schedule. I told her I could make eggless pasta primavera, but I would have to stop at the store for ingredients.

“No. Don’t you dare cook! What would
you
like us to make?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“A hint?”

I was silent.

“Time?”

I shrugged.

“Okay! I guess it’s a plan for mystery food at seven on Tuesday.” She sounded ticked. “And no more riding your bike in traffic.”

I obeyed her command that night because my bike was still in the shop. But on the long walk to the library, I decided that, unless she were willing to drive me around, she couldn’t put restrictions on my commuting practices.

**

September 13. A list of FoHos, from worst to least-bad:

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FoHo number three. The couple ran a part-time business collecting foster children and cash from the state of Nevada. The place was a mess. One time, a huge shelf of junk toppled over and smashed the coffee table, which was also covered with junk. I took responsibility for the mishap just to be able to leave.

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FoHo number two. They collected biological children. One of them stole something from my Box o’ Crap, and nobody believed me.

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The first FoHo. This ex-preacher listened to Christian radio too much and didn’t bathe enough.

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FoHo number five. For some reason I can’t remember anything except Pumpkin, the dog. It was a Pomeranian. Pumpkin and I got along well.

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FoHo number six. I got the heave-ho after the FoMo became pregnant and needed more “space.” My case manager told me not to take it personally. All case managers say this.

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FoHo number four. I can’t remember anything. I can’t even remember their house. They must not have been terrible.

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Number seven, Carl and Janet. It has only been three weeks, so this could move up the list. Upside: I have my own room. Upside: a fifteen-minute walk from school and the public library. Upside: not violent or religious. Downside: highly invasive.

**

I was riding the bus to Covenant Catering when I had a disturbing thought. It was even more disturbing than the possibility that the feral-looking man standing nearby would start stabbing me with his corkscrew. Not only would I have to write two superior essays, save piles of money and keep my grades up, I would have to become a football player or trombonist or cheerleader, or do
something
special to impress Caltech admissions.

Here’s why. Earlier that day, in German class, I overheard a guy talking about his application to Stanford. Jann-Otto—that was his German class name—complained about how Stanford wanted “all-around superior students.” He didn’t think his straight-A average and near-perfect test scores would be good enough. “If I graduate summa cum laude, and I will, it won’t be enough.” Was Jann-Otto right? Would my perfect grades and near-perfect scores be good enough for Caltech? Could the admissions committee be so demanding as to insist on applicants being stellar in every aspect of their lives?

They could. My evidence was on the application at the top of page four.

Caltech is committed to attracting students who will enhance campus life. Please list activities that show your leadership, growth, or diversity of interests.

My interpretation.
What makes you think Caltech would want a geek like you?

It wasn’t enough to have the grades and science fair accolades. It wasn’t enough to explore macroevolutionary changes in spore dispersal in basidiomycetes. That was my tenth grade project. Those achievements were the bare minimum for admission. I was one in thousands.

There were only eight weeks until the application deadline. Eight weeks to cultivate diverse interests and leadership skills that would make me an enhancement to campus life. Finding the right club and making time to participate and excel would not be simple, but it would be necessary.

**

As you on the Caltech admissions committee are probably aware, applicants who have measured the effect of bee pollen on probiotic bacteria, as I have, are a dime a dozen. But how many of those applicants have also mimed pollen? I have done that in my Creative Soul class. And how many of those students also have been a leader in (EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITY TBD) as I have?

**

During Creative Soul class, I had an idea about how to present myself as someone Caltech might not dismiss. This came as a result of a miming exercise.

Ms. Gurzy put mime ideas on scraps of paper, placed the scraps in a bowl and passed the bowl around. These weren’t traditional mimes, like being trapped in a box. They were more bizarre, like a giraffe tap dancing and an electric can opener with a can of pinto beans. Ms. Gurzy was sitting with her knees and apart ankles crossed, which, with her huge peasant skirt, made the chair disappear. For each performance she had a wide-eyed expression, as if she were seeing the aurora borealis for the first time. We weren’t given any time to prepare. We just grabbed a slip of paper and started performing. I picked my slip of paper—pollen in the wind—and sat on a wooden folding chair while the entire class stared at me, waiting for my dramatic interpretation. To buy some time, I scrutinized the quote painted on the wall.
I shall create! If not a note, a hole! If not an overture, a desecration!

I should point out that I cough when I’m nervous. When I’m extremely nervous I dry heave, so it was a good thing my anxiety level wasn’t higher.

My effort in suppressing my cough was ineffective. I sputtered like an old car engine straining to turn over. In addition to this, I had a sudden, spastic eyelid tremor. When I was able to suppress my cough reflex for a few seconds, though not my twitching eyelid, I looked at Ms. Gurzy. I was about to admit I had no idea how to mime pollen. Ms. Gurzy clasped her hands together and said my performance was
very
inventive. “Tyler portrayed the
effects
of poooooh-len. Wooooon-derful.” The class displayed their agreement through vigorous head nodding.