“Moby Dick’s a whale, Mr. Lewis. That’s science.”
“Moby Dick,” said Mr. Lewis, “is a metaphor.”
“That’s funny,” said Chris, “I thought whales were mammals. I saw on Animal Planet—”
“Chris,” said Mr. Lewis, “what is your science project?”
“My project,” said Chris, “is concerned with Industrial Chemistry and is entitled, The Miracle of Teflon.”
“Wow, could you tell the class more?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Top Secret.”
The bell rang as Mr. Lewis began to reply. Instead he said softly: “Class dismissed.”
Norman found Chris in the hall. “The Miracle of Teflon? What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know. I’m hungry and I was thinking about pancakes and my mom makes these great flapjacks on this big Teflon griddle dad bought her for Christmas last year. I just made it up.” Chris ripped open a bag of Fritos, “Want some?”
Norman grabbed a handful of chips. “Chris, Mr. Lewis will be expecting a project about Industrial Chemistry.”
“I know, I’d better think of something, huh?” Students swirled and jostled around Norman and Chris. “I’ll see you in the cafeteria,” said Chris. He handed Norman the bag of Fritos. “I’ve got to stop at my locker.”
Norman nodded and shoveled Fritos into his mouth. He thought about Mac’s store, dinner, and his science project. Another few Fritos made it from the bag to his mouth. Norman strolled around the corner and bumped into Mr. Forrester. “Mr. Babbit,” said the teacher, “are you eating in the hallway again?”
“No,” said Norman.
“What do you mean, No? I saw you chewing and there is food in your right hand, eh?”
“I meant, ‘No, I wasn’t eating in the hallway again.’”
“Allow me to rephrase the question. Are you eating in the hallway, Norman?”
Norman looked at the bag of chips. “Yes.”
“You know what that means?”
“Detention?”
Mr. Forrester scribbled on a small pad of pink paper, ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Norman. “Today after school.”
“But I can’t today. I promised Mr. McCormick—”
“Don’t be late.”
Norman shook his head and extended the bag of corn chips, “Want some Fritos?” Mr. Forrester pointed at a wastebasket and walked away. Norman dumped the chips and said, “He probably sleeps upside-down in his garage.”
Chris was already busy forking food into his mouth. “What took you so long?”
Norman waved the pink detention slip.
“Your first one?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Chris snatched the slip from Norman, ripped it up, and tossed it at Norman.
“Why’d you do that?” Norman brushed the pink snowflakes from his shoulders.
“They aren’t serious about those things.” Chris munched. “If you don’t show up, they just call your parents.”
“That’s all?” Norman stared at his lunch tray. “Do you know what my mom will do? She’ll say, I can’t begin to tell you, Norman, how sorry and disappointed and absolutely ashamed I feel.”
“She’ll say that?”
“She always does when I’m in trouble.”
“I’m lucky, my mom just whacks me with the nearest kitchen utensil.”
“I’m not done. Then she’ll say, What am I going to do with you? I feed you properly, I give you a good home and this is the thanks I receive? Marcus is a Senior in high school and he has never, not once, gotten a detention. Then a migraine will send her to bed for the day. Thanks, Chris.” Norman pushed away his hot lunch.
“You gonna eat that, Normy?”
Norman shook his head, glanced up and saw Tom Allen.
“Got something for me, Norman?” said Tom.
“I haven’t done it yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been busy.”
Tom looked at Chris and said, “What are you staring at?”
“You.”
“Chris,” said Norman. “Please don’t.”
“You too stupid to do your own homework, Tom?” said Chris.
Tom stepped forward and Chris started to stand.
“Sit down, Chris, I’ll do his homework.”
Chris settled back onto the bench. Tom said, “See why I have Norman do my homework? He’s smart.” Tom turned and retreated through the cafeteria.
Chris slammed his fist into the table, rattling the lunch trays.
Norman opened his math book.
Chapter 5
Norman’s afternoon schedule varied from the normal seventh graders’. Before lunch he had General Science with the seventh graders; but then he had eighth grade Algebra when other students his age had PE. As a result he had to take PE during sixth period with the eighth graders.
He hated PE.
The coach bellowed instructions and the hotdog jocks pushed everyone around. Showers were mandatory and towel snapping was another time-honored Kenilworth tradition. On Fridays Norman and several others ran a gauntlet of eighth graders armed with wet towels. Mr. Lopez was always conveniently deaf on Fridays. He’d hate to give his star baseball players detentions. They would miss practice and that would hurt the team. Who cares if Norman and the others had welts that wouldn’t allow them to sit comfortably again until Sunday?
This month’s sport was soccer, which suited Norman just fine. He could jog along the fringe of the action knowing no one would ever pass him the ball. He stayed close enough to the game to keep the coach from shrieking at him, but distant enough to avoid contact with any sharp elbows, knees, or cleats.
Today, as he shadowed the soccer game, he made and re-made lists in his mind:
THINGS TO DO
1) Finish my science project
2) Try and get out of PE. Maybe take Spanish?
3) Help Chris with his Science Project
4) Learn to box
5) Beat up Tom Allen
No. New priorities
THINGS TO DO
1) Prove Mr. Forrester is a bat and have his body donated to science
2) Find a traveling circus that would buy Doris
3) Speak to Darcy
4) Learn to box
5) Beat up Tom Allen
THINGS TO DO
1) Talk mom into meatloaf for dinner
2) Get out of detention
3) Find a way to use dad’s telescope to view the eclipse
4) Buy a gun
5) Shoot Tom Allen
Yes!
That’s not a bad idea. Murder Tom Allen and get sent to prison. They serve meat in jail, I could write to Darcy and I wouldn’t have to deal with Doris.
Satisfied, Norman glanced to his left. Fifteen combatants, seven dressed in red, eight in blue, charged toward him. Norman turned and sprinted away from the mob. Like a pack of dogs they pursued. He cut to his right and realized they weren’t after him, they wanted the soccer ball. When they were ten feet away Norman spotted the slowly rolling ball. Out of fear he stepped forward, swung his leg and kicked the ball.
The black-and-white ball sailed softly over the heads of the fifteen, bounced once and was booted into the goal by a red-shirted player as the coach’s whistle blew. “Red team wins,” bellowed the coach. “Nice pass, Babbit.”
“Since I kicked it with my eyes closed,” said Norman to no one in particular, “I’d say it was an exceptional pass.”
“C’mon,” screamed Mr. Lopez, “let’s get in there and shower. C’mon Ladies, let’s move it.”
Norman jogged off the field, again lost in thought. He was jarred from his drifting by a shoulder to his back that knocked him to the ground. He rolled over, straightened his glasses, and saw two blue jerseys. One of them mimicked the coach, “Nice pass, Babbit.”
“Thanks,” said Norman. “Jerk.”
A blue jersey pulled Norman to h
is feet, “What’d you say?”
“Jerk.”
The blue jersey flung Norman to the ground.
“Jerk,” said Norman, again.
He was yanked to his feet again, “What’d you say?”
“I’m going to say, Jerk, and you’re going to knock me down again,” said Norman. “Right?”
“Right,” said the blue jersey, who hurled Norman to the turf. The blue clad warriors marched away laughing.
“You know,” said Norman, “I’m actually looking forward to detention.”
“Mac?” yelled Norman. “Are you in there?” He glanced at his watch, 4:17 PM. Why was the store closed? “Mr. McCormick?”
“Go away.”
“It’s me, Mac. Norman.”
“Go away.”
Norman pounded on the door, “I need to talk to you.”
The door inched open, “I thought you were dropping by after school?”
“I had detention for an hour. Why aren’t you open?”
Mr. McCormick swung the door open, “C’mon in, Sonny.” Norman entered the store. The floor was swept clean, but the shelves were bare. “I didn’t open today.”
“Why not?”
“There isn’t much to sell. Look around, Norman.”
“You have all that stuff in the back. I’ll help you stock the shelves.”
Mr. McCormick shook his head and smiled. “I’m tired, Sonny.”
Norman had never considered the grocer an old man, he was just another adult. But now in the weak light of the store, Mr. McCormick looked ancient and fragile and dusty. The Irishman shook his head and continued, “I’ve received some bad news from home.”
“Did they vandalize your house too?”
“Not my house, Sonny. Home. Ireland.”
“Oh.”
Norman’s Oh wasn’t a question, but Mr. McCormick answered, “My brother died today.”
Norman stared at Mac: gray hair, wrinkled hands.
“I’m no young spring chicken,” he winked at Norman, “and my brother was nearly ninety-years-old. But it’s still a loss.”
“My father died when I was five,” said Norman.
Mr. McCormick ruffled Norman’s hair. “See there, now, but it’s a cruel and funny world. I’m here all day crying in my beer like a milksop sissy because my brother’s gone.”
“It’s okay to feel bad. Until this year, I didn’t talk about how I felt—except to Chris. He was sitting next to me, in Kindergarten, when my mom came in crying. I didn’t go to school for a week and when I returned Chris was the only kid who’d talk to me like he used to. He said, ‘I know how I’d feel if my father died’ and that was it. So I know how I’d feel if my brother died, Mac.”
Mr. McCormick extended his right hand. Norman shook it solidly. “You’re a better man than I, Norman Babbit.”
“I’m sorry about your brother, Mac.”
“And I about your father,” said Mr. McCormick. “Run along now, Sonny. I have to make some phone calls.” Mr. McCormick closed the door softly behind Norman.
As Norman walked down the street he heard the deadbolt click into place.
Chapter 6
“And where have you been until this hour of the evening, young man?” Mrs. Babbit clattered her teacup down on the table. The noise informed Norman and Marcus that a migraine was due in four minutes. Even Doris momentarily unglued her eyes from the TV. “We finished dinner an hour ago.”
“I stopped to talk with Mr. McCormick.”
“Until seven PM?”
“No. Then I went to Chris’ house.”
“Couldn’t you call from Chris’ house?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Three minutes to migraine.
“Because,” said Norman, “you can’t dial a phone when you’re wearing boxing gloves.”
Marcus smiled, “Boxing gloves?”
“Yeah. Chris is giving me boxing lessons and I’m helping him with his science project.”
“Why do you want to fight?” said Mrs. Babbit. She raised a hand to her left temple. Two minutes to migraine.
“Because,” said Norman.
“Because why?” said Doris who had traded the TV for the drama unfolding in the kitchen. “Is someone beating you up?”
Norman stared at Doris until she turned away. Then he said to his mother, “Yesterday and today after school, I was at Chris’ and he gave me a couple of boxing lessons. That’s all.”
Mrs. Babbit shook her head vigorously. Under one minute and counting. “Doris, go to bed. Marcus, finish the dishes. Norman, just—” She turned, waved and trudged up the stairs. “Say goodnight to the boys, Doris.”
“Good night, Marcus. Good night, Stupid-Weirdo-Norman.” Doris followed her mother up the stairs.
Marcus waited until Mrs. Babbit and Doris had reached the top of the stairs, then said, “What’s up with the boxing, Sport.”
“I’m good at science. Why not the science of boxing?”
“It’s as good as anything else. Do it; go for it,” said Marcus. “Have you eaten?”
“I’ll have some toast.”
“That’s all you ever eat.”
“That’s all I like. Besides meat. Barbecued beef, burgers, chicken livers.”
“Chicken livers?” said Marcus as he unloaded the dishwasher.
“Dog meat. Horse meat. Monkey meat. I’m a carnivore, a meat-eater.”
Marcus tossed Norman a towel. “You’re also a dishwasher. C’mon.”
“How come Darling Doris, the TV addict, the obnoxious second grader can’t help?”
“Mom thinks she’s too little.”
“Last Saturday I saw her beating up the little Mendez kid next door.” Norman swiped lazily at a dish with his towel and placed it, still wet, in the cupboard. “I should get her to teach me how to fight. The Mendez kid says something to her, kid stuff, and she pushes him, then bops him in the face. His hands go up to his face and she kicks him in the shins. Then Mrs. Mendez steps outside. Doris sees Mrs. Mendez and lets the kid take a swing at her. The poor kid doesn’t even come close but the mom swoops off the porch and starts walloping the poor little guy. Too little? No way.”
Marcus placed the last dish in the cupboard and said, “Norman?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you having trouble with someone?”
Norman listened to the evening house-sounds: his mother running bath water; Doris sneaking in ten more minutes of TV in Mrs. Babbit’s bedroom. He nodded.
“Who?”
“Lots of people.”
Marcus hopped up on the counter, a forbidden maneuver in the Babbit household. “C’mon Sport, a name.”
Norman hopped up beside his brother. “An eighth grader named Tom Allen.”
“Donald Allen’s brother?”
“Red hair? Big stupid grin? Bad breath?”
“Sounds like a miniature Donald. He’s a punk, too.”
“Must be hereditary. Tom Allen makes me do his math homework.”
“You said Tom was in eighth grade.”
“I’m in eighth grade math.” Norman punched his brother in the arm. “I got the brains in the family.”
Marcus pretended that Norman’s thump had hurt his bicep. “And that’s why you want to learn to box. To stomp Tom Allen?”
“Yeah.”
Marcus slid off the counter. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No.”
“Tell a teacher.”
“Then I’d be a squealer.”
“Tell the Principal.”
“No.”
“So,” said Marcus, “what are you going to do?”
“Tom’s homework,” Norman laughed. “He’ll flunk the final.”
“But if you—”
“Marcus,” said Norman, “I know you feel more responsibility since dad’s not here. But I’ll work through this myself. Thanks.”
“Fighting never solves anything.”
“I’ve heard that.?
??
In the silence that followed the boys heard the bathtub draining and music from The Wheel of Fortune.
“I’m tossing Doris into bed,” said Marcus.
Norman sprang off the counter and stumbled as he landed. He shadowboxed leisurely, then started making toast. He’d finished the first piece of golden-toasted-whitebread-smeared-with-peanut-butter-and-sugar-cinnamon when Marcus returned.
“Will you be done soon?” said Marcus. Norman’s mouth was too full to answer. He nodded Yes, swallowed, and stuffed in another slice of toast. “You want anything to drink?” asked Marcus.
Norman pantomimed milking a cow.
“Milk?”
Norman nodded. Marcus poured two large glasses of milk and returned to the table. Norman sipped, swallowed and said, “Thanks.”
“I’m worried about you,” said Marcus.
“Why?”
“All you ever do is study.”
“I like studying.” Norman wiped away his milk mustache with the back of his hand. “And, I work at Mr. McCormick’s. I have hobbies: astronomy, my rock collection, my science project, Luigi.”
“That’s studying, Sport.”
“Are you embarrassed to have a nerd for a brother? Marcus I like studying. Do you want me to be a boneheaded, homerun hitting, jumpshooting, bowling jock?”
“Bowling?”
“Bowling or armwrestling or badminton—”
“Horseshoes?”
Norman laughed, “I can’t stay mad at you, Marcus.”
“That’s mad?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t you tell?”
“I worry about you, Sport.”
Norman finished his milk. “Do you remember much about dad?”
“What brings that up?”
“What do you remember?”
“Swimming in the summer at Spring Lake. We’d have waterfights. I’d stand on his shoulders and jump off. You were usually in the waterweeds, collecting polliwogs and minnows.”
“Do you think Doris remembers him at all?”
“He died when she was one. Probably not.”
Norman finished his milk. “I remember his smell.”
“What?”
“His smell. When he came home from work he’d smell like sweat and sawdust. Then he’d shower and shave and smell like ice.”
“What does ice smell like?”
“That blue stuff he put on after he shaved.”
“Aqua Velva.”
“Right. He smelled icy, like the North Pole. That’s the stuff I’m gonna wear when I start shaving. Aqua Velva.”
Marcus pinched Norman’s cheek, “Only five more years, Babyface.”
Norman stood in the middle of the kitchen and raised his fists. “C’mon chicken.”