Strays. Part 9

A sparrow is the best hall pa.s.s ever. I just say that Mr. Sterling told me to set it free.

When I get back, it's business as usual. My English teacher is also the yearbook adviser. And because it's spring, someone from his staff is always popping in between cla.s.ses with a question that just can't wait or a sample from the layout table.

Right on the floor beside my desk is a page with captions but no photographs: Cutest Couple, Pest, Drama Queen, Work in Progress. That kind of thing.

Somebody took a digital picture of me for the yearbook, but what are they going to say underneath - Unknown White Male? I wouldn't mind coming back here for a tenth reunion, though, lean and tanned, full of stories about bringing back another endangered species from the brink of extinction. Or maybe just with a job that isn't in a pet store.

Today is Presentation Day for term projects. I don't have to do that, thank G.o.d. I started so late that all I need is an extra essay.

First, Shimon Calabrese unveils his model of the Globe Theatre, which is mostly made from dry spaghetti.

"Shimon, why pasta?" asks Mr. Sterling.

"My mom's on a diet."

But he's got a laptop, too, so we get a virtual tour of the Globe and some portraits of Shakespeare, Edward de Vere, Francis Bacon, and Christopher Marlowe - the four contenders for the t.i.tle of True Bard.

Marlowe is the long shot since he was stabbed to death in a brawl before some of the plays were even written. But one theory is that his death might have been faked so he could go on writing.

I was so miserable in my other school that I fantasized about faking my death, then finding a veterinarian who takes care of exotic animals and offering to work for nothing. I'd put in twelve-hour days. I'd sleep on the floor.

I even thought of going to my own funeral, standing on a hill and looking down at the four or five people - or maybe just my parents and about eleven dogs - gathered around the grave with its empty casket.

Muriel Wegman is next. When she stands up, everyone stares at the diamond stud in her belly b.u.t.ton. All the guys do, anyway.

She draws the blinds, turns off the fluorescent overheads, and lights a candle. Then she dons a black papier-mache mask complete with beak and proceeds to recite "The Raven."

The mask is pretty good except for the acoustics: "Ones a pond uh midnigh dearie, wile ah bondered, weeg un wery . . ." Poe with a cold.

I know some real ravens who live up by Santa Mira. They liked to fly along beside me when I went on hikes by myself. They liked to hear stories about themselves: the Norse G.o.d Odin had two ravens who helped him keep an eye on the world, and grouchy old Apollo turned ravens from white to black because one told him something he didn't want to hear.

My superst.i.tious mother believed that a raven with a red thread in its mouth meant there was going to be a fire, but more than once while I was microwaving a pizza for my dinner, I saw her spend an hour feeding baby ravens beef heart, oatmeal, and egg yolk.

When Muriel is finished ("Shelby livdud - devor-boor!"), we all applaud politely.

Mr. Sterling calls her name and Megan, who's been sitting by the window wearing some kind of long dress, stands up, pads to the candle, and blows it out. Then she unb.u.t.tons the dress and takes it off.

That makes the athletes sit up. It's not totally dark. Light seeps in around the blinds and from under the door.

I watch her drag a desk-size theater (proscenium, wings, ap.r.o.n, curtain) and set it up where Mr. Sterling usually sits.

Once, in my other school, an English teacher took us to a matinee at the Mark Taper Forum in downtown Los Angeles. There wasn't a curtain, so between scenes people in black glided out from the wings to carry off the flowers, push the couch back and turn it into a bed, and generally get things ready for Act Two.

The next day in cla.s.s we discussed the play, pondered its meaning, and talked about our favorite parts of the performance. Well, the play was long, the actors were loud, and my favorite part was riding home on the train. But I kept those opinions to myself. When I had to say something, I claimed to like those people who came out in the dark between scenes.

The teacher, Mrs. Columbus, gushed, "Behind the scenes would be a wonderful place for someone like you to start, Ted."

"Yeah," muttered somebody from the back row, "way behind the scenes. Like out in the street."

Everybody laughed, and Mrs. Columbus tried not to.

n.o.body's laughing at Megan. Her black bodysuit is skintight. There's even a snug cap to cover her hair.

Miniature footlights come on, then something from an opera. Something sad in Italian. She lets us listen to that for a little while before she disappears behind the tiny stage and says, "Today I'm presenting 'The Body as Prom King.' This is theater, okay? Just much, much smaller. And before you roll your eyes and remember those little fuzzy hand puppets you got for Christmas that ended up under the bed, I'd like to remind everyone that puppetry is an art. There's the Teatrong Mulat of the Philippines, the Bunraku puppets from j.a.pan, Balinese and Chinese shadow puppets, just to name a few. Now - curtain up, house lights down. Here is Act One."

A pair of tiny somethings carved from Styrofoam rise center stage. One on each index finger. "Think of these organs as twins," she croons. "Lost children. Kid-neys." She breaks the word in half. "The legs know each other intimately; they twine and flex. The arms and hands are perfect allies. If the eyes are lonely for each other, they look in the mirror. But the kidneys are always apart."

All of a sudden I get a sharp pain in my back, right where my kidneys are. For the first time I wonder what it was like for my parents.

What was jarred loose during the accident? Did the spleen carom off the ribs? Did the stomach open like a wet sack? Did the punctured lungs collapse? Was everything flooded with blood?

As Megan makes her way through the body, I have to hold on to the desk with both hands. My liver throbs, then my trachea spasms, my heart speeds up, and when she comes to the brain, mine aches thinking of theirs shaking in their skulls as the car turns over and over and then bursts into flame.

Just before I almost pa.s.s out, Megan finishes. The lights go on, she takes a bow, and cla.s.s is dismissed.

I almost can't get up. Somebody slaps me on the back of the head on his way out. "What are you, O'Connor? The freakin' Bird Whisperer?"

In the hall, it's like Megan has been waiting for me. She hugs all her girlfriends good-bye and hustles over.

"How did you do that thing with the bird?" she asks.

"He was already scared to death. I stayed calm."

"He just sat there until you picked him up. Did you learn how to do that at your parents' store?"

"At my parents' store I learned how to wash dogs." I point to the door of our English cla.s.s. "I like that thing you just did. It really got to me. My parents' car rolled over. Did you know that?"

She shakes her head. "Just that they died."

I shift my books from one hand to the other. "So when you were talking about lungs and hearts and all that . . . well, it all just made me think about my folks and their lungs and hearts and stuff."

She puts her hand on my chest. The flat of her hand right on my sternum. Usually I'd flinch. Usually it's what somebody would do to push another person away, but not this time. This time it connects me to her.

"Oh, Teddy," she says. "You can't just sit up in that attic and think things like that."

"I don't. Really. I go out; I've got friends."

"Where do you go?"

"Well . . ." All I can think of is the backyard and the garbage cans. And school. And that one time with Astin.

"Exactly. And name three friends."

I'm all over that one. "You, Astin, and C.W."

"I don't count, Teddy. I'm unstable. You need a girlfriend. If you're alone too much, the hyenas will get you."

I honest to G.o.d take a step back. "What! What'd you just say?"

"I said if you're alone too much, the hyenas will get you. Don't you watch the Animal Channel?"

Her hand is still on my chest, and it's warm. Maybe even warmer.

"Hang around with boys," she says, "and all you do is brag and eat trans fats. And if you want to have a little cry, you're gay. Girls love it when boys cry, and I know just the girl."

"Megan, I don't think so."

"How can you not think so? You don't even know who she is."

"I mean I'm, uh, kind of busy."

"Doing what? Being an orphan? How much time does that take?"

"I just . . . I want to keep my grades up, and basically I don't date, okay?"

"It's not a date. It's having a friend who's a girl. Wanda's like two years older than you. She graduates with Astin in six weeks, and then she's leaving for New York, so it can't be a date. You're a way more interesting guy than you give yourself credit for, and she's totally fabulous. I'll set it up. You and Astin come over. Wanda and I will be there. We'll swim; I'll have stuff to eat. Don't say no or I'll cry."

A week or so later, I'm walking down the stairs at the Rafters' when C.W. comes out of his room. "What's the big deal with Little Noodle?" he says. "Astin made it sound like somebody with an ax. It's a doll."

"Yeah, but didn't that whole scene freak you out?"

"Compared to havin' to shoplift for some foster mom who needs a hundred dollars for a new tattoo? Get serious. A few choruses of 'Rock-a-Bye-Baby' to the Noodle and I get this." He points to his polo shirt.

I'm still not used to him in his new clothes.

He grins at me. "What'd you pay for those cargo pants?"

"They were on sale at the Gap."

"Hey, just sing to the Noodle and you get an upgrade to Banana Republic."

"Astin and I do just fine at the Gap."

"Does he go in the dressing room with you and make sure everything's just fabulous?"

"No."

He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Teddy, man. I'm pullin' your chain here, okay? Just doin' the dozens at the undergraduate level, if you get my drift. So let's try it again. I say, 'Did he go in the dressing room with you?' and you say, 'f.u.c.k you.'"

"I don't use the f-word."

"Okay, okay. How about I say, 'So you two go in the dressing room and he keeps dropping his keys. I sure hope you didn't pick 'em up.'"

"But that didn't happen."

C.W. laughs out loud. "You're one of a kind, Teddy. Where'd you grow up, Mars?"

"Kind of."

"Let's try this one more time. Forget Astin, okay? I know he's not gay. Let's say you get on my nerves, so I tell you, 'Iron is iron and steel don't rust; yo mama got an a.s.s like a Greyhound bus.' What do you say?"

"Does it have to rhyme?"

"No. But if you gonna cap my rap, it has to put me in my place, man. I just disrespected your mama."

"I'm not very good at this."

"Try, 'Yeah, well, yo mama raised you on ugly milk.'"

"I say that to you?"

"Uh-huh."

I stand up a little straighter. "Okay, but is Ugly Milk a brand, or is the milk itself just unattractive?"

C.W. laughs and drapes his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the living room. "You're either the hippest son of a b.i.t.c.h I've seen in a long time or the dumbest cracker in the world."

Astin's watching TV, but he still wants to know who's the dumbest cracker in the world.

"Teddy here," says C.W.

"Leave Teddy alone, homie. Teddy's my right-hand man."

"Why don't you use your own hand, you lazy puke?"

They're both laughing when I give Astin the grammar exercise he left on my bed this morning. I tell him, "I changed a few things. You still don't know what a prepositional phrase is."

He barely glances at it. "Thanks, Teddy."

"So are you ready to go?"

"In a minute." He doesn't take his eyes off the screen, where a science-fiction movie is playing. "I want to see the thing with all the arms again." He motions to C.W. "There was a black guy, but the monster ate him first."

"Now, ain't that the way it goes, though." He saunters over to Astin. "Word on the street is you and Ted were makin' out in the Gap."

"f.u.c.k you." He waves me toward him. "You're in this movie, too, Teddy."

"Yeah? Which one am I?"

He points. "Mr. Thoughtful there in the gla.s.ses. He's next on the menu."

"Where you guys goin'?" C.W. asks. "When you go?"

I answer for both of us. "Megan's."

"She's Belle's friend, right?"

"One of 'em," says Astin.