Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 3

"Oh, Sanny, it's only a little house spider. They're friendly. They eat bad bugs."

Great, the fact that they are terrible venomous insect carnivores was very comforting. "Can you kill it, Mom?"

By this time the spider had fallen down into the bottom of the box. Now I had a Zen phobia garden. How special! Mom brushed me aside, shooed the spider onto the second-biggest pebble, and carried the stone, spider and all, out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out onto the scrubby front lawn. I watched in disgusted awe as she wiped the spider gently off the rock and into the gra.s.s. Then I went to the bathroom and peed while she climbed back up. When I got back to the table, Mom had put the arachnid-tainted rock back into the garden.

Yuck-o.

With some begging on my part, I finally got her to take the rock back out of the garden and leave it by the front walk on the way to the library. All the way up the block, though, she insisted on blabbing on about how wonderful spiders were, ecologically important, a marvel of biology, blah blah blah. You know, cobras are pest-eating marvels of biology too, but you don't see me rushing to scatter them about the apartment.

I marched my mother right up to the library's information desk and rang the bell. I was in a hurry, very aware of two things: I wanted to get a lot of reading done, and I didn't want to be seen in a public place with my white mom-which would kind of blow my whole "Super-Asian" persona right out of the water, especially if anyone started asking her any questions about our life. There was a rustling in the little back room, and I allowed myself a moment of hope that the lovely Amanda would soon appear. Instead, Mildred came out. She was in a pink sweater with bows over a dark green skirt with tights, which gave her a sort of "gra.s.shopper out on the town" look. She was happy to see me. "Ah, San Lee! I was hoping you'd come back today. Two other students from your school were here already this evening, getting information for your world religions project..."

OH, NO!.

"But I knew you had all the good books on Zen in your reserve pile, so I steered them toward Hinduism and Confucianism."

OH, YES! Thank you, Mildred!

My mom thanked Mildred and introduced herself: "h.e.l.lo, I'm Diane Lee, San's mother. Thank you for helping him out yesterday. I've never seen him so excited about a school project."

"Well, Mr. Dowd works wonders. Every year at this time, children I've never seen before, even though they were born in this town, come stumbling into the library in droves to get cards just for his project."

They smiled at each other for a moment, sharing some secret adult satisfaction of breaking in another generation to the yoke of book slavery. Then, while they filled out the rest of the form for my card, I wandered around a bit. I looked down one aisle and couldn't help noticing that Amanda was reshelving books about twenty feet from me. She saw me, smiled, gestured in a circle, and mouthed one word: "Books!" I started to smile back, but then she ducked down to reach a low shelf and I saw a horrific vision behind her. Peter was walking toward me, with his face buried in what looked like an encyclopedia.

I ducked into the next aisle before he could look up and catch me being a fake, adopted, research-based Buddhist. I sat down on a step stool so I could peek at Amanda and Peter between the shelved books. Peter was talking with her and I could hear some of what she was saying, too: "Popular topic lately...I'm not really the expert, but..."

She moved down a few feet; Peter followed, and so did I. I grabbed a book out of the shelf between us so I could see and hear better. Glancing at it, I had a shock. It was called Zen in the Art of Archery. Zen in the Art of Archery. What were the chances I had wound up in the Zen aisle again? I heard Amanda say, "Lucky boy! You're just one aisle away from what you need." What were the chances I had wound up in the Zen aisle again? I heard Amanda say, "Lucky boy! You're just one aisle away from what you need."

Geez, she'd called me me "lucky boy" yesterday. My luck was running out fast. Peter walked by, heading toward my right. I scurried to my left at top speed, and got around the corner before they started up the Zen aisle. I leaned back against the cool gray metal of the shelf edge with a sigh of relief. Just then I heard my mom's voice calling me. "San! Sanny!" I was thinking, "lucky boy" yesterday. My luck was running out fast. Peter walked by, heading toward my right. I scurried to my left at top speed, and got around the corner before they started up the Zen aisle. I leaned back against the cool gray metal of the shelf edge with a sigh of relief. Just then I heard my mom's voice calling me. "San! Sanny!" I was thinking, Shoot me now Shoot me now, as I scurried back to the info desk before she could get even louder.

Skidding up next to her I said, "Ssssshhhhh! Mom, this is a library library!"

She was momentarily stunned by my fierce support for library rules, but then snapped back, "Darn, I thought we were in KFC! Guess I can't check out that bucket of extra-crispy, then. Relax, San. Here's your card."

She handed it to me. Wow, my first Pennsylvania library card. And it was still warm from the laminating machine! "Uh, thanks, Ma," I said. "Now let's go!" I took her by the arm and started steering her in the direction of the checkout line. Then Mildred called after us, "Hey, Zen in the Art of Archery Zen in the Art of Archery! I must have missed that one yesterday. It's an oldie but goodie. You're quite the little researcher, San. Mrs. Lee, your boy is pretty quick in the stacks."

I thought, You have no idea, Mildy baby. You have no idea, Mildy baby. I gave her a little thank-you wave over my shoulder, and we got into the checkout line. I was trying to stare un.o.btrusively at the ends of the stacks, waiting for Peter to pop out and bust me with the huge stack of Zen books that the checkout lady was loading into my arms. I could feel the cold sweat of fear dripping down the back of my neck as my mom asked the desk lady question after question about our library privileges, the branch's hours, and even where to get a good cappuccino in town on a budget, but we got away clean. I gave her a little thank-you wave over my shoulder, and we got into the checkout line. I was trying to stare un.o.btrusively at the ends of the stacks, waiting for Peter to pop out and bust me with the huge stack of Zen books that the checkout lady was loading into my arms. I could feel the cold sweat of fear dripping down the back of my neck as my mom asked the desk lady question after question about our library privileges, the branch's hours, and even where to get a good cappuccino in town on a budget, but we got away clean.

As far as I knew.

We set out, and when we got outside it had started to snow lightly. All the way home, I felt like my arms were about to break off, and my bladder was at its limit, primed to explode like a liquid pinata. My mom asked me if I wanted to stop at a coffee shop around the corner for a bargain cappuccino and I almost died on the spot-I was never going to ingest caffeine again. I smiled weakly and told her I was just too excited about getting back to my research to stop for anything.

Ten grueling minutes later I was in my little room, sitting in the zazen position with the archery book on my lap. One thing about my new spiritual practices: They helped you if you were too poor to afford a desk. And this book would help if you were too poor to afford sleeping pills. It was skinny, but way hard to read. I got the basic point, though: This German guy went to a great archery Zen master in j.a.pan, and studied with him for six years. Then he wrote the book. What he learned is that in order to become a true master of anything, you have to repeat it over and over again with precisely correct form. Then eventually, if you truly get the form down to the point where you are totally unconscious of what you are doing, you will be a master.

Maybe there was some way Woody and I could repeat something over and over again until we were Zen masters of it. But what? Sharpening pencils? Making paper airplanes? Thumb wrestling? And if it took the archery guy six years to get good at shooting an arrow, I had a weird feeling we might need an extension on our project deadline.

Or, you know, we could just totally fake it.

no-mind

There I was on my special Zen rock, the warm rays of the rising sun bathing me in the happy glow of a new dawn. After twenty minutes of zazen, my b.u.t.t was numb, sure, but the gra.s.s was blanketed with a soft inch of new snow, my homework was done, and the girl of my dreams was striding across the white lawn to greet me. I was at peace. I was in the zone. I was Zen Master San. I was- COLD! With a huge THWACK THWACK and then a huge and then a huge THWUMP THWUMP, an avalanche of snow fell from the overhanging branches of the big tree, covering me from head to bare toes. I almost jumped up and screamed, but caught myself when I realized Woody was watching, her eyes wide. I smiled in false serenity as a chunk of snow ran down the back of my neck and into my shirt collar.

"Oh, San!" Woody said. "The tree-"

"The tree is lighter now. Its branches have given up their burden."

"But your back! And your feet! Aren't you cold?" She started dusting the snow off of me. This was good.

"What is cold? I am having a great morning," I said. Woody kept dusting. I heard footsteps running away from the base of the tree behind me. HEY! Had someone knocked the snow down onto me purposely? Why would anyone do that? I wanted to turn and see who it was, but didn't want to ruin the moment.

When Woody and I had gotten me somewhat plowed-off, I hopped down from my perch-definite progress from the day before, when I had been paralyzed after the first ten minutes. As I landed lightly, with the grace of a slightly damp jungle cat, Woody asked me, "So, did you have any breakthrough ideas for our project last night?"

"Not exactly, but I have two great concepts we could start with. One is compa.s.sion, which is a huge component of Zen. The other is 'beginner's mind.'"

"What's that?"

"Basically, it means that experts sometimes defeat themselves by thinking too much. So, those who study a Zen art practice the steps involved over and over again until they can do them without thinking at all. When the actions have become totally instinctive, the student has become a master. 'Beginner's mind' also refers to getting rid of preconceptions and seeing everything as though you're seeing it for the first time." I bent over, scooped up a handful of clean snow, and said, "How many times have you seen snow before? And you'll be like, 'Oh, snow. Whatever,' instead of thinking about what an amazing thing it is. I used to be like that, but then I spent last winter in Texas, where there's no snow." I put a little bit of the snow on my lip and stuck my tongue out to lick it off. "We even forget that snow tastes good." Woody reached out and gently swooped her finger through the snow in my palm; it tickled. She stuck her finger in her mouth and grinned.

"You're right, San-it is is good!" She bent down and got her own double handful. "There's something else too. Look at the snow in my hand really, really closely. Closer...closer..." good!" She bent down and got her own double handful. "There's something else too. Look at the snow in my hand really, really closely. Closer...closer..."

Our bodies were maybe a foot apart, tops, and my face was so close to her hands that I could feel the cold radiating from the snow to the tip of my nose. I tried to focus my eyes on one individual flake. Woody's eyes were cast down at the snow she was holding too, and she was looking intently at it. Then her eyes lifted to mine, and she held my gaze for what felt like a whole minute as electric waves shot through my whole body. Was Woody going to kiss me? Right here, three days after I met her, at 7:30 in the morning, twenty steps from the bus line?

The corners of her eyes crinkled up in merriment, and she leaned in even closer. Then she BLEW on the snow, sending a little shower up into my face. She laughed as I wiped my eyes on the scratchy plastic sleeve of my windbreaker. Then I laughed too. I grabbed a handful of snow and flung it at her. She ducked, but I got her hair a little. She made a s...o...b..ll and flung it at my back. We wound up having a pretty fierce little mini s...o...b..ll fight. Then we heard the late bell ring. We looked around and noticed everyone but us had already gone inside. She gave me the "uh-oh" look, and we grabbed up our book bags and her guitar. We started giggling, and couldn't stop all the way into school. The secretary who gave us our late pa.s.ses asked for a reason, and Woody said, "Avalanche." We left the office together, and laughed our way to our lockers.

Woody's homeroom was just down the hall from mine, so I kind of dropped her off there. How slick was that? I had just walked a girl to cla.s.s! We did the "Uh, see ya," "Um, okay," thing for maybe thirty seconds, until her homeroom teacher broke it up by saying, "Miss Long, would you like to join us today?" I strutted away down the hall, flying high. In first period, I hummed my way into my English room, and found the teacher handing out copies of a paperback book with laminated covers. It was called The Tao of Pooh. The Tao of Pooh. Oh, geez! It was a book about Asian philosophy. It looked like we were going to do one of those units where the English teacher and the social studies teacher work together. Don't they know kids hate that? It's creepy to think of the teachers conspiring with each other. Plus, this was going to ratchet up the Zen pressure; I would have to fool a whole 'nother cla.s.s. And a whole 'nother teacher. Oh, geez! It was a book about Asian philosophy. It looked like we were going to do one of those units where the English teacher and the social studies teacher work together. Don't they know kids hate that? It's creepy to think of the teachers conspiring with each other. Plus, this was going to ratchet up the Zen pressure; I would have to fool a whole 'nother cla.s.s. And a whole 'nother teacher.

Yikes!

The day got stranger too. In gym, we were doing basketball. I was alone, shooting baskets at this one hoop in the corner that didn't even have a net; everyone else was either playing three-on-three or watching a game that was going on between three jock guys and three of the gym teachers. The gym teachers were slaying the jocks. Not that I cared.

Even though Peter Jones was one of the jocks involved. And Woody was watching the game. And I was watching Woody. She looked beautiful, even in our school's dorky brown gym shorts and a Harrisonville Hawks T-shirt. Most of the girls looked kind of clumpy and pale, but Woody was elegant somehow. She just always held her head a little higher than anybody else.

Not that I noticed. I was Zen Hoop Boy. I decided to test out the whole repeat-the-steps-until-your-no-mind-takes-over thing with foul shots. This was a good test, because even though I'm pretty tall, I've never been much of a shooter. I concentrated on keeping my breathing even and my feet planted just behind the line. I put my left hand on the side of the ball for stability, bent my knees, pushed with my right hand and straightened my legs with one smooth motion. The shot missed by a mile, and my right sandal flopped off on the follow-through. As I was retrieving the ball, I may or may not have stopped to check out Woody's legs, but that didn't interfere with my laserlike concentration.

Right.

I took fifteen or so more shots, remembering that the Zen archery guys never cared about whether their arrows. .h.i.t the target as long as the form was right. There was this famous story I'd read about a Zen master archer who was in a target-shooting contest with, like, a hundred monks at a Zen monastery on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean in California. The other guys shot all of their rounds, and this great master guy was supposed to shoot last. When it was his turn, he drew an arrow, strung it up on his bow, and, in one smooth motion, shot it straight over the cliff edge and into the sea. When it hit, he said, "Bull's-eye!" And everyone agreed he was the champion.

Judging from the shots I'd just taken, he was my my kind of champion. kind of champion.

After just one more tiny peek at Woody, who was still watching the game, I stopped trying to tune out the gym noise and let it wash over me instead. I stopped trying to ignore the flatness and bald tread of the ball I was using. I even gave myself over to the slightly funky and mildew-enhanced odor of the gym, which was flavored with the sharpness of sweaty rubber. And I stopped counting my shots. Dribble, set, shoot. Dribble, set, shoot. Dribble...set...shoot. The sound of the warning bell snapped me out of my trance, and I looked around. The young-jock-versus-aging-jock Olympiad had ended without me noticing, but a glance at the scoreboard got me up to speed: Peter and company had gotten demolished.

That was worth a half smile.

And Woody was behind me, the last girl out of the gym, leaning on the closed-up bleachers and watching my devastating exhibition of no-mind skill. Her perfect ruby lips opened and she said, "Hey, San. Keep that up and you'll get one in someday soon."

I looked at her in sudden, abject despair. She smiled, strode over, grabbed the ball from me, and elbowed me aside. Then she drained five straight. I could have cried, but it felt great to be with her, alone, for the second time in one day. She said, "Let me see you shoot again," and bounce-pa.s.sed the ball to me. Perfectly.

I did, and missed. Four times. My ears were getting red. My cheeks were getting red. Who am I kidding? My everything everything was getting red. "One more," Woody ordered. But this time, as I bent my knees, she reached around from behind me with both hands to correct my arm positioning. I still missed, but her body was pressed to mine as we followed through together. was getting red. "One more," Woody ordered. But this time, as I bent my knees, she reached around from behind me with both hands to correct my arm positioning. I still missed, but her body was pressed to mine as we followed through together. Bull's-eye Bull's-eye, I thought. Then the late bell rang.

the wednesday plan

The week went on, with a boring weekend of Zen reading in there somewhere. Woody visited me every schoolday morning at my rock-sometimes with Peter, sometimes without. She sang "Hard Travelin'" at lunch, looking into my eyes. It was a good song. We brainstormed and rejected ideas in social studies every day: Writing haiku was perfect, writing haiku was boring; making tea for the cla.s.s was cool, making a stimulant for a bunch of eighth graders was a no-no; Zen basketball was brilliant, if Zen basketball was so brilliant, why was I still shooting three for ten from the free-throw line?

Then on Tuesday, I brought in my Zen garden to see what Woody would think. The groups were spread out all over the room, and we grabbed a nice table in a pool of sun by the window. She loved messing around with the four-pencil rake. I loved being close together, and watching the lines of her thoughts tracing their way between the stones. She did the whole thing playfully, which was exactly perfect. I always stopped to think about making my lines straight, or making the whole image in the garden look relaxing, or whatever. But Woody just raked and giggled.

When she had the garden right-and you could definitely tell, somehow, that it was right-she handed me the rake. My hand was sweaty, but I could tell when I held the pencils that hers wasn't. Before sliding the garden over to me, she put the lid on and shook it. I opened the lid back up, and she said, "Look! No garden!" Which was perfect too.

I bent to my work, and smelled Woody's shampoo-something orangey. I felt the warmth of the sun on the backs of my hands. Closing my eyes, I dropped the rocks randomly over the sand. I looked, nudged one over about half an inch to the left, and started raking my lines. I wanted to look cool for Woody, so I was working on a show of nonchalance-which I know is an oxymoron. She smiled; I smiled. We were having a moment! Then, just when I had the garden complete, a strong gust of frigid air blew my sand everywhere. I looked up, and there was Peter-who had just opened the window wide.

I could have sworn I saw a look of triumph flash across his face before he made eye contact with me. "Oh, San, I'm so sorry. I didn't see your-uh-sandbox there. Did I ruin your work?"

I thought fast, then grinned. "Thank you, Peter. Thank you for teaching me the lesson of impermanence."

Heh-heh. Woody and I had another moment. And whether he was standing three feet away or not, Peter wasn't invited.

After Peter walked away muttering, I noticed that Dowd was looking at me kind of funny. Oh, well. I had some sand to clean up. Woody and I tried scooping the sand with the box lid, which worked for a while. When we got down to the fine stuff, though, we had to switch to using the edge of a piece of paper. Woody went up to Dowd's desk to grab a piece of masking tape so she could get the sand off her sweater. I grabbed Woody's project a.s.signment sheet, and flipped it over so I could make a crease down the middle for pouring. On the back side, Woody had drawn a whole bunch of red hearts with the capital letters "ELL" in all of them.

There went the freakin' moment. Who was this ELL person? What kind of stupid initials were ELL anyway? I looked around out of the corner of my eye as I scooped, but there was n.o.body in the cla.s.s with a last name that started with "L"-just me and Woody. I glanced at Peter, who was back with his partner, Abby. She was building what looked like a scale model of the Taj Mahal out of those perforated craft sticks social studies teachers love-a pretty impressive model, by the way-while Peter was breaking the sticks as she needed them. I was pleased to note that it looked like he was snapping them with more force than was strictly required by the physics of the situation. But Peter was suddenly unimportant; his initials were P-something-J.

Of course, Woody had other cla.s.ses in her schedule besides social studies. Maybe this guy was smoothly moving in on her during her first period math cla.s.s while I was innocently studying English right down the hall. Or maybe he didn't even go to our school. Maybe he was some disgusting high school pervert who couldn't get a girl his own age. Oh, G.o.d. There were probably tons of high school guys calling Woody at all hours, and I didn't even have her phone number. What chance did I have with a girl as cool as Woody anyway? Just because I was her flavor of the week right now, that didn't mean we were, like, destined to be soul mates. Maybe she liked me as a friend because I had fooled her into thinking we shared some interests, or maybe she was just stringing me along until our project was due. And I had fallen for it!

Well, I wasn't going to just stand by and let this ELL make a fool of me! I wasn't just going to lie down and surrender the girl of my dreams to some pimply, hairy freshman guy! I would fight back! I would take Woody in my arms and- Oh, who was I kidding? I would quit, that's what I'd do. There were plenty of other beautiful, smart, talented girls with excellent foul-shooting skills who would just love to date an authentic, honest, down-to-earth guy like me. Who happened to be a pretend Zen master.

Woody came back with a big ball of tape rolled around her fist, and started brushing her sweater down with it. As she reached up to get a dusting of sand off her shoulder, she noticed the writing on my paper scoop, and tried to s.n.a.t.c.h it out of my hand. But that made her tape ball catch on her hair.

"Oww!" she cried. Good! What did I care? I was a pretend Zen master. I had no earthly attachments or desires, at least in theory. The Four n.o.ble Truths were right-attachment to desire really sucked.

Woody looked at me. "Can you help me get this untangled, San? I'm stuck."

I laid the paper down and reached up in a cool and unattached way to separate her hair, strand by strand, from the tape ball. The orange scent enveloped me, and her hair was soft and lovely in my hands. Fortunately I was beyond noticing all that, and had been for a good twenty seconds already.

When we were all sorted out again, Woody went back to getting the last bits of sand off her sweater while I did NOT watch. Then she gently picked the incriminating paper out of my hand, said, "I'll just throw this out now," and walked over to the garbage can. While I did NOT watch.

She looked at the paper one more time before she chucked it, and when she came back to our work desk, she was blushing a little. I tried to pretend nothing had happened, which was hard because this girl had a pull on me that would probably have overwhelmed a man of lesser meditation talents. And she plunged into packing up her stuff and copying down the homework as though nothing had happened.

But the scent of orange lingered on my hands for hours.

That night, lying in bed, I realized my dad was going to be calling again after school the next day. I'd pick up the phone, and the prison operator would ask me to accept a collect call from Texas. I'd say yes, knowing that the call would cost us money that my mom didn't have, money that should have been spent paying down my dad's legal bills or our credit card debt. I could hear his smooth voice saying, I missed talking I missed talking with you last week, buddy. Now tell me everything! with you last week, buddy. Now tell me everything! So I'd start telling him everything, but I wouldn't really. I'd only tell him what he wanted to hear: I was fitting in, my grades were good, I was helping my mother in this "difficult time." Somewhere in the middle, he'd interrupt to tell me his whitewashed story: He was innocent, he was framed, I had to believe in him and everything would be fine in the end. So I'd start telling him everything, but I wouldn't really. I'd only tell him what he wanted to hear: I was fitting in, my grades were good, I was helping my mother in this "difficult time." Somewhere in the middle, he'd interrupt to tell me his whitewashed story: He was innocent, he was framed, I had to believe in him and everything would be fine in the end.

He was a top-grade liar, and I was his top-grade liar son.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't pretend I believed him, or that I didn't hate every molecule of his vile, manipulative soul, or that everything would be fine. It was bad enough that my mom fell for all his c.r.a.p. And for all of my c.r.a.p. Lying to the king liar was somehow the worst thing of all.

So I started looking for an angle: something that would keep me away on Wednesday afternoons, preferably for months on end. Until my dad got the hint and stopped calling. I could get in trouble every Tuesday so I'd have detention every Wednesday-but that wouldn't go with my Zen image. I could join a sports team that practiced on Wednesdays-except for the whole "San sucks at sports" issue. I could jump off a moderately high cliff every Tuesday so I'd be in the hospital every Wednesday. But with my luck, my mom would be my nurse and my dad would get special permission to fly to Pennsylvania and visit me. Just what I needed: tons of medical bills, my mom having an excuse to stick me full of needles, and my father chained to my bedside between two armed marshals.

So that plan wouldn't work.

I needed something that wasn't painful, that played to my strengths, that kept me out of trouble with my mom. Wait! Something that played to my strengths played to my strengths! I HAD IT! I sat bolt upright in bed, banging my head resoundingly on my cheap overhanging reading lamp. But physical pain no longer mattered to me; I was a Zen man with a Zen plan.

A plan with no downside.

wash your bowl

On my rock the next morning, I achieved a moment of near-perfect insight. I mean, I know I was only fake meditating, but come on-don't cubic zirconiums sparkle too? For once, I forgot about my breathing. I forgot about forgetting about my breathing. I forgot about my dad, and telephones, and avoiding my dad and telephones. Hot and cold, money and no money, Woody and ELL sitting in a tree, it was all one. And all not one.

If someone had handed me a basketball then, I could have sunk ten straight, nothing but net. The sun was upon me, the clean wind was around me, and the air smelled of fresh snow and...oranges?

The next thing I knew, I was on my back. Woody was jumping around over me, laughing, rubbing her hands together to remove the small amount of snow she hadn't hadn't smushed into my eyes from behind. I wiped my face and smiled up at her. She was wearing a cable-knit sweater and jeans. No gloves, sneakers with no socks. And those purple gla.s.ses. Her cheeks were flushed with the cold, and her hair was blowing around her face. She was beautiful. smushed into my eyes from behind. I wiped my face and smiled up at her. She was wearing a cable-knit sweater and jeans. No gloves, sneakers with no socks. And those purple gla.s.ses. Her cheeks were flushed with the cold, and her hair was blowing around her face. She was beautiful.

I mean, if earthly desires are your kind of thing.

"Good morning, Woody. Thanks for the wake-up."

"The pleasure was all mine. Now, guess what? I have it!"

"Have what?" I asked as I propped myself on my elbows.

"The project, silly! I'll teach you how to shoot foul shots-Zen hoops! That's what you were doing in gym the other day, right? The beginner's-mind thing you told me about? Dowd used to coach the basketball team. He'll love it! Plus, I know a ton about basketball, because my father spent my whole childhood trying to turn me into a boy. Might as well make it work for us, right?"

"Hmm, well, that's definitely a plan. But I have an idea too. Can you come somewhere with me after school today?"

"Where? For what?"

"The soup kitchen. I was thinking, since we sort of planned to go there together anyway, why not use it as our project? You know, because of the compa.s.sion concept. We could start today, I bet."

"But doesn't that seem kind of unfair, San? Like if we were planning to do it anyway, we're not really showing any extra compa.s.sion. We're just using the poor people to help us get a grade."

Which was so untrue. I was also using them to avoid showing respect to my parent, and get a cheap date. "Well, I thought about that, Woody. But then I thought, how can feeding people be immoral? Right action is right action."

"Is that, like, a Zen saying?"

"Yes, it is a lot a lot like a Zen saying!" like a Zen saying!"

She sighed. "OK, San. How about this? We'll do both: the basketball and the soup kitchen. Then we'll definitely get an A. Unless you're getting too sick of me already? Peter says I sometimes come on too strong and..."

Grrr. What was with Peter anyway? All I knew was that he and Woody sometimes got a ride together, that he had a great right jab, and that his initials weren't ELL. "No, that's fine. I mean, it's okay. It's great, I mean. It's excellent. But I am really bad at basketball."