Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 7

We stared at the twigs for a while, and then he spoke. "Hi, my name is Justin. I'm in sixth grade. You're that Buddha guy, San Lee, right?"

I just looked at him.

"I can tell by your, um, shoes. I mean, you're the guy with the three-pointer, aren't you? Oh, man, everybody on the bus was talking about it. They said you totally schooled schooled Peter Jones. That must have been so awesome." He paused. "But, uh, weren't you scared to beat him?" Peter Jones. That must have been so awesome." He paused. "But, uh, weren't you scared to beat him?"

I looked at the kid some more.

"I mean, I sometimes go to the YMCA after school. And I remember last year when Jones was in seventh grade, the basketball team got killed in a home game, and Peter missed like seven of his last eight shots. This eighth grader laughed at him at the Y the next day, and..."

Justin shuddered. "Oh, man. I don't like to talk about it. I don't even want to think think about it." about it."

There was a long pause before he continued. "I have to say, though-those janitors at the Y did a really good job of mopping up afterward."

Excellent. This kid was a total bundle of joy. I was starting to get light-headed. It was definitely time for a subject change. "Hey, Justin, you said you can't go home. How come?"

He stared at the water for so long that I thought the twigs might get waterlogged and sink before he answered. "Well, you have to promise not to tell anyone, OK?"

Uh-oh. Did this little kid have abusive parents? Or maybe they had a drug problem. I couldn't promise not to tell if Justin might be in danger. On the other hand, maybe this was the one time when he was willing to talk about it.

Good G.o.d.

I didn't say anything, but Justin plowed ahead with his confession: "I have this big sister. She's in high school. And she has this boyfriend. And he likes to come over after school sometimes. And then they kick me out for an hour. I set the little timer on my watch-see?" He held it out to me. "And if I ever come home early, my sister said she would yank out my liver with a fork and serve it to me for dinner."

Nice. This was, like, the blood-and-guts family.

"So here you are," I said.

"So here I am."

We watched the twigs some more while I tried not to giggle about Justin's problem. Then he said, "There's another thing bothering me too. It's even worse than the first thing."

I worked on keeping a straight face. "Tell me," I intoned.

"Well, there's this girl in my homeroom. Her name is Amber. I think she might like me, but I'm not sure. I mean, sometimes she acts like she hates me. And sometimes she acts like she likes someone else. But then sometimes she's, like, all flirting with me. The other day I think she was purposely touching my shoulder in the lunch line, and she was kind of singing under her breath, 'I have a secret. I have a secret.' But the next period, she threw a tic tac at my head in math."

Justin looked at me. I looked at the twigs.

"Well?" he said.

"Well, what?"

"Well, does she like me or not?"

"How should I know?"

"Duh. You're the Zen guy. Everyone says you have wisdom and stuff. This should be an easy one for you to solve, right?" You're the Zen guy. Everyone says you have wisdom and stuff. This should be an easy one for you to solve, right?"

"You'd be surprised. Girls are tricky."

"Even for you?"

"Even for me."

"Wow." He looked awestruck. "So, what should I do?"

"Have you tried asking her?"

"Asking her?"

"Yeah, you know, like, 'What's your secret?'"

He looked even more awestruck. "So, you're saying I would just ask ask her the secret?" her the secret?"

I nodded solemnly.

"And she might, like, tell me?"

I nodded again. "Sometimes, things need a little push in the right direction. Look, do you see those two twigs?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, they're spinning around and around, kind of trapped in each other's...o...b..t, right?"

"Uh, OK."

"Watch." I grabbed a stone from the ground next to me. I took careful aim, and then tossed it into the water, right between the twigs and the little peninsula. The waves from the rock nudged the twigs away...away a little more...and then the twigs spun out from behind their rock and into the open water.

"Whoa. That's...that's...whoa. You really are the Zen master, aren't you?"

I smiled. The twigs glided away downstream.

one hand washes the other

When my mom finally got home from work that night, she had a big surprise for me. "Guess what, San?" she said, breathless from climbing the stairs with packages. "I got my first big overtime bonus check today, so I went shopping at lunch. I finally got you a winter coat. I just wish we could have afforded this sooner." She whipped out a bright green-andyellow parka that looked like the uniform for a special all-blind unit of the ski patrol. "Since we're already partway through the season, it was on clearance. I can't believe n.o.body grabbed it up-we're so lucky! And that's not all-I got you gloves too."

Great-these were a brilliant white. Who wears white winter gloves? What was it, winter mime season? But I knew she was really excited to be able to get this stuff for me, so I tried to look cheerful about it. At least until she busted out with one final item.

"And...ta-da! Sneakers! Good ones! Remember when you made me promise I wouldn't buy you sneakers until we could afford name-brand ones? I still think you were being ridiculous, but-I got you real Nike high-tops. Your favorite color, red. I remember you saying that you have basketball in gym right now, so these should be perfect!" Mom stopped when she glanced at my face. "Uh, honey, what's the matter? You look like you just swallowed a lemon."

They were nice basketball shoes. Very Very nice basketball shoes. And, other than the revolting color scheme, my mom had totally come through for me. But how was I supposed to be all Zen with this deluxe set of spanking-new, name-brand outerwear? "Oh, it's nothing, Mom. My stomach hurts, that's all. I must have gotten a bad carton of milk at lunch or something. But this is great. Really. Thanks. I think I'll just go lie down now, if that's okay with you." nice basketball shoes. And, other than the revolting color scheme, my mom had totally come through for me. But how was I supposed to be all Zen with this deluxe set of spanking-new, name-brand outerwear? "Oh, it's nothing, Mom. My stomach hurts, that's all. I must have gotten a bad carton of milk at lunch or something. But this is great. Really. Thanks. I think I'll just go lie down now, if that's okay with you."

She looked kind of crestfallen, like I'd ruined her whole shopping victory parade. But I couldn't help it. How on earth was I going to explain this at school? I took the packages and retreated to my room to think. While I was thinking, I tried everything on. The sneakers felt so incredibly soft and warm that it was like my feet had died and gone to heaven. But I didn't care about that; all I cared about was how I was going to change out of them every day on the way to school, hide them all day, and then change again on my way home. OK, I was a smart and crafty individual. I would come up with something, right?

The first thing that came to mind was just stuffing my sandals in my backpack before bed, wearing the sneakers out of the apartment, changing back into the sandals outside, and then doing the reverse in the afternoon. Except that my stupid backpack was see-through. Darn that stupid school security! Then I thought maybe I could somehow stuff the sandals in between notebooks or something in the middle of the backpack so my mom wouldn't see them. So I tried that, and it worked great...until I realized that the gigantic new sneakers would have to fit in there once I changed out of the sandals. Plus, what was I going to do with the coat? It was huge and puffy, and the color was bright enough to be seen from outer s.p.a.ce.

Nothing is ever simple.

But after about twenty minutes of pacing the six feet of available floor s.p.a.ce in my room, I did come up with something that might work. I needed to take a walk in order to try it. I threw on the toasty new coat and headed out with my sandals hidden in my armpit. Mom stopped me, naturally.

"Where are you going, San? I thought you didn't feel well. I'm making you some broth with rice."

"That's great, Mom. I'll eat it when I get back. I'm just going for a little stroll. I thought the exercise might help. You know, work the poisons out of my system. And, uh, try out my awesome new clothes."

I think she knew something was fishy, because her forehead was all wrinkled up, but what was she going to do-keep me inside to punish me for saying I didn't feel so hot?

Yup, she was. "Sanny, are you going to meet with your little girlfriend or something? Because you're grounded, remember?"

"Mom, Jesus, I'm taking a walk. A plain old ordinary walk, by myself. Even grounded kids get to take a walk. Even prisoners get exercise time."

Oh, c.r.a.p. I did not not just mention prisoners. just mention prisoners.

She sighed. "That's true. But if you're not back in ten minutes, Warden Mom is going to come find you."

Wow, she had just made a prison joke. In some ways, we were getting pretty used to our little situation. "Thanks, Mom. I promise I'll be back in twenty minutes."

"Fifteen," she snapped back at me.

"Deal," I said, and got out of there.

As soon as I was on the stairs, I started scouting the terrain. What I needed was a hidden place where I could stash the winter gear every morning, and pick it back up every afternoon. This was ridiculous: I found myself feeling along the wood paneling of the staircase wall, like there might be a secret hidden parka compartment. But all I found was a splinter.

Then I had the brilliant idea that maybe there was a safe little alcove or something outside. I walked around the whole perimeter of the apartment house, but at least in the early winter darkness, I didn't see anything obvious. Not that I'd expected a steel-reinforced camouflaged shed with EMERGENCY FOOTWEAR SHELTER on the side or anything, but a hollowed-out s.p.a.ce in the side wall of the building would have worked fine. Oh, well. I crossed the street to see whether there was anything in the playground-like maybe I could bury the stuff in the sandbox every morning. But as I was kneeling and poking the sand with a stick to see how deep it was, the same old lady who'd yelled at me when I was stealing sand the last time I'd been there came around a bend in the hedges and said, "You again? What are you doing this time?"

"Checking the depth of the sandbox with this stick I found."

"And why are you doing that, young man?"

Well, I thought, I thought, I'm looking for a place to hide my secret stash of high-grade cocaine, because my mom only lets me keep bombs, guns, and heroin in my room. I'm looking for a place to hide my secret stash of high-grade cocaine, because my mom only lets me keep bombs, guns, and heroin in my room. I said, "Well, I'm looking for a place to hide my coat, gloves, and sneakers because everyone at my school thinks I'm a Zen master. Is that OK?" I said, "Well, I'm looking for a place to hide my coat, gloves, and sneakers because everyone at my school thinks I'm a Zen master. Is that OK?"

She said, "Sure. Just try not to hide them behind my invisible flying saucer, all right? Never know when the mothership might call me home." It figured--everyone's a wiseguy. As she shuffled away humming merrily, I shook my head and resumed my sandbox inspection. But there was just no way I could get the whole ensemble hidden in there without somebody finding it. Plus there was a distinct cat-pee scent emanating from the sand this evening, and there was no way that would be healthy. As I turned to go back home in defeat, I spied a half-buried drainpipe leading from the edge of the mulch area into a flood ditch thing. I couldn't really see into it too well, but it appeared to go in at least a few feet. As an added bonus, the opening of the pipe faced into the ditch, so no one on the playground would be able to see my stuff.

It wasn't great, but neither was wearing the Bozo the Ski Clown outfit to school.

With my mission accomplished, I hurried to get back upstairs before my mother called out the National Guard. She looked relieved that I didn't have any obvious lipstick marks or hickeys, and gave me a nice bowl of rice soup to warm me up. Of course, she didn't know that The Laughing Archer doesn't feel heat and cold, but the gesture was nice.

I said good-bye to my mom while she was brushing her teeth the next morning, and shoved my sandals in a black garbage bag before I left the house. I raced across the street, got my sandals out of the bag, switched them for my sneakers by standing on one foot at a time like a flamingo, and then stuffed my coat and gloves in there. The whole bag fit into the mouth of the pipe perfectly, and I pushed it in as far as my arm could reach.

I felt a lot lighter as I turned and headed off to school. I figured, what could possibly go wrong?

For a couple of days, nothing went wrong at all. The hiding place worked great, and I had lunch with Woody every day. Our project was coming together really well, and we spent about ten minutes of each social studies period huddled in a corner writing up our basketball results and the story of our soup kitchen experiences. I could have sworn Woody was sitting closer to me than she really needed to, and I kept thinking about the advice I had given Justin, but then I would tell myself that ELL was out there somewhere, and that I should try to concentrate on the work. My Wednesday plan was almost ready to be unleashed. I was memorizing quotes from my Zen books every night, and I was pretty sure my helpers were lined up. So Woody and I would still have our dishwashing time together.

Things weren't perfect, of course. Peter occasionally b.u.mped into me and said, "Ask her yet?" And I couldn't do anything but look down and away. Also, every once in a while my mom would remind me that sooner or later she wanted me to talk to my dad, or that she couldn't wait much longer to meet my "special friend." Oh, and I was still waiting for my past to pop up and ruin my whole deluded new life.

But hey, you can't have everything, right?

On Tuesday at the rock, Woody greeted me with, "Hey, San, what's the plan for tomorrow? I've been working on my stepmom for days, and she's not budging. I even went to my dad, but he said, 'Oh, you can't go feed the parasites anymore? Good! One day you'll see that giving handouts never saved anybody.' Which I think means he's not going to be overruling the Witch anytime soon."

"You know, Woody, there's this cool new trend of saying good morning before you launch into the heavy stuff. Everybody's doing it. Maybe you could, uh, join in?"

"San Lee, neither one of us is a big joiner, in case you hadn't noticed. So I repeat, what's the plan? I really don't want to let Sister Mary Clare down. And, um, I have fun there with you."

I didn't know what to say.

"Don't you have fun with me?"

"Uh, yeah, of course I do. I was just, um, thinking. You know."

"No, I don't know. So why don't you share your thoughts with the cla.s.s?"

She's so cute when she's sarcastic. Is that weird? Whatever. I told her the plan. And when gym period rolled around, it was launch time.

I dressed as fast as I could and waited under my netless basket in the dark corner. Woody got to me first, and then four of the guys from the basketball B team gathered around, looking nervous. It was showtime.

"Gentlemen," I said in my quiet-yet-firm Zen master voice, "do you all have your parents' permission for tomorrow afternoon?"

They nodded, except for the huge kid who'd been the rebounder at my contest with Peter. He asked, "Can you remind me what working in a soup kitchen has to do with becoming a better foul shooter?"

I looked around at the little a.s.semblage of second-rate jocks. They looked at me. "Karma. Now, are you in or out?"

He clearly had no clue what I was talking about, but on the other hand, what did he have to lose? After a few seconds, he gave the tiniest little nod I've ever seen, but it was enough. Bison Boy was in. Woody smiled big and lined the guys up. She gave them a whole pep talk about proper form, and being the ball, and yada yada. They looked sort of doubtful-well, totally doubtful-but the Bison got set to shoot. Woody kicked his feet apart a bit, and he bent his knees. Then, just as he was about to release the ball, I shouted, three inches from his ear, "HAI!"

He missed by a mile and a half, and turned to glare at me. But everyone else was cracking up, and the tension was broken. "Why'd you do that?" he spat at me.

"The obstacle is the path."

"What does that mean?"

"It's like saying the path is the obstacle."

"What are you talking talking about?" about?"

"You know, the reverse side also has a reverse side."

He still looked mad, and now his brain was all jammed up too. He was suffering from a clear case of mental constipation. Woody threw him the ball. "Just shoot again, OK, Mike? Trust me. Just shoot again."

Mike the Moose set. I wiped the sweat from my palms while everyone was watching him. Woody kicked. Mike crouched. But just as he was about to release the ball, he flinched away from me. And missed by a mile. The rest of the team giggled, uneasily. Was this too much? Were we losing them?

Mike said, "Why'd you ruin my shot again?"

I said, "What do you mean? I did nothing."

"Yeah, but I was waiting for you to yell."

"What does my yelling have to do with your shooting?"