Finding the Worm Page 3

  But of course there’s got to be a worst of the worst, the absolute ninth-est of ninth graders, and at McMasters Junior High, that would be Devlin. If you want to picture him, think of a scraggly blond mop, except a mop has more meat on its bones and more brains in its mophead.

  Devlin was the first guy to snag my books, on the first day of classes, and after he did it, he yelled, “Suh-nag!” Like the word had two syllables. “Suh-nag” is the ninth-grade version of “What are you going to do about it?” (What I did about it, in case you’re curious, was pick up my books and then walk up the stairs to my next class.)

  Devlin has a thing against me, by the way. Last June, I was out on a date for the very first time with a girl named Jillian—who, it turned out, he liked, and who, it turned out, also liked him. In the end Devlin kind of took over the date I had with Jillian, and he and Jillian wound up together. Which somehow, in his mophead of a brain, means I did him wrong. You’d have to be a ninth grader to makes sense of it. But here’s the punch line: Jillian got zoned to a different junior high, nearer where she lived, so now she’s not with Devlin, and she’s not with me, and the only time I think about her is when Devlin glares at me in the hallways at McMasters.

  So ninth graders are the worst, and Devlin is the worst of the worst. Eighth graders aren’t quite as foul as ninth graders. They’re kind of at an in-between stage—like milk that’s about to go cheesy, but if you’re thirsty enough, you think that maybe it’s still drinkable.

  I’m in the Fast Track Program, which means I’ll skip eighth grade next year and go straight to cheese. (Except I won’t, since I’ll remember what it’s like.) It also means I’ll wind up a year ahead of the rest of the guys from the block: Lonnie, Quentin, Eric the Red, Howie Wartnose, and Shlomo Shlomo. That’s the entire Thirty-Fourth Avenue gang. We’re not a gang gang—I mean like the Hells Angels. But we’ve been friends forever, and there’s stuff that’s happened with us that no one else knows about, so it’s hard for an outsider to join in.

  That’s why—to get to the point—it would’ve felt wrong to go ahead with my bar mitzvah while Quentin was still sick. How could I have said the Hebrew words and not thought about Quentin lying in that hospital? It would’ve killed me every time I glanced down at the front row of the congregation, every time I noticed he wasn’t there. If Rabbi Salzberg hadn’t called my dad a couple of hours ago and suggested pushing back the bar mitzvah from January to the end of May, I’m sure my dad would’ve decided to do it on his own.

  The four of us—Mom and Dad, me and Amelia—were sitting around the dinner table when the call from Rabbi Salzberg came. You could hear the relief in my dad’s voice even before he hung up the phone.

  December 15, 1969

  Old Mrs. Griff

  It was bitter cold this morning when I met Lonnie for the walk to school. The trip from the corner of Thirty-Fourth Avenue and Parsons to the front door of McMasters is about three-quarters of a mile—eight avenues north and five streets east. Lonnie and I sometimes walk it, sometimes ride the bus. The rest of the guys almost always ride the bus, especially during the winter. I was glad it was just me and Lonnie today, since I had to let him know the bar mitzvah was on hold until the end of May. He nodded when I told him—what else could he do but nod? It’s not like I had to say why.

  We went another few blocks without talking, just thinking thoughts. Then, to break the mood, he began razzing me about how much extra work I’d have to do on my haftarah. “With your brains, you’ll know the thing backwards. You should do that, Jules! You should learn it backwards and then say it backwards in temple. Who’s going to know?”

  “C’mon, you know who’d know.”

  “I’m telling you, Magoo’s going to make you say it standing on one foot. He’s not going to let up until you cry uncle.”

  “Then I’ll just cry uncle and get it over with.”

  “You might be a rabbi yourself by the time you’re done with it.”

  We went back and forth like that for the rest of the walk, yakking it up about nothing, taking in the sights. Not that there were many sights to take in. It snowed a couple of weeks ago, and even though the snow was long gone from Thirty-Fourth Avenue, you could still see iced-over traces of it on the front lawns of houses as we made our way into Whitestone.

  It’s a nicer area than Flushing, at least the part of Whitestone we were walking through. There are no apartment buildings, nothing higher than two floors—just private homes until you get to Twenty-Sixth Avenue. That’s where the two schools are, P.S. 23 and McMasters Junior High, right across the street from one another. But I wouldn’t want to live in Whitestone. It’s too flat and too open. The neighborhood has no nooks and crannies, nowhere you can go with your friends where a half dozen neighborhood moms can’t look out their kitchen windows and see what you’re doing. There’s nowhere like Ponzini—which is the abandoned lot off Parsons where we spend most of our time.

  Still, if you take a step back, you’d have to say that Whitestone is nicer than Flushing. The streets are cleaner and quieter, and it’s got old-fashioned mailboxes that sit on wooden poles, and during the spring it’s got sparrows and robins instead of pigeons, and the people who live there own their houses and drive new cars and don’t have to park them six blocks from their houses, since the houses come with garages.

  The rest of the guys were hopping off the bus in front of McMasters as we turned the corner at Twenty-Sixth Avenue. Lonnie yelled to Eric, which got his attention, and he, Howie, and Shlomo waited for us to come up the block.

  McMasters is a real school-looking school. The place is huge, which I guess it has to be, since it’s got over a thousand kids. The building is four stories high and takes up half the block, and the yard takes up the other half. It’s got reddish-brown bricks on the first floor, but after that it’s just long glass windows, which glint in the sunlight, so it’s kind of painful to look at on sunny days.

  “My bar mitzvah got moved back to May,” I told them as soon as we got within earshot of the rest of the guys.

  Shlomo started to laugh. “You need more time to study?”

  Howie swatted him in the back of the head, and the reason sank in.

  “You think I should move mine?” Eric asked. “You don’t think he’ll still be in the hospital in March, do you?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Lonnie said. “He won’t still be in the hospital in March.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because by then—” Lonnie cut himself off. He didn’t want to say the rest, and none of us wanted to hear it, even though we were all thinking it. “You’re not going to have to move your bar mitzvah, okay? One way or the other, he’ll be out of the hospital. Let’s leave it at that.”

  It was just as well that the warning bell rang at that moment. We walked through the front doors of McMasters together, then went our separate ways. That meant fighting through crowds of kids rushing to their homerooms.

  I like to take my time in the morning. There’s only about a half-minute difference between taking your time and running like a maniac, dodging back and forth, ricocheting off other kids running in the opposite direction, so what’s the point of knocking yourself out?

  Plus, the hallways of McMasters are full of student art, paintings and drawings, and new stuff goes up each week. You’d be amazed at how good it is. Some of the art looks so much like the thing that it could’ve been done by a professional artist. It’s a definite step up from the giant oaktag posters that lined the halls of P.S. 23. There’s this one painting of the Bowne House—it’s on the third floor, right after you come out of the staircase. The first time I noticed it, it stopped me in my tracks.

  The Bowne House, in case you don’t know, is a big historical site in Flushing. Quakers used to worship there. So I guess it’s kind of inspirational. But what got to me wasn’t the Quaker stuff. It was the way the artist had laid on the yellow paint so that you could almost feel the heat from the fireplace coming through the
windows. You can’t, of course. I’ve reached up a half dozen times and touched it, and the paint is cold. But then you step away, and the warm glow comes back. Truthfully, I can’t believe a student painted that thing. I’ve tried to read the kid’s name, which is in the lower right corner, but I can’t make it out. If I could, and I met the guy, even if he was a ninth grader, I’d shake his hand.

  My homeroom is on the third floor, room 301. It’s reserved for seventh graders in the Fast Track Program, so the rest of the kids call it the Spaz Track (which is the nicest thing they call it). Really, though, it’s just an average classroom. You’ve got your blackboard up front, your American flag off to the side, your teacher’s desk, and then five rows of student desks with five desks in each row. Nothing special. But I do like the posters of famous authors, with quotes underneath: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.” That’s by Aristotle, an ancient Greek author. I mean, how could you not stop and think about it?

  Room 301 also comes with Mrs. Griff, the oldest teacher I’ve ever had. She’s hunched over at the waist and has white hair the color and shape of a dandelion. But she also has a sense of humor about it—about being old, I mean. She told us the first day of school to think of her as a “sweet little old granny … who’s not afraid to kick your butts if they need kicking.” There are a few guys who take advantage of her, tossing paper airplanes and shooting rubber bands when she turns her back to write on the board. She’ll hear them sometimes, then wheel around and say, “Now cut the shenanigans!” That cracks up the class even more. But what’s the point of doing stuff if the teacher’s too old to catch on? Where’s the challenge?

  We’re only with Mrs. Griff long enough for her to take morning attendance and write a few announcements and reminders. Then we split up and head to our first-period classes. We don’t see her again until the end of the day, when she takes afternoon attendance, writes a few more announcements and reminders, and lets us go home.

  This afternoon, though, Mrs. Griff pulled me aside after she dismissed the class. She didn’t make a big deal of it. She just kind of got in my way as I was heading out the door, and put her arm in front of me. Then she nodded toward my seat. So I went back and sat down. When we were the only two people left in the room, she walked over, leaned against the desk next to mine, and said, “Beverly mentioned that you and she have a sick friend.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You’re probably expecting me to give you words of encouragement.”

  I looked up at her. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do?”

  “I’m going to tell you to persevere. Do you know what that means?”

  I shook my head.

  “It means to keep going,” she said. “That’s the last I’ll say on the topic.”

  She nodded at the door, and I got up and left.

  Say what you want about old Mrs. Griff. But she kept it short and sweet.

  December 19, 1969

  The Accusation

  You’d think one visit to the guidance counselor’s office would cover me for the month. But as second period was winding down and the teacher, Mr. Gerber, was talking about how inert gases can’t fit any more electrons in their outer shell, the intercom began to crackle that certain way, and then Principal Salvatore came on and said my name just like I knew he would. I had to report to Miss Medina’s office.

  The class hooted again, of course, and Beverly glanced up at me with a confused look. But I was kind of relieved. Since no one else got called, I knew it had nothing to do with Quentin. So I grabbed my books and coat, because I knew the period would be over before I got back, and headed out the door.

  Miss Medina was waiting for me, again, right outside her office on the first floor. She was rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. It was a nervous-looking thing to be doing. It made her look like a student, except for how tall she was.

  She led me into her office and sat down behind her desk. I didn’t sit, since I didn’t know how long I’d be there. Her expression was different from what it was like when she talked to us about Quentin. She was staring me down, waiting for me to say something. I had no idea what she wanted me to say.

  After maybe ten seconds, she said, “Julian, do you have anything you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Is there something you want me to talk about?”

  “Don’t fence with me, Julian.”

  “Miss Medina, I don’t know—”

  “I understand there’s a work of art you’re fond of.”

  “Do you mean Judith Beheading Holofernes?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a painting by Caravaggio. I wrote about it last year for Mr. Selkirk.…”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “How would I know that, Julian?”

  “Then I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.

  “I gather there’s a work of art here, at McMasters, that you admire.”

  “You mean the Bowne House painting?”

  Miss Medina didn’t answer. Instead, she reached down behind her desk and came up with the painting. She set it on the edge of her desk and held it upright so that I couldn’t see her face behind it. All I could see of her were her hands on either side.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I like that one a lot.”

  She stood up but continued to hold the painting in front of me. “Now, Julian, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “This is not a joke,” she said. “No one is laughing.”

  “I’m not laughing either. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look in the lower right-hand corner.”

  I glanced down at the corner of the painting, where the signature was—the one I could never quite make out. The letters JT were scratched into the surface of the paint. It looked like whoever did it had used a house key or a pocketknife or something.

  “Wow, who would do that?” I said.

  “I don’t know … Julian Twerski.” She said it with an extra-hard stress on the J and T.

  I guess I kind of laughed, which, looking back, wasn’t a smart thing to do. “You don’t think I did that, do you?”

  “Do you think it’s funny?”

  “No, but why would I mess up a painting I like?”

  “Would you mess up a painting you didn’t like?”

  “No, I wouldn’t mess up a painting either way.”

  “Julian, this is serious,” she said. “Principal Salvatore is talking about suspending you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’ve never touched the painting?”

  I was about to say no, but then I caught myself. “No, I’ve touched it. I touched it a few times because I wanted to feel the paint. But I didn’t mess it up. I guess I shouldn’t have touched it. I could’ve messed it up if I accidentally knocked it off the wall—”

  “Then you admit you could have messed it up?”

  “But I didn’t,” I said. “It didn’t fall off the wall.”

  “Julian, your initials are carved into the surface.”

  “Why would I do that if I were going to mess up the painting? It would be like waving a flag and yelling, ‘Hey, look, Julian Twerski is the guy who messed up this painting!’ It would be stupid.”

  “You’re a very clever young man,” she said. “Maybe you’re clever enough to think you could use that argument.”

  “But—”

  “Look,” she said, stashing the painting back behind her desk. “I realize you’ve been under stress because your friend Quentin is sick.”

  “I started keeping a journal, like you said.”

  “That was only a suggestion, Julian. It’s irrelevant to this conversation.”

  “But you said it, and I’m doing it, and I’m glad I’m doing it.”

  “I’ll mention that to Principal Salvatore. But you’ve got to meet me
halfway.”

  “Halfway to where?”

  “You’ve at least got to apologize,” she said.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Julian, I have an eyewitness who says you did it, who saw you doing it.”

  “Did my friend Lonnie tell you that? Because he’s a real practical joker.…”

  “No, it wasn’t your friend Lonnie,” she said, “and no, again, this is not a joke.”

  “Then I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just say you’re sorry. If you do, I can talk to Principal Salvatore about the stress you’ve been under.”

  I thought it over. “But I really and truly didn’t scratch the painting.”

  She took a deep breath, then let it out. “Follow me.”

  I followed her out of her office and into the principal’s office, which was right next door. Miss Medina nodded at the secretary in the front office, who nodded back, and then we headed past her and through a glass door. As we walked in, Principal Salvatore was sitting behind his desk, staring out a huge window that looked onto the street. He was a short guy with black hair, a real round head, and dark stubble on his face. He didn’t have a beard, but he looked like he needed a shave. He always looked that way.

  Miss Medina and I sat down on folding chairs in front of the desk.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I gather we have a problem.”

  Miss Medina looked at me like I was supposed to talk. I kept quiet.

  “I see,” Principal Salvatore said. “You’re Julian Twerski, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were suspended from sixth grade last year—for a full week.”

  “Yes.”

  “You injured a handicapped boy. Is that right?”

  I looked off to the side but nodded. I felt the shame of the thing all over again. “We egged him.”