"Well, you'd better hope that a cloven five-hundred-pound beast never sits on you, Mr. Waters, because it's not humorous. " Wendell Waxmo strode to the front of the room and hoisted Mrs. Starch's book. "All right, everybody let's turn to page 117."
The students just sat there. They thought he was joking, but he wasn't.
"What are you people waiting for?" he snapped.
"It's not the Spanish book, Dr. Waxmo, " Libby Marshall said in a small but brave voice.
Rachel spoke up. "We're way past page 117."
"Is that right?" Something resembling a smile crossed Wendell Waxmo's face. "Obviously none of you have ever had the experience of being in my classes. Otherwise you'd know that on Mondays I always teach page 117-and only page 117-regardless of the subject matter."
Nick had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
"Earlier this morning, for example, at the Egmont Day School, I substituted in Miss MacKay's advanced world history section, " Wendell Waxmo said. "By the time the bell rang, every one of those students had practically memorized page 117 of their history book. And that was a map of the Roman Empire!"
Substitutes were often flaky, but Wendell Waxmo was in a special category. "Every teacher has a system that works best for them, " he prattled on. "Mrs. Starch has hers, and I have mine, which is: Pick a page, then focus, focus, focus."
He flipped open the biology text to page 117, skimmed a few paragraphs, looked up brightly, and asked, "So, who can tell me how proteins function in a plasma membrane?"
For once Graham was too flustered to raise his hand. Libby Marshall answered the question in a dull tone: "Proteins release chemicals that allow certain cells to communicate with each other, and they also help move water and sugar through the membrane."
Dr. Wendell Waxmo was overjoyed. "Now that's what I'm talking about, folks! This little spitfire is cookin' with gas! I hope everybody's taking notes."
Marta cackled under her breath. "What for? Mrs. Starch tested us on this stuff three weeks ago."
"Don't tell him, " whispered Nick.
Whenever Wendell Waxmo spoke, his bony Adam's apple bobbed up and down, causing the yellow bow tie to jiggle.
"Quick now-what's a phospholipid molecule? You there!" He pointed at Graham. "Definition, please. " Graham looked helpless and lost. "I forget, " he said. Wendell Waxmo frowned. "Stand, young man. " Graham rose unsteadily. "Yessir?"
"Lullaby, please."
"But I don't know any lullabies, " Graham said, on the verge of blubbering.
Wendell Waxmo sighed. "A day without music is a day without sunshine. Sing after me, please:
Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Momma's gonna buy you a mynah bird.
And if that mynah bird don't talk,
Momma's gonna buy you a cuckoo clock... "
Marta leaned close to Nick and said, "That's not how it goes. "
"No kidding."
Wendell Waxmo wasn't exactly a born singer. After he finished warbling, the students sat in stunned relief that he mistook for appreciation.
"Your turn, young fellow, " he said to Graham.
"No, I can't."
"Pardon me?"
"I just can't, " Graham said again.
Wendell Waxmo folded his arms. "I'm in charge of this battleship."
"Yessir."
"And you will do as I say, or face the consequences."
Graham was plainly frightened by the threat, even though substitute teachers had very little authority. "I think I remember what a phospholipid molecule is, " he offered gamely.
"Who cares? Now sing, " Wendell Waxmo said.
"Hush, little baby, " Graham began with a pained grimace, "don't you cry-"
Suddenly the door banged open and a boy stepped into the classroom. Nick didn't recognize him at first.
The boy's blazer was pressed and spotless, his khaki trousers were laundered and creased, and his necktie was perfectly knotted. His cheeks looked shiny and scrubbed, his hair was parted and neatly trimmed, and not a speck of grease or grime was visible on his hands.
"And who would you be?" Dr. Wendell Waxmo demanded.
"I would be Duane Scrod Jr., " the boy replied.
NINE
Marta jotted another note to Nick: He's scarier now than he was before.
Like Marta and the rest of the class, Nick couldn't stop staring at Smoke. The transformation was incredible.
Wendell Waxmo said, "You're tardy, Mr. Scrod."
"Sorry. My bike threw a rod. " Smoke set down his backpack and removed a thin plastic binder, which he presented to the substitute.
"Here's my essay, " he said. "Five hundred words, just like Mrs. Starch asked for. Actually, it's five hundred and eight."
A ripple of high amusement passed through the room. Wendell Waxmo opened the binder to the front page, upon which the title of the essay had been centered:
The Curse of the Persistent Pimple
By Duane Scrod Jr.
Wendell Waxmo made the foolish mistake of saying the title aloud, which caused an avalanche of laughter.
"She told me to make it funny, " Smoke said defensively.
seemed uncomfortable being so sharply dressed, and the center of attention.
"What kind of nonsense is this?" Wendell Waxmo rolled up the binder and shook it in the air. The tuxedo made him look like an orchestra conductor. "Are you telling me that Mrs. Starch assigned you to write a research paper about pimples? Get serious."
Despite the teacher's hostile attitude, Smoke remained surprisingly calm. "You want me to read it or not?"
"Out loud, you mean?" Wendell Waxmo scowled. "I don't think so, Mr. Scrod. Take your seat."
With a sniff of distaste, Wendell Waxmo deposited the acne essay in his scuffed briefcase.
Smoke sat down and, to the astonishment of his classmates, produced a pen and a notebook. In all the time that Nick had known the kid, he couldn't remember ever seeing him take notes.
"It's not really him, " Marta whispered. "It's gotta be an imposter."
"Or a secret twin brother, " Nick said.
Dr. Wendell Waxmo seemed miffed that his limelight had been stolen. He scuttled up to Duane Scrod Jr. and said, Young man, I intend to find out if you're telling the truth about this preposterous pimple project, or if it's just some Prank you thought up to have a few cheap giggles at my expense."
Smoke looked puzzled. "Why would I do a dumbass thing like that?"
"Because kids always try to take advantage of substitute teachers, that's why. To prey on them, as it were. You think we're here just for your sport and entertainment."
Wendell Waxmo inched closer.
"I know your type, son, " he said, "but I insist on respect. Why else would I go to all the trouble of dressing up this way?"
Smoke shrugged. "Because you're a total whack job?"
The class exploded, and Wendell Waxmo turned purple. Then he did something that caused the students to swallow their laughter: He jabbed a pale knobby finger at Smoke's nose.
"You, " he said, seething, "owe me an apology!"
Nick and the other students fully expected Smoke to chomp the substitute's offending finger in half, as he'd done to Mrs. Starch's yellow pencil.
But Duane Scrod Jr. shocked them all. He didn't nip, nibble, or even spit on Wendell Waxmo. Instead he clenched his jaws, took a slow, tight breath, and said, "You're right, bro. I'm sorry."
Which prompted Marta to jot another frantic note to Nick: He's turned into an alien!
If the truth were known, Dr. Dressier had the names of four other substitutes who were completely sane and normal. He chose Wendell Waxmo instead, knowing full well that the man was more or less out of his mind.
It was Dr. Dressler's belief that once Bunny Starch found out who was teaching her classes, she would immediately terminate her leave of absence and rush back to rescue her students.
In the meantime, the headmaster braced himself for angry phone calls from Truman parent
s complaining about Wendell Waxmo's distracting wardrobe, bizarre teaching style, and loony impulses to break out in song.
For now, though, Dr. Dressier had a more pressing problem.
"Would you care for some coffee?" he asked Jason Marshall.
The detective said no thanks and took a seat. "Have you spoken to him yet?"
"Not a word. He just showed up for class this morning, " Dr. Dressier said, "out of the blue."
"Did you notice anything different about him?"
Dr. Dressier chuckled uneasily. "Everything about him is different. He's like a whole new person."
"What do you mean?" the detective asked.
"He looks like a real student is what I mean. He looks like he actually wants to be here."
"But that's a good thing, right?"
"Certainly, " Dr. Dressier said, though privately he was both alarmed and suspicious. When the bell rang, he nervously poured himself another cup of coffee.
"You'll see for yourself, " he said to Jason Marshall.
Moments later, Duane Scrod Jr. walked into the office.
He didn't look like an arsonist; he looked like the future president of the Student Council. He also appeared perfectly fit and healthy, despite having digested Mrs. Starch's pencil.
Dr. Dressier introduced Detective Marshall. "He'd like to ask you a few questions, Duane."
"No problem. " Duane Scrod Jr. made himself comfortable on the headmaster's leather sofa.
Jason Marshall took out a legal pad. "I heard about the incident with Mrs. Starch, " he began.
Duane Scrod Jr. didn't deny it. "Is it against the law to bite a pencil?"
"Some of the other kids said you also threatened her, " the detective said.
"She was making fun of me. I guess I got mad, " the boy admitted. "I told her she'd be sorry if she didn't get outta my face. It was wrong, what I said. Definitely."
"So you didn't mean it?"
"'Course not."
Jason Marshall wrote down Duane Jr. 's answers. Dr. Dressier couldn't get over how normal the boy looked; he couldn't imagine what had caused such a dramatic change in grooming and attitude.
"Yet the next day you didn't come to school, " the detective said.
"Yeah, I skipped. That was wrong, too, " Duane Scrod Jr. said.
"Have you ever been out to the Black Vine Swamp?"
"Sure. Catchin' snakes."
"Did you go there on the day of the class field trip?"
The boy seemed to be expecting the question. "No, I went snook fishin' down at Marco. There was a mullet run and a big tide. You can ask Benjie Osceola-he was on the other end of the bridge."
Duane Scrod Jr. 's story sounded convincing to Dr. Dressier, but the detective wasn't finished.
"Duane, I'm going to ask you something, and you've got to promise not to get upset. It's my job, okay?"
"No sweat."
"Did you sneak out to the Black Vine Swamp and set a fire to scare Mrs. Starch during the field trip?"
The boy was true to his word-he stayed cool. He looked Jason Marshall straight in the eye and said, "I don't do that stuff anymore."
"So the answer is no?"
"Most definitely."
"Did you do anything during the last few days that might have frightened Mrs. Starch into believing your threat was real? She hasn't been back to school since the field trip."
Duane Scrod Jr. laughed. "That lady's not scared of anything, especially a kid. I don't want no more trouble from her-that's how come I did that stupid essay she wanted. Sorry, but it was stupid."
Dr. Dressier felt obliged to ask, "What kind of essay?"
Duane Jr. rolled his eyes. "She made me write five hundred words about zits."
The headmaster winced.
"Seriously, " the boy said.
Dr. Dressier made a mental note to have a diplomatic chat with Mrs. Starch when she returned to school. Disciplining a student was one thing; humiliating him was another.
The detective had heard enough about the pimple paper. "I'm about done here, " he said. "Thanks for stopping by, Duane."
The boy rose from the couch.
"Just a second-I have one question, " Dr. Dressier said. Duane Scrod Jr. turned, a trace of impatience in his eyes.
The headmaster said, "I'm just curious, Duane. Did something in particular happen to bring about this major change in you?"
"Whaddya mean?"
Dr. Dressier smiled in a way that he hoped would appear friendly and genuine. "The way you're dressed, the way you're acting-surely you're aware of the difference."
Duane Scrod Jr. looked down at himself and scratched pensively at a radish-colored blemish on his neck. "I went campin' for a few nights. Had tons of time to think about stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" asked Jason Marshall. "The way I was headed. Mistakes I kept makin', all those wrong turns."
Even the detective seemed touched. "That's just part of growing up, " he said.
"Yeah, well, it gets old, " the boy remarked, "not carin' about a damn thing in the world. So I decided to try it the other way. "
Dr. Dressier nodded sympathetically. "Well, we like the new you, Duane."
"It's a solid move, " Jason Marshall agreed.
"I guess," said Duane Scrod Jr., and excused himself.
Dinner was a challenge.
"I should've made fried chicken, " Nick's mother said, "something you could pick up with your fingers."
"It's okay. I need to nail this."
Nick was eyeing the pork chop on his plate, trying to figure out how to cut it. He was able to work the knife pretty well with his left hand, but he couldn't keep the meat from sliding around without his other hand there to pin it down with a fork.
"Let me unwrap your right arm, " his mom implored, "just for tonight."
"No way. This is how Dad's gotta do it, right?"
Nick's mother said, "I'd cut his food if he were home. You can bet on that."
The disappointing news had come in a phone call that afternoon: Capt. Gregory Waters was fighting an infection in his wounded shoulder. The doctor had told Nick's mother that his dad was responding slowly to the antibiotics.
On a more positive note, the doctor reported that Captain Waters' early rehab sessions were outstanding. Nick was pleased, though not surprised-his father had always kept himself in top physical shape.
"How come they wouldn't let us talk to him?" Nick asked.
"Because he was sleeping. They said he did two hours with his left arm on the weight machine this afternoon."
"That sounds like Captain Studly."
"It does indeed. " Nick's mom was watching the pork chop skate back and forth across his plate while he hacked at it with the knife.
"You're gonna starve to death, Nicky. Let me do that, " she said.
"No! I'll get the hang of it. " In frustration, he put down the knife and reached for a bread roll, which he gobbled in three bites. "It's only my first day left-handed, " he mumbled through the crumbs.
"You mean one-handed, " his mother said. "What'd the other kids have to say?"
"Not much. Marta thought it was cool."
"How was P. E. ?"
"Fine, " Nick said, which wasn't even remotely true. Lacrosse was extremely difficult to play with your best arm bound behind your back, and Nick had been practically useless to his team.
Later, while he was in the shower, two of the seniors had snatched his Ace bandage from the towel rack and used it to hog-tie an overweight, slow-footed freshman named Pudge Powell IV. Two coaches spent ten minutes unbinding the boy.
So P. E. class basically had been a disaster.
His mother said, "You're going to be hurting tomorrow. You ought to take a hot bath."
Nick didn't argue, though he was embarrassed to admit how sore he was-and it wasn't as if he'd been chopping wood all day. The routine tasks of taking notes, carrying a backpack, opening a few doors, and swinging a lacrosse stick had worn him out. Never again would he take for
granted the luxury of having two good arms.
After soaking for half an hour and then rewrapping himself, Nick confronted his homework, which included eighteen algebra problems. At one point his mom came into the room and peeked over his left shoulder.
"I'm impressed. I can actually read your answers, " she said. "I've got no idea if they're right or wrong, but I can definitely read 'em."
"Just wait."
"Can I ask you something, Nicky? How long are you going to keep up this lefty routine?"
"Until I get good at it."
"Then what?"
"I don't know, Mom, " Nick said shortly. "I haven't thought about it."
In fact, he'd thought about it plenty. The doctors had said that Nick's father would face months of outpatient re-hab after returning home. Nick planned to be there with him, practicing all the same left-handed exercises.
After finishing his math homework, Nick read an 0. Henry story for English class, which improved his mood. Then he tackled the chore of brushing his teeth, causing only minor bleeding from his gums.
He'd planned to go to bed with his right arm wrapped, but he couldn't get comfortable. His hand kept falling asleep, and Nick became worried that the elastic bandage might cause permanent damage if he dozed off in the wrong position.
With some effort he unstrapped the arm, which felt weak and numb. He made a fist and flexed the muscles several times to get the blood circulating again.
Nick already had the lights off and was listening to his iPod when his mother cracked the door. She said, "Wow. It's only eight-thirty."
"I'm whipped."
She sat down and laid a hand on his forehead, checking to see if he had a temperature. He told her he was fine. "You bummed about Dad?" she asked. Nick nodded. "Yeah, it sucks."
"We'll call him tomorrow. I promise."
"The infection must be pretty bad."
Nick's mother told him not to worry. "The doctor said it happens sometimes after a combat amputation."
The last word jolted Nick. The truth was still sinking in: His father was an amputee.
But at least he's alive, Nick said to himself, and that's what really matters.
His mother said, "I'll be up watching TV for a while, in case you can't sleep."