THE SMARTEST KID IN PETALUMA
ROB LOUGHRAN
BUBBA CAXTON BOOKS,
a division of FOUL MOUTHED BARD PRESS
P.O. Box 2344
Windsor, California 95492
Copyright Rob Loughran, 2011
www.robloughranbooks.com
All rights reserved
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used in reviews.
Chapter 1
“Norman, catch that flying sack of feathers and put him back in his cage!” screamed Mrs. Babbit from the kitchen.
“Luigi is not a sack of feathers, Mom. He’s a Glaucidium gnoma, a Pygmy Owl,” said Norman from the top of the stairs. He was used to his mom’s screaming.
“I don’t care if he’s the King of Denmark, GET HIM OUT OF MY KITCHEN NOW!” Mrs. Babbit slurped her herbal tea, glanced at the morning paper and said, “And Luigi is a silly name for a bird.”
“Doris is a stupid name for a sister,” said Norman as he scrambled down the stairs, “Petaluma is a stupid name for a city; artichoke is a stupid name for a vegetable.” He reached the bottom step. “But I have a sister named Doris, I live in Petaluma, and we had artichokes for dinner last night.”
Doris, who sat watching cartoons turned, waggled her tongue at Norman and said, “Stupid Norman.”
“Maybe if you didn’t watch TV all day you could do something besides sticking out your tongue,” said Norman. Doris flapped her tongue up-and-down, rolled her eyeballs, and shook her head violently back and forth. “You’re doing better already,” said Norman.
“Doris,” said Mrs. Babbit, “making faces will give you wrinkles.”
“Might be an improvement,” said Norman as he motioned to Luigi. The owl deserted his perch on the spice rack and glided directly to Norman’s shoulder. The bird had sharp talons, but was used to Norman’s touch and never scratched him. Luigi perched on Norman’s shoulder, surveying the kitchen.
“Do we have any bacon, Mom?” said Norman.
“No. Red meat is bad for you.”
“I’ll cook it til it’s brown.”
“Brown meat is also bad for you.”
“What do we have?”
“Mom just made some fresh carrot juice,” said Doris.
“Wonderful,” said Norman. “Do we have any eggs?”
“No,” said Mrs. Babbit. “I’m going shopping after work. I’ll pick some up.”
“Get some Oreos,” said Doris, eyes still locked on the TV.
“You know how I feel about sugar, Doris. It’s harmful, nearly poison, for growing children.”
“What is sugar good for growing?” Norman smiled.
“Cavities,” said Mrs. Babbit, sipping her tea.
Doris flipped to The Cartoon Network, just in time for The Jetsons while Norman grabbed an apple from a hanging basket of fruit. He took two bites and chewed silently, lost in thought. As Norman drifted, Luigi tiptoed down Norman’s arm and inspected the apple.
“Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit.
No reply.
“Norman!”
No response.
“NORMAN!!”
“What?” said Norman softly.
“You were drifting again, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit. “You know how it upsets me when you drift.”
“I was thinking about my science project.”
“You were drifting. Please don’t drift. Get me another cup of tea. And don’t let that thing eat your apple.”
“Luigi doesn’t even like apples. He’s a carnivore. So am I. We’re meat eaters,” said Norman as he refilled his mother’s teacup. “Being a vegetarian is a choice—”
“A choice I’ve made for the good of my family.”
“—but eating meat is an instinct. All we ever eat around here is parakeet food. Nuts, fruits, and vegetables. Couldn’t we ever, just once, have some sizzling, greasy, tasty bacon with eggs sunnyside-up, and pancakes smothered in maple syrup? With hot chocolate?” He returned the teapot to the stove and said, “Do you realize I’m the only kid in the whole seventh grade who likes hot lunch at school?”
“Where are you getting money to pay for hot lunch, Norman?”
“You know I work at McCormick’s Grocery, a couple of days a week, after school.”
Mrs. Babbit shook her head. “You’re not supposed to eat hot lunch, Norman. It’s filled with chemicals and preservatives—”
“And meat, and sauce, and cheese. All the kids say, This pizza stinks. Last night at Round Table we had a large sausage and pepperoni with extra cheese and black olives. So they give me their school pizza and ask me what I had for dinner last night. You know what I tell them?” Mrs. Babbit sipped her tea, Luigi looked at Norman quizzically, Doris blew her nose. “I tell them I had brown rice and artichokes.”
“Tonight we’re having stuffed eggplant,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“Can’t wait,” said Norman as he trudged up the stairs with Luigi.
“Aren’t you going to finish breakfast, Norman? It’s the most important meal of the day,” said Mrs. Babbit.
“Luigi and I’ll share a couple of mice upstairs.”
Mrs. Babbit finished her tea and said to Doris, “I wonder if we have enough slivered almonds for the eggplant?”
Doris smiled and said, “I wish we had a house like the Jetsons.”
Norman entered his room and placed Luigi on his perch, a coyote skull on Norman’s nightstand. Luigi stood seven inches tall, small even for a pygmy owl. He lacked the characteristic tufts of feathers that look like ears on owls. He had two black patches on the backside of his neck, giving him the appearance of having eyes in the back of his head. Luigi’s head swiveled as Norman plopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Norman had broken a small mirror and installed the glittering shards in the configuration of various constellations. On the ceiling he had, the Big Dipper, Orion, Ophiuchus, and Casseopia. In the far corner of the room, directly above his small, homemade telescope was the largest chunk of glass; Sirius, the Dogstar. Below the Dogstar, taped to the closet doors were posters of Norman’s heroes: Albert Einstein and Jack London. Einstein because he was a great scientist. London because he left home when he was fourteen, hopped on a ship and sailed to the Yukon.
Norman sprawled on the bed dreaming of the Northern Lights and listening to his stomach growl when his brother Marcus entered the room. Marcus wore his Casa Grande High School Wrestling t-shirt and was sweating from every pore. “How far?” asked Norman. Luigi fluttered from the coyote skull to the computer monitor.
“Just three miles,” said Marcus, “I’ve got baseball practice this afternoon.” Marcus dropped to the floor and started cranking out situps: One, Two, Three. “How’s school, Sport?” Marcus asked through clenched teeth.
Norman glanced up at the constellations and thought about taking down Opiuchus and putting up the Pleiades. “Fine. Perfect.”
“You sure?” Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen. Sweat dripped into Marcus’ eyes.
Norman decided against the Pleiades and wished he could tell Marcus about Mr. Forrester, Tom Allen, and a girl named Darcy. “Yeah, everything’s just excellent.”
“I don’t believe you, Sport,” Marcus grunted. Thirty-two, Thirty-three, Thirty-four.
Norman shrugged. “There is one thing that’s going great. My science project. Watch this.” Norman bounced from the bed to the computer. Forty-eight, Forty-nine, Fifty. Marcus finished his situps with a groan. Luigi deserted his perch on the computer and returned to the coyote skull. Norman touched his lucky nickel, taped to the base of the monitor, punched two ke
ys and a multi-colored bar graph exploded onto the screen. “Here’s the data so far.” Norman removed his glasses, cleaned them on his t-shirt, and replaced them. “It indicates that my assumptions about the mice’s reaction to a frequency of three-thousand-eight-hundred Cycles Per Second are correct. There are a few minor inconsistencies, like—”
“Are you trying out for the track team this year?” asked Marcus as he rolled over and began his pushups.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Norman’s fingers flew over the keyboard and a new bar graph appeared. “Because I don’t like to sweat.”
“Sweating is good for you.”
“Yeah,” said Norman, “if you’re a pig.” Norman glanced over his shoulder at Marcus, who had just finished his pushups. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. “Sorry, Marcus.”
Marcus waved away the apology. “I worry about you, Sport. All you do is study.” Marcus popped to his feet and rumpled Norman’s hair. “You’d better get ready for school. Do you want a ride?”
“No. I’ll walk.”
“Why don’t you ride your bike?”
“It’s got a flat.”
“Fix it.”
“I’m too busy.” Norman studied the computer screen, punched a key and said, “I like to walk. It gives me time alone to think.”
“You’d better hurry,” said Marcus as he closed the door.
“Yeah. See you later.” Norman stared at the computer screen another minute before backing up his work and shutting it off. He dressed for school and, as usual, his stomach tightened and he felt the familiar ache that accompanied him to school every morning.
Norman never thought seventh grade would be like this.
Chapter 2
Norman shuffled through his math papers and thought about today’s lunch menu:
Chili-n-chips
Veggie sticks with Ranch Dressing
Pear cup
Brownie with Cool Whip
Milk
A textbook slammed into Norman’s left shoulder, interrupting his delicious daydream. “How’s Norman-the-Nerd today?” said Tom Allen.
Norman didn’t reply.
“I’m doing fine. Thanks.” Tom examined the dirt beneath his fingernails. “Just fine, except for one little problem. I don’t have my math homework.” Tom laughed, with his mouth wide open and his head thrown back.
Norman saw that bits of food were lodged between his yellow teeth. “You should brush your teeth more often. Maybe twice a month?”
“That’s real clever,” Tom laughed again, reminding Norman of a dog-faced baboon he’d seen on The Discovery Channel. “Real clever. That’s why I’ve let you do my math homework for the past two months. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
“Thanks,” said Norman.
“You’re welcome,” said Tom. He snapped his fingers. “Hand it over.”
“I didn’t have time to do it last night,” said Norman, straightening his glasses. “I was busy with my science project.”
“Your science project?” Tom pressed his face close to Norman’s. “Have my homework done by lunchtime.” He punched Norman on the shoulder and sauntered down the hall.
Norman returned to his math homework, but only for a moment. The bell rang, signaling the last moment, mass migration to homeroom. Norman tucked his math papers away, picked up his books and scurried down the corridor. Kenilworth Junior High School’s halls were cold and dimly lit, they reminded Norman of the caves he and Marcus explored last summer. While walking with his books he imagined that the students leaning against lockers were bats that hung in groups from the ceiling of the caves.
And the biggest bat of all was Mr. Forrester.
He had beady eyes, a screechy voice, and radar. No matter where Norman was or what he did, Mr. Forrester seemed to know. Norman reached the homeroom door just as the tardy bell rang. Big Bat Forrester leaned against the blackboard and said, “Cutting it a bit close, eh Mr. Babbit?”
“I prefer to think of it as having good timing,” said Norman.
Mr. Forrester’s dark brown, almost black eyes glared at Norman for a moment, then he blinked and moved away from the blackboard. His glasses perched on the end of his slanted nose. He wore white socks with black dress shoes. The teacher hurried through roll call and read the day’s announcements. Then he massaged his pointy chin and said, “It has come to my attention,” he paused, “that there are students who are doing their fellow students’ homework.” His eyes swept the class. “This, of course, is grounds for suspension. I need not say more, eh?” His moist eyes settled on Norman for a moment before Forrester sat and shuffled papers on his desk. “Radar,” said Norman softly, “just like a bat.”
The spitball hit Norman in the neck, behind his left ear. Norman’s hand searched out the soggy lump, seized it and flicked it into a garbage can. Without turning around he said, “Hi, Chris.”
“Hey, Normy,” said Chris, “how you doing?”
“Okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.”
“That’s because I’m not,” said Norman. “I was lying.”
Despite the fact that Kenilworth had strict rules against eating in hallways Chris bit into an apple the size of a softball. “So what’s wrong?” said Chris, juice dribbling down his chin.
“I think Forrester found out I’m doing Tom Allen’s homework.”
Chris took a huge bite and said, around his food, “You’re not doing his homework. You’re a victim. Tell Forrester the creep’s making you do it. If you didn’t, he’d stomp you.”
“What would Tom do if I told Forrester?”
“Stomp you.”
“So what should I do?”
Chris finished the apple and tossed the core at a wastebasket. He missed by three feet. “I think you should do two sets of math homework every night.”
“Thanks for your help, Chris.”
“Hey,” Chris pounded Norman on the back, “what are best friends for?”
“There are times I don’t know,” said Norman.
“Are you working at McCormick’s after school?”
“Not today. I’ve got some homework to do,” said Norman.
“On your science project?”
“Yep. It’s due next week.”
“I know,” said Chris. “I’d better get started on mine.”
“You haven’t started?”
“Nope,” said Chris. “Let me borrow that little telescope you made for the fifth grade science fair.”
“That wouldn’t work.”
“Why not? We’re big seventh-graders now, at Kenilworth Junior High, Petaluma, California, U.S.A.”
“But our seventh grade science teacher helped judge our fifth grade science projects. Remember?”
“So I’ll paint it purple.”
“Chris—”
“It was worth a shot.”
They turned a corner and slipped into English class. Chris sat down, inserted a stick of gum and actually managed not to doze as Mr. Carlson reviewed yesterday’s assignment. Norman pulled out Tom Allen’s homework, hesitated, then worked the first problem.
Lunchtime at Kenilworth was an organized brawl. Brown-baggers scooted into the cafeteria, plopped down on the cold metal benches and started gobbling. The hot lunch line snaked along the far wall and out into the hall leading to the eighth grade wing. Eighth graders readily gave cuts to seventh and eighth graders, making the sixth graders wait until last. Vegetable missiles and unwanted desserts flew from table to table. Once a week, on cue, two students would start fighting in the hot lunch line. When the teacher supervising lunch ran to break up the fight the students would pelt each other with carrot sticks, peach cobbler, and empty milk cartons.
Today the air traffic was minimal. A pear cup flew from the eighth grade table toward the seventh graders but Howard Bennett spotted it in flight and yelled “Heads up!” Two girls ducked and the airborne pears plopped harmlessly to the tiled floor. Mr. Lopez,
the PE teacher, stormed over to the eighth grade section and started interrogating. When Mr. Lopez’ back was turned Chris scooped up the squashed fruit and hurled it at the eighth grade table.
The fruit cup hit Billy Golding on the shoulder. Golding stood and glared at the seventh graders until he saw Chris laughing and pointing at him. A strict system existed at Kenilworth: the eighth grade ruled the seventh and the seventh ruled the sixth. It was tradition.
But tradition faded when the seventh grader was Chris Forte. Chris was 5’11” and the son of a former professional boxer. Chris was one of the best football players in the school and had beaten every upper classman on the wrestling team. Billy Golding saw Chris, then sat down, pretending he preferred pear stains on his shirt.
Chris elbowed Norman, “Those jerks pick on every sixth and seventh-grader except me. What a bunch of chickens.”
“What?” said Norman.
“I said they’re a bunch of chickens.”
“You’re right,” said Norman. “And here comes King Chicken now.”
“Hello children,” said Tom Allen, as he approached the table. “I believe Norman-the-Nerd has something for me?”
Norman handed Tom the completed math homework.
Tom slapped him on the back, “Nice doing business with you, Norman. I’ll see you in Algebra.” He walked slowly away, nodding to Mr. Lopez as he passed.
“I’ll be doing his homework for the rest of the year,” said Norman.
“We only have three months left,” said Chris.
“That’s a comfort,” said Norman. He started to get up from the bench.
“Norman?”
“Yeah?”
“You want my pear cup?”
Norman nodded and sat down. He gulped down the pear and swallowed the sweet cling syrup.
Mr. Lewis leaned back in his chair, pretending to nap. His General Science class milled around finding seats at the lab tables. Stools scratched floors; voices hummed and buzzed. Norman sat in the back watching Mr. Lewis. Without opening his eyes Mr. Lewis grabbed a 500 ml beaker from his desk. He raised it to shoulder height and dropped it.
The crash quieted the room.
Eyes opened, Mr. Lewis said, “What principle have I just demonstrated?” He gazed at a sea of puzzled faces. “Darcy,” said Mr. Lewis, “do you know?”