The Smartest Kid in Petaluma

  Darcy twisted her soft brown hair around a finger, shook her head and said, “No.”

  She is so pretty, thought Norman, I wish I had the guts to ask her to a dance.

  Mr. Lewis asked Clarence Bleeker the same question. Clarence said, “You’ve demonstrated the fact that, that, if…if you drop glass it breaks.”

  “When you woke up this morning, Clarence,” said Mr. Lewis, “did you know that glass breaks when you drop it?”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence.

  “Then what have you learned?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Lewis. “Norman? What principle have I destroyed school property to demonstrate?”

  Norman stopped staring at Darcy. “The First Law of Thermodynamics.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Lewis. “What is the First Law of Thermodynamics?”

  “The energy,” said Norman, “going into a system, minus the energy coming out of a system, equals the change in energy stored in the system. In this case, the energy holding the molecules of glass in the shape of a beaker was released as sound when it shattered.”

  “Excellent, Norman. Perfect.”

  Norman wished he could disappear into his lab table. Why did teachers always call on him when they wanted THE ANSWER? Why did he always feel badly about being smarter than the other students? They were bigger, stronger, and faster and they never let him forget it as they elbowed him out of the way in lunch lines or PE.

  Mr. Lewis roamed through the classroom explaining another Principle of Science.

  Norman gazed at Darcy, thought of stuffed eggplant for dinner, and tried to remember if he had left water for Luigi.

  Chapter 3

  “C’mon Chris, please?” said Norman. “I’ll help you with your homework.”

  “You already do.”

  “I’ll help you more. I’ll do your science project for you.”

  “You’re too busy with your own project,” said Chris.

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “Why do you want to learn how to box? Fighting never solves anything.”

  “That’s because you win all your fights,” said Norman.

  “Norman, you’ve never been in a fight.”

  “That’s because I run away.”

  “Then go out for track. Go jogging with Marcus.”

  “No,” said Norman. “I want to learn how to box. I need to know how to fight.”

  “Okay,” said Chris, “put these on.” He tossed Norman a pair of gloves.

  “Thanks.” Norman looked at the gloves and fiddled with the laces. “How?”

  “This should be fun,” said Chris.

  Chris Forte’s garage doubled as a gym. A bench press stood in a corner. Bicycles suspended on hooks hung from the ceiling. Barbells and dumbbells littered the floor. A punching bag hung from a beam. Norman, stripped to the waist, threw futile, lifeless, listless punches at the bag.

  “HIT IT!” yelled Chris.

  “I am hitting it,” said Norman, poking at the bag with his right hand.

  “Stop,” said Chris. He removed Norman’s glasses. “Now at least you look like a fighter.”

  “There’s a big problem with me looking like a fighter, Chris.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t see the punching bag.”

  Replacing Norman’s glasses, Chris said, “Hit it. Put your body into it.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” He held up his fists. “What are these?”

  “Put your body into it.” Gloveless, Chris attacked the bag with a swiftness and grace that only existed in Norman’s imagination. Left jab, left jab, right cross. Chris stepped back and said, “What did you notice?”

  “You hit the bag hard. Quick and hard,” said Norman. “I want to do that.”

  “Like Mr. Lewis says in science class, observe.” Chris threw a three-punch combination. “What did you observe?”

  “Fists. Contact. Power.”

  “Did you see my feet?”

  “No.”

  “Watch my feet.” Chris launched a four-punch combination.

  “I saw that,” said Norman. “Leverage. You planted your feet and used your body as a fulcrum. That brings the large muscles of the back and legs into play, increasing the power and velocity of your punches. I get it.”

  “You’re amazing, the way—”

  “Thanks.”

  “—you can even make boxing sound boring.” Chris smiled, “Try doing it.”

  Norman swatted at the bag. His punches were slightly brisk. He worked an almost quick combination.

  “Plant and throw a punch,” said Chris. “Use your body.”

  Norman nearly rocked the bag with a right. Chris watched him flail at the bag for another minute. Sweating, Norman stopped and smiled at Chris.

  “Norman?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you want to box?”

  “I have my reasons.” Norman pushed his glasses up with the thumb of his glove and started swinging.

  “Come and eat, Norman,” screamed Mrs. Babbit. The stuffed eggplant steamed in the center of the table. Doris and Marcus waited patiently.

  “Norman!”

  No reply.

  “NORMAN!”

  “I’ll go get him,” said Marcus.

  “No. That boy has to pay attention. He’s always drifting.”

  “Mom, he’s studying,” said Marcus.

  “He studies too much,” said Doris. “He’s weird. He has cages full of mice and a bird that eats grasshoppers.”

  “Hi,” said Norman, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Norman, I’ve been yelling for five minutes.”

  “Sorry Mom,” said Norman. “I was reading.”

  Doris stuck her tongue out at Norman and dug into the eggplant, scooping sections of the purple vegetable onto her plate. Marcus helped himself to a giant serving of eggplant and four scoops of brown rice. His sideplate contained a huge salad with sprouts, cherry tomatoes, and sunflower seeds. Norman’s mother had a smaller version of Marcus’ dinner. There was never any conversation at the Babbit’s dinner table. Mrs. Babbit insisted that each bite be chewed at least twenty times to insure proper digestion. It was difficult to speak while chewing so intensely. Dinnertime also reminded her of Mr. Babbit who was killed in a car accident the year after Doris was born. The dinner table was not Mrs. Babbit’s favorite place.

  Norman, empty plate in front of him, shattered the silence, “I wonder why they call it eggplant? It’s purple.”

  “Eat something, Norman,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “At least it’s shaped like an egg.”

  “Eat,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “It doesn’t taste like an egg. If they named it after how it tasted they’d call it a Slimy-Shiny-Rubber-Plant.”

  Marcus laughed; Doris and Mrs. Babbit did not.

  Norman turned to Doris. “Get it? Eggplant doesn’t taste like eggs.”

  Doris slapped at Norman and knocked over her glass of iced tea. Mrs. Babbit pushed away her plate and threw her napkin on the spreading puddle. She said, “Another dinner ruined. I do my best for this family, but nothing ever works out.”

  “And it’s all Norman’s fault,” said Doris. “Like usual.”

  “I’ve got a migraine,” said Mrs. Babbit. “I’m going to bed.” She left the table.

  “I’m not cleaning this mess up,” said Doris.

  “You knocked it over,” said Norman, “you clean it up.”

  “No,” said Doris. “The Lion King is on television.” She hopped over the sofa that divided the kitchen and the TV room. She flipped on the TV and flopped down on the couch.

  “Even for a first-grader,” said Norman, “she’s a brat.”

  Marcus, chewing, nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

  “Yeah, I’ll have some toast.”

  “I’ll finish up and help you with the dishes.”

  “Take your time.” Norman smiled, “C
hew your food. Chew your food.”

  “You’re a funny little dude, Sport.”

  Making toast was a ritual for Norman. It had to be white bread toasted to the perfect golden color. Then a one-quarter inch layer of chunky peanut butter had to be spread from crust to crust. Then cinnamon and sugar had to be sprinkled evenly over the top. Then the toast was packed back into the toaster oven to re-warm. The toast was perfect when he bit through the gooey peanut butter and felt his teeth crunch into the crusty toast. Then the bread wasn’t chewed twenty times. It’s chewed three times, maybe four if the peanut butter sticks, then swallowed.

  Quickly.

  Norman ate toast as a meal at least four times a week. Tonight’s four-piece-batch was perfect and Norman smiled as he and Marcus cleared the table.

  “How’s school?” said Marcus.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you having problems with someone?”

  “No.” Marcus, thought Norman, you sound so adult.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not having a problem with someone. I’m having problems with everyone.”

  Marcus filled the dishwasher with soap, shut the door and switched it on. “Junior high is tough, Normy.”

  “I know,” Norman wiped the counter with a dishrag. “I know.”

  Norman sat in his room staring at Tom Allen’s math assignment. “I’m not going to do it,” he said to Luigi, who was perched on the computer. The bird flew to Norman and perched on his leg. Norman looked at the posters on his wall. Jack London smiled crookedly; Einstein gazed into the distance. Norman shook his head, “Okay Luigi, Doris is a brat, school stinks, Mom thinks all problems are dietary, Dad’s gone, Marcus wants to take Dad’s place and can’t—and I’m talking to an owl.” Luigi hopped from Norman’s leg to his arm. “Here’s problem Numero Uno, Tom Allen and Mr. Forrester. Tom makes me do his homework and somehow Mr. Forrester knows. If Mr. Forrester catches me I’m in trouble. If I tell Marcus what Tom is doing he’ll beat Tom up, then Tom will beat me up and I’ll be known as Norman-the-Nerd who can’t fight his own battles.”

  Norman snapped his fingers.

  “I’ve got the solution. I’ll just ask Marcus to beat me up; you know, cut out the middle man. I’m going to bed, Luigi. You’re lucky you’re a bird.”

  Chapter 4

  “Norman!” said Mrs. Babbit. “Wake up! Get that bird off your bed.”

  “Grumpf?”

  “Wake up or you’ll be late for school.”

  “Huh?”

  “Right now, Norman.”

  Norman sat up, Luigi perched on his shoulder. Norman mindlessly stroked the owl’s light brown feathers.

  “I wish you’d get rid of that bird.”

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Cucumber juice and banana bread,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “Can I have a couple of scrambled eggs?” said Norman. “Please?”

  “If you hurry, yes.”

  “Mom?”

  “What, Norman?”

  “Can I borrow dad’s big telescope tonight? The moon is eclipsing Spica and—”

  “Your father’s telescope isn’t a toy, Norman.”

  “I’m not a child, Mom.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  Mrs. Babbit left the room. Norman sprang out of bed and said, “I’ll consider it, which means, No Way.” He put on his glasses, grabbed clean clothes and sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. With luck he’d beat Doris to the facilities this morning. He rounded the corner; the bathroom was empty.

  Norman washed his face, pulled his pants and shirt on and began to brush his teeth. He spit, rinsed, and spit again. He said to himself in the mirror, “If I can just account for the minor loss of weight in the CONTROL group. Maybe if I recalculated the amounts of food I’d find the difference.”

  Chewing on the minty-tasting toothbrush, he walked down the hall to his room. Norman nudged the door open with his foot. Luigi slept, perched on the coyote skull. Norman approached the computer, touched his lucky nickel, and booted up. He read the flashing screen and accessed another file. He made a note to recalculate the data, stored the information and turned the computer off.

  He returned to the bathroom, but the door had been locked. He pounded on the door and said, “Let me in!” But it sounded like, “Lemme min!” because his mouth was filled with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and saliva.

  “What?” said Doris from inside the bathroom.

  “Lemme min mow! I haffa smit!” (“Let me in now! I have to spit!”)

  “What?”

  Norman pounded on the door, “Lemme min, I fas in fere virst!” (“Let me in, I was in there first!”)

  “What?”

  “I haffa smit.”

  Mrs. Babbit appeared in the hall, “Norman? Why are you bothering your sister? She’s getting ready for school.”

  “Fe fon’t lemme min the vatrum.” (“She won’t let me in the bathroom.”)

  Mrs. Babbit said, “What?”

  “Fe fon’t lemme min the vatrum.”

  “Norman, I can’t understand you.”

  “Vat’s cooz Foris fon’t lemme in the vatrum. I haffa smit.”

  “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re saying, Norman.”

  Norman shook his head, groaned slightly, and swallowed twice. “Nevermind.”

  Kenilworth Junior High was an ancient, drafty building that reminded Norman of a funeral home. It dominated the top of East Street and was surrounded by houses, which except for their color were identical. Three-bedroom, two-bath houses with as much individuality as the miniature, green Monopoly houses. The only break in the houses was Kenilworth Junior High and Mr. McCormick’s Grocery. McCormick’s, located at the bottom of the East Street hill, was owned and operated by Paddy McCormick. Norman had worked at McCormick’s, on and off, for over a year. He swept, stocked shelves, and broke down boxes. Norman’s goal was to save enough money to buy a real telescope, like his dad’s. But between trips to Burger King for double-bacon cheeseburgers he had only saved fifteen dollars.

  Just about enough for a lens cap.

  Mr. McCormick usually had a joke or a riddle for Norman, but today, as Norman passed the store, Mr. McCormick barely managed a wave. Norman shuffled into the store, “How you doing, Mac?”

  “Not well, Sonny. Not well.”

  Norman scrutinized the store: apples and oranges were scattered over the floor, eggs were smashed, groceries were scattered. “What happened?”

  “Kids. Probably no older than you.” He shook his head. “The second time this month. They break in, have a smash-up and leave. They don’t even steal anything. I’m asking you Norman, whatever happened to good old-fashioned burglary?”

  Norman shrugged.

  Mr. McCormick bent slowly and plucked an apple from the floor. He tossed it to Norman. Put a shine on it, Sonny. It’ll be good as new.”

  “Thanks, Mac.” Norman started munching.

  “Hadn’t you be running along to school?”

  “No. I’m early. I’ll help you clean up.”

  “Suit yourself, Sonny.” Mr. McCormick started sweeping fruit and torn cereal boxes into a corner. “’Tis a crime worse than thievery. This, when people are starving worldwide.”

  “Did they break a window to get in?” Norman stacked magazines on the counter.

  “No.” Mr. McCormick tossed aside his broom. “C’mon to the storeroom with me.”

  Janitorial supplies were piled in the far corner of the damp storeroom. Canned foods were stacked neatly on shelves. Produce bins held corn, potatoes, and carrots.

  “Why didn’t they mess up the storeroom?” said Norman.

  “Then they couldn’t see the fruit of their labors. The game, I suppose, is to chuckle at me when they stop by after school to buy a fifty-cent candy bar.” Mr. McCormick yanked a giant handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose like a foghorn. After carefully folding the baby-blanket-sized-kerchief he said, “Quite a honker, this nose?
” He winked. “We all have certain gifts in life, mine are this store and this oversized nose. And, despite these allergies, my nose is certainly better off than my store.” He smiled again. “Come here, I’ll show you where the little buggers get in.”

  The odd duo weaved through the produce bins. “In the old days, before these fancy refrigerators, we kept things cool with real ice. There was an iceman with a horse drawn wagon full of ice. He’d drop off block ice twice a week. More often in summer, less in winter.” Mr. McCormick pointed to a 3’ X 3’ hole in the wall.

  “I always wondered what that was,” said Norman.

  “The iceman would drop the ice in here from the outside and cover it with sawdust.”

  “Sawdust?”

  “For insulation. The sawdust was packed around the ice and kept it from melting. And it’s through this hole that the bleeding vandals enter.”

  “Why don’t you board up the hole?”

  “I have.” Mr. McCormick pointed at a piece of corrugated tin that was propped against a case of Campbell’s Chicken-n-Stars. “I nailed these inside and out—against the cats and possums. But the humans rip the outside sheet off, slide down and kick this one in.” He shook his head. “If I could afford it I’d fill the passage with cement. It’d be a shame, though, filling the ice-chute up. Like destroying a wee bit of history. A taste of the past.”

  “Will you be here after school?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll stop by and help you clean up.”

  “You’ve got your studies, Sonny. They are more important than an old man pedaling comestibles.”

  Norman was halfway to the door and accelerating. “See you later, Mac.”

  “It has come to my attention,” said Mr. Lewis as he paced through the rows of lab tables, “that some students have yet to choose a subject for the science fair.” He glanced at Chris, who had just popped a Twinkie into his mouth.

  The whole Twinkie.

  “May I remind the class that the science fair is less than a week away?” Mr. Lewis returned to the front of the classroom. At last glance we had three undecided students. “Clarence Bleeker. Have you found a project?”

  “Yes. Photosynthesis.”

  “Very good. Mike Caldwell, have you chosen a topic?”

  “Butterflies,” said Mike.

  “Again, quite good. Chris Forte, what will your project consist of?”

  Chris swallowed, “Science. A whole bunch of science.”

  “Excellent, considering this is a science project. A book report on Moby Dick would hardly be suitable—”