The Smartest Kid in Petaluma

  Marcus stood, faked a punch and whipped Norman into a headlock. “Say uncle.”

  “Aunt.”

  “Say uncle.”

  “Cousin.”

  Marcus increased the pressure slightly, “UNCLE!”

  “Niece.”

  Marcus released him, “God, you’re stubborn.”

  “Tough. I’m tough.” Norman shadowboxed. His ears were crimson from the headlock.

  “Okay, you’re tough. You want to watch some TV?”

  “No,” said Norman, “I’m going out back with my telescope.”

  “Mind if I tag along, Professor?”

  “Why not?” said Norman. “You might even learn something. Jock.”

  Norman, hunched over the eyepiece, scanned the northern portion of the sky. “Those are the pointer stars of the Big Dipper, Dubhe and Merak. Look.”

  Marcus hunkered over the telescope. “Why are they called pointers?”

  “Because,” said Norman, “if you connect them with a line and continue the line northward you will be able to locate Polaris. The North Star. Watch.”

  Marcus stood; Norman sighted down the tube of his reflecting telescope and located Polaris. “Take a peek.”

  Marcus squinted through the eyepiece, “Too cool.”

  “And,” said Norman, “if you follow the handle of the Big Dipper in the opposite direction, you’ll always be able to locate the bright star, Arcturus. Move over, dummy,” said Norman. He swung the telescope around. “Follow the arc to Arcturus.” He bent over and centered the star in the viewing field. “Look.”

  “It’s like a diamond,” said Marcus.

  “If I had dad’s scope I could show you binary stars and optical doubles. I could also show me, I’ve only read about most of this stuff.”

  “This homemade scope’s just fine, Sport.” Marcus stretched. “I’m freezing. You coming in soon?”

  “Yeah. The eclipse is in half-an-hour.”

  “It’s bedtime for this guy.”

  “Do me a favor, Marcus?

  “Yeah.”

  “Wake me up in the morning. I want to go jogging with you.”

  “You got it, Sport.”

  Chapter 7

  Halfway around the track Norman stopped. Marcus strode away. He said, “I told you I wasn’t going to wait.”

  “I know,” said Norman.

  Marcus nodded and powered into the far turn. Norman resumed his jog-shuffle around the crushed-brick track. The early morning air was thick and soupy with fog. Petaluma was only thirty miles from the Pacific and morning fog was common in the spring; Norman was just happy the misty blanket hadn’t obscured his view of last night’s eclipse.

  The track at Casa Grande was surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees. Rock hard eucalyptus berries and dead crescent-shaped leaves littered the track. Two overweight ladies shared the oval with Marcus and Norman. The pair was dressed in matching purple jogging suits and reminded Norman of Christmas ornaments with legs. No matter how slow Norman scuttled or walked he moved faster than the purple ladies.

  Norman wasn’t feeling as pooped as he’d expected, despite the fact that he hadn’t run since last year—except for PE—when Chris secretly entered him in the Junior Olympics mile run. As his feet crunched the brick and his lungs sucked in the moist morning air, Norman drifted:

  PROBLEMS

  1) Collect final data and type up science project conclusions

  2) Deal with Tom Allen

  3) Find time to work at Mac’s and SAVE THE MONEY FOR A TELESCOPE

  4) Learn to box

  5) Get Darcy to acknowledge my existence

  SOLUTIONS

  1) Weigh the mice and compare before and after results

  2) Hire a hit man?

  3) Work at Mac’s today and DON’T STOP AT BURGER KING!

  4) Work out with Chris after dinner

  5) Win the Nobel Prize?

  While pondering these problems and possible solutions Norman had plodded twice around the track. He had passed the Christmas ornaments once and had been passed by Marcus twice. But he wasn’t aware of passing or having been passed as he circled, drifting on automatic pilot. Marcus eased down to Norman’s pace, “Hey Sport, that’s enough for the first day. You’ve done six laps.”

  No reply.

  “If you don’t stop now you’ll be too sore to run tomorrow.”

  No reply.

  “NORMAN!”

  “What?”

  Marcus shook his head. “It’s time to get home.”

  “Good. I’m hungry. Are there any eggs in the house?”

  “Yeah, mom went shopping yesterday.”

  “Any bacon?”

  “Good one. Amusing.”

  “Just hoping. I love bacon. Crispy, hot greasy bacon. Bacon in sandwiches with lettuce and tomatoes. Bacon and melted cheese on burgers. Cold bacon crumbled over salads.”

  Marcus latched onto Norman’s sweatshirt and towed him across the parking lot to the van. “Bacon’s not good for you.”

  “If it makes me happy, it’s good for me. That’s health food.”

  “Get in the van.”

  After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and grapefruit Norman bounded up the stairs to his room. “I’ve got a great idea, Luigi.” The owl didn’t reply, but Norman continued, “I’ll do Tom Allen’s homework, but I’m gonna do it wrong. I’ll teach that Neanderthal to mess with Norman Babbit.” Luigi flew from the coyote skull to Norman’s shoulder. Norman smiled, sat at his desk, and for the first time in his life, purposely miscalculated an Algebra equation.

  “Hey Normy,” yelled Chris, “wait up.” Chris, his mouth stuffed with an entire box of raisins, caught up with Norman in the crowded hallway. “Did your mom blast you last night for getting home late?”

  “A little. No big deal.”

  “You coming over today?” Chris gulped down the raisins and fished a bag of Korn Nuts from his backpack.

  “Yeah, but after dinner.”

  “Why don’t you—crunch, crunch—just eat at my house,” said Chris. “We—crunch—could box after dinner.”

  “And when we’re done boxing, I could help you with your science project.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Chris. “I’ve—crunch—finished it.”

  “In two days, without opening a book, you’ve finished a project on Industrial Chemistry?”

  Chris nodded twice, Crunch, crunch.

  “You can’t even spell Industrial Chemistry.”

  Chris finished the Korn Nuts and dropped the bag on the floor.

  “That’s littering,” said Norman.

  “No it’s not. I’m creating work for the janitor. If it wasn’t for slobs like me, the school district would fire him. He wouldn’t be able to support his wife and kids. In a year he’d be homeless. By not using wastebaskets I’m creating employment and stimulating the economy.”

  “What a patriot,” said Norman.

  “We all have to do our part.”

  The duo rounded a corner and entered English class. If Mr. Forrester was a bat, Mr. Carlson, the English teacher, would be a weasel. Squinty eyes, sloped nose. He even moved like a weasel, with short, choppy steps. He could walk sideways as quickly as he could forward. His brown weasel-hair was streaked with gray. Mr. Carlson’s eyes were always bloodshot and he dressed like an usher at a funeral: black pants and coat, shiny black shoes, white shirt, and a thin black tie. The shoulders of his coat were dusted with a permanent powdering of dandruff.

  “Today,” said Mr. Carlson, as the students settled into their seats, “we will be diagramming sentences.” He scanned the class with his bloodshot eyes. “Row three will rise and advance to the blackboard.”

  Row three: Howard Bennett, Lois Thompson, Chris and Norman, Mike Caldwell, and Darcy Norton walked to the board. Howard tripped and the class laughed. Norman stood to the left of Darcy. He smiled at her; she didn’t seem to notice.

  “The sentence you will be diagramming is,” everyone stood p
oised and ready to write as Mr. Carlson said, “A sense of humor keen enough to show a man his own absurdities will keep him from the commission of all sins, or nearly all, save those worth committing.” After reciting the quotation three times, everyone had it copied and Mr. Carlson said, “Do you know who said that?”

  “I sure do,” said Norman. He felt warm from his jog and content from a big breakfast.

  “Who?” said Mr. Carlson.

  “You did,” said Norman.

  “It was,” said Mr. Carlson, looking down his bony weasel nose, “Samuel Butler. You may proceed with the exercise.”

  The sound of squeaking chalk filled the room. The complicated sentence caused the student’s diagrams to look like cracks in a windshield. Norman, as usual, was the first finished. As usual, he was correct. As usual he felt guilty. Howard Bennett scratched his head. Darcy printed neatly and precisely, but didn’t have a clue.

  But even Darcy’s botched and spindly diagram beat Chris’ effort.

  His attempt reminded Norman of a squished spider: angles pointing everywhere, with no pattern. Norman, Howard, Mike, and Darcy stood watching Chris.

  The Lone Diagrammer didn’t notice. He labored as if he were painting a fence on a warm summer’s day, with broad confident strokes.

  Whistling.

  “Norman,” said Mr. Carlson, “you have a big problem.”

  “Me?” He examined his diagram.

  “Your problem, Norman, is Chris,” said the teacher. “I’m appointing you as his tutor.”

  “Okay,” said Norman, who already helped Chris with most of his homework. “I can handle that.”

  “But,” said the black clad weasel, “there is a reason you should take this tutorial quite seriously.”

  Norman, clueless and confused said, “Why?”

  “Because the score Chris receives on next week’s test will also be your score, Norman.”

  Norman stared at Mr. Carlson’s red-rimmed eyes. He could taste the eggs he had for breakfast as his stomach flip-flopped. “I’ll help him, but I deserve my grade.”

  Mr. Carlson’s thin lips twitched into a smile. “Row one, take the board.”

  Row three returned to their seats as the weasel droned on, but Norman didn’t hear the sentence, he sat at his desk with his face buried in his hands.

  Chapter 8

  Norman shuffled through the rest of the day like a zombie. He ate lunch with Chris and answered several questions in science. He glided through PE without once touching the soccer ball then cruised through Algebra on automatic pilot.

  He didn’t even enjoy slipping Tom Allen the wrong answers.

  After school he shuffled down the hill to McCormick’s Grocery. Mac leaned against the cash register, wishing a customer “Good Afternoon”. After the shopper exited, Mr. McCormick said, “Norman, what do you call a deer with no eyes?”

  Norman slung his books unto the counter, “I don’t know.”

  “No—eye—deer,” said Mr. McCormick.

  “Funny,” said Norman, who smiled for the first time since English.

  “What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?”

  “Still, no—eye—deer. Get it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you one for me?”

  “No,” said Norman.

  “Oh,” said Mr. McCormick. “I was wondering if you were going to show up today.”

  “I have to. I need money for that telescope.”

  “I thought you’d have saved enough last summer.”

  “I would have, but—”

  “But what?”

  “My mom’s a vegetarian, Mac.”

  Mr. McCormick nodded as if that made perfect sense. “I’ve arranged some labor for you, Sonny, but it’s not glamorous work. Follow me.” Norman followed Mr. McCormick. They stopped in front of an ancient walk-in freezer. “This thing hasn’t worked in years.” Mr. McCormick opened the door and a naked lightbulb illuminated the mossy green interior. “But I’m going to resurrect it. Fix her up. New racks, new compressor, another light bulb or two.” He pointed to a bucket and a stiff-bristled brush. “But first, Sonny, I need you to scrub it.”

  Norman shuddered looking at the tomb-like freezer. “Whatever you say, Mac.”

  “Ah, but you’re a good man, Norman Babbit.” Mr. McCormick smiled, “There’s something else you can do for me?”

  “What?”

  “Think up a riddle or two while you’re in here. I could use some new material.”

  “Yeah,” said Norman, “you could.”

  “Away with you.” Mr. McCormick exited.

  Norman filled the bucket with water and splashed in some soap. He carried the bucket to the freezer, leaving a trail of soapy water. He entered the freezer and the door swung shut behind him. The dank, damp, moss-smelling freezer reminded him of the caves near Placerville.

  Every summer Norman and Marcus spent two weeks with their Uncle Pete in Placerville. They’d fish, pan for gold, and explore the caves. Uncle Pete called it spelunking, but by any name, it was Norman’s favorite.

  Outside, the summer sun would beat down on you, but once you entered the cave the air was cool, smelling of animals. Norman and Marcus, both wearing miners’ helmets with the built-in flashlights, would explore the caves for hours. The weirdest sensation of tunnel vision existed in caves because you could only see where the flashlight beam in your helmet pointed. Peripheral vision was eliminated; you had to concentrate on what was directly ahead. Ninety-nine percent of the cave was a mystery and your imagination ran wild. Monsters and two hundred year old cavemen, things scientists weren’t supposed to believe in, stormed through Norman’s brain. Sounds were magnified in the caves. A trickle of water resounded like a river, a rock dislodged by your boot crashed like an avalanche; your breath was distant thunder.

  Last summer they were caving—spelunking—and found the coyote skull that Luigi now used as a perch. Marcus carried the bleached skull out of the cave and showed it to Uncle Pete. Pete examined the skull and said, “Darned if that don’t look like your cousin Jake. We’ve been looking for him since sixty-seven.”

  “What is it, Pete?“ said Norman, “a dog?”

  “Looks like a coyote,” said Pete.

  “What’s this?” Norman showed Pete a groove on the left side of the skull about the size of his little finger.

  “That,” said Pete, “is a gunshot wound.”

  “How old is it?”

  “How should I know?”

  Norman said, “May I have it?”

  “Mom would shoot you for bringing home a skull,” said Marcus.

  “Anything that would aggravate your mother,” said Pete, “is just fine with me. Bring it home. Use it as a vase. Keep it on the kitchen table.” He laughed and slapped his belly. “Maybe we can find another one and give them to Nora for bookends.”

  Norman finished scrubbing green scum from two walls of the freezer. He dropped the brush into the bucket of cold, green water and carried it from the freezer. He dumped the bucket in the huge enamel sink and made his way back into the store. While Mr. McCormick was bagging groceries Norman drifted, thinking of his science project. Lost in thought, Norman opened his notebook and began writing. The customer exited and Mr. McCormick said, “What are you figuring, Sonny?”

  No reply.

  Norman raised his eyes to meet Mac’s, didn’t reply, and returned his concentration to the notebook.

  “Must be working on that new riddle for me,” said Mr. McCormick. He snatched a broom and swept the floor.

  Three minutes later, Norman said, “I got it, Mac. I just have to see if there is a substantial weight loss in the thirty-eight hundred CPS group!”

  “My exact thoughts.”

  “See you, Mac.” Norman snapped shut his notebook and gathered up his books.

  “I believe in paying for a job well done,” said Mr. McCormick, “What are you charging me?”

  “Whatever you think is fair,” said Norman. “Bye.”


  “Wait, Sonny. You owe me a riddle.”

  “Uh.”

  “Come on with it.”

  “Uh, uh, Why are fish so skinny?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they eat fish.”

  Mr. McCormick leaned on his broom. “Needs work, Sonny.”

  “Bye.” Norman was gone.

  Chapter 9

  Marcus’ girlfriend, Suzanne, sipped tea with Mrs. Babbit at the kitchen table. Doris sprawled in front of the TV in the living room. “Hi Doris,” said Norman. Doris waved at him without removing her eyes from the tube. “Nice to see you, too,” said Norman. He turned his attention to the kitchen table.

  “Norman, your bird made a mess today,” said Mrs. Babbit, “please clean it up. When are you clearing those mice out of the pantry?” She slurped her tea.

  “Monday or Tuesday,” said Norman.

  “Please get us some more tea water,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “Sure.” Norman smiled at Suzanne.

  “Say hello to Suzanne.”

  “Hello, Suzanne,” said Norman, as he poured the hot water.

  “Hi Norman,” said Suzanne, motioning she didn’t want any more water. “Marcus has been telling me about your science project. It sounds interesting.”

  Norman noticed the way her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders; the way her fingers cradled the teacup. Norman wondered if he’d ever have a girlfriend. “Yeah, the project’s going pretty good. Would you like to see it?”

  “Norman, don’t bother Suzanne with your silly mice,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “I’d love to see your mice, Norman,” said Suzanne. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Babbit.”

  As they entered the pantry Suzanne said, “Thanks, Norman. Your mom was about to drown me with that tea.”

  “She gets pretty, ah, intense at times.”

  “That’s a considerate way to phrase it.” The pair stood in front of Norman’s project. “Looks impressive, Norman. What’s it do?”

  “Here are thirty male white mice.” Norman cleared his throat. For a three minute period every morning at six-thirty this fifteen-hundred CPS, that’s Cycles Per Second, buzzer sounds for five minutes.”

  “You get up every morning at six-thirty to ring an alarm clock for mice?”

  “No,” said Norman, “I rigged this timer.” He pointed to an alarm clock with wires connecting it to a battery. The wires from the battery were connected to a piezo buzzer on the mice cage. “The buzzer sounds for another five minutes at six-thirty PM. In the spare bedroom there are thirty mice who hear a thirty-eight hundred cycle per second buzzer, also at six-thirty AM and PM.”