The Smartest Kid in Petaluma

  “Why,” said Mr. Forrester, “are you whooping like an aborigine, Mr. Babbit?”

  “Because me and my mice are going on a trip,” said Norman.

  “If you don’t want that trip to include a detour through detention, shut up.”

  “Okay, sure. Thank you.” Norman flashed the thumbs-up sign to Chris, who was sneaking grapes into his mouth.

  The bell rang. Chewing slowly, Chris walked over to Norman. “Why’d you scream, Normy?”

  “Didn’t you hear about the ISEF and Washington D.C.?”

  “Huh?”

  “The announcements,” said Norman. Don’t you ever listen to homeroom announcements?”

  “No.” The duo walked toward their English class.

  “How do you know what’s going on?”

  “I don’t care what’s going on. I like football and wrestling and this is baseball and track season.” Chris popped the last grape into his mouth. “Besides, announcements are so mundane.”

  “Mundane?”

  “Good word, hey Normy? It means, of the world; commonplace; ordinary.” Chris and Norman stopped in the middle of the hall. Students flowed around them like water around a river rock. “I learned another one, ubiquitous. It means, seemingly present everywhere at the same time. I memorized the definition, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to work ubiquitous into a sentence.”

  “Chris?”

  “What?”

  “You just used ubiquitous in a sentence.”

  “Cool.”

  They entered English class as the tardy bell sounded. Mr. Carlson, black clad, stood at the blackboard. His weasel head swiveled from side-to-side, stopping at the, barely, late arrivals. “Sorry we’re late,” said Norman.

  “I, too, apologize for our lack of punctuality,” said Chris.

  “Punctuality?” said Mr. Carlson.

  “Yes,” said Chris. “Timeliness, Promptness, Preciseness, Regularity, Punctiliousness. Those are synonyms.”

  Mr. Carlson said, “I don’t think—”

  “I know,” said Chris.

  The entire classroom laughed.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever,” said Mr. Carlson, “heard you use a word with more than two syllables.”

  “I’ve decided to increase my verbiage,” said Chris. He sat straight in his chair with hands folded. Chris usually slouched forward, resting his chin on the desk. Today, the students behind him couldn’t see over his 5’11” frame.

  “It’s a pleasure seeing you take an interest in English,” said Mr. Carlson.

  “The unbridled pleasure is all mine,” said Chris. “I’ve only studied for a small portion of one evening, and I’m already feeling pretty enriched.”

  Laughter, again, filled the room. Norman finished Tom Allen’s Algebra, and Mr. Carlson droned on about the importance of prepositions.

  * * *

  Friday’s lunch menu always fascinated Norman. Instead of listing the various mismatched items, he thought they should just write LEFTOVERS.

  Today’s menu:

  Hamburger Patty

  Super nachos

  Hash Browns

  Celery-and-Peanut Butter

  Brownie

  Norman didn’t mind eating leftovers, but he resented being treated like an idiot. Did the cafeteria staff think he couldn’t remember that they’d been served nachos on Monday and hamburgers on Thursday? Did they think they could fool the entire student body by changing Hamburger-on-a-Bun to Hamburger Patty?

  He chewed his hamburger patty and said, “Leftovers or not, it beats potato dumplings in soy gravy with poached zucchini.” Norman munched and scanned the cafeteria for Chris. It wasn’t like him to miss a meal. While searching the cafeteria/zoo, Norman saw Dave Davido collecting and eating brownies from the sixth graders. Dave was famous at Kenilworth for his speed in the 100 meter dash and his terrible complexion. Norman called him, secretly, “Pepperoni Face.” Norman also saw Darcy sitting with a gaggle of seventh and eighth grade girls. Janet Dalton spied Norman staring at Darcy, who whispered something to Louise Arnold, and the pair laughed. Norman looked away, but before his eyes left the cluster of girls he thought he saw Darcy smile.

  Mr. Lewis, today’s lunch monitor, sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Norman had to speak with Mr. Lewis about the differences and similarities in frequency reception between white mice and humans and what type of conversion factor would be necessary to apply his findings to humans. While Norman mentally reviewed these questions he felt a rough hand on his shoulder. Automatically, he opened his Algebra book, fished out Tom Allen’s homework and raised it over his head. Tom snatched it and skulked away. “It’s getting better,” said Norman to his empty lunch tray, “I didn’t have to look at the ugly toad.” Norman stood and weaved through tables to Mr. Lewis. “Great news about the ISEF sanction,” said Norman. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” said Mr. Lewis, sipping his coffee.

  “I need your help,” said Norman.

  “What?”

  Norman had approached Mr. Lewis to ask about relative frequency ranges and conversion factors, but another question surfaced, “Mr. Lewis, a friend of mine has a problem and she wants to know if you can help him. Her.”

  “What’s your friend’s problem?”

  “An older student slaps her around, picks on her, makes her do her homework.” Why did I say she? Thought Norman.

  “Has your friend spoken with a teacher?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Would your friend consider telling a teacher? Me? Maybe? A name, so something could be done.”

  “I don’t think that would help my friend. Thanks anyway.” Norman turned and walked away.

  The science teacher shook his head, crushed his empty coffee cup and flung it into a garbage can.

  * * *

  Norman sat in the first row, fifth seat back. His Algebra teacher, Mr. Davies taught in a roving, energetic style. Mr. Davies never perched at his desk like Mrs. Fletcher or stood sentry at the blackboard like Mr. Carlson. He roamed the classroom like a jungle cat. He sat on students’ desks, propped his feet up on the windowsill, slipped down one row of desks and taught from the back of the room. Today, oddly, he stood motionless in the front of the room. “The results of yesterday’s homework assignments are revealing,” said Mr. Davies. “We have two groups in this class. Group A’s scores were consistent with their average. But Group B’s average dipped significantly. And the fall in the group average is due to a single paper.” He scrutinized the class. “Tom Allen, can you explain why you went from a two month average of ninety-three to yesterday’s zero?”

  “Everyone has a bad day,” said Tom.

  “In mathematics we deal in statistics and probabilities.Your performance yesterday cannot be explained in logical terms. How could you fail to answer a single question correctly?”

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress,” said Tom.

  “Will there be an improvement in today’s paper?”

  “I doubt it,” said Tom. He turned and winked at Norman. The wink blotted out his right eye like a dark cloud hiding the moon.

  “Pay closer attention to your homework, Mr. Allen.” Mr. Davies coughed. “We will now break into study groups. Group A will work the odd numbered problems on page eighty-four. Group B will finish yesterday’s in-class project.”

  Tom waited for Norman in the hall. Norman’s mouth was dry. He felt relatively safe, as long as other students surrounded him; but then he remembered the previous meeting between a locker and the back of his skull. He made a mental note to walk home by another route if Chris wasn’t with him. Tom put his arm around Norman.

  Norman shuddered.

  “You know, Norman, I’m not surprised at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You’re a smart kid. I’ll probably learn Monday that I’ve zeroed today’s homework.”

  “Probably.”

  “But I’m not worried,” said Tom. “You know why?”

  “No.?
??

  “Because we have a test on Tuesday and you’re helping me pass.”

  “But I’m in Group A. We don’t have the same tests.”

  “That’s why you’ll have to give me the answers before the test on Tuesday.”

  “How?”

  “Simple,” said Tom, squeezing Norman like a tube of toothpaste. “You’re going to steal Group B’s test for me on Monday.”

  Chapter 12

  After school Norman worked at Mr. McCormick’s store. He had intended to finish scrubbing the freezer but the afternoon business had been brisk and he ended up helping Mr. McCormick bag groceries. Norman guided fussy customers to the proper aisle and carried the older customers’ groceries to their cars. All afternoon, in the back of his head, he heard Tom Allen’s arrogant voice: You’re going to steal Group B’s test for me on Monday.

  When the afternoon’s shopping spree had ended, Mr. McCormick said, “Norman, do you know what happened this morning?”

  “No.”

  “I got to work early and I heard a noise in the back.”

  “Really?”

  “So I grabbed my trusty weapon,” he seized his broom and held it like a Samurai swordsman.

  “The vandals?”

  “Yes. I stormed into the back, swinging this cutlass and they scurried up the hole like the rodents they are. I didn’t see their faces, but I got the last one in the rump with this. Mr. McCormick swung at an imaginary target. “The good news is they didn’t trash the store. The bad news is I still can’t afford to cement or plaster that hole shut.”

  “Just hammer the inside shut again. I’ll take care of the problem as soon as I talk to my science teacher.”

  “Truly?”

  “Oh yeah, Mac,” said Norman. “For sure.”

  “I’ve said it before: you’re a good man, Norman Babbit.”

  Norman left the store at dusk and walked home through the expanding darkness. He entered the house and, as usual, Doris sprawled in front of the TV set and his mother was preparing some assortment of inedible vegetables in the kitchen. “Where,” said Mrs. Babbit, “on God’s green earth have you been?”

  “Mr. McCormick’s,” said Norman. “Working. I’m saving up for a real telescope—” he dropped a hint “—like Dad’s. I stayed late because it was busy.”

  She poured soy sauce and white molasses into a skillet of sizzling vegetables. “Clean up for dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Even if you don’t eat, you will join this family at the dinner table, young man.”

  Norman stared at his mother. When she left for work in the morning she was always perfectly dressed; not a hair out of place. Now her hair was ruffled and small blue-black pouches puffed up under each eye. She stooped over the stove. “I’m really just not hungry, Mom.”

  “Norman—”

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  Mrs. Babbit sighed and continued to stir the vegetables.

  Greene’s Hill was nearly a mile from Norman’s house. It was an isolated, oak-tree-dotted knoll above the lights of Petaluma. Tucked beneath his left arm, as he trudged up the hill, was Norman’s homemade reflecting telescope. It was constructed of a thirty-inch cardboard tube, three-inches in diameter. A mirror was mounted in the bottom of the tube, with an eyepiece fitted into a wooden brace at the top. The telescope had then been mounted onto a wooden tripod.

  Norman reached the top of the hill and spread the tripod. He breathed deep and stretched. Usually Norman charted the positions of constellations, noting how they rose and set throughout the year, recording his observations in an astronomer’s notebook. He also tracked and recorded other celestial events: comets, meteorite showers, shooting stars.

  But tonight, Norman simply sat in the dark for nearly an hour, happy to be quiet and alone. Finally, he aimed his homemade telescope at the brightest object in tonight’s sky.

  The moon.

  Norman focused and automatically named the features of the moon as he panned from right to left. The Lake of Dreams, the Sea of Serenity, the Crater of Archimedes, the Sea of Rains, the Juta Mountains, and the Ocean of Storms.

  He removed his eye from the telescope and viewed the flickering, artificial lights of Petaluma. The lights were softened by the increasing fog; fog which would soon obscure Norman’s view of the heavens. Norman ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and returned to his telescope: the Central Bay, the Sea of Nectar, the Crater of Agrippa, the Sea of Vapors, the Sea of Cold. Norman thought how peaceful he would be, all alone, on the cold and silent moon.

  Chapter 13

  Norman lugged his telescope home feeling quiet, hungry, and tired. Marcus, Doris, and Mrs. Babbit were eating silently at the kitchen table, chomping each bite twenty times. “Hi,” said Norman. He leaned his telescope against the wall.

  “Where have you been?” said Mrs. Babbit.

  Norman removed his glasses, breathed on them and tried to clean them on his dirty t-shirt. “What?”

  “I held dinner nearly an hour,” said Mrs. Babbit.

  “I’m not hungry,” lied Norman.

  “Where were you?” said Mrs. Babbit.

  Norman pointed at his telescope. “I went for a walk.”

  “Pretty long walk,” said Doris.

  Marcus smacked Doris in the back of the head.

  Norman walked over to his telescope.

  “Where are you going, Norman?” said Mrs. Babbit. “Have some dinner.”

  “No thanks,” said Norman. “I’m gonna take a bath, check on the mice and go to bed.”

  “Hey Sport, you’ve gotta eat something,” said Marcus. “Some toast. I’ll make you some toast.”

  “No thanks.” Norman plopped his little blue telescope over his shoulder and trudged up the stairs.

  Norman had a ritual for taking his Friday night bath. First, he would disconnect the bathroom fan. He would then stuff towels at the base of the door to stop cool air from entering. Then he’d run the shower full blast on hot, steaming the room so that he could barely see across to the mirror. Norman would then run the water as hot as he could possibly stand it and settle back into the tub with a book. Tonight he read Professor Van der Kloot’s book, Behavior.

  Mr. Lewis had loaned him the book two months, ago but Norman had been so busy with his science project, and Tom Allen’s homework, he hadn’t had time for extra reading. As he soaked in water hot enough to make tea he read the chapter title: Synapses, Circuits, and Behavior. This chapter dealt with the nervous system and how it affects behavior.

  “Behavior,” said Norman. “I wonder what kind of circuits and synapses make Marcus an athlete, Tom Allen a punk, and me a coward?” Norman raised the book above his head and gazed at his body half-floating in the tub. He squinted to zoom in on his feet. Long, skinny feet with crooked toes. Stick-man legs. A stomach turned bright pink by the hot water. His ribs protruded, barely covered by flesh. He tossed Mr. Lewis’ book across the room. It landed soundlessly on the towels at the base of the bathroom door. Norman inhaled, lowered his head beneath the water and began counting: 1, 2 ,3, 4, 5…he opened his eyes underwater; the hot water stung worse than the chlorine in the public pool...8, 9, 10, 11…Norman stifled the desire to breathe…14, 15, 16, 17…his heart pounded in his ears…19, 20, 21, 22…he wanted to pass out…27, 28, 29, 30…he broke the surface and sucked in the moist, steamy air of the bathroom.

  “I guess I have to steal that test.”

  Norman washed his hair, drained the tub, toweled off, dressed, then checked his mice.

  Luigi balanced on the back of Norman’s chair; they both faced the computer. The owl always attached himself to Norman’s chair as if he were protecting Norman from a strange-glowing-rectangular-computer-animal. Norman pecked at the computer keys much like Luigi pecked at his food. Norman entered the current weights of his mice. Saturday would be the last day he would collect any data. The data would be entered and arranged in tables and graphs, then analyzed. On Sunday Norman would print ou
t his entire project: hypothesis, materials, procedure, data, and conclusions. Tuesday morning he and Marcus would move the mice to school and set up for the ISEF sanctioned judging on Tuesday night.

  Norman smiled. He knew no one in the school would have a project as interesting or scientifically sound as his. He punched in the last of his data and daydreamed of Washington D.C. The Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the KFC on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Mrs. Babbit quietly entered the room while Norman drifted at the computer. Luigi’s head swiveled around. “Norman?” said Mrs. Babbit.

  No answer.

  She tapped his shoulder, “Norman?”

  “Oh. Hi, Mom.”

  The computer’s hum was the only sound in the room until Mrs. Babbit spoke again, “Norman, are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” said Norman, still studying the computer screen.

  “Marcus seems to think you’re having some problems at school.” She settled onto Norman’s bed, a suspicious eye on Luigi.

  “Seventh grade is just different,” said Norman. “That’s all.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yeah, there’s something you can do. Buy some meat! And snack cakes! And any cereal that’s not granola! Banish all soy products from the kitchen! Stock the freezer with ice cream! We’re at the top of the foodchain but we eat like iguanas or sea turtles!”

  That’s what Norman said on the INSIDE.

  On the OUTSIDE he said, “How about meatloaf tomorrow night for dinner?”

  “I’ll consider it, Norman.” Mrs. Babbit inspected the bedroom with her eyes; then her nose, “Don’t you ever clean this room? It smells like bird in here.”

  “That’s because of my roommate.” Norman backed up his data and switched off the computer. Luigi hop-fluttered to his shoulder.

  “You should keep that bird in the garage. Maybe then your room would be halfway decent and sanitary and…” She stopped speaking and looked at Norman. “I’m sorry Norman. I came in here to see if I could help you and I’m picking on you. Is there anything, besides meatloaf, that I could do for you?”

  “Answer one question for me?”

  “Just one?”

  “A big one.” Norman cleared his throat. “What was dad like?”

  Mrs. Babbit sat silent, almost stunned, for a moment. “Your father, Norman, was different. He was probably the most intelligent man, person, I’ve ever known. He could have taught in any university if he chose to. But instead he did construction work. He built houses and apartments. He could have designed them, but he pounded nails and hung sheet rock and….I was always puzzled and slightly disappointed that he didn’t pursue an academic career.”