The Swiss Pencil
Floating weightless outside the pod, maneuvering himself toward the station’s belly, he looked out through the face of his helmet at the video impossibly stretching across this surface of the large white wheel rotating before him. To his left, the moon loomed large, a bright silver disk etched across the blackness of space. Barack Obama, whose image stretched before him, spoke before a dozen microphones. Past the station, Earth, with its blue waters and brown land masses and swirling white clouds, pulsed out its information, its endless drone of self-absorbed messages, impossible to escape even up here. Feeling how Ronald McNair may have felt, blazing more of the trail of African American contributions to Man’s great accomplishments, he focused his gaze on the president’s face. “My job,” the president said, “is to follow this thing closely so that I know whose asses I need to kick.”
280 miles below, Eddie James, suspended in a vacuum of his own somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, felt for an uneasy moment that his posterior could be the target of this presidential ass kicking. Then the voice of a radio announcer came into his head, and he jolted awake. The clock radio on his nightstand, spouting the latest news about the BP oil disaster and botched efforts to fix the mess, announced in red numerals that the time was 7:32.
7:32?! How on earth (he chuckled at this choice of words, recalling his dream) could he have slept this long through the alarm? Cursing, he threw on the clothes he wore yesterday, and he cursed again when he looked in the mirror and remembered the cherry Slurpee stain on his white tee shirt. In a flash, the shirt was in a ball on the side of his bed, a new one on, and, shoelaces untied, he was out the door sprinting to catch the bus. Today was the day of The Test. The SAT. Why it had to be given at 8:30 on a Saturday morning was beyond him. SAT, for Saturday, he mused. Anything to get America’s youth out of bed early on a Saturday morning.
Until a week and a half ago, the test was the farthest thing from his mind. None of his homies was taking it. To them, the SAT was for Whitey Wannabees looking for four or more additional years of brainwashing and stalling. “I think I’ll pass,” he said aloud when he heard the test date announced at school, a sentiment he felt certain about until a week ago. Make that ten days ago.
Ten days ago. That was when he met her. Talk about falling! Louise Parker was so beautiful, Eddie forgot his own name. “Louis,” he told her. F’n Louis! The last time he even heard that name spoken was when Granny was alive. “My Louis,” she used to call him. “My scholar.”
But that was then and this was now. He hadn’t even cracked a book for the past year. And now, because Louise Parker was taking the SAT, he was running down Plummer at 7:40 in the morning on a Saturday to catch a bus so he could be late to take a test that he didn’t care about anyway.
And he didn’t even have a pencil. He recalled what Doc Belson said about materials: “The only thing you need to bring is a number two pencil. And that you must have, because they don’t provide them and you won’t be able to talk to anybody. And don’t be late,” he warned. “Louis,” the counselor had added with a chuckle. Eddie had left the office not believing he’d told Belson that embarrassing detail about his encounter with Louise.
He searched the ground as he ran to the bus stop, scanned the area of the stop and the floor and seats as he made his way to the rear of the bus. No pencil. Now he was wishing he had taken hers when she offered it. It was a classy looking instrument, and a great conversation piece, although anything would have served the purpose on that memorable Wednesday. It was easy to talk to her, so natural it all still seemed a dream. Louise Selma Parker was quality, all right, far beyond anything, anyone he thought he’d ever have look at him twice, and he felt something he never felt before when their eyes met a week and a half ago in the gym. A week and a half? Feels like a minute.
And it feels like a lifetime.
He was at an auditorium call for juniors and seniors designed to sell them on college. A senior, Eddie heard it all before, and he almost got TJ to ditch fourth period so they could make it a long lunch, maybe kick it at Mickey Dee’s or surprise Filo at Jim’s Tire Man during his lunch break. But Eddie was flat broke and so was TJ, so he figured not to risk the ditch and just suffer through it all again. He decided to skip the college scene altogether just under a year ago, after Granny died.
Granny’s funeral was a very small affair paid for with her meager savings, and it happened on the day of the SAT. He signed up to take it then, but he wasn’t going to let Granny go without watching her go, even if she was already in the coffin. He stayed on after the preacher and the Gonzalezes, Granny’s neighbor couple and the only other attendants besides himself, had left the cemetery. It was almost dark when he bloodied his fists on the tree by her grave. Then he wept, and he continued to weep long after darkness covered all.
After that he was just sad and angry, but mostly angry. He got into a few fights, hurt one kid pretty bad, and was placed on probation. Afterwards he was often singled out by the police and patted down for drugs or weapons or whatever else they thought they might find.
What Eddie did not know was that Doc Belson had tipped off his brother, an LAPD sergeant who watched over Eddie’s little corner of the world.
“Look out for this kid,” Dr. Belson said, showing his brother Eddie’s picture on the computer screen during one of Julian’s visits to the school. “He’s got a future, and I don’t want him blowing it with some stupid felony. Kid’ll be eighteen in June. Very bright. If he’d grown up under different circumstances he’d probably be a junior in college right now.”
“What are his circumstances?” the sergeant asked.
“He never knew his folks. According to his grandmother, his mom left him in the park when he was less than a week old. His grandmother, an addict like her daughter, hunted him down after she went clean in ’05. Took her over a year of searching, but she found him. She told him both his parents were dead,” the counselor said, “and, if they’re not, they may as well be. Now she’s dead, too. I got him into Rancho.”
“Yet another angry black kid, probably lookin’ to get killed,” said the cop, shaking his head.
“I don’t know about that,” said the counselor, “but I do know that the anger is probably warranted. His grandmother was the only person who ever showed him real love, gave him a small piece of normalcy for four years, and she died during a routine cholecystectomy at West Hills. He thinks it was negligence, and frankly so do I, but he’s getting stonewalled by the hospital administration and can’t afford a lawyer.”
“Too bad. Can’t help him there, but we’ll watch him,” Julian said.
Back in the gym, Eddie was zoning out to the voice of a female counselor going over the details of the upcoming Scholastic Aptitude Test. He scanned the students, affirming that most, like him, didn’t give a damn, either surreptitiously listening to their iPods or texting friends under their purses and backpacks. Then he noticed her, this girl studiously taking notes on a small pad and listening intently to the facts about the test. She was in the class that sat next to his, Mr. Rubalcava’s, six people down and one row back. As if on cue, she looked back at him, and her eyes were the most amazing things he had ever seen. The two stared, he transfixed, she spellbinding. Then she smiled, and now that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
If she had been just another pretty face, he’d have climbed up right next to her and started jabbering. She wasn’t, and he didn’t. At this point he wasn’t even positive she was all that good looking, all around. But there was no way he was going to stare. He knew her eyes, instantly it seemed, and they were all he felt he needed to know, could handle knowing, for now.
Still, he checked her out when the classes were dismissed from the gymnasium, from every angle he could, without her noticing. He couldn’t face those eyes again and remain cool. He hung back, letting people rush past him on their way to lunch, the wooden bleachers clamoring beneath the pounding of hundreds of hurrying feet. Then she passed, down the aisle to his right. From the side and rear views he remained impressed. She would definitely pass on the body standard, might even meet the approval of the self-appointed babe connoisseur himself, TJ, self-dubbed Sir Terence the Almighty.
So now he just needed to meet her, which could be a problem. He didn’t know much about her. She was in Rubalcava’s class, so she must be a junior. Rubalcava taught AP fourth period, so she was smart. She was taller than most of the boys around her, which was good for him, as he was 6’2” and still growing. Still, he needed more info, but he didn’t know where to begin to get it.
“James, you making it your personal mission to be the last in the gym,” bellowed the voice of Eddie’s favorite counselor, “or does Coach Cronin have you counting bleacher seats?” Coach Cronin, a blistery heavy-set white guy in his sixties, was known for making kids count bleacher seats when he caught them screwing around. The inexact science of counting “seats” on a series of straight boards was part of the coach’s sadistic idea of a punishment.
When Granny died, Eddie was reduced to just two of his names, Eddie and James—James to Doc Belson or the police, and Eddie to everyone else. He figured that “Louis” was probably gone forever, except on his driver’s license: Louis Edward James, 21000 Plummer St., Chatsworth, CA 91311. Sex: M; Hair: Brn; Eyes: Brn; Ht: 6-1; Wt. 170; DOB 05-30-92.
“Doc! Hey, man, you gotta help me,” he said to the counselor, the only person now left in the gym besides himself.
“How about ‘Good morning, Dr. Belson. Good to see you, sir.’” Then the counselor extended his hand in polite example of what he called “proper high school decorum.”
“Good morning, Dr. Belson,” he followed, with passable sincerity. “It is good to see you, sir, because I could really use your help,” Eddie told him, shaking the counselor’s hand vigorously.
“And for what would that be? Not a letter of commendation to the California Youth Authority, I hope?” Belson quipped, reminding Eddie of his serious displeasure with Eddie’s rap sheet.
“No, sir. But thank you, sir,” he returned, ignoring the jab. “I’ll remember that in case I ever need one. Actually, I’m rethinking the SAT. Can I still take it?”
“You playing me, James?”
“Serious as a heart attack, Dr. B. The lady did say juniors and seniors, right?”
“Right. But you must have missed that sign-ups have been closed since March 15.”
“Really?” said Eddy, greatly disappointed. “So, nuthin’ this fool can do to take their damned test, huh?”
“James, did you actually mean to go urban uneducated vulgar in your speech, or have you merely temporarily forgotten who you’re speaking to?”
“Uh,” Eddie said after a slight pause, looking sheepish. “With due respect, sir, isn’t it ‘whom?’”
“Come again?”
“Wouldn’t the correct form be ‘Have you merely temporarily forgotten with whom it is you are speaking?’ Sir?” Eddie said, deadpan, his head down as a show of respect, but unable to keep from grinning when their eyes met again. Belson’s mouth hung open, half in smile, half in disbelief.
“Son of a gun,” sang the counselor. “You not only got me on the objective pronoun, you even got me on the position of the preposition.” Then the counselor looked him straight in the eye. “You serious about this test, James? What’s changed your mind all of a sudden?”
“I’ll tell you all about it after school, Doc,” Eddie said, returning to his old self. “So, can I take it?” he asked, knowing that if there were a way, the Doc would find it.
“Maybe. See me first thing in the morning. I have to leave early today.”
“You’re a prince, Doc,” he said, leaving Dr. Belson standing there looking after him. He exited the gym and strolled out into the bright daylight.
His eyes were adjusting and then there she was, on the quad, sitting by herself, eating an orange, watching him coming out of the gym. He squinted into the sunlight, looking at her watching him. Then she smiled. Even though she was still a girl, her smile was that of a woman. Not just a work of art, a masterpiece. The kind of smile that invited you to jump up on its ledge and sit there awhile to enjoy gazing at the world from its startling point of view. A thousand ships smile. And it was looking like it was meant for him, so naturally, he returned it.
Her eyes invited him over, the very same eyes that captivated him in the gym. The invitation was more explicit than if she had waved him over, and far more seductive. The feeling was hard to explain. It was as though he was reading the book of his life and living it at the same time. And this beautiful girl was the author, the best one he’d read in a long while. Perhaps ever. His life suddenly became a mystery again.
He walked toward her feeling pretty sure of himself. Louis Edward James, a boy soon to become a man. A man with a woman. Complete.
She spoke first.
“Hello.” It was just one word, but the tone beneath the greeting said much more. It told him she’d been waiting for him, and now he was here, and it was good that he was here. Good for her and good for him.