Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 12

"Your sister?"

"You know, Mildred."

"Mrs. Romberger is your sister?"

"Why, yes. Hasn't she ever told you that? That's how I knew you were working so hard on your research all year-she is really impressed with you. It's also how I know what happened with you last night. San, what are you going to do now that your cover is, as they say, blown?"

"I don't know, Mr. Dowd. I'm just going to try to be honest, I guess. And I'll try to be wiser about things."

"Wiser? But after all the studying time you've put in the last few months, aren't you wise already?"

"Mr. Dowd, no offense, but I think I know less now than I did when I started."

His eyes lit up with the full power of the famous Dowd twinkle. "Then you're wiser than you think. Now get out of here. Go home! By the way, you might want to put some ice on that nose before you go to bed tonight."

I got out of there. I went home. And Dowd was right: I did want to put some ice on my nose. Mom flipped when she saw it, and I responded by telling her the truth about how the whole thing had happened. Which led to a lot of other confessions from me. Yikes! It was almost like Sister Mary Clare, in one mopping session, had somehow turned me Catholic. But really, this was just me catching up on a season's worth of honesty.

It felt kind of good.

The next several weeks at school were hard. Spring came roaring back, and every day was beautiful-which somehow made my outcast status even more painful. I'd be looking out the window in Dowd's cla.s.s, and there would be bluebirds singing on every branch of the tree over my rock. So I'd almost start feeling cheerful. But when I looked around the room, Woody would be totally ignoring me. Even Peter was pretending I didn't exist.

If I were them, I wouldn't forgive me either.

But as the weeks dragged on toward eighth grade graduation, my outsider status did allow me to observe some very interesting things. I sometimes had the feeling that I had started a wave. The wave had broken over me, but was still rolling, and carrying other people along. A few scenes: It's English cla.s.s. We're picking up with Henry David Th.o.r.eau again; English Teacher still has her little social studies tie-in going on. She writes a Th.o.r.eau quote on the board: "The squirrel that you kill in jest, dies in earnest." A tiny, quiet girl who's also in my Dowd cla.s.s says, "I know what that means! It means that we should respect every life the way we respect our own. Like the other day, there was this huge stink bug in my kitchen. My mom wanted to smush it, but I caught it and let it go outside." A lot of kids say, "Eww! Gross!" But English Teacher smiles.

It's gym. We're outside playing baseball. Mike is trying to teach some really spastic kid how to pitch. The kid says, "I suck at this. I couldn't throw a strike if home plate was ten feet wide." Mike says, "Form is all that matters." The kid says, "What are you talking about? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Mike grabs the ball out of his hand, steps on the mound, winds up, turns, and hurls it about a mile into the stands. The kid is standing there, speechless, as Mike says, "Who cares where the ball goes?"

It's lunch. Woody sits down with her guitar in her usual spot by the food line. The guitar looks different somehow. It hits me: The Woody Guthrie words have been removed. She plays the Beatles song "With a Little Help from My Friends." People are murmuring and looking over at her when the music ends. She smiles, nods, and breaks into a Nirvana tune called "All Apologies." After that, people start applauding. She nods again, and strums the beginning to Green Day's "Time of Your Life (Good Riddance)." At the end of that one, someone shouts out, "GO, WOODY!" She yells back, "My name is Emily." Then she starts playing "Hard Travelin'," and looks in my general direction. Not right at me, but it's a start.

Maybe.

It's after school, about three days before graduation. Little Justin is sitting on my rock with his legs crossed. A s.p.u.n.ky-looking girl with spiked hair climbs up and sits next to him. They look at each other like they're alone together on an island paradise somewhere. I wish them luck. I know how hard it is to keep one of those things afloat.

It's graduation rehearsal. We're walking in two by two, like animals on Noah's Ark. My usual partner is absent, so the girl behind her steps up. Surprise! It's Woody-as if I haven't been trying all week not to look back at her when we're in line, and across at her when we're in our seats. A teacher stops us suddenly, and I b.u.mp elbows with her. Instinctively, I say, "Excuse me." She looks right in my eyes and says, "Not yet."

It's graduation day, my last time at my locker. I spin the combo, take the lock off, put it in my backpack. I grab out what's left in the locker: my English journal, a half-empty pack of gum. Then I see a sc.r.a.p of paper sticking partway out of one of the little vent slits in the door. It's one last note from Dowd: WHEN THE WAY COMES TO AN END, THEN CHANGE-HAVING CHANGED, YOU Pa.s.s THROUGH.I CHING Underneath the quote, there's a handwritten message. All it says is, "Go see my sister."

I do.

wash your bowl some more

It's summertime, evening. I'm working alone was.h.i.+ng dishes at the soup kitchen. I've been doing this three nights a week since school let out. I've also been volunteering at the library every weekday. Mildred hooked me up. And they're even going to start paying me once school starts. Mom is pretty psyched.

Oh, I forgot to tell you: It's Wednesday. I'm about a third of the way through the meal, and the trays are stacking up. I've gotten faster at this than I could have imagined, but still, some help would be nice. Out of the blue, Woody is next to me. She's wearing jeans shorts and a gray s.h.i.+rt that matches her eyes. She's beautiful. I mean, she's still beautiful. She's always beautiful.

For what seems like an hour, Woody looks at me and I look at her. I can't read her expression at all. Is she furious? Ecstatic? Madly in love with me? I have no clue. I just know I want everything to be right again. No, not again-things were never truly right before, but I want to do everything right from now on.

Clang! The stalemate is broken by commotion as a tray full of silverware slams into the end of the conveyor belt. Woody says, "Move over," and starts pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

I say, "Listen, I didn't mean to-"

"Shut up."

"No, I mean, I never thought I'd-"

"Hush."

"Emily," I say. "Emily, I'm sorry."

"I know. Now move over."

And just like that we're dish partners again.

When the last tray is drying and we're up on our old counter, I turn to her and say, "I really am sorry. But I've changed. I swear."

She slides sideways until our hips are touching. "Are you? Have you? Do you?"

"I am. I have. I do."

"Good. Now, about those earthly attachments..."

having changed, you pa.s.s through

It's the end of the summer, and I'm brus.h.i.+ng my teeth before bed, looking in the mirror. High school starts tomorrow. Yikes! High school. I don't know what cla.s.ses I'll like. I don't know what clubs I'll join (although I'm thinking I might go out for basketball). I only know one person I'll be hanging out with. But maybe that's enough. I really think I'll be OK.

No, I know I'll be OK.

Trust me.

a quick word from the author: If you are interested in learning more about the theory and practice of Zen, you might want to start where I did, with a charming book called The Little Zen Companion The Little Zen Companion, by David Schiller. Many of the quotations in my book may be found collected in Mr. Schiller's fascinating work. Of course you can't really become a Zen pract.i.tioner by reading a book, but reading up on the subject will certainly give you a lot of food for thought.

-J.S.