Chapter 2

Okay, last day of school. The morning flies by quickly. Everyone buzzes and gossips about their summer plans. I don’t say much, but everyone already knows my plans because it’s all I can talk about. I’m going to be a pirate in Peter Pan!

I’m standing at the drinking fountain at school, thinking about it. A strong arc of water emerges from the spout. The pressure is just right: not too high, not too low. I put my lips to it and take a refreshing sip. As usual, it is ice cold — the coldest water in the whole school. I have frequently gone out of my way to quench my thirst from this bubbler. I take a couple of slurps, raise my chin, and wipe the dribbles off my mouth. I tick this off my mental checklist: Last drink from this fountain — check! ... Last walk down this hallway — check! ... Last lunch in the cafeteria — check!

I have put a mark next to item after item today. My last math class, my last recess, my last trip to the restroom — check, check, and check. Next year, I will start a new checklist: my first Algebra class. My first lunch in the new cafeteria. My first P.E. class. And so on and so forth … I can’t wait. The guidance counselor told me last week that I would be taking some advanced classes. The subjects sound interesting — American Literature, World History, Space & the Universe. I’ll also get to take electives in subjects I enjoy — Jazz Band, French, and Forensics. I hope I’ll get good grades. Teachers have always called me a smart guy — top of the class!

I take another sip from the fountain.

My mouth suddenly hits the spout as someone behind me slaps my head.

“Drink up, wuss!”

I cringe and turn around. It’s Doug Walters. What does this dumbass want? I was hoping that the day would go by without him messing with me. But I guessed wrong. Last time Doug bullies me? Check — I hope.

He looks up and down the hallway to make sure no teachers could see us. He shoves the sleeves of his oversized red flannel shirt up over his elbows. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes. He is tall and gangly, looking like a tree without leaves. He towers over me, but then everyone towers over me.

“Hey, Doug,” I say as I run my hand over my lips. No blood, but there’s gonna be some swelling. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Riley,” he says with a tone of snark. “I just wanted to say, so long, it’s been good to know you!

He holds out his hand. I look down at it and look back up at his face.

“Are you going to break out in song?” I ask as I grasp his outstretched hand. Why is he being so friendly? Doug usually wastes no time letting me know what he thinks of me. He always picks on me, teases me, and bullies me. One time, he stuck his foot out in the cafeteria. It caught me in mid-stride, and I crashed to the floor, spilled my food, and made a huge mess.

“Did you have a nice trip, wimp?” he teased as everyone laughed.

He once caught me in the restroom and shoved my face into a flushing toilet.

“How do you like that swirling whirly, shrimp?” he jeered. “That’ll teach you not to peek while I’m peeing, you perv.”

Of course, I had not been perving on him. Luckily, my face didn’t hit the water.

And just yesterday, the worst thing happened. At an awards assembly, I was called to the front to get a ribbon for reading more books than anyone else at school. Doug was sitting in an aisle seat, and as I passed him, he yanked my running shorts down. My face turned as red as the new underwear I had on (Jockey briefs — the kind Jim Palmer wears). Everyone who saw the deed laughed.

Doug has also tried to copy off of my test papers. He has managed to sit next to me on exam days. To keep the peace, I have let him see a few answers. Teachers have always caught him, though.

“Eyes on your own paper, Douglas,” they say.

He used those occasions to flick my ear or kick me under the table. For some reason, he is always onto me. I must hold a special place in his tiny, little heart. He has punched, slugged, slapped, tripped, and kicked me — it’s annoying as hell, and I’m a little bit scared of him. But I’ll never let him know that. I wonder what he was up to now. His bony fingers wrap around my entire hand, and he squeezes it — hard. I am in agony, but I don’t let on. I grit my teeth.

“I want to thank you for all the times you got me in trouble,” he says.

He twists my hand backward, causing me to bend forward.

“Thanks for being the class smarty-pants, pal,” he says.

He puts his left arm against my chest.

“Thanks for being the teacher’s ‘shining example’ of a good student, pal,” he says.

He slams me against the wall.

“You think you know so much more than the rest of us,” he says.

Doug seems to have a problem with my intellect. I am the smartest kid in class. I ace all my tests. But I don’t make a huge deal about it.

“Hmm,” I say. I look down at our hands. He is holding mine as tight as he can. “Are you queer for me or something, Dougie? I’m sorry, but I don’t like you that way.”

Walters lets go of my hand and shoves me against the wall again.

“Shut up, asshole,” he says.

I cock my head and shrug my shoulders. He swings back as if he were about to hit me. I put my fists up in an attempt to fight him off. I know better, though. He is bigger and stronger. He has slugged me several times before, and I can’t do anything about it. I prepare myself for the punch. 

Another kid storms up and knocks Doug away from me.

“Knock it off, or I’ll knock your block off, Walters!”

It’s Kendall, my best friend.

“What’s the matter, Settler? Am I picking on your boyfriend?”

“Fuck you,” Kendall says. “Get out of here!”

Doug walks backward away from us. He flips us off with both hands. We watch as he stumbles into a pack of girls. One of them drops her books. He spins around, and they all take turns slapping him and calling him an asshole and a loser. 

“Are you okay?” Kendall asks as we look away.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, shaking my hand to get the blood flowing again.

“Do you need me to knock his block off — just to set him straight?”

“Hah, no,” I say. “C’mon, let’s get to class.”

We enter the classroom, and Miss Palomar, our homeroom teacher, is leaning on her desk.

“All right,” she says. “Welcome back. How was lunch?”

My classmates give our teacher various answers.

“Good.” “Okay.” “Pizza! Yum.”

“Nice!” she says. “All right, we had some fun this morning, writing about our summer plans. Let me read you a few of them. … Ah, here’s one.”

She shuffles through the papers and picks one out. She reads:

“Ahoy, me hearties! Let me tell you a tale — a tale of adventure and derring-do! In the summer of ’79, I will take to the seas and be “cast” away in a play — as a pirate of Neverland. Oh, a pirate’s life is a wonderful life! Yo-ho-ho, hee-hee!

She looks up, and her eyes dart to mine. My classmates groan. I slink down in my seat. She is reading mine, and everyone knows it’s mine because all I can talk about these days is being in the community theater production of Peter Pan! Mr. Gibson, the theater director, has already said he will cast me as a pirate. If I have a good audition, I may even get to play Captain Hook!

She keeps reading …

When I am back on land, I will head into the wilderness. I will pitch my tent and watch the sky, searching for “the second star to the right and on until morning.” My mates and I will go swimming at the dam. (I hope we don’t encounter any crocodiles! Tick-tock!) We will ride the wind on our bikes, play the sportiest of games, and do, oh, so much more!”

She puts the paper down and shuffles the papers to find another essay.

“Short and sweet,” she says as she looks at me again. Is she talking about my paper or about me?

As Miss Palomar reads the plans of some other classmates, I look around at them.

In the front row is Kendall. He didn’t choose to sit there; Miss Palomar put him there so she could keep a better eye on him. He likes to talk during class, make jokes, and generally cause distractions.

Mindy Graham sits behind him. Last year, she claimed me as her boyfriend for about a week, before dumping me for Wesley Hess. Wesley is seated beside her, looking as smug as ever. He thinks he is so smart. We are archenemies. We compete against each other in getting high scores on tests. I usually get the better grade. It pisses him off. Ha-ha!

Sitting on the other side of Mindy is Paige Whitson, who was my science lab partner earlier this year. That was a fun time. I wonder if we can get together this summer. But having a girlfriend will interfere with my far-out summer plans! So, I don’t know … She and Mindy look at me, cover their mouths, and whisper something to each other. Then they giggle. That makes me nervous. Why do girls do that? Make me nervous, I mean. They didn’t used to do that. I didn’t used to feel nervous around girls.

And right beside me is Doug Walters. He is sprawled out on his desk, his head in his arms. I think he’s asleep.

The afternoon wears on. We spend it throwing away tattered spiral notebooks that had smashed spines, scribbled-on papers, old tests, pencil stubs, eraser nubs, and all the other junk that we had crammed into our desks. My backpack is stuffed with found treasures, including a protractor and compass, a box of crayons, an unused pencil box, a baseball trading card, and a small Slinky — things that I thought I had lost long ago.

For the millionth time, I look at the face of the clock above Miss Palomar’s desk. Under my desk, my foot bounces to the tempo of the ticking. Oh, I wish I had the superpower to speed it up. We are going to be released early — at 3:12 p.m. Why they picked that time, I’ll never know. But it’s getting close! My eyes wander down to the face of Miss Palomar. She is staring back at me. Perhaps knowing that her time is running out and that she will no longer be able to advise us, she has some final words of inspiration. She stands in front of her desk and leans against it.

“In these last few moments together, I want to leave you with these words: ‘Keep your eyes on the stars but remember to keep your feet on the ground,’” she says. “Do any of you know who said that?”

“Casey Kasem! He says it every week on American Top 40.” Paige says.

Miss Palomar blinks a few times as she tries to figure out what Paige means. Then it comes to her.

“Oh! Good answer, Paige,” she responds. “But, Casey Kasem says, ‘Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars.’ It’s a twist on the words originally uttered by President Theodore Roosevelt more than 100 years ago, and they are still important words. He added, ‘Live up to a high ideal. Have ideals that you can reach. Never fall short of what you actually can do.’

“So, boys and girls — I mean, young men and young women — I want you all to embrace high ideals. You should set goals that may appear as lofty as the stars in the sky. However, as you pursue those stars, don’t overlook the opportunities that may arise to assist you in achieving those goals. These opportunities might cause you to stumble. They might divert your focus to more mundane matters. But the stars are always up there, waiting for you.

“Always look up, but it’s okay to trip now and then. Know your strengths and your passions — and your limitations. Make bold choices, seek great adventures. Make your dreams and wishes come true. But also, be faithful and factual to the truth about you. Some of you will be rich; some of you will not be. Some of you will be great athletes; most of you will not be.”

Kendall, who is a jock, sits up and flexes his muscles. Everyone laughs. Miss Palomar, smiling, shakes her head and continues.

“Some of you will make startling discoveries about the world — and all of you will discover things about yourselves. But the most important thing you can be is a true, honest person and a friend to all you meet. Help others attain their goals. Pick someone up who has stumbled. … Be somebody’s hero!”

Just then, the bell rings. We whoop and holler as we dash out of the classroom for the last time. Miss Palomar, who had guided us for the past year, smiles at us and watches us leave. She has one last bit of instruction: “Be extraordinary!”

As I reach the door, I put my hand on the frame. I turn and give her a wave. She waves back. I’m going to miss her.