Schooled: Chapters 25–31

The rumors were beyond nuts. Cap’s in the hospital. . . He’s in the morgue. . .He’s in a persistent vegetative state. . . He’s suffering from amnesia . . . He’s upside down in a fish tank. . .

I’d lost all respect for the intelligence level in this place.

Naomi cut me dead with a flamethrower glare. “You never liked him! You tried to make a fool of him!”

“Some of us appreciate how he devoted his heart and soul to the school.”

Eleven hundred kids were absolutely convinced that the eighth grade president had come to tragedy.

Even sixth graders felt they had the right to scowl in my direction.

Instead of gloating, he actually seemed to understand.

A TRIBUTE TO CAP ANDERSON
Pay Your Respects to The Best 8th Grade President Ever
Saturday, 7 p.m.
(The Time Of The Halloween Dance He Never Got To Give Us)
In The Parking Lot
DO NOT SHOW TO ANY TEACHERS!

She was always nagging people to face reality, even me.

It made no sense that she’d go through an elaborate ruse to trick me into believing that he’d followed through on his promise.

That engraved bangle wasn’t from Dad or Mother! All You Need Is Love? There was only one person who could have come up with that inscription.

I had never said a civil word to Capricorn Anderson. From the day he’d first set foot in our house, I’d declared war on the poor kid. I’d called him freakazoid, poured water on him, and never missed a chance to point out what a loser he was. And he’d responded by doing the most wonderful thing anyone had ever done for me.

It was crowded, noisy, obnoxious, and even scary. But it had its own rhythm and urgency and life.

But the quiet, the dull beiges and greens, the familiar farm chores, the complete lack of other people—this used to be my life; it used to be enough. Before.

“Cap, when you left that school, that was the end. And a good thing too. You were only there for a couple of months, and see how much you’ve changed: you talk about television programs and waste your time staring at silly yearbooks. Thank goodness I was able to take you away before the contamination got any worse.”

Yet the more I talked about my experiences of the past eight weeks, the more upset she got. Not angry—that would be a sign of spiritual imbalance. Just really, really worried.

“You’re crazy,” she scoffed. “No taxi driver would take a check. And even if he did, how were you planning to get home?”

Sophie AWOL, the school in turmoil, rumors Cap was dead. What was going on here?

In the great encyclopedia of history, if you look up mass stupidity, this was the picture you’d see: eleven hundred kids dressed as hippies, crammed belly to belly in a parking lot, having a candlelight memorial for someone who was probably just fine.

Hundreds of tiny flames glowing orange in the dark just screamed mourning. Dull flickering shadows reflected off somber faces.

I’d spent most of my life either afraid of him, jealous of him, or just hanging there while he stretched the waistband of my underwear over a parking meter.

A lot more than just my conscience was suffering. I was kicked out of the chess club for good. I had a month of detentions and a black mark on my permanent record.

And how’s this for ironic: the only way to avoid being branded Cap’s backstabber was to get myself embroiled in yet another scheme with the same Zach Powers.

“I was mean to Cap because I thought it would get me what I wanted. Then I started watching him. He showed me a whole different way to be. How to be sensitive and generous—and not just so people will say thank you, but because it’s right.”

We lived in constant terror of letting slip some personal or embarrassing detail.

We went to incredible lengths to avoid looking vulnerable or uncool.

And suddenly, right in front of me, was a golden opportunity to paint myself with the Cap Anderson brush that would make me A-OK too.

Eleven hundred faces peered earnestly up at me. This was no time to be timid. If I was going to do this, I had to let it all hang out.

They went berserk, hugging Cap and shrieking with joy.

Finally, the tumult died away, and an expectant silence covered the crowd.

Stunned disbelief was the only way to describe her reaction to the sight of Cap on the receiving end of all that love.

It was the moment on the field when you realize that you’re completely, hopelessly outclassed. When I looked at the hairball on the payload, I didn’t see the eighth grade president; I saw the Super Bowl champions. There was no defeating a kid who could memorize an entire school.

Navigating all those outstretched arms was like plowing through a field of bamboo.

“I remember your brand of education! None of us had the faintest idea how to survive in the real world! I was lucky—I had parents. Who’s Cap going to turn to? You won’t live forever, you know....”

I spun around like a victim of amnesia, desperately searching the parking lot for a glimpse of something—anything—that made sense.

“I used to think change was a choice. That you could avoid it if you stuck with your convictions. Now—” She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

I didn’t regret my time in real school. I learned a lot—like when you have a checking account, your money is separate from all the other money in the bank. And when you write a check, the number you put in the little box gets subtracted from what you have. I learned that you can’t fix a china figurine with duct tape because it doesn’t look right. And I learned a new vocabulary word: klutz.

I was distraught. This went against everything I’d been taught to believe in. She was taking the entire Garland value system and junking it! I understood that she had the legal right to sell it; what I didn’t understand was—“Why?”

We’re rich. But don’t worry. We’re not turning our backs on what Garland represents. With this money, we can accomplish more than we could by living there for a thousand years.

I see a charitable foundation—the Garland Foundation, maybe. The sixties may be over, but the spirit is stronger than ever.