Schooled by Gordon Korman
I asked Cap about it.
“It’s tai chi,” he explained. “It develops balance through a blending of mental and physical energy.”
“Yeah, but why are you doing it here, where everybody can see you?” Zach demanded.
“Because if I do it where I live, somebody pours water on me.”
You could depend on that kind of comment from Cap. It might have made sense, but only to him.
The whole thing was really starting to get on Zach’s nerves. “I’m going to break this kid if it’s the last thing I do.”
I had to speak up. “Is this really necessary? Can’t we just switch to Winkleman or something?”
“Winkleman isn’t president,” Zach insisted. “It’s too late to go back and change that.”
Anger didn’t suit Zach. His jaw was stuck out, his skin flushed and taut. This wasn’t the future boyfriend I’d always envisioned.
“We’re eighth graders,” he went on. “This is supposed to be our year. I’m not going to give that up because some hairy Sasquatch stepped through a time warp from the sixties!”
We went to see Lena. She was the authority when it came to spreading the word. And what Zach had in mind amounted to calling the entire eighth grade down on Cap.
He was not to walk through a crowded hall without his feet being kicked out from under him. The cafeteria line was to become an obstacle course of tripping legs. He would be a living, breathing bull’s-eye for spitballs, rubber bands, apple cores, and flying soup. It was open season on the eighth grade president, especially on the school bus, where there were no teachers, and the only rule is anything goes.
Cap’s reaction? He floated through it all like he didn’t even notice anyone was messing with him. No, it went beyond that—he didn’t notice anyone was messing with him! He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t look unhappy either.
And here’s the part I’d never admit to anyone, certainly not Zach: deep, deep down, I was rooting for Cap to stick it back in all our faces. For sure we deserved it.
Especially me, because I was starting to know better.
11
NAME: HUGH WINKLEMAN
This was shaping up into the greatest school year ever. True, my grades were no better than usual (straight A’s), and I still couldn’t climb the ropes in the gym. I was laying waste to the competition in the chess club, but that always happened. I wasn’t popular, or even borderline acceptable.
But I had something going for me that was pure gold.
I was anonymous.
That may not sound like much. But to me, it was my birthday, Christmas, and the Fourth of July all wrapped into one.
No longer did I feel the ridiculing eyes boring into me as I walked the halls of C Average. Those eyes bored elsewhere. No longer did I have to watch my step for the feet that would trip or kick me. Those feet were otherwise engaged. I could barely remember my last wedgie.
And it was all thanks to Cap Anderson.
I liked Cap. Really, I did. But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that the best thing about him was the fact that he took the heat off me. I was allowed to live because the pack was in full cry after him.
So I was happy, but also guilty for being happy. And the happier I got, the more the guilt spoiled my happiness.
Of all the guff I’d taken from Zach Powers over the years, this had to be the worst—that I was feeling bad for something he was doing. My only crime was benefiting from it. It wasn’t like I could have helped Cap. If I had the power to control Zach, Lena, Darryl, and those vipers, then I wouldn’t be a victim. Victims have no power. That’s what makes us victims.
Anyway, this had gone far beyond just Zach’s crew. It was the Luke Simard thing all over again. A wide-scale war of little attacks on Cap.
The school bus was the bloodiest battlefield. In the building itself, there was a degree of order because there were teachers around. But on the bus the only authority was the driver, Mr. Rodrigo, and he wasn’t exactly the kind of deputy you listen to. He was older, and standoffish. He kept his eyes on the road, because if he checked the mirror, he might see something. We could have held a luau on that bus, with a roast pig and hula dancers, and he would have been none the wiser.
The first projectile came sailing up the aisle, spinning like a miniature torch. The Winkleman Encyclopedia of Bullying Techniques identified it instantly. A bunch of jerks at the back were flicking lit matches at Cap.
I brushed it from the seat, genuinely alarmed. This may have been business as usual in my life, but I had short hair. Cap’s flyaway mop was a forest fire waiting to happen.
Another flickering shot bounced off the armrest and extinguished itself on the floor. “Cap,” I whispered urgently. “Duck.”
He looked up, mystified. “Why?”
And at that very instant, Mr. Rodrigo let out a loud groan, clutched his chest, and toppled out of his seat.
The raucous clamor of the bus died as if someone had pulled the plug. Was Mr. Rodrigo having a heart attack?
We were so frozen with shock, nobody noticed that the bus was moving, inching forward into oncoming traffic.
“Hey!” Cap shoved me out of the way and hit the floor running. He leaped over Mr. Rodrigo’s still form and landed in the driver’s seat, stomping on the accelerator. With a roar of the big motor, the bus lurched through the intersection, missing a dump truck by inches.
“Where’s the hospital?” Cap barked over his shoulder.
We all sat there like dummies, scared out of our wits.
“The hospital!” Cap repeated. “Now!”
Suddenly, Naomi was sprinting up the aisle. “Turn here!”
It took all Cap’s wingspan to move the huge steering wheel, swinging the bus into a tight right and speeding off down the street.
I found my voice at last. “But, Cap—you can’t drive a bus!” Which was maybe the stupidest remark that could have been made. Because that’s exactly what he was doing.
He shifted gears and we picked up speed. What a sight we must have been—a giant, speeding yellow school bus, weaving in and out of traffic, horn blasting.
“Turn left!” bawled Naomi.
Cap heaved on the wheel. The front tires bounced over a low concrete median, jostling passengers and rattling windows. A painful screech of metal on cement raked our ears as the chassis bottomed out. I thought we were hung up for sure, but the bus sprang forward and jolted back onto the road.
I scrambled on all fours down the aisle, maneuvering around kids who had been tossed out of their seats. Mr. Rodrigo’s face was pale, but his chest was moving up and down. “He’s still breathing!” I called to Cap.
All at once, the radio burst to life. “Base to forty-one,” crackled the dispatcher’s voice. “Come in, forty-one.”
Cap looked at the set as if he’d never seen one in his life—which he probably hadn’t. I reached around him and took hold of the microphone. “Hello?”
“Rodrigo, is that you? We just got a report that you’re way off course and driving erratically. What’s going on?”
“Uh—Mr. Rodrigo can’t come to the phone—” I began.
“Who is this?” the dispatcher demanded.
“Hugh Winkleman.”
“Who?”
“A passenger! Mr. Rodrigo’s unconscious! We think he might be having a heart attack.”
“Who’s driving the bus?”
I hesitated. “Capricorn Anderson.”
“Stop right there!” the voice ordered. “We’ll send an ambulance for the driver.”
“No,” Cap told me.
“But the dispatcher said—”
“We have to get to the hospital,” he interrupted. “There’s no time to wait for an ambulance.”
I spoke into the microphone. “He says no.”
“He can’t say no!” the man exploded. “He’s endangering the lives of everybody on board!”
Cap glanced at the radio in annoyance. “Does this have an off button? It’s
“Uh—gotta go. Bye.” I cut power to the set. To Cap I wheezed, “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Rain says you always know what you’re doing when you’re doing the right thing.”
About sixty seconds later, we heard the sirens.
Some kid in the last row made the identification. “Cops!”
By the time I got back there, two police cruisers were on our tail, lights flashing.
One of them activated the outside speaker. “Pull over to the side of the road!”
“You better do it, Cap!” I called. “The cops are chasing us!”
His expression was hidden behind all that hair, but he crouched lower over the wheel. It was a wordless statement—it would take an M1 tank to stop us now. I hoped this “Rain” was a reliable source. If Cap was just talking about wet weather, we were all up the creek without a paddle.
As we barreled across town in the direction of the hospital, the line of police cars continued to grow until we were leading a parade of seven black-and-whites and at least a couple of unmarked vehicles. The kids on board were totally cowed. Except for the engine noise and Naomi’s shouted directions, there was utter silence. We had to be the best-behaved busload of kids in the history of C Average Middle School. I would have enjoyed the sight of so many people who had terrorized me being terrorized themselves, except that I was twice as scared as they were.
By the time we pulled into the entrance of Metro East Medical Center, we looked like a scene from Thelma and Louise, with half the police department strung out in back of us in pursuit, sirens blaring. I could see nurses and paramedics diving out of the way as the big bus rocketed up the drive to Emergency. Cap stomped on the brakes, and we squealed to a halt behind a parked ambulance. A whole lot of cruisers surrounded us on all sides.
The hospital guys were angry at first, but as soon as they caught a glimpse of Mr. Rodrigo, they were all business. The fallen driver was rushed into the building on a stretcher.
No sooner had the automatic doors swallowed him up than the first officer stomped up the stairs of the bus.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, kid!”
The police made Cap lie facedown in the aisle while they cuffed his hands behind his back. It was like something out of an episode of Cops. They were treating him like a criminal—which I guess a school bus hijacker technically was.
We watched in awe as they hauled him roughly to his feet and marched him out to a squad car.
Naomi was the first to speak up. “Cap didn’t do anything wrong! He was just trying to save Mr. Rodrigo!”
The stunned passengers came alive at last. It started off as a rumbling of discontent, bubbling over into a chorus of outrage on Cap’s behalf.
“Quit pushing the guy around!”
“He’s a hero!”
“He didn’t hit anything!”
The arresting officer wasn’t buying it. “Qui-et!!” he bellowed. “Now, listen—I’m sending a patrolman in to drive this bus back to school. I don’t want to hear a peep out of any of you in the meantime.”
A door slammed as Cap was locked in the back of a cruiser. It was a terrible moment—and doubly terrible for me. Because I wasn’t proud of what was going on in my head just then.
Cap had just been arrested at gunpoint; Mr. Rodrigo was in danger of his life. And what was I thinking about? That if Cap went to jail, I would be back in business as the number-one punching bag at C Average Middle School.
I was a worm, but at least I had the strength of character to be ashamed of it.
12
NAME: CAPRICORN ANDERSON
I don’t think I ever would have learned to understand regular school if it hadn’t been for Trigonometry and Tears.
It was Sophie’s favorite show. I watched it with her every day after school when I didn’t have something else to do, like being under arrest.
There was no TV at Garland, and it wasn’t just because our generator barely had enough power to run the lights and refrigerator. Rain said television was a vast wasteland that lowered our standards until we couldn’t tell the difference between bad and good. I would never disagree with Rain, but I thought T & T was fantastic. When I watched it, everything around me seemed to disappear, and the whole world was happening on that little screen. Those people were so real, with true-to-life problems and big decisions that had to be made. I kept wishing that the characters had someone like Rain to turn to in times of trouble, but they didn’t. They had their parents, who were even more messed up and confused than the kids were. It was a perfect symbol for life outside Garland—huge, complicated, and full of hidden traps and pitfalls. Plus, every now and then, the program stops and the TV tells you about all the great things you can buy, like a miracle cream that makes it scientifically impossible to get a pimple.
If it hadn’t been for the show, I would have been really bewildered by the huge fuss everybody was making over driving one little school bus less than five miles. The adults on T & T were always going bananas over something, so I wasn’t surprised when the police, the superintendent, the principal, the bus company owner, and Mrs. Donnelly all took turns screaming at me. They even made Rain call from the rehab center, and gosh, it was good to hear her voice.
“I’m supposed to talk some sense into you,” she told me. “But what I really want to say is congratulations. You did the right thing.”
“The police don’t think so.”
“Typical,” she clucked. “Getting hung up on the numbers on your birth certificate when you probably saved a life.”
“They made me lie on my stomach while they cuffed my hands behind my back,” I complained.
“Does that bring back memories!” she exclaimed. “Every time I protested the Vietnam War, I wound up in the same position. Those were the days!”
“It was horrible.”
“Don’t worry, Cap,” she said comfortingly. “I’m getting stronger every day. In no time at all, we’ll both be back to the sanity of Garland.”
Just the thought of it warmed me all over. Maybe we could get a stronger generator so we could watch Trigonometry and Tears there. I knew someone as smart as Rain would appreciate it if she’d just give it a chance.
I’d been doing tai chi since I was five. Rain was my teacher. She explained that if you concentrate to the point where your mind and body become one, all outward awareness melts away.
It was the first day after I drove Mr. Rodrigo to the hospital. I was halfway through my routine, when there, performing the moves beside me, was that girl Naomi. I recognized her instantly—she was one of the fifty-four names I had managed to learn so far.
“Extend your fingers,” I whispered. “The energy should begin in your core and flow out through your extremities.”
She made the adjustment. “Thanks.”
She turned out to be a natural, but I had to cut the workout short. Zach had scheduled another press briefing for that morning. Hard experience had taught me to leave extra time to find the room.
“Well, uh, good-bye.”
“Wait!” she exclaimed.
“But I have to go to a—”
“I know.” She looked unhappy. Maybe she understood how difficult these briefings were for me. How I could never answer any of the questions, yet the reporters kept asking more and more.
“Cap, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I assumed she was going to give me directions to the journalism lab. Instead she said, “Watch out for Zach and Lena. Watch out for all of us. We’re not as nice as we pretend to be.”
“You’re nice,” I told her.
“You’re the nice one, Cap.” And she ran into the school, leaving me wondering if I would ever understand people outside Garland, or if I even wanted to try.
I was a little late for the briefing because no one had heard of the journalism lab, which turned out to be just an ordinary classroom. Even more surprising, in addition to the usual reporters—Zach,
“Where did you learn to drive a school bus?” came the first question, from a dark-haired boy in the second row.
“Nowhere,” I said honestly. Then I realized that this could be a chance to learn some new names. “And you are—?”
“Trent Davidoff.”
I took out a small notepad and wrote it down. “I usually drive a pickup truck. That’s why I had a little trouble on the corners.”
“How did you know Mr. Rodrigo was having a heart attack?” queried the girl next to Trent.
“And your name is—?” I prompted.
“Caitlin Rankin.”
I wrote that down too. “I couldn’t be sure it was a heart attack. But he was lying on the floor, unconscious, and that can’t be good.”
A boy near the back spoke up. “What did the police say to you?” He added, “I’m Trevor Mardukas.”
I scribbled it at the bottom of the page as I recalled the arresting officer’s exact words. “He said, ‘Keep your nose clean or next time you’re looking at Juvie.’”
“Didn’t you explain about Mr. Rodrigo?” asked Caitlin.
“No, I blew my nose and wiped it very carefully.”
Zach was looking annoyed, which was odd. After all, these press briefings had been his idea in the first place. He raised a hand. “Is it true that you haven’t even started planning the Halloween dance?”
The dance again. The entire entrance foyer was taken up with a floor-to-ceiling poster about it. There was even a picture of me, with a dialogue balloon coming out of my mouth, saying: QUESTIONS? ASK ME!
It was probably unrealistic to hope that nobody would.
“Yes, it’s true,” I admitted.
“Aren’t you worried that you won’t be ready when the time comes?” he persisted.
“I don’t know anything about parties,” I said honestly. “I only know fifty-seven people, including you guys.”
Luckily, the bell rang, saving me from having to answer any more questions. But as we headed into the corridor, Trent approached me.