In that Wyeth mural in the dining hall the eyes of each boy with brown hair and blue eyes follow me around. Wyeth wasn’t paid enough by the parsimonious Du Ponts. Thought he’d fix them, paint the same face for every boy.
Every good boy does fine. Sound waves in parallel patterns. Every good boy does not come out of the girls’ bathroom. Two new teachers together? Been here a week, tops. Rowers, both of them. Excessively tall. There’s a big wet spot on his pink polo. Over his heart. How touching.
They split directions, she somewhere else, he to the faculty party. Skip Newton’s second law and go to third. Equal and opposite reaction. You can’t touch without being touched.
Old Mr. Leonard, the one black face at this party, wears his white apron, tends bar. “Afternoon, Mr. Jack.”
“Five years here, Mr. Leonard,” I say, “and you can’t call me Jack?”
“No, Mr. Jack.” Delaware is hardly enlightened. The Mason-Dixon line is too close.
“You are the King of Courteous, Mr. Leonard. How was your summer?”
“Same as my spring,” he says. There is no irony in his voice.
“And your family? How are the grandchildren?”
“My pride and my purpose,” he says. At the thought of his three granddaughters and five grandsons, Mr. Leonard shakes his head and smiles. He has worked at St. Timothy’s as a custodian and sometimes bartender for thirty years or more. To the few black students, from Philadelphia and Wilmington, he is preacher, father, mentor, and coach. He knows more about the goings-on inside this little bastion of turpitude than anyone else who works here.
“Just so. For this occasion, I better have scotch, don’t you think, Mr. Leonard?”
“Fine choice,” he says. Mr. Leonard’s hands are swift. His hands, dark like my father’s, are lined from hard work.
“Hey, Jack Song, where have you been?” Herbert, the librarian, has spotted me. Can’t believe he stinks so badly. I nod to Mr. Leonard whose return nod tells me he’s seen too much of Herbert this afternoon.
“I’ve been prepping for classes, of course,” I say to Sir Herbert of the Unwashed.
“Not in my library you haven’t,” he says. “That’s the problem with education today, no real research.” Herbert’s jumping on his soapbox.
“Now, Herbert, you know I won’t neglect your precious books.” He nods, and his chin has white stubble. His checked shirt is tight over his paunch. No bathing or shaving.
“You should see the new set of encyclopedias,” Herbert says. His eyebrows, so disheveled, lift up. His focus shifts. He fixes on my glass. “Hey, Song, what are you doing with a drink?”
“Relaxing?”
“You know you Orientals aren’t supposed to touch the stuff.” Sir Herbert draws a breath.
“Not quite, Herbert. We Asians do math, remember? Research, man, do your research,” I say. Herbert sways. He looks down at his now-empty glass.
Before he decides to ask Mr. Leonard for another drink, I say, “Have you met the new teachers?”
“Not the rowers,” he says. He leans too close. “I saw the girl earlier. You know, she doesn’t drink?”
The sad sack. Entropy is taking its course. “No, really? An athlete who doesn’t drink?” I say into his bloodshot eyes. “Herbert, how will she get on?”
He leans. “Well, she won’t,” he says. “That’s the point.” He walks off in the direction he was leaning. Downhill.
I’m late. The circles have formed. The Sciences, the Humanities, and Rev. Moose pontificating. All East Coast. All white. Mr. Leonard and I stand out, and I’d rather stand with him. But now Mr. Rower-Man joins the party, bends down so Dorothy White, the headmaster’s henchwoman, can talk in his ear. She’s probably speaking softly so he has to lean his hard body in close. Hello, Mrs. Robinson.
Will you look at that? Those kids can run. Two boys, one girl, right across the lawn, holding their clothes over their faces. And there’s Sir Herbert raising his glass to naked kids. Fit kids. That girl, unmistakable, that’s Carla. Nobody runs like that. Carla with no clothes. Long, lean. Those angles. I sweat. Every good teacher does fine. I’ve done fine not to see her all summer, but I am no good boy. Her fingers against my breath, the couch, my lips on her. The stress that shifted plates, stress too great causing slippage, slippage creating body waves and surface waves of seismic proportions. Earthquakes emit energy in all directions, and Carla streaking releases seismic energy.
Everybody’s cheering the streakers.
Carla has the lines of a treehopper. Different than a grasshopper. Smaller folds. I can fold one in about an hour. Origami, a good way to learn patience. A good discipline. Practice waiting. I keep telling her we’ll wait until after she’s graduated. Carla calls her graduating class, “19-fucking-84.” She has a way with words, that one.
A couple of petal folds, a couple of rabbit ears, and I’ve got a treehopper made. What treehoppers do is they camouflage as thorns. Can’t tell when they’re on a quince. Carla’s like that. She adapts. How will she adapt to an earthquake inside her? How will I look at her again without seeing my own fault?
Darwin is amazing.