Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 5

"And I kind of promised my partner that we could do it every Wednesday. So I know you grounded me, but-"

"Sanny, you can't avoid talking to your father forever."

I just looked at her.

"But," she continued, "if you need some time, I'll run interference with him for a while until you get things figured out."

It was my turn to give her the "And?" look.

"You're still grounded, because you disappeared and scared me to death and lied to me about it when you got home."

I started to argue, but hadn't even managed to get my mouth open when she said, "On the other hand, this girl seems to be a good influence on you. Sooooo...I suppose you can go to the soup kitchen on Wednesdays..."

I felt like jumping for joy right there in front of my mom and the beaming face of the Cap'n on the side of the box, until she added, "As long as you promise I'll get to meet your little partner sometime soon."

You know, as I got up to put on a different, nonsnotted s.h.i.+rt for school, I could almost have sworn I detected some mockery in the Cap'n's expression. It's pretty sad when even two-dimensional, three-fingered pretend admirals are laughing at you.

Like anyone with that goofy freakin' gigundo white mustache had room to talk. Sheesh.

Gym cla.s.s, five hours later. Woody is putting me to work. She hasn't said anything about the night before, or about my being late to school. Neither have I. She's just watching me take free throws again, standing behind me and a little bit to my left, kicking my feet apart every time she thinks they're too close together. My hands are clammy and I'm feeling all the tight muscles left over from my dishwas.h.i.+ng adventure. Plus I'm trying not to think about the whole thing with my mom. But I'm shooting. What else can I do? It's our project.

I shoot and miss, shoot and miss. My toes are cold. I imagine how great it would feel to be wearing a nice pair of thick, warm hightops. But no, I'm wearing my Air Zens, and my feet are suffering accordingly. I hope Woody is at least admiring how stylishly my Harrisonville gym clothes hang on me, because the only set they had left is about three sizes too big for my chickenlike frame. It's a miracle the shorts are staying up at all, and I can feel them drooping to everlower levels with every shot. My undies are probably flapping in the breeze for all to see. I can't exactly stop and check, but I'm pretty sure I'm sporting my old-school L.A. Kings boxers.

Yo, check it: I'm the Buddha Gangsta.

Just when I'm about to run into the gym office and beg a teacher for a safety pin, I actually manage to sink a shot. It's a total brick, and I have no clue how it falls in, but I don't care. Woody slaps me on the back, and all is well. I bend, set, and shoot again, thinking, I'm on a streak here. One in a row, baby! I'm on fire. Move over, Yao Ming-there's a new Chinese sheriff in town. I'm on a streak here. One in a row, baby! I'm on fire. Move over, Yao Ming-there's a new Chinese sheriff in town. Of course, I totally biff on the next three, two of which are air b.a.l.l.s. Woody goes to retrieve the second one, and I quickly yank my shorts up to roughly chin level, hoping that my huge overhanging s.h.i.+rt will hide the waistline. But the s.h.i.+rt is so outrageously long that it now goes past the bottoms of my shorts. So I'm shooting baskets in sandals and a freakin' dress. With a nice, casual purse, I'd have quite the look going on. Of course, I totally biff on the next three, two of which are air b.a.l.l.s. Woody goes to retrieve the second one, and I quickly yank my shorts up to roughly chin level, hoping that my huge overhanging s.h.i.+rt will hide the waistline. But the s.h.i.+rt is so outrageously long that it now goes past the bottoms of my shorts. So I'm shooting baskets in sandals and a freakin' dress. With a nice, casual purse, I'd have quite the look going on.

Woody kicks my feet apart. I bend and shoot. I suck and miss. Woody takes a deep breath. "San, this isn't like you. You have to bear down. Your last shot doesn't matter. Your next shot doesn't matter. Your form is all that matters."

And as my shorts start creeping downward again, I can't help but think she's definitely in a perfect position to judge my form. I try to blank out my mind like I'm out on my rock. I pretend the sun is on my upturned face, instead of the sickly heatless glare of the fluorescent lights. I pretend I'm all alone in the world, that the girl I like isn't standing inches away from me, filling my nostrils with the scent of oranges and my brain with all kinds of totally non-hoops-related urges, while she's probably getting a good view of my undies. And perhaps most of all, I pretend I am the ball. I am the hoop. I am the hoop and the ball, the rim and the net. We are one thing, the ball and the net and me. One perfect, connected whole.

It's just that the various parts of the perfectly connected whole don't always come into physical contact with each shot.

G.o.d, I'm pathetic at this. And my toes are still freezing. The warning bell rings, and Woody says, "Well, we're making progress."

"How are we making progress?"

"Well, we're becoming a better team. We're learning about each other. Before today, I might have thought you were a Houston Rockets fan! See ya in social studies, partner."

I reach back and yank up my gym shorts.

Do real Zen masters blush? Because fake ones do.

signs and wonders

That same day in social studies, I walked in just behind Woody and in front of Peter and got myself settled. I was just sitting there, about to take out my journal notebook, minding my own business, when Peter raised his hand and said, "So, Mr. Dowd, remember the other day when you said that there were six Zen patriarchs, and then the dynasty fell apart? Well, I was reading last night about the other branches of Buddhism in these books I got from the library, and the books said that some sects identify their next leader by watching for miracles, or for a child who shows amazing wisdom."

Dowd said, "Yes, that's all true. Did I miss a question in there somewhere, Mr. Jones?"

"Yeah, I mean, yes. The question is, what if there's a seventh patriarch right now walking around the planet waiting to be discovered? There could be, right?"

"Uhh, sure. The Zen tradition doesn't really look for reincarnations of Buddha figures generally, but I suppose anything's possible. Why do you ask?"

"Well, when I was trying to fall asleep last night, I started wondering: What if the seventh Zen patriarch is walking among us right now?"

Then I swear he gave me an evil little grin.

"I'm saying, how would we know? Would he walk across fire or something? Would he be immune to heat and cold? Would he be disguised as someone really poor? Maybe he would have some cool, mysticalsounding name, like 'The Laughing Archer.' I guess I'm asking, what would we look for? Signs and wonders?"

Dowd's eyebrows were knit together, and his twinkle was temporarily subdued. "I'm, uhh, glad that you're taking such an interest in this unit of study, Peter, but I'm somewhat uncomfortable speculating about the theoretical beliefs and practices of a religious group in this way. Please feel free to do some additional research, and see me privately if you have any further questions. And now, if you will all take out your journals..."

I bent to remove my notebook from my backpack, and saw with horror what Peter must have been staring at as we had entered the cla.s.sroom: The journal was pressed up against the clear plastic, with the front cover exposed for the world to see. The front cover where I'd written "The Laughing Archer" across the NAME line in oversized letters.

What in the world was Peter doing? Did this mean he had put the mysterious note in my locker? And if so, why? What was his problem? I suddenly noticed that the girl next to me was looking at the cover of the notebook too. Then she turned away to whisper to the guy behind her. So now what? Were these people going to expect me to walk across hot coals on the school lawn? Or were they just going to laugh at me, San Lee, Freak of the World? I had to say something. I raised my hand.

"Uh, Mr. Dowd? Can I answer Peter?"

"Well..."

"Please? It will only take a minute."

"Go ahead. I can see that the lesson-plan G.o.ds are against me today."

"Listen, Zen isn't like what Peter said at all. It's not very much concerned with the supernatural-it's about finding wisdom in everyday things. There's this famous Zen story: "A monk told Joshu, 'I have just entered the monastery. Please teach me.'

"Joshu asked, 'Have you eaten your rice porridge?'

"The monk replied, 'I have eaten.'

"Joshu said, 'Then you had better wash your bowl.'

"At that moment the monk was enlightened."

I paused.

"See? n.o.body's looking for a magical new leader-just a new way of seeing."

Dowd said, "Thank you for the very appropriate story, San. Now, I'm hoping we can do some school-type stuff. You know-take some notes? Fill in some blanks?"

I was just wis.h.i.+ng someone would help me fill in the blanks in my life. life. But I took out my notebook, just like everybody else. But I took out my notebook, just like everybody else.

For the next few days, I tried to just lay low, both at home and at school. I did all my homework, read all of The Tao of Pooh The Tao of Pooh in one night, didn't volunteer in cla.s.s, and avoided spending time alone with my mom or Woody. Or Peter. Or Dowd. Or anyone, actually. in one night, didn't volunteer in cla.s.s, and avoided spending time alone with my mom or Woody. Or Peter. Or Dowd. Or anyone, actually.

Except in gym. Woody and I were practicing like crazy. So far our big Zen experiment was not producing visible results, and the end of the marking period wasn't going to wait just because I sucked at foul shooting. I kept telling Woody that Zen archers never worry about accuracy; they just get their form perfectly and the accuracy comes automatically. But she kept saying that Zen archers aren't doing their arching for a major project grade.

Great-the pressure was sure to improve my accuracy, right?

On the Tuesday after my phone call crisis with Mom, Woody and I were getting set up, and all of a sudden, Peter was there. "Betcha can't beat me in a shooting match, Buddha."

I smiled at him. "Bet you're right, Peter. You're a great basketball player."

I got the feeling that wasn't the answer he wanted. He snapped back, "And you're afraid to take my bet."

He had a point. I was just about to admit it, when Woody leaned over and whispered to me, "Do it, San!"

I murmured back, "Why? You know your brother will waste me."

She hissed back, "STEPbrother, San. STEPbrother. And he won't waste you. You've been practicing for days on end. If you beat him in front of everyone, we'll definitely get a good grade."

Was this all I was to her-a grade? I bet she wouldn't force ELL to make a fool of himself in front of a whole gym cla.s.s just for a project. On the other hand, ELL was probably some superjock in the first place.

Maybe I should step up to the line, I thought. Of course, it's a total betrayal of the whole Zen concept, letting myself be goaded into shooting for egotistical purposes. But then again, Woody wants me to. Plus, maybe she's right. Maybe I will beat Peter. Yeah, right. And maybe the U.S. invading Iraq was a brilliant idea. Of course, it's a total betrayal of the whole Zen concept, letting myself be goaded into shooting for egotistical purposes. But then again, Woody wants me to. Plus, maybe she's right. Maybe I will beat Peter. Yeah, right. And maybe the U.S. invading Iraq was a brilliant idea.

But Woody was looking and, in the end, that was what mattered. I stepped up. "You call the rules, Peter."

"OK, Buddha. We each shoot ten free throws. Whoever sinks the most, wins. If it's a tie, we shoot one at a time from the top of the key until someone misses. You go first."

You know how sharks swarm in from miles around when they smell blood in the water? This was like that, only the entire gym cla.s.s was the shark posse, and I was the b.l.o.o.d.y bucket of chum. While everyone was jostling up to surround us in a boiling sea of carnivorous excitement, Woody leaned in close and whispered to me, "San, you can do this. I know you can."

I turned and looked at her like a rabbit looks into the blades of an approaching lawn tractor. Then I faced the basket and gripped the ball for dear life.

"I'm serious, San. Be the ball. Be the net." She leaned in and kicked my feet apart one final time. Then her lips might have just brushed my ear as she added, "For me, OK?"

Well, there's nothing like a little horribly timed flirting to get a man ready for combat. I took several deep breaths, bent my knees, and shot without even really looking. Everyone cheered. The ball had somehow found its way in. Some huge moose of a kid threw me the rebound. I said to myself, How does one think about not thinking? Without thinking How does one think about not thinking? Without thinking, and shot again before I had time to start thinking about thinking about not thinking.

Swish.

Rebound, swish. swish.

Rebound, swish. swish.

Rebound, swish. swish.

Woody whispered to me, "Five-for-five! You're gonna win!"

And as her orangey smell swept into my head, I lost my rhythm. Missed three of my last five. But hey, seven for ten was about six better than my usual. I bounce-pa.s.sed the ball to Peter. "Thanks for the challenge," I said mildly. "This is fun!" Woody stood next to me, so close that our elbows pushed up against each other every time the crowd moved.

Peter glared at me, stepped up, and sank three in a row. Then someone said, "Hey, Pete-remember that game against Phillipsburg when you were ninefor-nine from the line?"

Guess what? Even star basketball jocks can get jinxed. Peter missed his next two shots. One more, and we would be tied. Yikes!

Peter looked around, set, and shot. He sank the next three, then missed one. That put him at six-for-nine. If he missed the last shot, I'd win. But if he sank it, we'd be shooting it out with three-pointers. I realized I'd never actually sunk a three-pointer before. Oh, joy.

Peter dribbled and stopped. He started dribbling again, and stopped again. Then he looked at me, said, "It was fun playing with you too," and drained his last shot without even looking. Before I could even fall to the cold gym floor, pound the unfeeling boards with my puny fists, and curse whatever G.o.ds there be, Peter stepped back to the top of the key, caught the ball from the Rebound Bison, and shot a perfect three.

The big guy tossed me the ball and Woody smiled at me. It occurred to me that she was getting into this in a big way. I prayed, Don't let me throw an air ball. Don't let me throw an air ball. Then I stared at the backboard until my eyes began to blur a bit, bent my knees, and shot. The ball hit the front edge of the rim, bounced up way too high, hit the backboard on the way down, and started rolling around and around the rim. Just watching it spin made me want to hurl. I didn't want to watch, so I turned away. Then I stared at the backboard until my eyes began to blur a bit, bent my knees, and shot. The ball hit the front edge of the rim, bounced up way too high, hit the backboard on the way down, and started rolling around and around the rim. Just watching it spin made me want to hurl. I didn't want to watch, so I turned away.

When everyone started to cheer a second later, I a.s.sumed I'd lost. I prepared myself to face Peter, congratulate him in cool Zen fas.h.i.+on, and then try to slink away into the dank and shadowy recesses of the locker room as quickly and quietly as possible. Then Woody slapped me on the back, hard, and said, "Wow, San, I am some kind of Zen teacher!"

Peter had been looking for signs and miracles, and apparently the time had come. We were tied. He looked stunned; I'm sure I did too. But he recovered first. "Nice one, San. Now step aside and watch me put an end to this thing."

Everyone had been chattering frantically among themselves, but when Peter put up his second shot, the silence was complete and instantaneous. Then the rebound guy shouted, "SHORT!" And it was. The ball barely kissed the rim before falling straight down and dribbling slowly away across the gym floor. Someone kicked it back to me, and I was just approaching the line when the warning bell rang. "Oh, well," I announced, "we'll just have to continue this tomorrow."

Peter said, "Not so fast, Buddha. Take this shot."

I was going to lose whether I waited or not, so I figured I'd better make it look like I didn't care. I turned to him and said, "All right, Peter. It's only a friendly contest, right?"

He gave a sickly little nod, and-with amazing showmans.h.i.+p-I flipped the ball as hard as I could over my shoulder backward, in the general direction of the hoop.

second helping

On the way to the soup kitchen the next day, Woody was practically bouncing out of her boots. "San, that was so cool! Did you see the look on Peter's face when you beat him with your back turned? with your back turned? Oh, that was awesome! You just take everything so calmly. Even when everyone was running up to you and giving high-fives, you were so relaxed about it. And, you know, today all these guys from the basketball B team asked me if you and I could give them free-throw lessons." Oh, that was awesome! You just take everything so calmly. Even when everyone was running up to you and giving high-fives, you were so relaxed about it. And, you know, today all these guys from the basketball B team asked me if you and I could give them free-throw lessons."

"I hope you said no."

"Wellllll..."

I stared.

"...I said maybe."

I stared some more.

"I told them that we were really busy with our charitable work and all, but that we'd let them know if anything changed. But don't you get it? Our project is a total success. You're, like, famous! A seventh grade girl asked me today if I could get her your autograph!"

"What was her name?" I asked, before I could think about it.

"I don't know-Katie something, maybe. Anyway, you don't have any earthly attachments, remember?"

"I was just wondering what her name was. Names are important."

She was looking serious all of a sudden. "By the way, San, before we get to the soup kitchen, I wanted to tell you about the whole name thing: My parents named me Emily-Emily Jane Long-after my mother's mother. But when my mom left, I decided I didn't want to be named after somebody from her side of the family. Plus I didn't feel like the same person anymore, so I just...decided to be somebody else."

She bit her lip. "You probably think that's totally stupid, right?"

I could have told her right then. It was an amazing moment: Woody was like me. We were both inventing ourselves from scratch because of our screwed-up parents. I could reveal my secrets to her and she'd understand. I could open my soul to her, and she would embrace me. We could join hands and frolic together through fields of daisies. It would be us against the world. Bonnie and Clyde. Caesar and Cleopatra. Madonna and, uh, everybody.

But I hesitated. I thought about it too long. What would happen with our project if Woody found out I was a fake? The grade was really important to her and so was honesty. Yikes, honesty. She wasn't going to want to frolic in the daisies with the son of a convicted con man. And what about ELL?