Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 6

She was waiting for me to say something, to tell her she wasn't stupid. "You're not stupid," I said. "You're just stuck in this demented culture that says a person can't change who she is inside. So if you don't like who you were yesterday, you're-I don't know-stuck with yourself. But your way was the Zen way."

She chewed on that one for a while, and then asked, "How is that the Zen way?"

"A great j.a.panese thinker said, 'Concentrate on and consecrate yourself completely to each day, as though a fire were raging through your hair.'"

"Meaning?"

"All that matters right now is what you do right now."

"Really?" She grinned.

"Honest to Buddha." I grinned back and crossed my eyes. Then she grabbed my hand and started skipping. We almost got hit by an oil truck, but we skipped all the way to the shelter. Then we leaned against the wall with our hands on our knees, gasping for air and laughing. A whole line of people waiting to eat had already formed; we had skipped right past the line. I stopped laughing then. It seemed wrong to be so carefree right in front of all these people who had nothing. Woody looked up and got quiet too. She nudged me with her hip and tilted her head toward the back of the line. Two of the little kids from the week before-a boy and a girl-were pointing at us and cracking up. Suddenly the girl gripped the boy's hand and they started skipping up and down the line. Everyone laughed with them.

The two kids skidded to a stop about a foot from us. The boy said, "Hi, I'm Shaun. I'm the king of skipping," and bowed at the waist. The girl stuck her tongue out at him and told us, "I'm Annie. I'm the ace ace of skipping!" Then she curtsied. of skipping!" Then she curtsied.

I said, "Nice to meet you. I'm San-whoever that is today."

Woody said, "Hi, it's a pleasure to have your company. I'm Woody, and my hair is on fire!" As we walked away, I heard the boy whisper, "That girl is crazy. They better not be letting her cook the food in there."

Fortunately we were still on dish duty. Which was fun. There was some joking about flaming hair, which led to some moderately intense water fighting, which eventually settled down into real talking. The work went more smoothly, because we knew what we were doing, which let me concentrate on having fun with this amazing girl and watching the sudsy water drip from her s.h.i.+ning hair. And on getting hungry. The main course was hamburgers and hot dogs (which also made the cleaning easier, because burgers and dogs have a much lower "glop factor" than spaghetti). The hamburgers smelled great. I couldn't wait to take a huge, juicy, charcoal-y bite of one. As soon as we were done was.h.i.+ng, we sat up on the counter and I waited droolingly for our well-earned and beefy reward.

Mildred came in and handed us two heaping plates of burger, pickle, and coleslaw. She cackled, "Wash your bowl, right San?" and was all ready to walk back out when Woody said, "Wait! San can't eat that burger!"

I jerked the delicious bun-enclosed patty away from my wide-open jaws in surprise. "What do you mean, he can't eat the burger?" Mildred asked. "He's a growing boy, and I'm sure all of your horsing around back here has given him quite an appet.i.te. And he probably wants some food too! Heh-heh."

Woody's cheeks turned an appealing reddish-pink. "No, I mean-San doesn't eat meat. He's a Buddhist. And, you know, that makes him a vegetarian."

c.r.a.p. She had a point, as far as she knew. Mildred raised one snow-white eyebrow at me, but said, "I'll see what I can scrounge up." After she went back into the kitchen, I made myself say, "Thanks, Woody. I was afraid I'd be having a pickle on a bun for dinner."

She winked at me. Wow, n.o.body except my one totally senile uncle had ever winked at me before. It looked cuter when she did it, though. "No problem. Got to keep up your strength for foul-shooting. And skipping, of course."

I smiled then, but had trouble maintaining the expression when Mildred reappeared. Carrying a veggie wrap, which she deftly switched for my burger. A veggie wrap? I felt betrayed. What kind of soup kitchen serves veggie wraps anyway?

Have I mentioned how much I hate vegetables? There are only two kinds of eaters in the world, and the Cap'n Crunch fanatics aren't in the same category as the carrot-juice junkies, believe me. But Mildred and Woody were watching. I forced myself to unclench my teeth and let the soggy horror in. Yikes! As my incisors sank into each successive layer, it took all my willpower not to choke the whole thing back onto my plate.

Sadly, it was a fat wrap. There were the mandatory sprouts, which popped in my mouth and shot out foul, dirt-flavored liquid. There was the tortilla itself, which tasted like some horrible mutant offspring of carrot and spinach. There was something slippery and unspeakably spongy-tofu? A fluffy mushroom? And the whole shebang was drenched in a ghastly ranch dressing that tasted like monthold mayonnaise would taste if you were licking it off of a dead cat's mangy fur. With garlic.

And you know, I chomped down every last morsel before it occurred to me that I could have just eaten my coleslaw.

face-to-face, toe-to-toe

The next morning I could still taste the sprout-and-garlic horror even after brus.h.i.+ng twice, scarfing down a ma.s.sive dose of Cap'n Crunch, brus.h.i.+ng again, and chugging enough mouthwash to sterilize a Port-a-Potty. Do you know how hard it is to meditate when your mouth is a vegetable disaster area?

But then again, I'm San Lee. If cold, rain, poverty, and tragedy couldn't break my concentration, neither could a dead plant sandwich. By this point, sitting zazen had become strangely comfortable for me, and the little indent in my rock where the bottom of my back rested felt like my personal easy chair. When Woody got to school, she found me zoning out. In fact, I was probably about three-quarters of the way to nirvana, and closing fast, when Woody stomped her feet right in front of me.

"Ugh," she groaned, "I hate him!"

"And a good morning to you too, partner. Uh, what are you talking about?"

"My brother, the idiot!"

I couldn't help myself: "STEPbrother, you mean."

She glared at me. "You don't understand, San. Him and his stupid mother. They're ruining my life!"

"OK, Woody, calm down. What happened?"

Note to self: Never tell the girl you like to calm down. "What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? I'll tell you what happened: Peter told my mom that you and I are going out."

Wow, was it hot out here, or was it just me? "Uh, are we?"

"San, I don't think so. Earthly attachments, right? But that's not even the point. The point is that now my wicked stepmom doesn't want me to be with you, unsupervised, every Wednesday. So she said I can't go to the soup kitchen with you anymore."

"But we're not unsupervised there. We're in a building with, like, three hundred people. And our boss is a NUN! What does she think, we're going to be playing tonsil hockey in front of freakin' Mother Teresa?"

Tonsil hockey? Had I really just said tonsil hockey?

Woody snorted, and maybe got a little bit red. "I know, I know. But my parents are total maniacs about keeping me 'safe' from boys until I'm, like, twenty-nine or something."

"Can't you just get Peter to tell her he was wrong? What if we talk to him right now? How immature can he possibly be?"

"We could talk to him now, I guess," Woody said. "Except that a) he went into the building early because he said he had something important to take care of, b) he's incredibly immature, and c) he hates both of us, so he's thrilled that he got me in trouble with his mom."

"Oh." Woody was staring down at her feet, swis.h.i.+ng them around in the icy gra.s.s. "Uh, why does Peter hate you, exactly?"

"Well, it's a long story. Basically, he thinks my dad broke up his parents' marriage."

"Why?"

"Uh, because my dad broke up his parents' marriage."

"But what does that have to do with you?"

"Nothing. Except for a while his mom tried really hard to be my pal, and Peter refused to spend any time with my dad-so Peter was pretty neglected for about half a year in sixth grade. Which isn't my fault either. It's not like I wanted to hang out and shop with Little Miss Sweetness anyway. All I wanted was my real mom."

"So, where is your real mom?"

"I don't know, San. She's just gone. I mean, she left a mailing address, but she hasn't contacted us once. She took off out of here and as far as I know she hasn't looked back. You're lucky-I bet your family isn't as messed up as mine."

Ha! I didn't know what to say to that one, but the bell saved me. We hurried to be on time, and by the time we got to her homeroom, the moment was past. On the way to my locker, I thought about the irony: I could have totally bonded with Woody about the missing-parent thing, but then she would have hated me for all the other stuff I had lied about. Plus our situations were a little different: She wanted her mom back, and I wished my dad would stay locked up forever.

I had a sad feeling that neither of us would get what we wanted.

In my locker, I found another Zen note: HOW SHALL I I GRASP IT GRASP IT? DO NOT GRASP IT.THAT WHICH REMAINS WHEN THERE IS NOMORE GRASPING IS THE SELF.-PANCHADASI What did that mean? Who had put it there? And why? It hit me that Peter had gone into the school before everyone else. He He must have been my secret note-stalker. Which meant he must have seen me that night in the library. So why was he putting these stupid messages in my locker? Was he trying to make me crack and admit I was a total phony? Then why didn't he just confront me? I needed to know. must have been my secret note-stalker. Which meant he must have seen me that night in the library. So why was he putting these stupid messages in my locker? Was he trying to make me crack and admit I was a total phony? Then why didn't he just confront me? I needed to know.

I sat steaming-mad all through English cla.s.s, which was interesting because we spent the whole period talking about a big idea in The Tao of Pooh The Tao of Pooh: wu wei, or "without doing, causing, or making." Wu wei is a lot like "thinking without thinking." The idea is that you have to let things roll off your back and go with the flow. This was strange: "Wu" means "without," and the Chinese symbol for wei comes partly from a grasping claw. So you should relax and stop grasping-like the quote in my locker. According to Taoism, things will always work out if you do that. Yeah, right. When someone is trying to sabotage your whole life, how can you let that roll off your back?

Well, I'd show him. n.o.body stops me from was.h.i.+ng dishes if I want to wash dishes. My mom couldn't stop me, sprouts couldn't stop me, and I'd be darned if some demented stepbrother was going to stop me. I had to come up with a plan to get me and Woody back into the soup business. But first I had to confront Peter, even if he was scary huge.

I caught up to him in the hallway on the way to lunch. "h.e.l.lo, Peter," I spat. "Visited any interesting lockers lately?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I think you know."

"Uh, I don't."

"Oh, sure you don't. Listen, Peter, I know you know."

"What?"

"About my secret. Just tell me what I have to do to keep you from blabbing it everywhere."

"What? You're ashamed of your secret, San?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then why can't I mention it to my own mom?"

Dang. His mom mom knew too? knew too?

"And why does Woody deny the whole thing completely? What are you two ashamed of? How great is your little relations.h.i.+p if you have to pretend it doesn't exist?"

Oh. Ooooohhhhhh. Peter didn't know about my Zen act. He just really thought Woody and I were going out. "We're friends, Peter. OK? Haven't you ever heard of that? It's when two people just enjoy each other's company. And why is it your business? Why do you hate your sister so much, anyway?"

Now Peter looked mad. "Hate her? Hate Hate her? I love her, San. We've been living in the same house for four years, and we were friends before that too. How could I hate my own sister? Geez." her? I love her, San. We've been living in the same house for four years, and we were friends before that too. How could I hate my own sister? Geez."

"Then why would you go around making trouble for her on purpose?"

"I'm not making trouble for her-I'm saving her from trouble."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because you're trouble, San. Stay away from my sister. You have no idea what she's been through, OK? She doesn't need some Zen weirdo to come breezing into town and mess her up all over again. And it doesn't take a big mystical insight to realize that that's what's going to happen."

"Peter, it's not like that. I-"

"It's not like that? Then why can't you just admit you like each other? And what's the big secret about your locker?"

Oopsie, guess that might come back to haunt me.

"Look, I'm just saying, I know you're going to hurt Emily. And then I'm going to hurt you."

"You're wrong, Peter!"

"No, I really am going to hurt you."

"Not about that-I'm sure you could crush me. But I'm not going to hurt your stepsister. I care about her."

"Oh, yeah? Then ask her why she started calling herself 'Woody.'"

"I know why she started to call herself that. She didn't want to be named after anyone from her mom's family, so she changed her name to Woody."

"Yeah, but why Woody? Why not Jane? Why not Jennifer? Why not, I don't know, E-Lo? You don't know as much as you think you do, Buddha. You just don't."

And that was it. He walked away, leaving me with a threat and a riddle. My heart was pounding and my palms were soaked, but I couldn't waste any time sitting around and worrying. I had to put my "Save the Wednesdays" plan into motion. I put on my game face, and headed over toward the jock tables.

twigs

After school I had way too much to think about. I was feeling way hyper, so I took a long, slow path home around the library and through what pa.s.sed for a downtown in Harrisonville. I found myself on a street I'd never seen before, with a bunch of townhouses leading to a dead end. Just past the end of the street, there was a little hidden park with a stream running through it. I figured I'd cut through and try to find my way back home, but then I decided to sit on a rock by the water for a while. There was still a pretty big chunk of time before my mom would be home, and I didn't feel like being cooped up in the apartment alone.

No, it was much better to be sitting in a random park alone.

The rock wasn't quite as comfy as "my" rock, but I had to admit the setting was nice. I must have spent twenty minutes watching two twigs tumbling around in the current between a stone and a little peninsula of mud and getting lost in my worries. First, there was the ELL thing. Woody's first and last initials were E and L, so it crossed my mind for a second that she she might be ELL-but she'd said her middle name was Jane. I toyed with the idea that maybe I'd seen the letters wrong on the back of her a.s.signment sheet. Could I have mistaken a might be ELL-but she'd said her middle name was Jane. I toyed with the idea that maybe I'd seen the letters wrong on the back of her a.s.signment sheet. Could I have mistaken a J J for an for an L? L? But there was just no way, especially since it was next to another L, and the whole thing was written several times. But there was just no way, especially since it was next to another L, and the whole thing was written several times.

I sighed. Maybe she hadn't finished writing when I'd come across the paper. Maybe she was filling in each heart one letter at a time, the way little kids copy their spelling five-times-each homework words. So I started thinking of some names that started with "ELL": Ellington. Ellery. Ellbert.

Ellvis?

Nah. Woody had to be a better speller than that. Plus, I knew from my mom that n.o.body liked the Beatles AND Elvis; it was always one or the other.

OK, maybe "ELL" was the end of the person's name, and she was going backward: Tyrell. Martell. Sh.e.l.l. Smell. Bell.

Roswell.

This was ridiculous. I had no clue. I started thinking about the other issues of my busy day, like what I had gotten myself into at the athletes' table, and what Peter had been trying to tell me about Woody's name, and what it would feel like when he finally got around to smas.h.i.+ng my face in. My thoughts were tumbling as aimlessly as the two little twigs.

And then I heard a shuffling sound. I looked up, and there was a shrimpy little kid standing next to the rock, carrying a backpack that might have weighed more than he did. "Excuse me?" he said in a little not-yet-changing voice.

"Uh, yes?"

"Umm, that's my rock. I mean, I don't own it or anything, but it's where I come to sit sometimes when..."

"When what?"

He looked at me with total despair. "When I can't go home." Oh, boy. The little guy was b.u.mming big-time about something.

I moved over. It was a big rock. "Here," I said, "Have a seat."

He did.