Chapter SEVEN
Jamison woke up the next morning in a fine mood. Today was the day. The moving company had left a message on the machine; his car and the rest of their belongings would be there by five pm.
As he headed down the stairs he paused and looked down. Pants on. Zipper up. What was he forgetting?
Mom was humming. She hadn't done that for a while. Maybe she was going to get over herself and go visit Granddad. He wouldn't bring it up, though. He wanted that humming to last for as long as possible.
Just as he suspected, a cooked breakfast was waiting for him—not something bacon-smelling and micro-waved, but actual bacon. She'd made a greasy mess of the kitchen, and she didn't seem to mind.
“Surprise!” She lifted a pan lid from a plate on the table. Bacon, eggs, and silver-dollar pancakes, like Grandma used to make. “Don't even say how long it's been.”
“I won't look a gift breakfast in the mouth.”
“Good boy.” Mom looked around the table. “What did I forget, butter?”
“Right here.” Jamison pointed to the butter next to his glass.
“Orange juice?”
“Mom! It's in the glass, next to the butter.”
“Sorry, I just feel like I'm forgetting something.”
“Are you wearing pants?”
She looked down. “Yep. Oh well. I guess I'll figure it out the hard way.”
“I'm having that feeling too, like I've forgotten something.”
“Homework?”
“Nothing but a test on Lost Horizon.”
“Lost Horizon! Oh, I haven't read that forever. I wonder how long it will take to dig out that box of books?”
“First thing out is my car.”
“Yep. Last in, first out.”
They had a great morning, smiling and talking about where things would need to go. It was rare; usually they were screaming 'I love you' or 'have a good day' as they ran around the kitchen once and headed for the door. Waking up early was something he'd have to try more often.
They didn't even have to run for the car.
As Jamison pulled up on the door handle, he glanced at the tree house and something nudged his brain.
“How much time have we got?” he asked.
“We're about ten minutes early. Why?”
“I was thinking maybe the thing I forgot is up in the tree house.”
“Well, hurry if you're going. And be careful.” She climbed in the car, then climbed out again. “You know, we might want to think about tearing that thing down.”
“No!” It was his tree house. “Let God blow it over, if he can.”
Half-way up the trunk he had a strong sense of deja vu, like he'd had that thought before, but he was remembering all kinds of things since coming back to Colorado. He’d probably talked it over with Granddad while his mom was packing their things, to leave her home and her father behind.
Jamison had never asked what had happened, why she suddenly hated her dad. He hadn't wanted to hear anything negative about the closest thing to a father he'd ever had. Kenneth Jamison was a great man and his grandson, at the age of eleven, had decided to pretend his mom hated someone else in Flat Springs.
Little did he know it would be the first of many things he would pretend in his life.
Jamison worked his shoulders through the drop door and pulled his legs up into the clubhouse. Magazines littered the floor, their pages warped and yellowed with time and whatever weather made it through the big picture window. He'd climbed up three days before, on the day they'd arrived, more interested in the memories he'd find there than in the ones he'd find in the house. But his mom had called him down, in no mood to unload the car alone. He'd been dying to get back up that ladder ever since.
Of course there was nothing there. He'd left nothing behind three days before. Only looking out that window, over the dry-edged stalks of corn, he felt very close to whatever it was he was forgetting.
“Gimme a break,” he muttered.
As he was about to turn away his eye was caught by something waving at him from the field, just on the other side of the fence, wedged high on one of thousands of cornstalks. It was a paper airplane, made from the page of a weather-warped magazine about the same shade as the drying tassels.
For a second he imagined it was one of the airplanes he and Ray, his boyhood friend, had launched out of that window over five years before, but the second passed and he considered how many times the field had been plowed, planted and plowed under again since the last time they'd ripped and folded those pages.
Someone had been up here, recently. Maybe Ray? Had his friend heard he was returning? Had he come up for old time's sake? Who else would remember about the airplanes?
The neighboring property was now owned by a group of Somerleds, not the Parkers who’d grumbled for years over how many magazines had cluttered their field.
One year they'd spent days getting paper cuts and covering the young corn with a blanket of brightly colored planes, only to be grounded from the tree house for a month, after they'd cleaned up the mess.
Mom honked the car horn and Jamison shook off the memory and the odd feeling of forgetfulness as he scurried down the tree.
What he couldn't forget was to go see his granddad. The old man was more important than the moving van and the things in it, including his ancient Honda.
***
“James! I mean Jamison!” The kid from English waved him down before he made it to the main doors. “Hold up, man. We need to talk before we go in.”
Two other classmates joined them.
“’S up?”
“’S up?” The second kid tried to casually lift his droopy jeans with his wrists. What a dork.
Jamison gave them a quick chin lift.
“Hey, uh, you know how Mr. Evans enjoyed your conversation yesterday?”
Jamison frowned. Enjoyed? He doubted it.
“We were thinking, that if you got the old man talking, he might just forget about giving that test, you know?”
“I don't think a teacher would just forget about a test.” Jamison started to walk around the kid.
“No, dude, he totally would.” One of the others, a Latino, moved to cut him off. “He does it all the time. Mr. Evans likes to talk. If you get him going it will buy us another day.”
Jamison doubted these guys would get any more studying done with another day, but said nothing.
“Fine. I'll try, if I get a chance.”
Satisfied, the three hurried into the building ahead of him.
He hated that; people coming to him for help, probably because he was taller than most. He couldn't complain that he was built like his granddad, but that didn't mean he wanted to be a leader. What he did want was to be left alone—for him and his mom to just be left alone.
Jamison wasn't the only one holding his ears when Announcements came over the PA. Perky voices, from overly dramatic cheerleaders standing too close to the microphone, made everyone wince.
Mr. Evans didn't seem to notice; he was texting. When the bombardment stopped, and hands came away from ears, he looked over his bifocals and jumped, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. Jamison wondered if anyone ever thought to snag his cell to read those messages.
“Mr. Shaw, I believe you decided we should have a test today on Lost Horizon.”
Jamison suspected the groans around him were designed to stall things. No one really expected to get out of the test, did they?
One look around and he realized that more than just the original three classmates were waiting for him to save their butts.
Crap.
“No sir, Mr. Evans. I don't remember that at all.”
Someone gasped in the back. He turned to see the Somerled girl from next door looking at him. She looked concerned, like she thought he was about to piss off the teacher.
“Have you also forgotten that you claimed to have read Lost Horizon?” Mr. Evans came around to the front of his desk and sat back on it, a copy of the novel in his hands. “Or have you just forgotten what you read? Because let me warn you now, that whether or not you remember one word written by Mr. Hilton, you and your classmates are going to be tested on it today, Mr. Shaw.”
“Well, sir, I'm pretty sure I can answer just about anything. Would you like to try me?” Jamison smiled, daring the man to ask him something in front of witnesses.
Mr. Evans grinned. “Was it Mr. Cloward or Mr. Gardner who told you I like to be distracted by my own voice?”
“I don't know, sir.” Jamison smiled. “Which one is Mr. Cloward?”
The teacher barked out a laugh, not at all insulted that his students knew him well.
“Brownie points for not denying it, I think.” The man began thumbing through the book and paused, briefly reading to himself. “All right, Mr. Shaw. Tell me, who is the coward in this story?”
Jamison tried not to laugh. If anyone was an expert on cowards, it was him.
“Well, I’d say Mr. Conrad’s the biggest coward.”
Mr. Evans’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”
“I think he pretended to prefer wisdom as an excuse to avoid life.”
“Oh, very good, Mr. Shaw. Tell me, did you pay much for your Cliff's Notes?”
“No sir. You can read them online.”
“Oh ho! More points for honesty. Anyone else in this class want points for reading Cliff's Notes?”
Most students raised a hand.
“Well, you don't get any.”
Grunting was unanimous.
“Why shouldn't we get points for reading Cliff's Notes?” Jamison was on a roll. He'd had no intention of doing what the other kids had asked, but this guy was too easy. “After all, studying is studying. And if Cliff's Notes help us understand the crap we have to read, then isn't it a valid source?”
Mr. Evans looked like he didn't want to play anymore. Jamison had to talk fast.
“Okay, how about this? Cliff says Conrad was brave because he didn't fear the unknown, and that Mr. Mallinson was a coward because he feared so much he wanted to get out of Shangri La.”
“And you disagree.”
“Hell—heck yeah, I disagree. I think Mr. Mallinson was the brave one because he was willing to stand up and fight the unknown. He was right to fear it and did something about it. And Mr. Conrad was the coward, like I said.”
“Wait a minute.” The Somerled chick piped up from the back. “You're calling Mr. Conrad a coward because he didn't want to face real life? That's ridiculous. He chose eternal life—well, not eternal, but incredibly prolonged life, anyway. It was a different kind of life, but still—”
“It wasn't real life. There was only one choice to make, to be a coward or not. Two categories. In Lost Horizon or High School, or whatever. Everyone is either one or the other.”
Evans walked to the side of the room and leaned against the wall. “Two categories? Those who fear and those who do not?”
“No, sir. Everyone fears; we just fear different things, but even what we fear doesn’t really matter. There are those who fear and fight, and those who fear and hide.”
“Interesting philosophy, for someone your age, whether you play football or not.” Evans folded his arms. “Be honest. Where did you read it?”
Jamison laughed, then pulled out his finest Scottish Brogue. “I lairnt all I ken sitting at the plaid knee of me Scottish grandsire. If ye’re brave and braw, ye’re a Scot. If ye run and hide, ye’re Anglish. Right and Wrong, Good and Evil, are all decided by where you’re born; North or South of the Border.
Mr. Evans looked long and hard at Jamison, then he looked around at the rest of the students.
“Okay, there is your assignment, children. Write an essay about which you are, one who fears and fights, or one who fears and hides.”
“Mr. Evans?”
“Yes, Mr. Shaw?”
“Why not have a debate instead of an essay? I mean, this is College Prep, and we should learn how to debate our opinions, right?”
“Go on.”
“So, if we just all say which group we are in and why, we wouldn't need to write it down.”
The class went still.
Mr. Evans shook his head. “Is it going to be like this all semester, Mr. Shaw?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Evans. I'm sure you'll catch up.”
Mr. Evans laughed. “Fine. Miss Phillips, you’re first. If you don't like it, complain to Mr. Shaw.”
Twenty minutes later it was Jamison's turn. He was almost anxious to surprise those idiots who thought he was leadership material.
“I'm a Conrad. I usually choose anything but standing and fighting. I'm a coward.”
Miss Phillips looked like she was going to run over and comfort him.
Evans noticed too, and cleared his throat, probably to distract her. “Not as Scottish as your grandfather, Mr. Shaw?”
“No, sir. I wish I were.”
Jamison resisted turning around to see what affect he'd had on Skye Somerled. He vaguely remembered talking to her in the parking lot the day before but couldn’t remember what they’d talked about. He’d liked her laugh, her soft gloves. He’d caught her lying about sunglasses. When they’d gotten to class the jerk behind him had poked him in the back, warning him that Somerleds didn't date outside their kind, or something like that.
Was that only yesterday?
The confessions went down the line. Most didn't care to join Jamison in the coward club. But when it was time for the last confession, Skye’s, he couldn't help but turn around and watch.
“I'm neither. I fear nothing, so there is no reason to hide or fight.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and lifted her chin.
“Oh ho!” Mr. Evans clapped his hands once. “Miss Somerled has just proven your theory, Mr. Shaw. Did you see? She just chose a side, even though she meant not to. She chose fear and fight. She lifted her chin, ready to take on all comers, didn't she?”
“No, I did not. If there is no reason to fear, there is no reason to fight.” Skye lifted her chin again.
“And yet you are fighting, Miss Somerled.” Evans walked to the board and started writing a mathematical equation, if a, then b or c. “Mr. Shaw’s argument is if there is fear, then there is either flee or fight, agreed?”
The class murmured its agreement.
“And Miss Somerled’s argument is the reverse, but basically means the same thing.” He wrote on the board, if not a, then not b and not c. “If there is no fear, then there is no flee and no fighting. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Most of the class spoke in unison.
Evans faced Jamison. “You were right about one thing, Mr. Shaw; this is turning into an excellent lesson in debate.” He lifted his chalk to the board, writing if b or c, then a. “Follow my logic, if you will. If the first two sentences are correct, if both Jamison and Skye are correct, then it stands to reason that if there is fighting or fleeing, there is fear. Agreed?”
Only a couple kids answered. The class was either a little slow or indifferent.
“So, if Miss Somerled is ready to fight, as implied by the raise of her chin, she must therefore have fear. Agreed?”
Skye was looking at the board, her mouth open, her brow pinched together in confusion.
Jamsion felt bad that his comments had led to this.
Evans slapped the chalk dust from his hands and walked back to his desk. “You make a good argument, Skye. I'll give you a pass for your participation, but I don't buy it, that you have no fear. Everyone fears something.” Evans looked at his cell.
Jamison didn’t want things left that way, with her squirming in the spotlight.
“What about you, Mr. Evans? Which side are you on?”
The man glared at Jamison, then the clock. Still two more minutes.
“I'm the fear and hide type, Mr. Shaw, like you. But I'm getting out of Shangri-La, just as soon as I dare.” He turned to the class. “Tomorrow's discussion will be Wisdom vs. Passion. How old do you think you will be when you do as Mr. Conrad did and exchange the latter for the former—exchange the passion of youth for the wisdom of maturity? I want an essay, not a debate, so be prepared. I recommend reading the classic, Lost Horizon, to get some perspective. If you haven't read it, Mr. Cloward, you should!”
Wisdom over passion? Jamison had settled for wisdom years ago—the wisdom to keep his mouth shut and his head down. Passion, though...passion, for basketball or anything else, only caused pain.
Holy crap, Jamison was as old a fart as the teacher. His wisdom seemed to fade with Skye Somerled around, though. Better to avoid her like the plague.
But that wouldn’t be easy—not with her popping up around every freaking corner.