Don't Care High (6 page)

In chemistry class that day, Daphne Sylvester showed further signs of being alive. When Paul's Bunsen burner decided to go up in a pillar of flames, she actually demonstrated concern for his welfare by saying, “Okay?” which seemed to be a shortened version of “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” breathed Paul, his hand still on the gas knob. “And my eyebrows will probably grow back.”

Daphne didn't appear to appreciate this brave attempt at humor. Her attention, such as it was, had wandered back to Wayne-o, who was burning his name into the counter with pure, concentrated sulfuric acid. He was later caught at this, and Mr. Schmidt decided to mark him absent.

In geography, the first of the presentations on “The Industrial Giants” began. Samuel Wiscombe led off with a presentation on Japan. He walked to the front of the class and began to set up various maps, charts and graphs, much to the delight of Mrs. Wolfe. He perched on the teacher's desk, took out a small stack of notes written on file cards and began his introduction.

“This project deals with the economic factors affecting the direction of industry in China —”

“That's
Japan
!” shrieked Mrs. Wolfe.

Samuel shrugged. “Same difference.”

When Mrs. Wolfe turned away from admonishing Samuel, she found her class stoic as always, with the exception of Sheldon and Paul, who were red-faced with laughter, tears running down their cheeks.

“You two! Out!”

The two boys couldn't even manage an apology. They got to their feet and stumbled out into the hall, still laughing.

“Well,” gasped Sheldon, finally getting himself under control, “we seem to find ourselves with a two-hour lunch. So do we head for the cafeteria and dine on mildew, or do we check out the limitless vista of establishments our fair city has to offer?”

“I'll settle for the mildew,” said Paul feelingly. “It's safer. Besides, I've got to study for my French test this afternoon.”

Sheldon winced. “There's that ambition again. I thought you had it under control. Every now and then you just plain turn into a student. It's disgusting.”

They had lunch, and Paul excused himself, saying he was heading for the library to study.

“Have you ever been in our library?” Sheldon called after him. “The lighting's so bad you can't see to read.”

When Paul got to his locker, it was not, however, his French book he pulled out; it was his 35mm camera, which he slung over his shoulder. And his destination was not the library but the parking lot. Guilt for excluding Sheldon from this mission was not his major emotion — it was embarassment. But his embarassment did not outweigh his curiosity. Mike Otis's car had to be something, but what?

As he left the school building and stepped onto the broken pavement of the parking lot, he observed that, if an exiting vehicle ever jumped the guardrail on the 22nd Street ramp, it would drive right into Feldstein's stairwell. Then he saw Mike's car. It was bigger, shinier and blacker than anything on the lot.

Camera at the ready, he examined the car from hood ornament to taillights. There were absolutely no identifying marks, with the exception of the Roman number
VIII
in tiny chrome letters on the back right-hand fender. Glancing furtively around him, he began to snap pictures of the car from every conceivable angle. This done, he returned to his locker, feeling self-conscious and not just a little foolish.

The next day, Sheldon and Paul entered the school to be greeted by a great hum in the corridor outside Feldstein's office. A group of students populated the hall in various relaxed postures, their eyes intent on a workman perched on a ladder. He had ripped out the old broken clock and was replacing it with a shiny new one.

“What's going on?” Paul asked the first face he took to be familiar. It was Peter Eversleigh.

Peter chewed on his breakfast licorice. “This seems to be a pretty conceptual deal to me. New clocks. This dude whom we are regarding has been installing these new clocks all over Don't Care.” He added, “Care for some stick?”

“No, thanks. It's a little early for me.”

“I'm amazed at this,” commented Lucy LaPaz, one of the set of identical triplets in the school. “I've never seen anything new in this place.”

Wayne-o was convinced that this was a symbolic gesture aimed at him. “They put those new clocks up so I should come on time,” he mourned. “They want me there at the
beginning
of every class.”

“No, that's not it,” Sheldon said suddenly. “Mike Otis arranged for these new clocks.”

Paul's breath caught in his throat.

“Who?” echoed a dozen voices.

“Mike Otis, our student body president. That was his very first demand. He saw what a disgrace it was that none of our clocks gave the same time, so he put some pressure on the school board, and look what happened.”

Dick Oliver scratched his head. “I didn't know the student body president could… do things.”

“Oh, he's got power, all right,” said Sheldon. “What would a president do without power?”

Dick shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Well,” said Sheldon, despite frantic signaling from Paul, “maybe other presidents have no power but mark my words, when Mike Otis talks, people listen. These clocks are living proof. And that was pretty fast work.”

An answering hum testified to the fact that many people had heard Sheldon's words. Paul grabbed his friend by the arm and hauled him away bodily from the group.

“What are you — sick?” he hissed angrily. “Why did you do that?”

Sheldon gave him an angelic smile. “I'm just helping out Mike. He'll have a much easier time leading the students once he has a few accomplishments under his belt.”

“But this isn't his accomplishment! He'll probably be the last guy in the whole school even to notice that there are new clocks!”

“How could I resist?” said Sheldon dreamily. “Here was something just waiting to have credit taken for it. So I gave credit where credit was due.”

“You're crazy,” said Paul in disgust.

“Maybe,” said Sheldon honestly. “But didn't you think that there was one brief moment, one tiny shining instant, when those people back there cared? Not much, I admit, but remember, this is Don't Care High.” He shook his head violently. “Don't you see? In a world where students of this school can care about something, no one can tell what wonderful things could happen next. It… it enriches the experience of life.”

Paul's face radiated deep distaste. “And what are you going to do with your enriched life when people start going up to Mike Otis and saying ‘Thanks for the clocks' and he says ‘What clocks?'”

“Mike'll probably just say ‘You're welcome' anyway. I don't think he's much for getting to the bottom of things.”

“Well, don't you think this whole thing is a little unfair to poor Mike?”

Sheldon nodded. “I've thought of that. We owe him a bit of an explanation. But, being a Don't Care student, he's hard to talk to in school. We'll let him in on the whole thing when we call him this afternoon.”

“Call him? We don't have his number.”

“Well,” Sheldon admitted, “yes we do. You see, while you were studying in the library yesterday, I went to guidance to ask Mr. Morrison for Mike's phone number. But the office was empty. So I went over to the confidential files, pulled Mike's record, and photocopied it. I had it home with me last night. It makes for fascinating reading.”

Paul was horrified. “That's not only immoral and unethical, it's probably illegal! This is disgusting! You're disgusting!” He paused and studied the floor. “What did it say?”

Sheldon beamed. “Just a lot of stuff about where he was born and the different schools he went to. His marks are nothing to scream about — mostly low seventies and a lot of comments like ‘Michael could be an excellent student if only he'd try.' It almost reminds me of me.”

“It doesn't say ‘make of car' in there anywhere, does it?” asked Paul with some embarassment.

Sheldon shook his head. “No. But I did get his phone number and address and anything else we would need to know. We can call him from your house after school today.”

“Why not your house?” asked Paul.

“My father's hosting a big meeting this afternoon. They all collect airplane boarding passes, so they formed a society, and my Dad's vice-president. It seems some guy has dug up an old pass from Transatlantica's Flight 643, the only flight to go direct from Zurich to Cleveland, and they're coming from far and wide to look at it. Sometimes I wonder about my family. I'm crazy, and I'm still the sanest guy in the place.”

* * *

The elevator doors opened on the thirty-third floor of Paul's building, and Sheldon and Paul found Mrs. Abrams standing there, car keys in hand.

“Oh, Paul. Thank goodness you're here. Hello, Simon.”

“That's Sheldon, Mom.”

“Yes, of course, dear. I'm in a terrible rush. I've got to go over to your Auntie Nancy's. Your cousin Cheryl sat in some tea.”

“So?”

“She's in the hospital with first degree burns! Everyone's very upset, especially poor Nancy. I must run. I'm needed there. Oh, and your father won't be home for dinner tonight. I'm afraid you're on your own, Paul. This is an emergency.” She dashed into the elevator, which Sheldon had been holding open for her, the doors shut, and the car bore her away on her mission of mercy.

“Sat in some tea,” Paul repeated, shaking his head as they entered the apartment. “And you say
your
family is crazy? What say we go over to your place and have a look at that boarding pass before the guy leaves?”

Sheldon smiled appreciatively. “We've got business.” He opened up a notebook and produced his copy of Mike's file. “Here we go. Do you want me to do the talking?”

“Please do.”

Sheldon dialed the number and sat listening, a puzzled frown coming over his face. He hung up, then handed the receiver to Paul. “Here. You try.”

Obediently, Paul dialed.

“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please hang up and dial again.”

Paul looked at Sheldon in surprise. “What do you make of that?”

“He must have changed his number over the summer and forgotten to register the new one with the school. But look, we have the address. Let's go over there.”

“Aw, come on, Shel, couldn't we just forget about it for the time being?”

“No,” said Sheldon positively. “We owe the guy an explanation.”

“Well, if you could learn to keep your big mouth shut, we wouldn't owe him anything.”

“One-oh-six Gordon Street, apartment eleven twenty-five,” Sheldon read. “That's a short subway ride from here. Let's go.”

One-oh-six Gordon Street was a small, modern apartment building set in the middle of very old row housing. It was an attractive red brick structure with wrought-iron balconies trimmed with flower boxes. Paul wondered why Auntie Nancy hadn't searched out such a place for his family instead of the chrome-and-gunmetal giant she had settled them into.

They walked into the building and headed straight for the elevator, which opened at the call button.

“Shel, are you sure we have to go through with this?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Now shut up and press eleven.”

“There is no eleven.”

“Don't be silly. There has to be. The guy lives in apartment eleven twenty-five.”

“Well, there isn't.”

Both boys stared. There were buttons for the basement, and floors one through ten, but no eleven.

“The numbering system must be different,” Sheldon concluded. “We'll ask the superintendent.”

The superintendent's office was on the main floor, and the super himself was a big burly man in a greasy undershirt. He was watching a
Gilligan's Island
rerun when the two boys entered the office.

“Yeah?”

“Excuse me,” said Sheldon politely. “How can we find apartment eleven twenty-five?”

“With great difficulty,” the man wisecracked in a deep booming voice. “It would be up on the roof with the pigeons. This is a ten-storey building, kid.”

“Oh… well, where can I find the Otis family?”

“There ain't no Otis family here, buster, unless they snuck in last night and didn't tell me.”

“Well, they must have moved,” Sheldon concluded. “Do you have a forwarding address?”

“I've been here twelve years, kid, and there ain't never been no Otis family. Now, go away. Ginger's going to sing.”

Paul spoke up. “The fellow we're looking for is about my height, seventeen, long straight hair greased back, always wears a big raincoat and sticks safety pins in the cuffs of his pants, and he drives a black… uh… car.”