The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy (5 page)

That’s called
irony
, guys.

After the fiasco that was my introduction to long poems and revisionary mytho—uh, mythowhatchamacallit—I knew I had to pay attention that Friday when BradLee lectured on Ezra Pound again. Despite any stunning reason
not
to pay attention that may have been sitting across the U of desks, pointing and flexing her feet.

“Pound and the Imagists decided on three principles,” said BradLee. I perked up. I could get behind anybody who knew the importance of threes.

“First, direct treatment of the subject. Second, use of no word that doesn’t contribute. And the third has to do with rhythm. Instead of writing like a metronome”—BradLee beat
his desk—“ ‘
All
the
world’s
a
stage
and
all
the
men
and
wom
en
mere
ly
play
ers,’ Pound wanted to use rhythm the way it’s used in a musical phrase. Can anyone explain that?”

Rummica Fitzgerald raised her hand. She would. She plays the flute, and she likes everyone to know that she
gets
music, she’s
one
with it, melody is her
soul
. Rummica said, “There’s still a beat, but there might be four sixteenth-notes or just one quarter note.”

“Excellent,” said BradLee. “So there could be four quick syllables in a beat or one longer one. You guys need any of that repeated?”

Of course we suck at taking notes, so he had to say the whole thing over again.

“Pound later described his method of ‘luminous details,’ ” said BradLee. “Instead of abstractions and adjectives, he selected crucial details. Revealing details. Honed, chiseled images. He didn’t want commentary or philosophy.”

BradLee scrawled
luminous details
on the board.

“He wanted good art. He wanted beautiful art. ‘Beauty in art reminds one what is worth while,’ he wrote. ‘I mean beauty, not slither. I mean beauty. You don’t argue about an April wind, you feel bucked up when you meet it.’ ”

BradLee flipped on the projector. “Here’s an example of an early Imagist poem. Pound stepped off a train in the Paris Underground, and he saw one beautiful face after another. He worked on this poem for a year, class.” There it was:

Beauty, not slither. Luminous details. I don’t even like poetry and I just stared. Everyone was either spacing out or awestruck, which looks basically the same, but I knew Luke was on the awestruck side too.

We’d planned to hang out later at the Appelden, so I went home for a couple hours. “I’m going for a run,” my dad announced.

“Not outside,” said my mom. “The wind chill’s negative six.”

“Treadmill?” said Olivia hopefully.

“Guess so,” said my dad.

“EARTHQUAKE BABY TIME!” the triplets shouted as one.

“Come with us, Ethan,” ordered Tabitha.

I complied. It was Friday afternoon; it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. And Earthquake Baby is a tradition. While my dad moved the ironing off the treadmill, the girls arranged me on the dining-room floor.

“Good morning, baby!” said Olivia.

My dad ratcheted up the speed. The room began to shake.

“EARTHQUAKE!” they shouted.

“You are supposed to cry, baby,” Olivia told me.

“Wah!”

“Shut up, baby,” said Tabitha. “I will feed you breakfast. Down the hatch!” I automatically opened up, assuming her spoon would be empty, but then I gagged.

“What the heck? What
was
that?”

“Babies can’t talk,” said Olivia.

“Okay, but what was in that spoon? Do I need to call the poison hotline?”

“It was Barbie hair,” Lila informed me.

“No, it was breakfast,” said Tabitha.

“And besides, babies can’t talk,” said Olivia.

My dad had reached cruising speed. The floor was really vibrating. “EARTHQUAKE!” they yelled again.

“Mommy!” I wailed. “Want my mommy!”

“We are in charge,” said Olivia.

“Mommy got tilled,” said Lila.

“Was she lying in a field or something?” I shot my dad a look, but he was too busy gasping for air to appreciate my quick wit.

“No, dummy,” said Tabitha. “She was in the house. The ceiling fell on her head. She got tilled.”

“You mean killed.”

“That’s what I said.
T
illed.”

I wiped the spittle off my face. “Daddy! Want my daddy!” I cried.

“Daddy got tilled too.”

“Did he drop dead of a heart attack?”

“Not funny, Ethan,” managed my dad between huffs and puffs.

“And before they got tilled,” continued inexorable Olivia, “they said that you had to do everything we say.”

“EARTHQUAKE!”

“Maybe we should evacuate.”

“You are a baby. You are not allowed to talk.”

Go ahead and dog-ear this page if you’re the type of person
who’ll be like, “Why does Ethan spend all his time with his friends instead of in the bosom of his family?” After enough seismic activity to flatten San Francisco several times over, I struggled to my feet (“BABIES CAN’T WALK, DUMMY!”) and headed to the Appelden.

I guess you already know that Jackson Appelman is eccentric. He’s also persistent. He makes these resolutions—e.g., on Thursdays, he takes notes in binary code—and then he sticks to them. Even when they turn out to be stupid. Do you know what it takes to write “long poem” in binary code? Here ya go: 01101​10001​10111​10110​11100​11001​11001​00000​01110​00001​10111​10110​01010​11011​01.

Both his eccentricity and his perseverance come straight from his parents. Case in point: when they were first married, the Appelmen adopted a beagle named Pickles, and then decided to name all their future pets after condiments. And they like pets a
lot
. Twenty-five years later, most of the normal
names have been used up on dead animals and they’re down to the dregs.

Three pet names that work:

Three pet names that are just unfortunate:

Jackson resents that his dad’s name is Jack (get it?), but I think he should be grateful that he didn’t end up as Pesto, or Watermelon Rind Preserves.

*   *   *

That night in the Appelden, Luke and I sprawled out on the old camelhair couches. I was giving more attention to Baconnaise than to anyone else. He likes to chill on my neck, but if I forget to give him the occasional finger-stroke he’ll make a break for it down my shirt. Luke was petting Honey Mustard, who was purring like a cat.

Jackson sat in front of one of the computer monitors playing
Sun Tzu’s Art of War
, using one of his lesser avatars so he wouldn’t compromise his über-powerful guy. (He only plays that guy under conditions of total focus: between midnight and 4 a.m., parents asleep, the only light being that which emits from the screen.)

“Luminous details!” said Luke. “I’m obsessed with luminous details. I don’t know how Ezra Pound exists in the same world as the kTV people.”

“He doesn’t,” said Jackson. “Pound’s been dead for like forty years.”

In my Baconnaise haze, it took me a minute to orient myself in the conversation. Oh, right, English class.
Petals on a wet, black bough
.

“The sentiment stands,” said Luke. “He cared about art for art’s sake. The kTV people, conversely, name their show
For Art’s Sake
yet care about nothing but money. It’s immoral.”

Baconnaise, roused by the voices, was now running laps around my neck.

“It’s not supposed to be art,” I said. “It’s entertainment.” There he was, ranting on about
For Art’s Sake
and Pound again.

“Cat-piss, Ethan. It’s all
about
the arts. We go to an
arts
academy. That’s the whole premise of the show, kids trying to make it in the
arts
. But the kTV people don’t care about art at all.”

“I get it.” I yawned. I couldn’t help it. Baconnaise felt the tautness in my neck and paused, alert. I ran my pinkie down his spine. He’s the smartest gerbil I’ve ever met.

“Elizabeth wants to come over,” said Jackson, looking at his phone.

“So invite her over,” said Luke.

“I did.”

“So why are you telling us?”

“Luke, snap out of it,” I said. “It’s a stupid TV show. They’ll be gone next year.”

“You think they’re going to settle for one season? This is minting money.”

“It’s high time you learned some tricks, buddy,” I told Baconnaise. “Pretend my fingers are a tightrope.” He navigated it no problem.

“Someone should put a stop to it. It’s ruining our school. Selwyn’s becoming a kTV colony. An outpost in the wilderness, for them to observe and profit off. It’s disgusting.”

“Did you ever talk to Wyckham about your article?” Jackson’s fingers were tapping the arrow keys with a pianist’s dexterity. A horde of invading Mongols bit the dust. Duh, I thought.
That’s
why Luke’s still upset. I felt like an imbecile for forgetting.

Luke sighed. He grabbed a tuft of Honey Mustard’s fur and tugged. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Wyckham’s a charlatan.”

“Define for the masses.” That was me.

“A mountebank.”

“Um.”

“A fraud.”

Elizabeth came in, almost blinding me with her highlighter-yellow sweatpants, and fell onto the other couch. “Talking about Wyckham, are we?” she said brightly.

“How’d you guess?”

“It’s the particular blend of revulsion and impatience. Like you’re hungry, but there’s a big old hairy wad of gum on your fork.”

“He’s not trustworthy,” said Luke.

“That’s because he’s Coluber’s pawn,” said Elizabeth.

I tried to exchange a look with Jackson, but he’d turned back to
Sun Tzu’s Art of War
.

“Exactly!” said Luke.

This was the look I’d wanted to give Jackson:
Crap. Elizabeth is going to second all of Luke’s anti-administration, conspiracy-theory, paranoia-sparked thoughts about why his article wasn’t published. We’ll never have a normal conversation around here
.

“I mean, half the faculty are his pawns.” Elizabeth flopped onto her back, as gracelessly as a dying fish, and shoved her hands through her hair so her dreads fanned out behind her.

“It seems worse with him.”

“That’s because he’s giving Coluber power over the
Selwyn Cantos
. Which is—slash would be—the only free expression left for us.”

“Wow, I’m so glad you’re here,” Luke told her. This was why he was so well liked. He thought stuff like that, and then he said it. I imagined telling Maura Heldsman what I was thinking. She’d walk into English.
Maura, I’m so glad you’re here. I needed someone to stare at while this strand of drool bridges the gap between my mouth and my notebook
. Baconnaise cuddled up in my Adam’s apple and I felt sorry for myself.

“There’s an unspoken rule that any article written by a page editor is published. Plus, this was good.”

“Let me read it,” said Elizabeth.

Luke gave her the printout. Meanwhile, I rummaged in Mr. Appelman’s knitting basket and found a length of yarn. “Baconnator,” I murmured, excavating him from his warm little knoll, “it’s time for circus camp.”

“You’ve got to do something,” said Elizabeth seriously. She folded the article into an airplane and winged it back to Luke. “You’re the only one who sees this situation clearly.”

“
Thank
you,” said Luke.

Jackson dispatched a sinister cadre with two keystrokes. I tied one end of the yarn to the couch leg, just a few inches above the floor. Baconnaise wavered, but managed a four-inch walk. “Not bad, not bad,” I whispered.

“I’m going to write a long poem,” Luke was telling Elizabeth.

I’d heard this one before. Now Baconnaise could handle eight inches of tightrope without one tremor or false step.

“Long poems are
the
way for the oppressed to voice their identity, to reclaim their culture. And we are the oppressed.”

Elizabeth was listening intently.

“We’ve been denied our voice. I want to reclaim it. I want to present
our
culture,
our
milieu,
our
Selwyn. I’m going to play up the neglected characters. Those of us who aren’t pretty enough for the show.”

I glanced up from the floor. I’ve already explained about Luke. As for Elizabeth—I mean, usually I think of her as my friend, as Jackson’s utterly asexual cousin, and honestly, I rarely even remember she’s a girl, but, like, objectively speaking, she’s got keen eyes and wild hair and some not insubstantial curves in the chesticular region.