The Schwa Was Here Read online

  “So what’s up with you?” I asked him.

  “It’s my opinion. I got a right to an opinion.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get so touchy.”

  With Ira suddenly unsociable, the Schwa decided to leave rather than make any further waves.

  “See you in science,” he said.

  Only after he’s gone does Ira pull me aside and say, “I wish I would’ve gotten that on film.”

  “Gotten what on film?”

  “Remember a second ago when you asked the Schwa where he went, and he practically had to jump up and down to get your attention?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was standing right in front of you all along.”

  I waved my hand like I’m shooing away a fly. “What are you talking about? He moved behind me. That’s why I couldn’t see him.”

  But Howie shook his head. “He never moved, Antsy.”

  I scowled at them like this is some conspiracy to make me look stupid.

  “And I’ve heard things about him, too,” Ira said. “Crazy stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  Ira came in close enough so I could smell last night’s garlic-whatever on his breath. “His eyes,” Ira whispered. “They say his eyes change color to match the sky. They say his shoes are always the same color as the ground. They say if you stare at him long enough, you can read what’s written on the wall behind him.”

  “That’s called ‘persistence of vision,’” Howie says, reminding us that behind his veil of idiocy is a keen analytical mind. “That’s when your brain fills in the gaps of what it thinks ought to be there.”

  “He’s not a gap,” I reminded him. “He’s a kid.”

  “He’s a freak,” said Ira. “Ten-foot-pole material.”

  Well, I didn’t know about Howie and Ira, but I’ve spent enough of my life keeping weird things at ten-foot-pole distance.

  “If any of this is true,” I told them, “there are ways of finding out.”

  2. The Weird and Mostly Tragic History of the Schwa, Which Is Entirely True If You Trust My Sources

  My family lives in a duplex—that’s two homes attached like Siamese twins with one wall in common. On the other side of the wall is a Jewish family. Ira knows them from his temple, but we just know their names. Once a year we exchange Christmas cookies and potato latkes. Funny how you can live six inches away from people and barely even know them. Our neighborhood is a Jewish-Italian neighborhood. Jews and Italians seem to get along just fine. I think it has something to do with the way both cultures have a high regard for food and guilt.

  The Schwa was about six inches away, too, in science class, but I had never noticed him. It was weird, because in school I notice almost anything as long as it doesn’t actually have to do with the lesson. And then there was the way Ira got all freaked out about him. It made me want to do some investigating. It took a couple of days, but I did come up with something.

  I called Ira and Howie over for a war council, which I guess is the guy version of gossiping. Of course we couldn’t talk in the living room, because Frankie was sleeping on the sofa, hogging the most comfortable place in the house, like always. Lately it’s like Frankie slept all the time.

  “It comes with being sixteen,” Mom said. “You teenagers, you go into a cocoon when you turn fifteen and don’t come out for years.”

  “So they become butterflies when they finally come out?” my little sister Christina asked.

  “No,” Mom said. “They’re still caterpillars, only now they’re big fat caterpillars that smell.”

  Christina laughed and Frankie rolled over on the sofa, sticking his butt out toward us.

  “So when do we get to be butterflies?” I asked.

  “You don’t,” Mom answered. “You go off to college, or wherever, and then I get to be a butterfly.”

  She was looking at me when she said “wherever,” so I said, “Maybe I’ll just stay here all my life. With a butterfly net.”

  “Yeah,” said Mom. “Then you can use it to drag me off to the nuthouse.”

  When it comes to Frankie, Mom always talks about college like it’s a given, but not me. I looked at Frankie snoring away. Sometimes I think God made an inventory error and gave Frankie some brain cells that were supposed to go to me. He could sleep away the afternoon and still pull straight A’s, but me? There were only two A’s I ever saw on my papers: the A in Anthony, and the A in Bonano. What made it worse was that Christina already seemed to be following in Frankie’s footsteps, gradewise, so it cleared the path for me to be the family disappointment.

  “C’mon,” I told Howie and Ira, “we’ll talk in the basement,” which is the place we always talk about important things. Ours is what you call a finished basement, although it really should be called a someday-will-be-finished basement, because no matter how much work we put into it, there always seems to be a bare wall with insulation that’s never been covered up. It probably has something to do with my dad, who keeps putting in the wrong wiring, or my uncle, who got cheap insulation that just happens to cause cancer. Whatever the reason, walls keep having to come out. Still, the basement had become like our own military bunker where we discuss national security and play video games that my mother is convinced will rot out my brain even faster than professional wrestling. And it really pisses her off when we play the wrestling video game.

  But today we’re not playing games. Today is a war council about the weird kid everyone calls the Schwa.

  We sat on the floor, and I told them what I found out in the course of my investigation. “I’m not a hundred percent sure how the Schwa got his last name, but my aunt’s hairdresser’s brother is his next-door neighbor, so the story must be pretty reliable.” I paused for effect. “The story goes like this: The Schwa’s great-grandparents came over from the old country.”

  “Which old country?” asked Howie.

  “I don’t know, one of those old countries over there.”

  “China’s an old country,” says Howie. “He doesn’t look Chinese.”

  Now I know why Howie always buzzes his hair, because if he didn’t, he’d have millions of people trying to pull it out.

  “He means somewhere in Eastern Europe,” Ira said.

  “Anyway,” I said, “his great-grandfather’s last name is Schwartz, and for his whole life, all Great-Grandpa Schwartz wants to do is to get out of the old country and come to America, because the Statue of Liberty’s got this invitation: ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your reeking homeless—’”

  “‘Huddled masses,’” said Ira. “‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’”

  “Yeah,” says Howie. “If you’re gonna misquote something, at least misquote it right.”

  “Okay, fine. So, like everybody in the old countries says, ‘Hey, I’m a huddled mass,’ and they all wanna come over. That’s how come my great-grandparents came from Italy, and why Ira’s came from Russia, and why yours, Howie, came from the moon.” Howie punched me in the arm for that one.

  “So, anyway, Old Man Schwartz, he’s stewing out there on his beet farm, or whatever, saving his pennies to buy a ticket for himself and his wife and kids so he can take a boat to America. ‘I want to die on American soil,’ he says. Finally he saves up enough money, and they pack ’em onto a boat with like, fourteen thousand other families, and they cross the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Don’t tell me they hit an iceberg,” says Howie.

  “Different boat,” I said, “but around the same time, I guess. Anyway, they get into New York Harbor, pass the Statue of Liberty, everybody starin’ up at the flame going ooh and ahh like tourists without Hawaiian shirts—because, you know, they’re poor, they can’t afford Hawaiian shirts. Anyway, they let everyone off the boat at Ellis Island and they get in this long line standing in the hot sun, all sweaty in heavy coats, because these people don’t yet know to dress for the weather, because it’s always subzero in the old country. Finally they get
to the front of the line. Old Man Schwartz, he’s sweating from the heat, and hyperventilating from the excitement. There’s this guy in the front of the line with a fountain pen and a big, fat black book taking down names and letting you into the country. He says, ‘Your name, sir?’ And—get this—the old man says, ‘Schwa—,’ then puts his hand over his heart, has a massive heart attack, and drops dead on the spot.”

  “He got his wish,” says Howie. “He died on American soil.”

  “Yeah. So anyway, those guys at Ellis Island, they were like your cafeteria workers of today—they didn’t care what they stuck you with, as long as they got you through the line. So they marked down the family name as ‘Schwa,’ and it’s been that way ever since.”

  Ira, who had been quiet for most of the story, finally spoke up. “That’s not all I heard.”

  I turned to him. “What’d you hear?”

  “Weird stuff—not just about him this time, but about the whole family.”

  “Weird, like Twilight Zone weird?” Howie asked. “Or weird like Eyewitness News weird?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ira. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

  “So what did you hear?” I asked again.

  “I heard his mom went to the market one day and disappeared right before everyone’s eyes in the ten-items-or-less line. Nothing was left but a pile of coupons and a broken jar of pickles where she stood.”

  “Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared?”

  “And why a pile of coupons, if all she had was a jar of pickles?” Howie asked.

  “It’s just what I heard.” Then Ira gets real quiet. “Of course . . . there’s another story.”

  Howie and I leaned close to listen.

  “Some say the Schwa’s father cut her up into fifty pieces and mailed each piece . . . to a PO box . . . in a different state . . .”

  “Not Puerto Rico?” says Howie.

  “Puerto Rico’s not a state,” I reminded him.

  “It’s almost a state.”

  “Fine, so maybe he saved a piece to send to Puerto Rico when it becomes a state. Okay, are you happy?”

  To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe either of Ira’s stories. “If any of this stuff happened, the whole neighborhood would know about it—wouldn’t they?”

  Ira leaned in close and smirked. “Not if it happened before he moved here.”

  “When did he move here?” asked Howie.

  But neither Ira or I knew for sure. The thing is, there are always kids moving in and out of neighborhoods, and no matter how quietly a kid tries to come into a new school, he can’t do it without being noticed. But the Schwa did.

  “I guess he kinda slipped in under everybody’s radar,” I said.

  “Has anyone bothered to check if the color of his eyes really changes?” Howie asked.

  “I don’t want to get that close,” said Ira.

  There was silence for a second, and then Howie let off a shiver that I could feel like a tremor.

  3. Quantizing the Schwa Effect Using the Scientific Method, and All That Garbage

  Mr. Werthog, our science teacher, has a weird twitch in his lip, like he’s always kissing the air. It’s something you never can get used to, and might explain why my science grade keeps dropping. You just can’t concentrate on his words when you look at him. The only time it gets him into trouble, though, is during parent conference night. One guy punched him out for making kissy faces at his wife.

  Now he stood in front of a science experiment featuring a large beaker filled with ice and a long thermometer. On the board he writes 34°, then turned to us. “The scientific method (kiss) is one of hypothesis, trial (kiss), results, and conclusion (kiss, kiss).”

  Someone next to me taps my arm. “Hi, Antsy.”

  I turn, actually surprised to see someone there. It’s like I never realized there was even a desk next to me in science. For an instant I don’t recognize the face—like no part of it is distinctive enough to stick to my memory—a face like mental Teflon.

  “It’s me—Calvin Schwa.”

  “Hey, Schwa—how ya doin?”

  “Mr. Bonano, are you (kiss) with us today?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I guess.” I don’t kiss back, on account of I once got dragged to the office for that. Mr. Werthog is sensitive that way.

  “As I was saying, (kiss) can anyone give me the hypothesis leading to today’s experiment?”

  The Schwa’s hand is up in an instant, before anyone else’s. We’re in the third row, right in the middle, but Werthog looks over his hand to Amy van Zandt, in the last row.

  “Water at room temperature will boil if left in the sun.”

  “Abominably incorrect!” He pours a packet of powder into the icy beaker, and stirs it. The water turns cloudly. “Anyone else?”

  The Schwa’s hand is still up. Werthog calls on LoQuisha Peel.

  “Lemonade reacts with ice to quench thirst?” LoQuisha says.

  “Even more wrong (kiss, kiss).” He pours in a second packet of powder. The ice in the beaker begins to melt quickly. By now the Schwa is waving his hand back and forth across Werthog’s field of vision like a signal flare. Werthog calls on Dennis Fiorello.

  “Uh . . .” Dennis puts down his hand. “Never mind.”

  The Schwa turns to me, grumbling beneath his breath. “He never calls on me.”

  That’s when I raise my hand.

  “Ah! Mr. Bonano. Do you have the answer?”

  “No, but I’ll bet the Schwa does.”

  He looks at me like I’m speaking Latin. “Excuse me?”

  “You know: Calvin Schwa.”

  Werthog turns his head slightly and his eyes refocus. “Calvin!” he says, like he’s surprised he’s even here. “Can you (kiss) give us the answer?”

  “The reaction between reagents A and B is an exothermic reaction.”

  “Excellent! And is our hypothesis proven, or disproven?”

  “Proven. All the ice melted when you added reagent B, so it’s exothermic.”

  Werthog pulls out the thermometer, marks down the temperature on the board, 89°, and continues his lesson.

  The Schwa turns to me and whispers, “Thanks. At least now he won’t mark me absent today.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “I swear, it’s like you’re invisible or something.” I say it like a joke, but then I catch the Schwa’s eyes—eyes that match the gray clouds outside the window. He doesn’t say anything, and I know I just stumbled onto something. He turns back to his notebook, but I can’t concentrate on my work. I feel like my foot is pressed down on a land mine that will blow the second I move.

  Howie, Ira, and I got together the next Saturday morning to detonate Manny. I had told the Schwa about it the day before, but in a way I was hoping he wouldn’t show—almost as much as I hoped he would. I call it the “film-at-eleven factor.” You know, on the news, how they say, “Horrible train wreck. Graphic footage. Film at eleven.” And then for the rest of the night you’re disgusted by how much you actually want to see it, and you’re relieved if you fall asleep before it comes on.

  The thing is, I can’t get past the feeling that there’s something . . . unnatural about the Schwa. I don’t do well with unnatural things. Take spiders, for instance. I mean, sorry, I don’t care what anyone says—there can’t be anything natural about spinning a web out of your butt. And then there’s those Hindu coal walkers. The way I see it, if God meant us to walk on hot coals, He would have given us asbestos hooves instead of feet—but first He probably would have smashed us in the head a couple of times to knock some sense into us, because why would we want to walk on coals in the first place? And don’t even get me started on my aunt Rose’s Christmas tree. First of all, it’s aluminum. Second of all, it’s pink. I mean, like the color of Pepto-Bismol, which makes sense, because I get sick to my stomach just looking at it.

  Not that the Schwa is anything like a spider, or a coal walker, or a pink tree, but he is unnatural in his own disturbin
g Schwalike way.

  So anyway, it’s seven on Saturday morning as we prepare Manny Bullpucky for detonation. I’m busy taping an M-80 firecracker to his forehead, but my mind’s obviously not on my work because I bury the whole fuse beneath the duct tape.

  “You’re a real pyrotechnic wizard, Antsy,” says Ira as he pulls off the tape and redoes it.

  Behind me, Howie’s upturning lawn furniture, building a barricade for us to hide behind when Manny blows.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Schwa,” I said, loud enough for both Howie and Ira to hear.

  “Yeah, so?” said Ira.

  “I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with him.”

  “Like he’s retarded, you mean?”

  Howie’s disgusted by this. “The proper term is ‘mentally handicapped,’” he says. “Otherwise retards get offended.”

  “No,” I tell them. “The Schwa’s not mentally handicapped—it’s something else—and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Hey, didn’t I say there was something weird about him?” Ira said. “I mean, like the way he always just appears, like he’s spying on you. He’s sneaky. Weaselly . . .”

  “I don’t think he means to be,” I told them. “It’s just . . . It’s just like he always happens to be standing in your blind spot.”

  “Yeah, and when he’s around, every spot is a blind spot,” said Ira. “It’s friggin’ weird. It’s like he’s a ghost, or something.”

  “You gotta be dead to be a ghost,” I reminded him. “No . . . It’s more like he’s . . .” I search for the right word. “It’s like he’s functionally invisible.”

  “The proper term is ‘observationally challenged,’” Howie says.