Zen And The Art Of Faking It Part 9

"Exciting isn't even the word," I choked out.

"Will Lippy be there, do you think? Apparently she arranged this whole event. She must be some girl! Well, I always figured that when my Sanny fell in love and completely hid it from his mother, the girl who stole his heart would have to be pretty special."

She looked at me with that look moms have, like I dare you to deny what I just said. I dare you to deny what I just said. But I wouldn't crack. The stakes were too high. She sighed and then gave a little laugh. "The funniest part, though, is what her mom said when I first got the phone. She said, 'You don't sound like I'd imagined you would.' What did you tell these people about little old me, San? I just But I wouldn't crack. The stakes were too high. She sighed and then gave a little laugh. "The funniest part, though, is what her mom said when I first got the phone. She said, 'You don't sound like I'd imagined you would.' What did you tell these people about little old me, San? I just wonder wonder about that." about that."

She glared some more. But I was unbreakable. "Well, Sanny, I guess the whole Woody family will get to find out exactly what I'm like at the game next Tuesday. Won't it be wonderful when I go to your school and meet all the interesting new people in your life? I can't wait! It should be very...educational for me."

And for some other people too, I thought.

This was starting to remind me way too much of the day my dad's lies had started unraveling. We were in Houston, and I thought things were going great. But out of the blue, Dad sat down at breakfast and announced that we'd be moving in a few weeks. My mom didn't even bother to ask why. I'd never asked why before either, but this time I needed to. I had done a poster project on the ancient Incas for Mrs. Brown's social studies cla.s.s, and I was supposed to present it at a history fair the next month. I had never been honored by anyone before, for anything, and I had a weird feeling that Mrs. Brown really cared about me. Dad was always saying not to get too attached to people-which was actually very Zen of him but for totally wrong reasons. Still, I'd let myself get attached to this lady, and I didn't want to let her down.

Can you believe it? My dad was in jail because I'd gotten carried away with some Sharpies and glitter glue.

But I'm getting ahead of the story. I asked my dad why we were always moving, and he said, "I'm your father, and I know what's best for this family."

Maybe it was just too early in the morning for me to think clearly, or maybe I was temporarily insane, because I shot back, "That's not an answer to my question."

"You have to trust me, San."

"You always tell me I should never trust anyone, Dad."

As Mom gave my hand a little warning squeeze under the table, Dad said, "San, I'm telling you, there are reasons why we can't stay too long, opportunities I don't want us to miss out on."

"Opportunities? What about the opportunity for me to be a normal kid? What about the opportunity to stay in one school for more than a year? What about the opportunity to be part of a community? My social studies teacher says that-"

"Your SOCIAL STUDIES TEACHER? Is he putting these crazy ideas in your head? That you should disrespect your elders? That you should defy your own father?"

"She, Dad. My social studies teacher is a she. Which you would know if you ever bothered to listen to your only son instead of spending all your time gambling on the Internet when Mom's not-"

POW! Not for the first time, my father knocked me out of my chair. But for the first time, he left a visible mark-when I saw the fist coming at my shoulder, I had turned to avoid it, but in the wrong direction. I pushed myself up from the floor, bolted out the door before he could stop me, and ran all the way to school. I didn't know what to do when I got there; I just knew I couldn't make it through the day, much less another move. Like a zombie, I shuffled upstairs and somehow found my way to Mrs. Brown's room. She was sitting at her big old-fas.h.i.+oned wooden teacher desk drinking coffee, and when she looked up at me she spilled about half the cup on the floor. She asked what had happened to my eye and I couldn't talk. I couldn't say anything. I was just crying and crying until I couldn't even breathe. Not for the first time, my father knocked me out of my chair. But for the first time, he left a visible mark-when I saw the fist coming at my shoulder, I had turned to avoid it, but in the wrong direction. I pushed myself up from the floor, bolted out the door before he could stop me, and ran all the way to school. I didn't know what to do when I got there; I just knew I couldn't make it through the day, much less another move. Like a zombie, I shuffled upstairs and somehow found my way to Mrs. Brown's room. She was sitting at her big old-fas.h.i.+oned wooden teacher desk drinking coffee, and when she looked up at me she spilled about half the cup on the floor. She asked what had happened to my eye and I couldn't talk. I couldn't say anything. I was just crying and crying until I couldn't even breathe.

The next thing I remember, I was in the counselor's office with Mrs. Brown and a lady from the Texas Department of Child Welfare. The lady wanted to talk to me alone, but Mrs. Brown refused to leave. When the woman finally gave in and let Mrs. Brown stay, I decided to talk.

You know what's funny? According to the child welfare office, the one black eye I was sporting wasn't enough to prove what they called a "persistent pattern of abuse." And in some technical sense they were right: Dad only hit me maybe once or twice a year, but that was only because I was usually so good at staying out of his way. So Dad would have gotten away with the whole thing. But apparently when they ran his name through their computer, they came up with warrants from California. And Alabama. And Connecticut.

You know the rest. My dad's last lesson to me was that it's always the random little stuff that gets you busted. Like a charity basketball game, for example.

slam, dunk, crack-part one

So the tide of karma rolled over me, and I had no choice but to flow with it. If my mom was going to meet Woody's mom, and Woody was going to hate me forever for being a liar, and my favorite pet basketball team was lining up to get slaughtered, I could at least do my best to make the game interesting.

I called the B team eighth graders together in gym a week before the game and asked about their practice schedule. It turned out that both they and the A team had their practices cancelled for the week by the basketball coach, who had said each team should practice by itself at least twice before the game. I told the guys I thought we should practice every day except Wednesday, because of the soup kitchen. Mike turned to me. "We?" he asked. "Does that mean you'll help us after school too?"

It just amazed me that these people still thought I was helping them get better at basketball. All I did was make up crazy psychological stuff to do with them, and then call it Zen. On the other hand, the game was in seven days, and no traditional method was going to put the team on top in that amount of time. So I decided to go full Ninja with this thing. I pulled Woody aside and told her my plan. Then we got the boys in a huddle.

That week we had some crazy practices. Tuesday was "Dodgeball Drill Day." The team did all of its usual practice drills-which were totally mystifying to me-but with an added twist: Woody and I ran up and down the sidelines lobbing big red rubber dodgeb.a.l.l.s at them randomly in the middle of each play. Thursday was "Laser Tag Fest"; Woody borrowed some ancient, dusty laser tag vests and guns from the gym department. The players wore the vests, and Woody and I shot at whoever had the ball throughout the practice. The rule was that if the ball carrier got hit, he had to pa.s.s the ball at that very second. Friday was "Water Balloon Follies" on the outdoor court: nothing but shooting drills, and if a player missed three times-SPLOOs.h.!.+ Good thing it was a lovely, warm fifty-two degrees that day. Sat.u.r.day and Sunday were three-on-three games at the outside court, but Sunday's game was on roller skates. On Monday, the last practice before the game, we played indoor court hockey and soccer instead of basketball. At the very end of the workout, Mike got everyone together and gave a pretty inspiring little speech. His theme? Good thing it was a lovely, warm fifty-two degrees that day. Sat.u.r.day and Sunday were three-on-three games at the outside court, but Sunday's game was on roller skates. On Monday, the last practice before the game, we played indoor court hockey and soccer instead of basketball. At the very end of the workout, Mike got everyone together and gave a pretty inspiring little speech. His theme? B is for Brotherhood. B is for Brotherhood. I didn't point out that I didn't point out that B B is also for is also for Bison. Bison. Then Woody said a few words too, about pulling together, but also about having fun and remembering that the game was a fund-raiser, not a blood match. Finally everyone looked at me. I stood at the center of the team, at the center of the court, looked each member right in the eye, and nodded at them in turn. Then Woody said a few words too, about pulling together, but also about having fun and remembering that the game was a fund-raiser, not a blood match. Finally everyone looked at me. I stood at the center of the team, at the center of the court, looked each member right in the eye, and nodded at them in turn.

Mike said, "That's it? Just a bunch of nods? Don't you have anything for us?"

I thought for a minute. "All right, Michael, I give you each two strong legs."

"We already have those."

"OK, I give each of you two strong arms."

"We have those too. I mean, can't you give us anything that we don't already have?"

I smiled. "No. I can't give you anything you don't already have. You don't need anything else." I bowed to him, and then he smiled too. I started to walk away. Woody called me back and dragged a big box out from behind the bleachers. "San, I have a surprise for you. We made T-s.h.i.+rts for tomorrow. They'll be our uniforms, and we're going to sell them to the crowd too. I think we'll make at least another few hundred bucks for the soup kitchen with these." She reached into the box. "Here's yours."

I looked for a long moment as she held up a black s.h.i.+rt, and then turned it around. The front said GOT ZEN? under a yinyang. The back had a picture of a guy shooting a bow and cracking up at the same time. I frowned, and Woody must have thought I was missing the meaning.

"See, San? It's a laughing archer-you know, like the words on your notebook. We thought your mysterious name might give us luck. So that's the name of our team: The Laughing Archers. Catchy, right?"

"Wait, Woody. You guys don't actually, uh, believe all that stuff Peter's been saying about The Laughing Archer, do you? The whole seventh coming of Buddha thing? Signs and wonders?"

They all gave each other quick little glances of embarra.s.sment. Mike piped up, "No, San, of course not," which led to a whole chorus of denials. But just from their sheepishness, I got the shocking feeling they sort of believed it. Mike locked eyes with me. "That's just kind of a joke, right?" he asked.

I looked down at myself: the stained, sweaty gym s.h.i.+rt; the shorts so big I could have shared them with a friend; the cracked and peeling sandals. I wanted to shout, Are you freakin' KIDDING me? Could I look LESS dignified without, say, wearing a chicken on my head? If I'm a reincarnated G.o.d, then Mr. Dowd is secretly Britney Spears's love slave. Are you freakin' KIDDING me? Could I look LESS dignified without, say, wearing a chicken on my head? If I'm a reincarnated G.o.d, then Mr. Dowd is secretly Britney Spears's love slave.

But instead I just said, "We're all Buddhas, Michael. All of us."

End of conversation.

End of practice.

Beginning of scary night.

As Woody and I walked out of the gym, I thought, This is probably the last time she'll ever want to be This is probably the last time she'll ever want to be anywhere near me. After tomorrow, it will be all over. anywhere near me. After tomorrow, it will be all over. So, of course she looked more beautiful to me than ever before. I wanted to reach out and push the hair out of her eyes so gently that she would swoon. Admittedly I was a little unclear on how exactly one swoons, or even whether I'd be able to tell she was doing it, but I a.s.sumed swooning was better than hating me like she would after the game. I almost stopped her on the steps of the school, led her to our rock, and told her everything. Really I did. But when we got out there, Peter was waiting for her. So, of course she looked more beautiful to me than ever before. I wanted to reach out and push the hair out of her eyes so gently that she would swoon. Admittedly I was a little unclear on how exactly one swoons, or even whether I'd be able to tell she was doing it, but I a.s.sumed swooning was better than hating me like she would after the game. I almost stopped her on the steps of the school, led her to our rock, and told her everything. Really I did. But when we got out there, Peter was waiting for her.

"Hi, Emily," he said as he smirked relentlessly. "Mom didn't want you walking alone with the Meditating Molester here, so she sent me to escort you. Even though I told her the Buddha Boy was too removed from earthly desires to make a move on you, she just wouldn't take no for an answer. Sorry, San. I guess you'll just have to laugh and arch yourself home without my sister."

"No problem. We live in different directions anyway. Plus you and Woody should spend more alone time together. In my culture, family is very important. I will see you tomorrow. Enjoy your time with your stepsister."

I had to get that "step" part in there. Peter was gritting his teeth. "You know we're going to kick your boys' second-rate b.u.t.ts tomorrow, right, San?"

"Well, I should hope so. If the A team didn't beat the B team, that would really be tremendously embarra.s.sing. Wouldn't it, Woody?"

Behind Peter's back, she was almost laughing. I took a second to enjoy that face. Then I fired my parting shot. "But Peter? Isn't Michael one of your best friends? Should you really be so gleeful about kicking his second-rate b.u.t.t? In a charity game? Please think about it, all right?"

Heh-heh. Let him chew on that for a while.

While I went home and chewed on my nerves. What was going to happen when my mom met Woody's mom? I mean, I could probably have made up some lie to explain Mom's undeniable non-Asian-ness, but the cat would be out of the bag as soon as they started talking anyway. Was there some desperate, last-minute plan that could get me out of this? Could I pretend I was deathly ill and skip the whole event? I knew that some guys had gotten out of serving in the Vietnam War by shooting themselves in the foot. Maybe I could slam my toes in my bedroom door or something, and then-and then nothing. I would just be forced to attend the game on crutches, and that wouldn't stop the dreaded Meeting of the Moms. My only chance was to get struck by lightning on the way to school in the morning. Maybe if I constructed a special electro-attraction suit out of tinfoil and clothes hangers, I could manage to get myself fried in time-IF it happened to be raining.

Oh, who was I kidding? This was my last night of happiness, for sure. Well, except for the fact that I was already miserable. Dang.

At dinner, Mom felt like talking. I didn't. She gave up. I went to my room and stared around at everything, like a caged animal. Then I had a strange thought: What if I actually sat and meditated? Like for real, to calm myself down. So I tried it. And it worked great. After about half an hour of sitting zazen, I was much more at peace about this. I even resolved to tell Woody the whole truth myself in the morning, and face whatever came.

Naturally, after a good night's sleep, I came to my senses and reminded myself that I was a total coward who loathed confrontations of any kind. So when I arrived at school in my cool new Laughing Archers T-s.h.i.+rt, all I did was talk with Woody about her biological-mom situation. She still hadn't heard from her mother after sending the recording, but said she was feeling OK with the whole deal. I think her exact words were, "I gave it my best shot. At least now if I don't hear back, I'll always have that." I was thinking, Yeah, it must be nice to have guts. Not that I'd know from personal experience, though. Yeah, it must be nice to have guts. Not that I'd know from personal experience, though.

School happened with all its usual breathtaking excitement and beauty. The high point, as always, was lunch. Woody was playing a brand-new song. I mean, it was a seventy-year-old song by Woody Guthrie, but it was brand-new to me. The words were really appropriate:

It's a hard and it's hard, ain't it hard

To love one that never did love you.

It's a hard and it's hard, ain't it hard, great G.o.d, To love one that never will be true?

I haven't really talked about Woody's voice yet, and I guess I should. Listening to her, most of the time, was like hearing water bubbling and flowing over smooth stones. Her voice was just that natural and easy. Me, I trip if I try to pace while I'm on the phone. But Woody could play these amazing little runs on the guitar while she sang a totally different melody, and it came floating out of her like she was born to sing just that one song, at just that one moment. Woody sang so well that you almost forgot she was singing, if that makes any sense.

But on this one song, there was a jagged angle to her tone, like the words were being ripped out of her one by one. When the song was over, it looked like she might have been crying a little. I just wanted to put my Cheesy Mac platter aside, run to her, and let her bury her face in my shoulder. But I didn't.

Stupid me.

The rest of the day dragged, but eventually school was over, and it was time for the basketball game. I felt my heart hammering away as I walked down the hall to the gym with Woody. On the outside, I was this calm guy, smoothly complimenting Woody on her singing, and chatting about hoops strategy. On the inside, I was dying piece by piece as I thought, This is it, my good-bye walk with the girl of my dreams. I have to remember everything-how she looks at this exact second, the way the Laughing Archer s.h.i.+rt matches the little black rubber bracelet she's twisting as we talk, the way I feel when we're was.h.i.+ng dishes together. And then I have to say so long to all of it. This is it, my good-bye walk with the girl of my dreams. I have to remember everything-how she looks at this exact second, the way the Laughing Archer s.h.i.+rt matches the little black rubber bracelet she's twisting as we talk, the way I feel when we're was.h.i.+ng dishes together. And then I have to say so long to all of it.

I went into the locker room, and Woody went into the gym to make sure the T-s.h.i.+rts were getting sold and the ticket money was being collected. I don't know how she and the team had set everything up without my noticing, but then again, even Zen masters can't concentrate on everything at once. Whatever. The B team and A team were at totally opposite ends of the changing area. The A team had the prime location right near the showers, which put them closest to me, right behind a part.i.tion, as I walked in. I overheard an interesting little convo between Peter and some guy with a squeaky voice.

Peter: Let's go, guys. We have to crush them today! Let's go, guys. We have to crush them today!Squeak: Uh, chill, Pete. It's just for fun, right? Uh, chill, Pete. It's just for fun, right?Peter: No, it's not for fun. This is for our reputation! It's for our names and our honor. No, it's not for fun. This is for our reputation! It's for our names and our honor.Squeak: No, it's not. It's to get ready for the spring tournaments and raise money to feed poor people. No, it's not. It's to get ready for the spring tournaments and raise money to feed poor people.Peter: What kind of att.i.tude is that? What kind of att.i.tude is that?Squeak: What, wanting to have fun playing against my friends and feed the poor? I guess you're right, Jones. I have an att.i.tude problem. What, wanting to have fun playing against my friends and feed the poor? I guess you're right, Jones. I have an att.i.tude problem.

I walked away smiling, and went to give some last-minute nuggets of wisdom to my team. In fact (and I'm not proud of this), I had memorized a famous Zen speech about sword fighting and adapted it to basketball. I got the guys in a semicircle around me and gave my stolen pep talk: "If you place your mind on your opponent's ball handling, your mind is absorbed by your opponent's ball handling. If your mind is on your opponent's pa.s.sing, your mind is absorbed by your opponent's pa.s.sing. If your mind is on your opponent's shooting, your mind is absorbed by your opponent's shooting. If your mind is on your dribbling, your mind will be absorbed by your dribbling. If your mind is on your pa.s.sing, your mind will be absorbed by your pa.s.sing. If your mind is on your shooting, your mind will be absorbed by your shooting. And don't even get me started on rebounds.

"My point is, there is nowhere to put your mind. You need to be mindless out there."

"Hey, no fair," somebody yelled out, "Mike has an unfair advantage!"

They all laughed, but then they all looked back at me blankly. Mike spoke up. "Um, San? What does all that stuff have to do with basketball? Are you telling us to just kinda shut up and play?"

I smiled. "Yes, Michael. Shut up and play."

We hit the court. I s.p.a.ced out during the pregame rituals, which Woody handled, because they were totally baffling to me anyway, and found myself searching the bleachers for signs of my mom. I saw Woody's stepmother, but she was sitting with a man. I had a glimmer of hope: Maybe my mom was stuck in a ma.s.sive traffic jam. Or maybe she had gotten hung up in surgery at the hospital. Or maybe the game was sold out and she couldn't get in.

Except there were no traffic jams in our little suburb, my mom wasn't a surgical nurse, and even though the crowd was bigger than I would have liked, there were still tons of empty s.p.a.ces in the bleachers. Hmm...maybe Woody's stepmom had dumped my mother so she could have a hot date. Woody came back to our bench from the middle of the court, leaned over to me, and whispered, "My dad is here!" That explained the hot date, but not where my mom was.

I temporarily forgot all about searching the stands when the game began. Instead, I spent the first half watching my Laughing Archers turn into Limping Losers. Woody handled all the subst.i.tutions and stuff (not that there was a lot of subbing to do, because we only had one spare guy), so all I had to do was sit and cringe as the A team built up a fifteen-point lead. They were faster than us, taller, stronger. Plus they had all these cool pa.s.sing plays worked out that left our defense helpless. The worst part was Peter. n.o.body else on the court was playing a particularly physical game, but he sure was-at the half he had two personal fouls, and one of our guys had to come out of the game with a b.l.o.o.d.y nose after Peter spiked a blocked shot back in his face. Peter also had seventeen of his team's thirty-two points. Woody's dad was cheering for him like crazy too. I wondered if Woody was noticing and if it was hurting her feelings. I didn't get the chance to ask her before the half, though, because she was prowling the sideline nonstop, shouting basketball-expert-type orders at our team, and yelling advice to the referees too. I was out of my element, but Peter and Woody were definitely immersed in theirs. The only good news for me was that we were seven-for-seven on free throws.

At halftime, n.o.body even bothered to speak to me. I patted them on the back, threw them towels, and refilled their water cups-but this was now Woody's show. Maybe we should have called the team The Fighting Singers or something, because Woody was riled up: "That was not acceptable, gentlemen. They're making you look like-like-"

"The B team?" Mike offered.

"Yeah, the B team."

"But we are the B team, Woody."

"Not today, you're not. Today you're The Laughing Archers, and that means you're not going to go back out there and lose."

"Um, I thought in the Zen religion winning wasn't the point."

Woody almost snarled at him. "Well, Mike, I'm Catholic. And I want to see those arrogant dorks over there go down. down. Here's the plan. You're not going to contain my brother with a straight zone defense; if we go man-to-man, they're better than us one-on-one, and double-teaming my brother will make it even worse." Here's the plan. You're not going to contain my brother with a straight zone defense; if we go man-to-man, they're better than us one-on-one, and double-teaming my brother will make it even worse."

"Wow, Woody, you're a real beacon of hope."

"Shut up, Mike. If zone doesn't work and man doesn't work, we have to think outside of the box. You know the triangle offense? Well, we're going to go with a sort of inverted triangle defense. Mike, you'll still cover my brother, but everyone else needs to be more flexible. You know that little, fast guard, Steve Winn?"

That had to be the guy with the squeaky voice.

"Yeah? What about him?"

"Well, we're not going to cover him at all unless he's in the paint. He's too quick for any of you anyway. And we're not going to cover Craig What's-his-name if he gets in the paint-he has no inside shot. So when they're bringing the ball up, Steve's guy is going to break off and cover about five feet behind whoever's defending Peter. If Steve gets in close, his defender will switch back to him, and Craig's guy will stay between Peter and the basket. It will be like a very soft double-team-much harder for Peter than just one of you guys being on him, but harder on the rest of their offense than a straight double-team. Got it?"

"Uh, sure. Got it, guys?"

They all mumbled what sounded like the word yes yes would sound if you inflected it as a would sound if you inflected it as a maybe. maybe. Then Mike said, "What about offense, Woody?" Then Mike said, "What about offense, Woody?"

"Definitely, we should try having some. And by the way, you're playing like little girls out there-Peter's pounding on you. Where's your aggression? Where's your drive? Where are your freaking ELBOWS? G.o.d gave them to you for a reason-so you could throw them around on the court." She peered over at me.

"Do you have anything to add, San?"

"Uhh-go, team?"

She rolled her eyes, and a ref blew a whistle. It was time to start playing Woody's game. And we did. Sure, our guys started getting called for fouls-but their guys hadn't been practicing their foul shots like we had. And as their other players started to join Peter's parade of fouls, we started catching up. Whatever Woody's weird defense triangle thing meant, it was working great too-Peter was getting all frustrated, and their other players weren't scoring enough to make up the difference. All of a sudden we were within five points of them.

Then two things happened at once: I saw my mom walk in, and Mike got mad at Peter.

slam, dunk, crack-part two

Yikes!

I looked up from the game for a moment, and there she was, wearing a bright red scarf. She was looking around the crowd, as if she was trying to find someone. I followed the angle of her head; she was staring at little sixth-grade Justin, my rock-sitting buddy, who was holding a huge posterboard with the words SAN FAN written on it in fluorescent marker. Mom shook her head and started scanning the bleachers some more. I wondered how she expected to pick out Woody's parents if she had never met them before. There must have been some kind of confusion, because she just kept standing in the doorway instead of going to a seat.

A whistle brought my attention back to the action on the court. Mike and Peter were up in each other's faces, and the refs were trying to get between them. Mike was shouting at the officials, "Didn't you see that? He fouled me! That's three personals. Kick him out!"

But the officials hadn't seen whatever Peter had done. Thanks to my mom's entrance, neither had I. Woody went out to argue, and I ran over to get Mike away from Peter. I actually managed to drag him about ten feet backward, but then he yelled over my shoulder at the refs, "What are you, blind? Jesus!"

They kicked him out of the game. We were in trouble here. The nosebleed kid was in no shape to get back in and play, so, with no Mike, we were down to four players. Woody came up to me and said, "San, what are we going to do now?"