Zen and the Art of Faking It Read online

  “And how do I get there?”

  “Well, for starters, you finish mopping this floor so an old lady can rest her feet. Then you figure out whom you’ve hurt, and start trying to make amends.”

  “What if they don’t want to hear it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that at least I tricked you into mopping my floor.”

  “No, I’m serious. What if they really don’t want to hear it?”

  “You have to do what’s right because it’s right, not because somebody’s going to give you a gold star at the end.”

  Just then, I heard a car horn and saw through the subsiding snow flurries that my mom had pulled up outside.

  “Uh, Sister, I have to go now. Um, thanks. For talking to me, I mean.”

  “See you next week, San.”

  “Will you? Do you still want me here even though I lied to all of you?”

  “Did the dishes get clean? Then we still want you. You might be a fake Zen master…” She snorted. “…but you’re a real dishwasher.”

  My mom wasn’t so kind. She reamed me out all the way home, all the way up the stairs, and all the way into my room. Then she stood outside my closed door and reamed me out some more.

  The good news was that she liked Woody.

  The bad news was that she wasn’t currently so fond of me.

  Eventually Mom stomped away down the hall, leaving me to stare at my wall and agonize. Who were the people I’d hurt? Woody, sure. My mom, definitely. Peter. Yikes, Peter. I had spent months purposely trying to make him look as dumb as possible just so I could look good. But he was the good guy. He’d been right that I was going to hurt his sister. Well, stepsister, but still. He’d even tried over and over to make me make things right. And now because of my big ridiculous pointless scam, he had a broken bone and a grudge.

  And then there was one other person to think about: my dad. I didn’t really think I’d hurt him much—he was so totally narcissistic that I wasn’t sure anyone mattered enough to hurt him. But I had still handled his whole prison situation pretty badly. If right actions were always right, whether you got the star at the end or not, then it didn’t matter whether my dad was a total jerk. What mattered was that I couldn’t be a jerk as a reaction to his jerkhood.

  Jerkitude? Jerk-osity?

  Anyway, I decided that, as long as I was trapped in my room anyway, I might as well stop ducking my dad, and face this whole deal head-on. So I wrote him a letter. Here’s how it started:

  Dear Dad,

  (Not bad, right? I kept going, since I was on a roll.)

  I’m not sure if you know this, because I’m not sure what Mom has told you, but I have been purposely avoiding your phone calls all year. I am still not ready to talk with you, and I don’t know that I will ever be. You hurt me, and lied to me, and left me and Mom in a difficult situation. But I think you deserve an explanation. More than that, I deserve the opportunity to explain to you.

  What I have learned since we last saw each other (and actually, I just figured a lot of it out right this minute) is that I am really, really angry with you. And instead of expressing my anger to the person who deserves it, I have reacted by lying, and by hurting everyone around me. So I am writing to tell you this: I am washing my hands of lying and anger. They didn’t help you, and they won’t help me. Maybe you’re learning this too since your sentencing. I hope so.

  In the meantime, I have a lot to answer for, but I will answer for it—honestly.

  Your son,

  San

  When I was done writing the letter, I snuck out of my room to get an envelope. But I couldn’t find one, and realized I didn’t know my dad’s current address. So I just left the letter on the living room table, right next to where my mother was sleeping in her chair. She didn’t have a blanket on or anything, and it was pretty cold in the apartment, so I tiptoed back to my room, got my extra comforter, and tucked it around her.

  It felt kind of good to take care of my mom.

  The next morning we had a snow delay, so school started two hours late. My mom left for work without saying a word to me, but that was kind of OK. When I sat down to eat breakfast, I found that she had put my letter in an envelope that she’d addressed to my dad. She had also put a hot-pink Post-it note on the outside of the envelope:

  SAN—

  GLAD YOU WROTE THIS!

  So maybe things might be all right on the mom front. Since I had so much extra time before school, I sat on the living room floor in a sunbeam and meditated. Then I had an extra bowl of Cap’n Crunch. It seemed likely that the extra doses of tranquility and sugar might come in handy.

  I put on my huge puffy winter coat, the white gloves, and even the red sneakers before I headed out. This was going to be my first nothing-to-hide day. Outside, the sun was blinding and the snow was about five inches deep. I guessed it would melt off pretty fast, but it sure was sparkly while it lasted. I was having fun stomping and kicking my way to school, until I came within sight of my rock. I had been vaguely hoping that maybe Woody was going to be there waiting to talk things out, but she wasn’t around. Peter was there instead. He had dusted the snow off of my spot, and was sitting there like he owned the joint. I could have walked right into school and avoided him completely, but if you’re going to have a nothing-to-hide day, you can’t be running around hiding, can you? I took a deep breath and strode right over in front of Peter.

  “Good morning, Peter.”

  “Good morning, San.” Somehow his tone of voice made my name sound like a curse.

  “That’s a nice cast.” It was one of those bright fluorescent green woven-looking ones, and stretched from almost his elbow down across the line of his second knuckles.

  “Yeah, I’m really enjoying it. The best part is that since I broke my finger right at the hand joint, my whole wrist has to be immobilized for two months. So I’ll miss out on the basketball tournaments and most of baseball season. Isn’t that just great?”

  “Listen, Peter, I’m sorry that you got hurt because of me. And I’m sorry I hurt your sister.”

  “You’re kidding, right? This is your usual pretendsaint thing, isn’t it? You’re still showing off for your fans?”

  “No, I’m serious. I feel terrible.”

  “Not as terrible as you’re going to feel. You know, Emily cried for like an hour when she got home last night. What were you thinking? Did you really believe you could fool a whole town forever?”

  “I don’t know, I just—”

  “You just what? You just wanted to be a lying criminal like your father?”

  Whoa, that was uncalled for. “Woody told you about my dad?”

  “No, San. The Internet told me about your dad. I used to be an office monitor, so I know where the home contact cards are. I snuck in early one morning and wrote down all your family information. It’s amazing what you can find out if you know how to look. That’s how I found out that Laughing Archer is just some band too.”

  “So why did you tell the whole world that whole seventh Buddha thing?”

  “I wanted to make you stop lying. But you can’t take a hint. I tried a million ways to get you to fess up, but you’re just too much of a psycho.”

  “I’m a psycho? You stalked me, you dumped snow on my head, you ruined my Zen garden, you narc’ed on me and Woody to your mom, you tried to make a fool of me in basketball, you hit me hard enough to break your bone, you even left those little notes in my locker—but I’m a psycho?”

  “A) I didn’t leave any notes in your locker, and b) yes, you are a psycho—a second-generation psycho.”

  I stepped up to him. He didn’t back down. As if by magic, a crowd started to form around us. I noticed that, with the usual perfect timing I’d been having, Woody had finally appeared. I remembered I’d promised her I wouldn’t hurt him. That was fine, because I’d promised myself I would avoid getting pounded if possible.

  “By the way, San, you know what’s interesting about this piece of land ri
ght here? It’s off school property. So when I beat you down, I won’t get suspended.”

  Swell, I thought.

  “Peter, this is stupid. I won’t hit a guy with a cast.”

  “Well,” Peter said, “I will!” And then he decked me.

  san lee: boy outcast

  It’s amazing how fast they turn on you. Peter stood over my twitching form for maybe thirty seconds before he started to walk away. As soon as his back was turned, I propped myself up in a half-sitting position so that I could talk to Woody and Mike, along with whoever else wanted to stay and support me. But nobody stayed. Within a minute, I was alone in the snow, with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. My nose was gushing and felt like someone had been going at it with a ball-peen hammer and chisel. The inside of my cheek was puffing up against my teeth, and my neck hurt from the whiplash effect of Peter’s punch. Of course, there were teachers on outside duty across the street, but the shuffling crowd must have blocked their view of my tragic hemorrhaging scene.

  I lay back down on my back and considered my options. I could stay put until I froze to death. I could crawl behind my rock and freeze to death, leaving nothing but a bloody snow angel to mark the site of my destruction. I could get to my feet somehow, stagger home, take some Tylenol, apply ice, watch Oprah.

  Or I could march right into school and face the music. After all, this was my nothing-to-hide day. I forced myself to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and trudged into the building. I slid my ID through the secretary’s window. She handed me a late pass without even looking up, and said, “That’s number five for you, Mr. Lee. You will have to stay tomorrow after school for detention.” Then she glanced at me—the blood all over my ultra-bright jacket, the swelling face, the pathetic and beaten posture—and yelled for the assistant principal. I spent about fifteen minutes with him in the nurse’s office refusing to tell him anything about what had happened, but insisting that whatever had occurred had occurred off school property. Then I got sent to class.

  Have you ever been your school’s Loser of the Day? It’s not like they put your name on the marquee or announce it over the intercom or anything. But everyone in the joint knows exactly who you are and what you’ve done by the end of homeroom—by first period, at the latest. So you walk through the halls and this little corridor of silence opens up in front of you, while a murmuring cone of scorn fills itself in behind you. Well, at least it was a shortened day, I thought optimistically. I didn’t speak to a single soul until social studies ended—athough one kid I’d never met walked up to me, checked out my nose, and said, “Daaaaamn, San,” before continuing on his way. I spent Dowd’s whole class period trying to get Woody to look at me, but her eyes never wavered from the video we were watching about medieval Europe. I hadn’t known she was so fascinated by the feudal system.

  When the bell rang, I was ready to bolt out of school before the hallway crowds could slow me down. But Dowd asked me to stay after. I heard various people snickering under their breath, and then the room was empty, except for me and my teacher. “San,” he said.

  I waited.

  “San, San, San.”

  I felt like belting out, —TA CLAUS, HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS, RIGHT DOWN SANTA CLAUS LANE. But the moment didn’t seem quite right. Plus my mouth hurt.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sometimes life gets bumpy, doesn’t it?”

  “Uh, well, in this case, it’s just my face that got bumpy.”

  “I’m glad you can see some small humor in your situation. You know, when a new student moves into my class, especially one with so much ability and promise, I always try to provide support and, well, guidance. But I’m afraid I failed you, San. Did you know that I usually choose my students’ project partners randomly, with straws? But just to make you feel more comfortable, I chose by alphabetical order this time around. I thought you would have a better experience if you were assigned to someone helpful and friendly, like Emily Long. I also left several notes in your locker in the hopes that you would give up this little Zen deception of yours. But I suppose things spiraled out of control pretty quickly.”

  Dowd had left the notes in my locker? “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “You know, San, I really have been deeply impressed with your knowledge of Buddhism, and Zen Buddhism in particular. I haven’t mentioned this in class, but Zen is of great personal interest to me. I spent several years in Japan during the 1970s. I was in the Army, and there was a Zen monastery right next to the base. I used to go there and meditate with the monks. When I came back to the States and started teaching, I got my sister interested in Zen too. And now she’s way ahead of me, I’m afraid.”

  “Your sister?”

  “You know, Mildred.”

  “Mrs. Romberger is your sister?”

  “Why, yes. Hasn’t she ever told you that? That’s how I knew you were working so hard on your research all year—she is really impressed with you. It’s also how I know what happened with you last night. San, what are you going to do now that your cover is, as they say, blown?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Dowd. I’m just going to try to be honest, I guess. And I’ll try to be wiser about things.”

  “Wiser? But after all the studying time you’ve put in the last few months, aren’t you wise already?”

  “Mr. Dowd, no offense, but I think I know less now than I did when I started.”

  His eyes lit up with the full power of the famous Dowd twinkle. “Then you’re wiser than you think. Now get out of here. Go home! By the way, you might want to put some ice on that nose before you go to bed tonight.”

  I got out of there. I went home. And Dowd was right: I did want to put some ice on my nose. Mom flipped when she saw it, and I responded by telling her the truth about how the whole thing had happened. Which led to a lot of other confessions from me. Yikes! It was almost like Sister Mary Clare, in one mopping session, had somehow turned me Catholic. But really, this was just me catching up on a season’s worth of honesty.

  It felt kind of good.

  The next several weeks at school were hard. Spring came roaring back, and every day was beautiful—which somehow made my outcast status even more painful. I’d be looking out the window in Dowd’s class, and there would be bluebirds singing on every branch of the tree over my rock. So I’d almost start feeling cheerful. But when I looked around the room, Woody would be totally ignoring me. Even Peter was pretending I didn’t exist.

  If I were them, I wouldn’t forgive me either.

  But as the weeks dragged on toward eighth grade graduation, my outsider status did allow me to observe some very interesting things. I sometimes had the feeling that I had started a wave. The wave had broken over me, but was still rolling, and carrying other people along. A few scenes:

  It’s English class. We’re picking up with Henry David Thoreau again; English Teacher still has her little social studies tie-in going on. She writes a Thoreau quote on the board: “The squirrel that you kill in jest, dies in earnest.” A tiny, quiet girl who’s also in my Dowd class says, “I know what that means! It means that we should respect every life the way we respect our own. Like the other day, there was this huge stink bug in my kitchen. My mom wanted to smush it, but I caught it and let it go outside.” A lot of kids say, “Eww! Gross!” But English Teacher smiles.

  It’s gym. We’re outside playing baseball. Mike is trying to teach some really spastic kid how to pitch. The kid says, “I suck at this. I couldn’t throw a strike if home plate was ten feet wide.” Mike says, “Form is all that matters.” The kid says, “What are you talking about? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Mike grabs the ball out of his hand, steps on the mound, winds up, turns, and hurls it about a mile into the stands. The kid is standing there, speechless, as Mike says, “Who cares where the ball goes?”

  It’s lunch. Woody sits down with her guitar in her usual spot by the food line. The guitar looks different somehow. It hits me: The Woody Guthrie words have been removed. She
plays the Beatles song “With a Little Help from My Friends.” People are murmuring and looking over at her when the music ends. She smiles, nods, and breaks into a Nirvana tune called “All Apologies.” After that, people start applauding. She nods again, and strums the beginning to Green Day’s “Time of Your Life (Good Riddance).” At the end of that one, someone shouts out, “GO, WOODY!” She yells back, “My name is Emily.” Then she starts playing “Hard Travelin’,” and looks in my general direction. Not right at me, but it’s a start.

  Maybe.

  It’s after school, about three days before graduation. Little Justin is sitting on my rock with his legs crossed. A spunky-looking girl with spiked hair climbs up and sits next to him. They look at each other like they’re alone together on an island paradise somewhere. I wish them luck. I know how hard it is to keep one of those things afloat.

  It’s graduation rehearsal. We’re walking in two by two, like animals on Noah’s Ark. My usual partner is absent, so the girl behind her steps up. Surprise! It’s Woody—as if I haven’t been trying all week not to look back at her when we’re in line, and across at her when we’re in our seats. A teacher stops us suddenly, and I bump elbows with her. Instinctively, I say, “Excuse me.” She looks right in my eyes and says, “Not yet.”

  It’s graduation day, my last time at my locker. I spin the combo, take the lock off, put it in my backpack. I grab out what’s left in the locker: my English journal, a half-empty pack of gum. Then I see a scrap of paper sticking partway out of one of the little vent slits in the door. It’s one last note from Dowd:

  WHEN THE WAY COMES TO AN END, THEN CHANGE—HAVING CHANGED, YOU PASS THROUGH.

  I CHING

  Underneath the quote, there’s a handwritten message. All it says is, “Go see my sister.”

  I do.

  wash your bowl some more