Zen and the Art of Faking It Read online

  Woody walked right over to a really expensive-looking car that was idling by the curb. She got in the backseat first, and as I slipped in next to her, I felt really awkward. I was sweating and dripping all over the leather seats, and probably smelled like a barnyard animal—if barnyard animals were ever allowed to roll around in troughs of Parmesan cheese. But the driver had great manners. Either that, or she enjoyed the smell of livestock and sharp cheese.

  “Hi, Mom!” Woody chirped. Ah, they were a fake-cheerful family.

  “Hi, Emily,” the mom replied as she pulled away from the curb. “And you must be San. We’ve heard so much about you this week: ‘San said this. San said that. San sits on a rock.’ San, San, San. Truthfully, I think Emily’s father and Peter are getting pretty sick of hearing it. No offense. But I think it’s great that Emily is being exposed to such…diversity. We don’t get much chance to meet, um, people like you in our little town.”

  Woody looked like she wanted to open her door and roll out onto the street, preferably into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer. I wasn’t offended by Mrs. Long’s awkward little salute to diversity; I was trying to make sense of the Peter thing.

  “Peter?” I asked, rather intelligently.

  “You know, Peter—from your school. Emily’s brother.”

  “Brother?” Wow, this woman was going to think all Chinese people talked like cavemen.

  “Well, stepbrother. When I married Emily’s father, we each brought a child along. And now we’re one big happy family.”

  I could have sworn that, even over the road noise and the blast of the heater, I could hear Woody snort. I ignored it and gave Mrs. Long directions to our apartment. When we got there, I thanked her, hopped out, and scrambled for the front door just in case my mom might be in the vicinity.

  But I shouldn’t have worried about that. Mom was sitting upstairs in the dark, waiting to kill me.

  calls and misses

  I walked up the stairs and into the apartment, feeling the ache in muscles I hadn’t even known I had. My backpack felt like it weighed 300 pounds, and the soles of my sandals felt like wet sandpaper beneath my feet. This had been a weird day, and a day full of questions: Who put the Zen note in my locker? Why? Why did Woody have two names? Who was ELL? If Peter was Woody’s stepbrother, why did he have a thing against me?

  Would I smell like Parmesan cheese forever?

  I opened the door with a sigh, feeling like a cross between the Hardy Boys and a galley slave. And there, sitting on the tacky rented recliner chair with a glass of wine, was my mom. The lights were all off, except for the dim little lamp over her chair. She sat in the little cone of yellow, like a police interrogator on TV. And from the look on her face, she wasn’t playing the good cop.

  Before the door could even click shut behind me, she started in. “Where were you, San? Where WERE you? I called your school, but it was already closed. I was going to call the police if you didn’t get home soon. And you missed your father’s call—again! Did you know he has to work extra hours shoveling sand and picking up garbage on the edge of the interstate just to earn the right to call? Do you care?”

  She stopped to take a sip of wine, and in the faint half-light it looked like a tear was running down her right cheek. She looked at me and waited for the answer that would explain this all away.

  “Mom, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I went to this soup kitchen with a girl in my social studies class—for our project, you know? The Zen thing? Anyway, they kept us washing dishes nonstop, so I couldn’t call. I didn’t mention this to you? I thought I’d told you—”

  WHAP! That was the sound of my mom’s hand smacking me across the face. She had never, ever hit me before. I couldn’t believe what had happened, so I just stood there, watching the wine from her overturned glass spill onto the carpet in slow motion.

  “Great,” she said. “Now the rug is ruined too.” Then she started sobbing. I didn’t know what to do in this situation: When someone slaps you and then cries, are you obligated to hug them? Do you ask what’s wrong while defending your rib cage at the same time? Do you walk away? Clean up the spreading wine stain?

  Stand there like an idiot?

  Well, that last one was my choice. I just stood there, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes and the heat rushing to what must have been a bright scarlet handprint on my face. It took my mom about a minute to get herself back under control. Finally she went to the kitchen counter, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose. Then she said, “I will not have you lying to me, San. I’ve been lied to enough for this lifetime. You know you did NOT tell me anything about missing your father’s call. I am ashamed of you. And you are grounded.”

  I was going to ask for how long, but I wanted to get out of there with my teeth intact. Instead, I just said, “I won’t talk to him.” Then I stopped to clear a sudden lump in my throat and blink the moisture out of my eyes before continuing shakily, “I don’t care if I’m grounded until I’m a hundred, I won’t talk to him.”

  She didn’t look mad anymore, or even particularly sad. Just drained and kind of old. Defeated. “Oh, San,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  My cheek hurt. I didn’t want to hear it. I said, “Whatever. Good night.” Then I skulked away into my room, and closed the door. As I looked in the chipped mirror on the back of my door at my face—which looked exactly like it felt—I realized I had just doomed myself to stay in my room until bedtime. Which was hours away.

  Looking around, I really felt like a Zen monk. I was in this little battleship-gray room, with no pictures on the walls, no furniture except the bed and a crummy old dresser that tilted to the left, and no electronic devices whatsoever. My dad probably had better access to TV and music than I did. All I had was the pile of books by the bed. And a whole lot of time.

  They say, “Everything will look better in the morning.” They’re pretty much full of crap, though. For one moment as I woke up in a little pool of sunlight, as well as a little pool of drool atop the library book under my head, I thought, Hey, this is a beautiful day. Then I realized I was living a life of total deception, in total poverty, among total strangers. With a mom who was probably losing it.

  Stalked via stationery, two-timed by a girl with two names. Grounded and slapped.

  Oh, well. I still had my health. As I eased my way out of bed and onto the icy linoleum floor, I realized I didn’t quite have all of my health. I was incredibly sore all over, and the inside of my cheek was killing me. Apparently, I had bitten it in the process of getting smacked upside the head by my mom. I was almost afraid to look in the mirror, but you couldn’t actually see any damage on the outside. At least I could go to school and pretend everything was Zen-normal. Oh, joy.

  Have you ever attempted to drown your sorrows in sugared cereal? I have, often. I can’t believe we’ve gotten this far without me mentioning it, but I am probably a Cap’n Crunch addict. In fact, when I was in first grade, this nutrition-expert lady came to our class to teach us about healthy food and asked us to write down our favorite fruits on this little coloring work sheet. I raised my hand and asked, “How do you spell ‘Crunch Berries’ ?”

  Anyhow, this was definitely a “date with the Cap’n” kind of morning. I got the milk, a bowl, a cheap-o spoon that my mom had bought in the dollar store, and the economy-sized cereal box, and set up my feasting station. But just as the first jet of cool and delicious milk hit the golden top of my crunch mountain, Mom walked in. She looked like she’d been run over by the Bum Truck—her hair was stringy, she was still in her bathrobe, her face was the color of congealed oatmeal, with reddish splotches on her nose and chin, and purplish bags under her eyes.

  As though hitting me had beaten her up.

  She puttered around with her coffee things while I tried to enjoy digging into my sugar fortification rations. But somehow, having the wreck of your mom pacing back and forth around you in stony silence stomps on the sugar buzz. When she finally sat down across from me, s
he took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and sighed. Then she spoke.

  “Look, San, I’ve never hit you before. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking about it. You’re my baby boy. You’re all I have, you’re the one thing I’ve got to show for my first thirty-nine years of life. You’re the only person I’m sure of. And then when you lied to me…”

  Her eyes were starting to run over. “San, when you started making up some story last night…I know you’re not genetically related to him, but for a second, you looked just like your father. I’m sorry, but you looked just like your father.”

  She was weeping freely, and suddenly I was bawling too. If I had ever been itching to try out the intriguing taste of Cap’n Crunch with Tear-Berries, this would have been my chance. Mom came around the table and put her arms around me, which gave me all the excuse I needed to collapse into her. We stayed like that until the cereal was even more of a soggy paste, and then finally got under control again. Mom got up to reheat her cold coffee, and I wiped my nose all over my sleeve while her head was turned. As she sat back down, I said, “I still can’t believe you hit me, Mom.”

  She said, “I know. I don’t think I was really even so mad at you. I really wanted to hit your father.”

  “Well, Mom, you missed.”

  She winced, and took a sip of her nuked coffee.

  “By the way, I truly was feeding people at the soup kitchen last night.”

  She gave me the “And?” look.

  “And I kind of promised my partner that we could do it every Wednesday. So I know you grounded me, but—”

  “Sanny, you can’t avoid talking to your father forever.”

  I just looked at her.

  “But,” she continued, “if you need some time, I’ll run interference with him for a while until you get things figured out.”

  It was my turn to give her the “And?” look.

  “You’re still grounded, because you disappeared and scared me to death and lied to me about it when you got home.”

  I started to argue, but hadn’t even managed to get my mouth open when she said, “On the other hand, this girl seems to be a good influence on you. Sooooo…I suppose you can go to the soup kitchen on Wednesdays…”

  I felt like jumping for joy right there in front of my mom and the beaming face of the Cap’n on the side of the box, until she added, “As long as you promise I’ll get to meet your little partner sometime soon.”

  You know, as I got up to put on a different, nonsnotted shirt for school, I could almost have sworn I detected some mockery in the Cap’n’s expression. It’s pretty sad when even two-dimensional, three-fingered pretend admirals are laughing at you.

  Like anyone with that goofy freakin’ gigundo white mustache had room to talk. Sheesh.

  Gym class, five hours later. Woody is putting me to work. She hasn’t said anything about the night before, or about my being late to school. Neither have I. She’s just watching me take free throws again, standing behind me and a little bit to my left, kicking my feet apart every time she thinks they’re too close together. My hands are clammy and I’m feeling all the tight muscles left over from my dishwashing adventure. Plus I’m trying not to think about the whole thing with my mom. But I’m shooting. What else can I do? It’s our project.

  I shoot and miss, shoot and miss. My toes are cold. I imagine how great it would feel to be wearing a nice pair of thick, warm hightops. But no, I’m wearing my Air Zens, and my feet are suffering accordingly. I hope Woody is at least admiring how stylishly my Harrisonville gym clothes hang on me, because the only set they had left is about three sizes too big for my chickenlike frame. It’s a miracle the shorts are staying up at all, and I can feel them drooping to everlower levels with every shot. My undies are probably flapping in the breeze for all to see. I can’t exactly stop and check, but I’m pretty sure I’m sporting my old-school L.A. Kings boxers.

  Yo, check it: I’m the Buddha Gangsta.

  Just when I’m about to run into the gym office and beg a teacher for a safety pin, I actually manage to sink a shot. It’s a total brick, and I have no clue how it falls in, but I don’t care. Woody slaps me on the back, and all is well. I bend, set, and shoot again, thinking, I’m on a streak here. One in a row, baby! I’m on fire. Move over, Yao Ming—there’s a new Chinese sheriff in town. Of course, I totally biff on the next three, two of which are air balls. Woody goes to retrieve the second one, and I quickly yank my shorts up to roughly chin level, hoping that my huge overhanging shirt will hide the waistline. But the shirt is so outrageously long that it now goes past the bottoms of my shorts. So I’m shooting baskets in sandals and a freakin’ dress. With a nice, casual purse, I’d have quite the look going on.

  Woody kicks my feet apart. I bend and shoot. I suck and miss. Woody takes a deep breath. “San, this isn’t like you. You have to bear down. Your last shot doesn’t matter. Your next shot doesn’t matter. Your form is all that matters.”

  And as my shorts start creeping downward again, I can’t help but think she’s definitely in a perfect position to judge my form. I try to blank out my mind like I’m out on my rock. I pretend the sun is on my upturned face, instead of the sickly heatless glare of the fluorescent lights. I pretend I’m all alone in the world, that the girl I like isn’t standing inches away from me, filling my nostrils with the scent of oranges and my brain with all kinds of totally non-hoops-related urges, while she’s probably getting a good view of my undies. And perhaps most of all, I pretend I am the ball. I am the hoop. I am the hoop and the ball, the rim and the net. We are one thing, the ball and the net and me. One perfect, connected whole.

  It’s just that the various parts of the perfectly connected whole don’t always come into physical contact with each shot.

  God, I’m pathetic at this. And my toes are still freezing. The warning bell rings, and Woody says, “Well, we’re making progress.”

  “How are we making progress?”

  “Well, we’re becoming a better team. We’re learning about each other. Before today, I might have thought you were a Houston Rockets fan! See ya in social studies, partner.”

  I reach back and yank up my gym shorts.

  Do real Zen masters blush? Because fake ones do.

  signs and wonders

  That same day in social studies, I walked in just behind Woody and in front of Peter and got myself settled. I was just sitting there, about to take out my journal notebook, minding my own business, when Peter raised his hand and said, “So, Mr. Dowd, remember the other day when you said that there were six Zen patriarchs, and then the dynasty fell apart? Well, I was reading last night about the other branches of Buddhism in these books I got from the library, and the books said that some sects identify their next leader by watching for miracles, or for a child who shows amazing wisdom.”

  Dowd said, “Yes, that’s all true. Did I miss a question in there somewhere, Mr. Jones?”

  “Yeah, I mean, yes. The question is, what if there’s a seventh patriarch right now walking around the planet waiting to be discovered? There could be, right?”

  “Uhh, sure. The Zen tradition doesn’t really look for reincarnations of Buddha figures generally, but I suppose anything’s possible. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, when I was trying to fall asleep last night, I started wondering: What if the seventh Zen patriarch is walking among us right now?”

  Then I swear he gave me an evil little grin.

  “I’m saying, how would we know? Would he walk across fire or something? Would he be immune to heat and cold? Would he be disguised as someone really poor? Maybe he would have some cool, mysticalsounding name, like ‘The Laughing Archer.’ I guess I’m asking, what would we look for? Signs and wonders?”

  Dowd’s eyebrows were knit together, and his twinkle was temporarily subdued. “I’m, uhh, glad that you’re taking such an interest in this unit of study, Peter, but I’m somewhat uncomfortable speculating about the theoretical beliefs and practices of a religious group in th
is way. Please feel free to do some additional research, and see me privately if you have any further questions. And now, if you will all take out your journals…”

  I bent to remove my notebook from my backpack, and saw with horror what Peter must have been staring at as we had entered the classroom: The journal was pressed up against the clear plastic, with the front cover exposed for the world to see. The front cover where I’d written “The Laughing Archer” across the NAME line in oversized letters.

  What in the world was Peter doing? Did this mean he had put the mysterious note in my locker? And if so, why? What was his problem? I suddenly noticed that the girl next to me was looking at the cover of the notebook too. Then she turned away to whisper to the guy behind her. So now what? Were these people going to expect me to walk across hot coals on the school lawn? Or were they just going to laugh at me, San Lee, Freak of the World? I had to say something. I raised my hand.

  “Uh, Mr. Dowd? Can I answer Peter?”

  “Well…”

  “Please? It will only take a minute.”

  “Go ahead. I can see that the lesson-plan gods are against me today.”

  “Listen, Zen isn’t like what Peter said at all. It’s not very much concerned with the supernatural—it’s about finding wisdom in everyday things. There’s this famous Zen story:

  “A monk told Joshu, ‘I have just entered the monastery. Please teach me.’

  “Joshu asked, ‘Have you eaten your rice porridge?’

  “The monk replied, ‘I have eaten.’

  “Joshu said, ‘Then you had better wash your bowl.’

  “At that moment the monk was enlightened.”

  I paused.

  “See? Nobody’s looking for a magical new leader—just a new way of seeing.”

  Dowd said, “Thank you for the very appropriate story, San. Now, I’m hoping we can do some school-type stuff. You know—take some notes? Fill in some blanks?”