Also Known as Rowan Pohi Page 6

  "Why not?"

  "I live with my father, and, well, he can get kind of crazy."

  His eyes narrowed. "Crazy?"

  I nodded. "My father's got a wicked temper. He's got anger-management problems, seriously. Sometimes when I ask him the simplest question he flips out on me."

  Throckmorton rolled up his sleeves to reveal lethal forearms. You would not want to meet this guy in a dark alley. "Well, someone has to fill out these forms. Your father, your mother, or your guardian, if you have one."

  "My father won't," I insisted. 'And my mother doesn't live with us."

  "I don't know what to tell you, Rowan." Throckmorton folded his arms. "This school may have lofty goals, but at the same time, we all have to live in the real world. An education at a school like Whitestone is very expensive. Somebody has to pay for it. Otherwise we'd go broke. Understand?"

  I nodded.

  "You've got a couple of options." Throckmorton raised three blunt fingers, one after the other. "Your parents can write a check. If they fill out these forms, you might be able to get financial aid from our office. Or you might win a scholarship."

  I blinked. "Scholarship?"

  "Yes, we do have a limited number of scholarships endowed by wealthy benefactors," he explained. "They're extremely competitive."

  "What kind of scholarships?"

  "They're all different." Throckmorton picked up a slender white folder and opened it. "Let's see. Here's one for a promising science student. This one is for 'exceptional aptitude in music.' One is for theater. Have you done much acting?"

  "No." Except now.

  "There's one for excellence in writing," Throckmorton said.

  "I am a pretty good writer," I blurted out.

  He regarded me closely. "You'll have to give a writing sample. Five hundred words."

  "Okay." That didn't seem too hard. "When would I do the writing?"

  "You can do it right now."

  FIFTEEN

  THROCKMORTON LED ME TO A TINY ROOM WITH A CHAIR, A desk, and one exam booklet. He said I would have up to forty-five minutes to write the essay. After he left, I opened the booklet and read what was printed on top of the first page.

  What do you consider to be your greatest personal strength? What impact has this strength had on your life? (Note: Essay must be at least 450 words.)

  Staring at those sentences, it hit me that the whole White-stone adventure would not have gotten this far without my complete disregard of how the real world works, plus luck, plus guts. I was winging it, pure and simple, and I couldn't back off now. If I did, everything I had done to this point, every chance I'd taken, would be wasted. It would be a miracle if I could win this writing scholarship. To do so, I'd have to write an awesome essay. Nothing less would do.

  It has been said that a person's strength is also their weakness, two sides of the same coin. Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson were phenomenal performers, but in the end they became performers in their own lives. Like Icarus, they flew too close to the sun. The bright lights of celebrity melted their wings.

  Im no Elvis (and definitely no Michael Jackson) but I realize the same thing is true in my life. My strength is also my weakness. I am an impulsive person. The dictionary defines this word as "not thinking something all the way through. This part of my character has gotten me into trouble, for instance when I was four and thought my crayons felt too cold so I put them on a radiator to warm them up. My parents were not very happy to see our radiator decorated with rainbow streams of melted wax.

  But being impulsive has its upside, too. I have never been afraid to reach for the golden ring. That's part of my personal philosophy. Im a fighter. I believe that if you want something, you have to go for it. Period.

  When I think of the term "personal strength the thing that comes to my mind is something I once read about a Native American tribe (the Navajos, I think). This tribe had fierce and fearless warriors. Those men had a unique and peculiar way of stalking their enemies. On noiseless feet they would sneak up close to their foes. They would shrink the distance, moving closer and closer, until they were so close they could hear the sleeping breath of the enemy warrior. Close enough to feel the heat of his blood.

  At this distance a warrior could easily kill his foe, but he does not. Instead he reaches forward and taps his enemy on the shoulder. Then, before his "victim realizes what just happened, the attacking warrior disappears into the forest. The message is clear: I got to you. I could have ended your life, but I didn't. I had the stealth and I had the strength, but I didn't have to use it.

  Imagine this from the victim's point of view. He is awoken from a sound sleep to find his mortal enemy has touched him gently on the arm. What could be more demoralizing? After having his life spared in this way, the warrior would return home in shame and defeat.

  This story made a lasting impression on me. It represents the kind of personal strength I admire most—having plenty of power in reserve, but only using that power if forced to do so, with no other choice.

  I finished writing and signed the bottom of the sheet—Rowan Pohi—putting a bold dot above the final i. Next I counted words—not quite 450, so I went back and inserted a few more adjectives. I reread the essay. I still had plenty of time left, so I read it again. The phrase the heat of his blood worried me a little—too violent?—but in the end I decided to leave it in. There would be essays from other kids trying to win this scholarship. I needed strong images that readers wouldn't easily forget.

  I stepped out of the test room and handed the booklet to Throckmorton, who was sitting at his desk. "How did you do?" he asked. I shrugged. "Okay. I hope you like it.""I'm not one of the readers," he said. "We have a team of people who score the essays."

  I nodded. "You remind me of my junior high football coach."

  For the first time, Throckmorton managed a smile. "As a matter of fact, I am the football coach here at Whitestone."

  "Oh."

  He peered up at me. "Plan on trying out for the team?"

  "Maybe. I played wide receiver."

  "Are you fast?"

  "Yeah," I admitted.

  Throckmorton gave me a thoughtful look. "First practice is Wednesday. Bring your cleats. We'll see what you've got, Rowan."

  SIXTEEN

  THAT MORNING PASSED IN A BLUR; BY LUNCHTIME I WAS starving. The lunchroom was already packed when I got there. I put my tray down on the empty end of a table and started to eat. Luckily, I didn't mind eating alone. The food was delicious, a major upgrade from the stuff they tried to give us at Riverview. I had a tasty pulled-pork sandwich with french fries that were crispy and hot.

  After lunch they divided the kids into two groups for a tour of Whitestone. I got assigned to Ms. Ryder's group. She showed us the huge library with a dozen skylights, three different gymnasiums, an Olympic-size pool, a state-of-the-art weight room, even a rifle range. The football field had brand-new synthetic turf, the expensive kind that feels exactly like natural grass. I was dying to see the planetarium, but Ms. Ryder said they were doing last-minute work on the lighting, and it wouldn't be open until later in the week.

  At the end of the day there was a reception in the library with Dr. Paul LeClerc, the headmaster. I carefully printed ROWAN POHI on my blank nametag and poured myself a glass of punch. LeClerc worked the room like a politician, making sure to shake hands with every new student. On long tables they had silver trays overflowing with fresh fruit and cheese squares skewered by colorful toothpicks. No way they would ever have a reception like this at Riverview. I found a basket overflowing with individually wrapped Lindt chocolate balls; I stashed a few in my pocket for later.

  At three o'clock I boarded the bus. The other new students got off, one by one, until the last one stepped onto the sidewalk and I was the only kid left on the bus.

  I leaned forward, letting my face fall into my hands. My head was swimming. I felt exhausted, discombobulated, but all jacked up too. I sat there, taking deep breaths, as I chang
ed back from Rowan Pohi to Bobby Steele.

  My phone beeped—a text message from Marcus.

  Whr r u?

  Marcus and Big Poobs! I felt a stab of crushing guilt so intense I had to close my eyes to ride it out. My buddies should have been part of this. I should have told them what I was doing, without a doubt. So why hadn't I?

  Because I would have had to tell them that I dug up Rowan's grave.

  Because I would have had to swear them to secrecy, which would have put them in an awkward position.

  Because if they mentioned it to anyone else, I'd be sunk.

  Because I was one selfish asshole.

  Marcus: Whr r u dude?

  Me: #1 bus

  Marcus: Can u hang? me and poobs r bored

  Me: IHOP in 20?

  Marcus: Yessir

  Me: brng $

  Marcus: Duh

  Me: Can I borrow 100? Ask Poobs too

  Marcus: 50 each?

  Me: 100 each f u v it

  Marcus: Yow dunno

  Me: I need it

  When I arrived, Marcus and Big Poobs were already waiting in our regular booth on the street side.

  "I ordered you a root beer," Marcus said as I sat down.

  "Power straws!" Poobs cried.

  Power straws was a tradition we started back when we were ten years old. As a ritual, it was silly beyond belief, but we still did it when the three of us met up. Ripping the paper off our straws, we leaned in and held the tips together, pretending we were some kind of space warriors crossing three intensely charged molecular beams. Poobs supplied the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-sssstttt sound effects.

  The waitress brought our drinks and I took a pull of soda.

  "So what gives, mystery boy?" Marcus asked.

  "Wait a sec," I said. I must have drunk too fast because my head began to throb.

  Marcus studied me curiously. "What were you doing on the number one bus? That's the wrong side of town."

  I looked from Marcus to Big Poobs, not sure what to say.

  "Hel-lo," Marcus said. "Anybody home?"

  I tried to find a way to explain. "Look, we're friends, right?"

  They nodded.

  "I mean good friends. 'Really good friends.'" I was using air quotes. "And once in a while 'really good friends' have to forgive other 'really good friends' for something they might have done. Right?"

  Marcus stared at Big Poobs. "I have no idea what he's talking about. Do you?"

  "Nope," Poobs admitted. "You're coming in kinda fuzzy, Bobby."

  I drummed the table, trying to think of another approach.

  "Stony invasion," Marcus reported.

  Four kids with Whitestone sweatshirts climbed into a booth against the wall. I thought I recognized one kid from the new-student orientation and sank down in my seat so he wouldn't see me.

  "They're everywhere," Poobs muttered.

  Marcus swiveled around and gave me an expectant look. "So?"

  His high-pitched voice reminded me of the time when we were much younger and he'd invited me to his birthday party but I'd forgotten to tell him if I could come. In school he'd asked the same question—So?—in the same tone and with the same expression as he did now. I felt something give way inside me.

  "I was coming back from school."

  Marcus smelled a rat. "School doesn't start till Wednesday. What school?"

  Softly, I uttered the name: "Whitestone."

  Poobs's eyebrows jumped a foot. "What were you doing there?"

  "Today was new-student day."

  Marcus smiled. "Oh. You going to Whitestone now?"

  "Yeah." I nodded, like it was no big deal. "Well, technically, Rowan Pohi is going to Whitestone."

  For a long moment, nobody spoke. It dawned on them both at the exact same moment.

  "You're ... Rowan Pohi?" Big Poobs whispered.

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  Marcus was thunderstruck. "You turned into him?"

  "Yeah. I guess so."

  "But how ... since when?" Big Poobs sputtered.

  "A couple days ago," I said.

  I don't think they would have been any more flabbergasted if I'd told them I was six months pregnant.

  "You really went to the school?" Marcus demanded. "What about those papers? Weren't you supposed to bring them with you?"

  "I did."

  "But ... how?"

  "I dug up the grave."

  They stared at me hard. Marcus shook his head. Big Poobs flat-out refused to believe it. "No, you didn't. You wouldn't."

  "Yes, I did."

  "You dug up his grave?" Marcus repeated in disbelief. "That's, like, sacrilegious."

  I winced. "I know. Sorry."

  Big Poobs was dazed. "Rowan rose from the dead? Only Jesus and vampires do that."

  I smiled. "Only you would put Jesus and vampires in the same sentence."

  But Marcus wasn't smiling. He looked angry. Hurt. "Why didn't you tell us?"

  Why hadn't I told them?"Because you—"

  Marcus interrupted: "Because you had to keep us on a—what do they call it?—a need-to-know basis. Huh? Is that it?"

  "Listen, I—"

  Marcus turned away, facing the street. "You really suck, man."

  It was true, but I had to defend myself anyway.

  "I wasn't trying to freeze you out," I countered. "Look, I only went one day. I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

  "You are un-be-lievable," Marcus snarled. "You're really going to transfer to Whitestone?"

  "Yeah," I admitted. "I already have."

  "But it's a private school," Big Poobs pointed out. "Since when does your father have that kind of money?"

  "Rowan's trying to get a scholarship," I explained.

  Marcus stared. "Rowan? Or you?"

  "Both. We're kind of a package deal." I tried to laugh but couldn't make it sound right.

  Marcus shook his head. "Oh, I see, Mr. Multiple Personality."

  Long pause. We slurped the dregs of our drinks.

  "What's it like inside Whitestone?" Poobs asked curiously.

  "Pretty slick," I told him. "The football field is, like, professional. All the equipment in the weight room looks brand-new. They had this, like, reception with little cheese cubes and fancy cookies and chocolate."

  I took the Lindt chocolate balls out of my pocket and put them on the table. "Help yourself."

  The way Marcus stared at those Lindt balls, I thought they might melt right there on the table. "You're a Stony now." His face was hard. "You're one of them."

  "I am not!"

  Marcus flashed me a nasty smile. "Oh no?"

  "Look, I'm sorry, Marcus. I didn't plan it this way."

  Marcus stood up. "I gotta go."

  "Wait." I grabbed his shoulder. "Remember my text? I need some money."

  Marcus opened his eyes wide in astonishment. "First you go and dig up Rowan's grave, and now you want my money. Is that how it goes?"

  "I need to buy some clothes at the school store," I lamely explained. "They have a dress code at Whitestone."

  "I brought a hundred," Big Poobs said, handing me a wad of bills.

  Marcus dropped five twenties on the table and headed toward the door.

  "I'll pay you back," I called after him.

  "You're damn right you will," he said without turning around.

  SEVENTEEN

  THAT NIGHT I ALTERED MY ROUTE SO I COULD RUN PAST Riverview High School. The parking lot was an ugly construction site, ripped up and half finished, with piles of dirt and discarded coffee cups. Was it possible that I had spent my last day at that sorry school?

  I felt bad about Marcus's reaction, but what could I do? Now that Rowan Pohi was up and running, well, I couldn't wuss out on him. The whole thing was still very shaky; I had to be committed two hundred percent. There were a zillion loose ends to figure out, like how to be at Whitestone on Thursday and work at my father's garage at the same time.

  So I lied. I seemed to have gotten good at lying. I to
ld my father that Big Poobs had gotten me a part-time gig busing tables at Vinny's on Thursday. Could I do those oil changes on Saturday? He said fine, just as long as the work got done and done right.

  Cody was excited about his first day of school. He laid out his new school clothes the night before. Early Wednesday morning he came into my bedroom while it was still dark.

  "Is it time for school, Bobby?"

  My clock said 5:44 A.M. "No! It's way too early!"

  "But I gotta go to school!"

  My brother was completely dressed. He even had his backpack on.

  "Go back to sleep!" I told him. "It's not time to wake up!"

  "But I'm already dressed. I brushed my teeth!"

  I took him to the den and made him lie down.

  "I'll wake you up in an hour," I promised.

  "I'm not tired!"

  "Close your eyes." I covered him with a blanket and went back to bed.

  My father drove Cody to school on the first day. I waved goodbye, then ran to catch the crosstown bus.

  At school, I swiped Rowan's ID card; the front door clicked and allowed me to push through. At 7:35 there were only a few students milling around the halls. The first thing on my list was a visit to the Whitestone school store. The hallways were busy twenty minutes later when I emerged wearing a green shirt and khakis. I had stuffed my regular clothes in my backpack. I still needed to buy a blue blazer to the tune of ninety-five dollars, but I decided to wait until they assigned lockers so I'd have a place to hang it up.

  Heather materialized as if out of thin air.

  "Well, well, well, look who's rocking the Whitestone duds." She leaned back to admire me. "My, my. That shirt fits you perfectly."

  "Yeah? Not too tight?"

  She smiled. "Oh, no."

  The day began with a school assembly. The place was full; almost everybody was wearing the green Whitestone T-shirt. Including me. I still couldn't wrap my head around the idea that I was a Stony. I felt almost dizzy, like I was floating in space. A dose of gravity, that's what I needed. But where to find it?