Also Known as Rowan Pohi Read online

  "I could squash him like a bug," Poobs said.

  Marcus snorted. "You never hit anybody in your life."

  "But I could," Poobs insisted.

  Marcus smiled. "But you wouldn't. I hate to tell you, dude. You're a gentle giant, not a fighter."

  "Whatever." Big Poobs turned to me. "So what are you going to do?"

  "Honestly? I have no idea. Not one." I crunched a big piece of ice between my teeth. "But I'd better come up with something quick. I'm running out of time."

  TWENTY-ONE

  ON MONDAY MORNING MY FATHER WAS SIPPING HIS COFFEE, leaning back against the counter, when I came into the kitchen.

  "Ready for school?" he asked.

  "Yeah," I muttered. He didn't ask which school, so technically it wasn't a lie. Or so I told myself. I had on my jeans plus my ecofriendly USE/LESS T-shirt. I knew that wearing the new khakis and the green Whitestone shirt would prompt questions from my father, questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Over the weekend I had washed my Whitestone uniform and stowed it in my backpack. I had an extra jersey in my school locker.

  I downed a bowl of cereal, two jelly doughnuts, and a glass of orange juice, and ran to catch the bus. When I got off, I ducked into the restroom at a nearby McDonald's, got rid of my old threads, transformed myself into Rowan Pohi, and emerged as... Super Stony!

  For some fool reason (the sugar from those two jelly doughnuts?) I felt terrific, which was completely irrational given the reality of my life. How on earth was I going to...

  cough up close to fourteen thousand dollars for tuition?

  produce the transcript from Pinon High that Ms. Ryder kept asking for?

  stop Seth and Brogan from revealing my true identity?

  prevent Riverview High from contacting my father about my absences?

  Brogan was right: I was royally screwed. My strategy? Stick my head in the sand and refuse to think about it. I was Dr. Denial. A ticking time bomb.

  Because of the early release, we followed a shortened schedule that day. In biology, Heather handed me a tightly folded note. It contained spaces to check yes or no, like on a test.

  (1) You're coming to my house at 1, right?

  Yes ___ No ___

  (2) Did you remember your bathing suit?

  Yes ___ No ___

  (3) (My mother won't be home till 3:45)

  I marked yes, and yes, and smiled in response to number 3as I handed the note back to her.

  When I arrived at Señor Backman's class, I found Robin waiting for me. She didn't look happy.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Remember that necklace I was wearing last week? Well, my English teacher made me take it off. Said there's no jewelry allowed at Whitestone. I couldn't believe it."

  I couldn't believe it either, but then I realized I hadn't seen a single kid wearing jewelry.

  "I mean, it was a crucifix, for Christ's sake!"

  Realizing what she just said, we both burst into laughter.

  "Nice one!" I told her.

  "Hey, it's early release today," Robin said. "Do you feel like going to the park after school? We could study Spanish or something."

  I was intrigued about the or something part. "Well, uh, I can't." I tried not to sound guilty. "I'm kind of busy today. Maybe we can do it another time, okay?"

  Robin looked like she had expected me to say no.

  "No worries," she murmured, and we both ducked into the classroom.

  They didn't have regular lunch but I was starving, so I bought a mini-pizza in the dining room. There were plenty of empty tables, so I claimed one and started to eat. I had taken only one bite when I saw them. Seth approached, with Brogan a half a step behind.

  "Yo, 'Rowan Pohi.'" It was oh-so-clever the way Seth put air quotes around the name. He sat directly across the table from me. Brogan took the seat to my left, which made me feel surrounded, hemmed in.

  "Go sit somewhere else," I told him.

  Brogan smiled. "But I want to be close to you."

  "If you don't move," I warned, "I'm going to smear pizza sauce all over that nice clean T-shirt. I will do it."

  Reluctantly, he got up and moved next to Seth.

  "So?" Seth asked. "What will it be, Bobby?"

  I didn't see any point in wasting time or playing dumb. "I'm not paying you nothing."

  "That's a double negative," Seth observed.

  I gave him a level look. "You're damn right it is."

  Seth sighed. "Then I guess I'll talk to Dr. LeClerc."

  "Why are you messing with my life, you asshole?" Roughly, I pushed back my chair. "I didn't do anything to you."

  Seth leaned forward. The acne on his right cheek made a pattern that looked familiar, like one of those star constellations, possibly Cassiopeia.

  "Your problem is you really believe you're living in a fairy tale," Seth said quietly. "A once-upon-a-time story. There's a brave knight fighting against all odds. A brave knight wearing a disguise so nobody knows who he really is. That's you. You climbed a magic beanstalk and discovered a whole new magical world. That's Whitestone. There's even a pretty princess with long blond hair, sort of like Goldilocks, only much hotter."

  "She has nice, er, hands," Brogan put in, cupping his hands about a foot away from his chest.

  "Shut up," I told him.

  "But with any fairy tale there's got to be trouble too," Seth continued. "Little Red Riding Hood is just another boring story until the Big Bad Wolf comes along, right? Every story needs a bad guy. That's me. I'm the bad guy."

  I blinked at him. "You're mangling your fairy tales."

  Seth smirked. He was enjoying himself.

  "I'm real good at that. Mangling things. It's my specialty."

  "Well, you're wasting your breath," I told him. "I've got nothing to say."

  Seth cracked his knuckles. "Me too. I'm done talking. Wednesday at noon is your deadline. You pay me ten bucks by Wednesday at lunch, or I walk into LeClerc's office and tell him the truth. It's real simple. You've got two choices, Bobby Steele. Pay or go away."

  I glared at him. "So you'd rat me out."

  Seth flashed an evil smile. "In a heartbeat."

  I shook my head. "No."

  Seth stood and gazed down at me. "Then you're gone."

  I had no choice but to try a different direction. With a Herculean effort, I manufactured a sympathetic smile.

  "C'mon, Seth, you don't want to do this. Why would you want to get me kicked out of Whitestone? You're better than this. You are."

  Seth seemed to find this idea amusing. He glanced over at his friend. "Is he right, Bro? Am I better than this?"

  Brogan chuckled. "Nope."

  "Rowan?"

  Ms. Ryder. The woman was standing in front of the table.

  I swallowed. "Yes?"

  "Dr. LeClerc would like to see you in his office."

  "Me?"

  "He said it's important." She noticed my pizza, which I'd barely touched. "Do you want to finish your lunch first?"

  "No, that's okay. I'll be right there."

  "Ooooh, Bobby's busted!" Brogan murmured as Ms. Ryder walked away.

  When I entered his office, Dr. LeClerc stood and motioned to a seat across from his desk. I sank into the leather chair, gripping the padded arms like they were lifelines. I noticed that Ms. Ryder had stayed in the office, standing at a discreet distance behind me and to the right.

  My heart was hammering.

  Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

  "Do you know why we called you here?" LeClerc asked.

  "No."

  "Well, we have some news for you, Rowan." The white-haired man gazed at me thoughtfully. Then his face broke into a sudden grin. "You won the writing scholarship!"

  I was stunned. "I did?"

  LeClerc reached out and grabbed my right hand. "The committee thought the essay you wrote was truly outstanding. We were all impressed by both your command of the language and the depth and passion of your ideas. Congratulations!"

/>   I turned to shake hands with Ms. Ryder, but she surprised me with a big hug.

  "This is wonderful, Rowan," she gushed. "I'm thrilled for you!"

  "Well, uh, th-thanks," I stammered. "So, but, does that mean—"

  LeClerc made a fist and pumped it. "You hit the jackpot, Rowan. A full scholarship to Whitestone."

  "Wow." I was flabbergasted.

  "There will be some paperwork to fill out," LeClerc added, "but we can take care of that another time."

  "Uh, thanks."

  I didn't know what more to say, so I kept my mouth shut. I started to leave, but Ms. Ryder lightly touched me on the arm.

  "Rowan, this scholarship does change things a bit. I've talked to your teachers and they all report that you're doing very well. Although your Spanish could use a bit of improvement."

  "I'm working hard on that," I put in.

  She smiled. "I'm sure you are. Anyway, don't sweat the transcripts from your last high school. I'm sure they'll send them eventually. This scholarship proves that you're a keeper at Whitestone. You're here to stay."

  TWENTY-TWO

  HEATHER SUGGESTED WE WALK TO HER HOUSE. I KEPT MY head down and stepped lively, hoping we wouldn't run into Robin, which would have been very awkward. It wasn't until we'd gotten five blocks from Whitestone that I started to relax.

  It was one of those beautiful early fall days when there's just a hint of a chill in the air. I kicked an acorn, watched it skitter down the sidewalk and fall through a sewer grate.

  "Did you remember to bring your suit?" Heather asked.

  "I did."

  "Bathing suit or birthday suit?"

  "I brought both," I replied without missing a beat.

  She grinned. "Well, well, Rowan, don't you just think of everything?"

  Heather lived on the Heights in Royal Oaks, a gated community about three-quarters of a mile from Whitestone. She waved at the guard as we entered. The houses were enormous, each mansion bigger than the last, with sweeping lawns and manicured hedges.

  "I smell money," I muttered. The first car I spotted was a Mercedes 500. The next one was a silver Jag. "I rest my case."

  "It's true," she admitted, "but most of our neighbors are friendly."

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked.

  "My brother, Bastian," she said, fiddling with the lock. "He's in fourth grade. How about you?"

  "I've got a brother too. Cody. He's five."

  She smiled. "They're cute at five; by ten they start growing devil's horns. Bastian's okay, I guess. He goes to the lower school at Whitestone. Luckily, they don't have early release today."

  The first thing I noticed when we stepped through the front door was a tree. A real one. I gazed far up at the branches and the series of skylights beyond.

  "That's a tree," I said stupidly.

  "It is," she said, like it was no big deal. "A birch tree."

  I touched the smooth white bark.

  "Yeah, b-but how?" I stammered. "I've never seen a tree growing inside a house."

  "My father believes that houses should bring in the natural world—what better way than with a living tree?" she said. "He designed this house himself; it's won a bunch of awards."

  Heather gave me a quick tour of the house, which was immense. The ceilings soared twenty feet or higher. There was a gorgeous family room (huge stone fireplace, plush leather couches). Beyond that I noticed another room, smaller and cozier, with a second fireplace and a pretty table made entirely of tinted blue glass. A blue ceramic bowl filled with chocolates sat on top of it.

  "What's that room for?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno. We aren't supposed to go in there."

  "But ... what about those chocolates? Don't you and your brother ever eat them?"

  "It's off-limits. We can't touch it."

  I was truly amazed. "Those chocolates wouldn't last long in my house."

  The walls in the hallway featured photographs of horses, and Heather stopped to tell me about each one.

  "That's Onyx," she said, pointing at a photograph. I'm no horse expert, but I could tell she was a beauty, jet-black with huge soulful eyes. And something else was becoming clear: Heather's family was very rich.

  "Is that your father?" I asked, pointing to a man standing beside the horse.

  "Yeah."

  "Is he the horse person in the family?"

  She shook her head. "Mom. Dad just sort of went along with it. Then one day he invited his assistant, Maggie, to saddle up. She was twenty-five. And the two of them sort of rode off into the sunset."

  "They fell in love?"

  "Love, or lust."

  "Ouch. Sorry."

  "That was four years ago. For a while things were rough around here. Mom had your classic breakdown, but she pulled herself together and now things are okay. Mom and Maggie get along fine now, believe it or not."

  Light steam drifted up from the surface of the pool, which was rectangular and tucked behind a thick hedge. The pool area had lots of hanging plants, which made it feel as lush as a garden and very private.

  "Swim?" she offered.

  "Okay. The water isn't cold, is it?"

  "Nope. Mom heats it through the middle of October. You can change in the pool house. I'll grab some towels."

  When I emerged, Heather was already standing waist-deep in the water, wearing a black two-piece bathing suit. She looked sensational.

  There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Did I tell you that I'm half mermaid and half girl?"

  "I don't think you mentioned that."

  "Well, I am," she said solemnly.

  I dipped my right foot into the water. "Which half is which?"

  She grinned provocatively. "Why don't you come in and find out?"

  So I jumped in. She moved toward me until we were touching, and the fronts of her feet were resting on mine. Or on Rowan's. Rowan the Romancer! Unbelievable to find myself alone in this fabulous house with a girl like Heather Reardon. To have such treasure just fall into my/Rowan's lap! Marcus and Poobs would never have believed it. I could barely believe it myself.

  "I almost didn't recognize you without your school uniform," I teased. "I—"

  She shut me up with a kiss.

  "Glad we got that out of the way," she murmured.

  "I had a dream about kissing you in the planetarium." We were both speaking in low voices, just above a whisper.

  "Yeah? Was it as good as this?"

  We kissed again. I was aware of a dozen sensations: the silky water, her warm mouth, her arms crossing my spine and pulling me tight against her.

  "Almost," I said.

  "Almost isn't good enough. Not nearly."

  This time I could feel sparks jumping from every point of contact—mouth, chest, belly, thighs, and feet—where her body touched mine.

  We stayed in the pool for almost forty-five minutes. As it turned out, we didn't swim a lick that day. Not that it was boring; oh, far from it. And I kept thinking: How could my life be so absurdly wonderful—and so terrible—all at the same time?

  On Tuesday afternoon I almost skipped football. Then I realized that this might well be my last practice, so I finally decided to go. Throckmorton met with eight of us who were trying out for wide receiver. For the first half-hour he walked us through the basic pass routes: screen, slant, quick out, deep out, curl, and fly. I could see that making the team would not be automatic; there were three or four other players who were big and rangy. I had a speed advantage, maybe, but would that get me on the team?

  "It's not enough to be fast," Throckmorton warned. "To be a good receiver you've got to be elusive too. You have to get separation between yourself and whoever is covering you. Get separation. I want you to say those words ten times every night before you fall asleep. Get separation. Make that your personal mantra."

  It hadn't been a strenuous workout, so that evening I went out for my regular run. While I ran I repeated that phrase: Get separation. I must have repeated those words
a thousand times. I broke the phrase into four parts to create a nice regular rhythm:

  get separ aaaaa shun

  bum bum-dee bum bum

  get separ aaaaa shun

  bum bum-dee bum bum

  I ran five miles that night, and then did an extra loop to make it six, trying to exhaust myself so I could sleep. When I had finished, I stopped outside our building, taking a few minutes to cool down and catch my breath before I went inside.

  The moment I entered our apartment, something seemed wrong. I detected an ominous odor, a smell both strange and familiar. My heart started banging in my chest. I rushed into the kitchen.

  My father.

  Holding a hot iron in his right hand.

  Cody standing less than two feet away.

  My eyes flew open wide.

  My father caught the meaning of my look.

  Carefully, he put the iron down on the ironing board, where a small white shirt was stretched out.

  "What is your problem?" he demanded.

  "Nothing," I mumbled.

  "Nothing?"

  "No." I shook my head.

  "Tomorrow's school picture day, and I thought it would be a good idea if somebody ironed your brother's goddamn shirt." He practically bit off each word. "Do you have a problem with that?"

  "No."

  "Do you?" He sounded pissed.

  "No."

  My brother was leaning against the couch, working a yo-yo. He sent it down and up, down and up, making a whirring sound that broke the silence.

  "I'm sorry," I managed.

  My father stared. I don't even have words for what I saw in his eyes—something heartbreaking and wounded. Or worse.

  Then he blinked; the spell was broken. He went back to ironing Cody's shirt. He did it clumsily, like he had never done it before, which he probably hadn't. My brother stood nearby, working his yo-yo, as silent as my father. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  That night the algebra homework was hard—solving quadratic equations—and I was too upset to concentrate. The strings of numbers and variables seemed pointless. I closed the textbook and shut my eyes. When I did, all I could picture was my father holding that iron in his big hand.