King Dork

I was also having some trouble squaring the clever young Tit, who could write codes in backward French and manipulate biblical quotations to his own nefarious ends, with the fat, dumb galunk he had apparently become. But people degener-ate as they get older, and anyway, it was possible that Mr.

Teone wasn’t quite as dumb as he looked. He knew Latin, after all, though that could simply reflect the fact that he had gone to school back when they still taught you things other than how to make great collages. It wasn’t a matter of intelligence, really. Evil was the common thread here. And maybe the obesity, too. Poor, dear little MT, I thought. Something told me we weren’t talking about top-quality ramoning here.

A thought struck: what if Mr. Teone wasn’t evil after all?

What if he turned out to be a Disney-ish figure, unjustly ma-ligned at the beginning, who would eventually be revealed as a kindly soul with an important message to impart? “Son, your old man wanted you to have this,” he’d say, waving some object or other, a sword or a curious gold coin. “But I had to wait till I knew you were old enough to understand.

Fortunately, you passed the test. Oh, you didn’t realize you are descended from kings? Well, you are, and it’s time to claim your rightful place.” Descended from kings? Oh my God, it all fits. “I’m terribly sorry,” he’d continue, “about the hazing, the mockery, the torture, the permanent psychological and emotional scars. We had to do that so you wouldn’t suspect the big surprise party we’ve been planning for you.”

Somehow, I couldn’t see it. I had to stand by my instinct that Mr. Teone was a bad guy, the apex of a pyramid of des-picable, sadistic normal psychos who wanted me and Sam Hellerman dead. I never really doubted it. The fact that he 268

had known my dad just made his evil a bit more complicated, that’s all.

That said, I realized that Mr. Teone would have answers to many of my questions, if only I could figure out a way to ask them. I was still sitting in the kitchen, thinking things over. My mom got up and I could hear her footsteps as she walked over to the living room. Then I heard some shuffling, followed by another little burst of giggling: and I knew she had just looked up “callipygian” in the dictionary.

I took out a sheet of paper and wrote another note: Dear Mr. Teone,

In light of recent events, I feel

there are important matters we need to

discuss. These concern materials among

my deceased father’s effects which you

may be in a position to elucidate.

Please contact me at your earliest

convenience to arrange a meeting so that we can discuss these issues and, I hope, come to a satisfactory arrangement.

Best wishes,

Thomas Charles Henderson

I put the note in an envelope and put the envelope in my backpack. Then I went into the living room. My mom was sitting on the couch, reading the Chi-Mos zine and looking up words in the American Heritage dictionary.

“Mom, was Dad really in the navy?” I asked.

“Yes, he was,” she replied absently. “For three years.”

And then, since I was on a roll, I dared to add, “and did he really commit suicide?”

269

“I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered. I had a sort of feeling that she meant that as a “yes, but let’s say no more about it.”

But it could just as easily have meant “no” or “maybe,” or perhaps “decline to state.” I tried one more.

“Can I see the note?”

“No.”

Well, that answer seemed to imply that there had been a note, but I remained unsure. I was ready in case she started to flip out, but she didn’t. She looked pretty sad, though, and there may have been tears in her eyes; but there were almost always tears in her eyes. So I just went over and kissed her on the cheek.

I left the room in silence. I was going to leave it at that, but then something came over me, and I reversed course and went back in and approached the couch.

“Why can’t you be straight with anyone?” I said. “You tell everyone different things and you keep the truth to yourself.”

She looked up, surprised: it was a very uncharacteristic outburst from me. Then she said, quietly, “I’m sorry, baby.”

This time I knew what it meant. It meant she didn’t know why she couldn’t be straight with anyone. She touched my arm, and it was the most affectionate thing I’d had from her in a long, long time.

U NC LE TONY

On Monday morning, it was already clear that our performance at the Festival of Lights had had an impact on Hillmont High society. Sam Hellerman’s new version of the lyrics zine was quite popular. He was selling them for two dollars apiece, and he already had over a hundred dollars by the end of first 270

period. It was a good thing, too, because Todd Panchowski’s parents were reportedly planning to sue our parents’ asses over his wrecked drum set: we needed the money. At this rate—well, I couldn’t quite calculate how