Mark says, “Man, you are a hard-ass in the truest sense.” He says it with humor and a certain admiration.
“That’s because it’s dangerous to have heroes,” Oscar says.
Sharon says, “Because . . .”
“Because they aren’t the truth. They get you thinking there’s something wrong with you because if you’re honest, you know you can never be like them.”
Sharon nods. “Anyone else?”
Leah, my good friend, Hoopfest mate, and crazy-fast black chick (her term) from the A swim team, who joined about the same time I did, says, “I gotta go with Oscar. Last summer I’m lifeguarding at Witter pool and just as we’re switching guard stations, two kids come running up from the river hollering that somebody’s drowning. It’s wicked hot and I’ve been listening to kids behind me jumping off the Mission Street bridge all afternoon. Anyway, I run across the park lawn, get over the fence and down to the edge where I see a kid trying to help another kid about fifteen yards from shore, but he’s just making it worse. So I swim out, push the helper kid away, and pull the other one out. Head of the park department hears about it, calls the newspaper and a couple of TV stations, and next thing I’m a hero.”
“Well, shoot,” Mark says, “you were.”
Leah scoffs. “That was easier for me than you carrying a sack of groceries across the street for an old lady, which is nice but not heroic. The TV and newspaper reporters were bending over backward to make me look like a way better person than I am. And braver. That kid couldn’t have pulled me underwater with a rope tied to a sack of barbells. And I sure wasn’t about to tell the reporters some of the shit I’ve done while they were busting their asses to make this a story about how not all teenagers threaten humanity.” She laughs. “Especially African-American teenagers.
Sharon says, “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying it wasn’t even a heroic act and they made me a hero. People want things black or white—no pun—so that’s how they wrap them.”
“My point,” Oscar says, “only things black and white are zebras and American referees.”
Layton says, “American referees are zebras. We call ’em that.”
“Zebras are striped horses,” Oscar says. “Remember where I’m from.”
Sharon closes her eyes. “Focus, people.”
“I’ve been in church every Sunday and Wednesday night since, like, before I can remember,” Mark says. “That’s where all my heroes come from, starting with Jesus.” He nods toward Oscar. “Sorry man, I just couldn’t leave Him in with Yoda and Obi-Wan.”
“The hero Jesus,” Leah says.
Mark’s eyebrows go up. “I guess. That WWJD thing . . . In my church you actually ask yourself that. And isn’t that what a hero is—somebody you would follow?”
Leah laughs. “You’d get a better answer if you asked what I would do.”
“I can end this foolishness.” All eyes on Seth. His hand is raised, and he sits erect as a soldier. This kid would be out of place among out-of-place kids.
I say, “That would be deeply appreciated.”
“I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice which I choose to ignore because I could be mistaken this early in our relationship,” he says. “I should warn you I lack social skills. At least that’s what I’m told, so if I offend you, don’t be offended.”
I say, “If you knew my family, you’d know social skills are lost on me.”
“Be that as it may,” he says, turning his head to include the rest of the group, “while many of you seem to have buried yourselves in make-believe—my favored terminology for fictitious tales—I have long been on a quest for real information, much of which I’ve found among the brain scientists.”
Oscar whispers, “Uh-oh.”
“Cynical facial expressions do not faze me, Oscar. As I was saying . . . it would seem that the reason for the confusion experienced within your group—our group now that you’ve included me—likely comes from immaturity, and before you take issue, I mean that in the scientific sense.”
Sharon says, “We don’t take issue. Go on.”
“The part of your brains that could logically put this all together,” Seth says, “is simply not developed yet. Nor should it be. If my calculations are correct, the average age in this room, absent, of course, that of our leader,” and he nods toward Sharon, “is about sixteen years, if my eyeballing of your ages were to prove accurate. Had I your birthdates I’d be more precise. At any rate, the frontal lobe, the rational portion of the brain, generally reaches full development around age twenty-three or twenty-four. Approximate numbers, but that means your brains are seven to eight years from making sense of some very obvious truths, so it’s easy for you to create your heroes from emotion.” He turns his palms up.
Leah says. “What about your brain, Seth?”
“There are a number of studies focused on brains like mine, and though the jury is still out, they may be quite advanced.” He smiles slightly. “Of course there’s no real jury.”
“So while your brain is awaiting a verdict,” Maddy says, “the jury is in on ours. What’s the verdict?”
“Stupidity, pretty much,” Seth says.
I laugh. “And you say you don’t have social skills.”
Seth ignores me. “It’s not your fault, really, and it will get better. But until then, you are pretty much relegated to relying on wishes to take the lead in your decision-making. That’s why the confusion. What is right only seems like maybe it is, but what you want to be right seems like it really is. That’s why you’re obsessed with this hero thing, and why you can’t agree on it. Understand?”
“Thank you, Seth,” Sharon says.
“Don’t thank me; I’m merely
