“I love this city,” Sean says.
We’re holding on to the same pole, leaning out into the cold wind.
“Me too,” I say.
“If I play my cards right, I’ll be back in the Bay Area next year for college.”
“How so?”
“Well, Sam, I’m applying to UC Berkeley. They’ve got a city planning program that I really want to do. If I can keep my grades down, I might have a shot.”
“You mean, if you can keep your grades up.”
“No. Down. I’m on the Academic Decathlon team. It has to have at least three C students, and I’m one of the three. If I start getting Bs or As, I could get kicked off the team. And the team is the best thing I’ve got going for my college app. I’ve always struggled with school. My SATs will never get me in. But my C average just might.”
Okay, so a C average is the only way for Sean to get into Berkeley. If that’s not a paradox, I don’t know what is.
At Fisherman’s Wharf, we eat fish and chips on the docks and then walk over to Ghirardelli Square for what Alistair promises will be the world’s best hot fudge sundae. Ever.
We stand looking up at the enormous lights spelling out G-h-i-r-a-r-d-e-l-l-i. The air smells like salt from the sea, plus churros from a cart, plus scented candles from a store, plus fish from everywhere.
But near the Ghirardelli sign, all those other smells bow down to chocolate. Milk chocolate, mint chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate (which, according to the posters, isn’t even chocolate at all).
After a long wait that feels longer the closer we get to that chocolate source, we’re seated at a big booth, and not too long after that we’re digging through clouds of whipped cream, thick hot fudge, and crunchy chopped peanuts to sweet cold ice cream in giant glass bowls.
Sean and Catalina are sharing.
Jaesang and Mr. Kalman are sharing.
Me and Sadie are sharing.
Alistair and Alistair are sharing.
“Man,” he says, “isn’t this the best hot fudge sundae you ever had?”
We all nod. Except for Sadie, who says, “I’ve been here before.”
“You have?” I say, because I never have.
“My mom brought me, Sam, the year she died. We came to San Francisco because she wanted to show me where she grew up. We ordered hot fudge sundaes and she said, ‘This is the best hot fudge sundae you’ll ever have.’”
We all watch as Sadie takes a slow bite, and Sean slips his arm through hers.
At two o’clock we’re back in court. The judges come out of their chambers, and the senior justice of the three delivers the ruling.
“This case requires that we consider whether the routine practice of assigning homework to K-twelve students violates the constitutional rights accorded to families and minors under the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments. Sam Warren, a sixth-grader, was suspended from Reed Middle School for refusing to write down a homework assignment and for standing on a desk as he urged his fellow students to do the same. He later filed a claim for damages against the district, alleging psychological distress. The claim was rejected, and Attorney Avi Kalman filed suit as next friend in federal court. Due to the number of students in the district who could make the same claim, class action status was granted.
“The district court denied the plaintiff’s claim. We received it on appeal.
“Having listened carefully to both sides, we find that the plaintiff has not adequately proved material damages to himself or to members of the class. We therefore unanimously affirm the lower court’s denial of claim. In addition, we grant the appellee’s request to impose the maximum allowable fine of ten thousand dollars under the California False Claims Act.”
In other words, we lost again.
Not only that, but we owe ten grand to Livingston Gulch!
Outside, I hear a scraping sound. It’s the wooden stakes that held the signs. They’re being dragged along the sidewalk as all the people walk away. I glance over and see WELCOME TO sam FRANCISCO getting smaller. It doesn’t feel good to see my name upside down.
A journalist shoves his microphone at Mr. Kalman. I’ve never understood that. If they really want you to talk to them, shouldn’t they invent a smaller recording device so it doesn’t seem like they’re pulling out a weapon?
“What do you say to another appeal, Mr. Kalman? Are you going to take homework all the way to the Supreme Court?”
Mr. Kalman looks at all our disappointed faces.
“I don’t know,” he says. “We’ll have to see.”
He walks past us to the street, then raises his hand for a cab. His hand goes up slowly, like someone who’s not sure he has the right answer.
17
Coffee and Candlelight
The kids at school treat me like the boy whose dog died. All sympathy all the time. At handball, if I get out on a clean slicey, somebody calls “blockies” and I get a second chance. If there’s a line at the cafeteria, I get moved to the front. After school, girls in seventh grade come up to me and offer to carry my backpack. It’s nice and all, but what I really want is to be treated like a normal kid.
Mr. Hill is treating me like a normal kid. Thursday at recess I sneak into the multi-purpose room. I sit at the piano and am about to play when he leans in and says, “I’m sorry, Sam, but the piano is reserved for
