Sophomores at Heller tended to appreciate their second year of PE more than their first. They ran faster, swam longer, and sweated more, but by then it became a familiar routine. Some went as far as to say they enjoyed it. Ms. Stevens only taught freshmen, and so they instead appreciated the wit of Mr. Clements, who made even pushups funny. Frank particularly appreciated Mr. Clements due to his fondness for power-walking, and that day in class, in lieu of running or anything that got the blood pumping, they walked. Quickly, to be fair, around the field, darting in and out of shadows and making pigeons jump when they passed too close, but not so quickly that John and Ernest could not argue. Light philosophical debate—debate which everyone else considered arguing—had become a frequent pastime for them. Ernest was easily incited to invective, every fault around him an underlying symptom of some greater societal ill: the school lunches are tasteless, no wonder why America is malnourished; Mrs. Huang played a FOX News interview with President Underwood, why is she bringing politics into the classroom? John responded to these challenges with as much gravitas as he could muster, never quite sure which of Ernest's comments were soliloquy and which were invitations for discussion.
"What does it mean to be intelligent?" John asked Ernest suddenly. John considered himself a not unintelligent person, but Ernest was clearly more so. It did not matter that people like Frank and Jason did just as well academically, they were simply viewed as less intelligent; Jason had his unfortunate track record of head-patting and outbursts of anger, and Frank's intellect was overshadowed by his eccentric tendencies. John was not quite sure what he brought to the table, but he knew that somewhere in his head lay pearls of wisdom.
"Intelligence is something we are all born with that determines our position in life. Some of us are more fortunate than others because they possess greater, I guess, natural blessings," Ernest responded with certainty.
"What makes you think we are born with it? Why do we have classes if they are not meant to teach us something besides conformity?"
"John, there's a difference here between intelligence and knowledge. I have great knowledge; I am not intelligent. Someone like Frank is intelligent, but he has no knowledge." Ernest did not mean this as a great insult toward Frank, who was well ahead of them and probably would lap them soon enough, but rather as an explanation that could let him sleep at night without the inescapable feeling of having done something wrong. Ernest left this unspoken, but he thought John possessed great intelligence and little knowledge as well.
"So are you defining knowledge as how we use our intelligence?"
"Exactly that. A mind is a terrible thing to waste."
"I'm not quite sure I get what you're saying, Ernest. A toddler who we all may consider precocious for whatever reason, maybe because they learned how to read early, still puts their hand on a hot stove despite them possessing the intellect to know that's what they shouldn't do, that they don't see any adults putting their hands on hot stoves and thus should not do the same. If we are born with a certain level of intelligence that really determines our position in life, most of us would have scars on our hands. Every man is the son of his own works, and the majesty of human creation is proof that we are not governed by our nature."
"That's a terrible example. Some things in life are instinctual: we all know not to play with knives or jump off cliffs or drink bleach without being told. Very few of us don't possess those instincts, and those who don't grow up to be stuntmen."
"We aren't savages, Ernest. We don't stand in drum circles ululating all night simply because our primal instincts drive us to belch and procreate. Our instincts help us act in society according to normal principles beyond the simple idea of 'don't die.' There's some little motor inside us that tells us when not to talk out of turn in a conversation, ensures we're too scared to suddenly take off our pants in the middle of class, and that tells us to settle disputes amiably instead of coming to blows. Those aren't necessarily natural instincts—a toddler feels no shame. But most of anyone, regardless of intelligence, learns to develop these instincts."
"So what about those people who aren't 'most of anyone'—here's what they do: they commit crimes. They rob, steal, lie, and do whatever brings them the most pleasure, society be damned! 'Why so serious,' they ask, feigning innocence and belying hearts of darkness. They think they're little harlequins, cartwheeling around and jumping for joy all because they are having a blast at the expense of everyone else. They're pickpockets at Times Square, they're drunk drivers, they're everyone and everything! We are all born with those instincts, and it is only our intelligence that keeps us in line."
By now, Frank had caught up to them, and could immediately tell he was missing some action. He interceded to the best of his ability: "I don't think it's quite fair to paint all criminals with one broad stroke, Ernest. Some have noble motives: Jean Valjean only stole to feed himself, it's not like he ran around shooting pistols in the air screaming 'Yeehaw!'. And I do think it's a rare breed of criminal that acts without motivation like that. They aren't savages, Ernest."
"Sure, sure, ruin my argument by bringing up Bernie Madoff," Ernest sneered, his tone more acerbic than usual. Frank gave him a quizzical look, but let him continue. "When you take any convict, someone who committed unglamorous crimes, maybe shooting up a 7-11 or something, can they really change? I don't think most of them can comprehend that level of nuance you claim they have. They didn't spend their youth playing piano or attending math camp, they spent their youth setting ants on fire and stabbing kittens with a pocket knife. They talk crudely and signal their incomprehension with their fists. If you really think that those people aren't beyond hope, you should try talking them out of their drunken stupor. Go ahead, I dare you. I bet some of those kids across the track are probably suitable subjects. Go on, John."
"Well, Ernest, I really don't know if I could do it," John stammered. "But I really think you're judging these people too harshly. Every brute has a heart of gold."
"You know how you sound, John? Like a man who's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart. Each of us has a destiny—for good or for evil," Ernest coldly responded. Ernest was surprised John did not agree with him more easily; after all, did he not attend a club centered on elitism?
John continued to address Ernest, his voice starting to strain: "So why wouldn't a convict be able to change? He served his time, paid his price, you don't think that would matter at all?"
"I mean, sure, he could be a changed man. But he is still a convict. A nicer one, but he still has the heart of a convict."
"What does that mean? Is having the heart of a convict a bad thing? Many great minds have thought in devious ways," Frank ventured, trying to understand exactly what his problem was. "And even beyond that, I'm curious to know what you think prison is. Prisons aren't insane asylums where people hang upside-down from the chandeliers and trace pentagrams with their own blood on the walls. They have libraries, civilized things—prisoners take classes, they have jobs, they try to improve their lives. Sure, there may be the incorrigible ones who live in solitary and fashion shivs for a living, but those are rare exceptions. Those must be the ones with those 'hearts' you mention. Useless things, they are."
"How do you know, Frank, have you ever been to prison?" Ernest was growing impatient with Frank. Frank was mimicking John's rhetorical patterns, and Ernest felt outnumbered. Eventually, after they all grew hoarse and Mr. Clements blew the whistle to end their exercise, each of them walked to the locker room viewing themselves as the victor. Ernest believed he had proven the existence of the human soul, John the importance of willpower, and Frank discovered that the best way to irritate Ernest was through debate. Even in the locker room, they exchanged glares, all feeling equally wounded by the others.
John came back to their conversation that night as he slept dreaming of walking through concrete hallways lined with iron bars and prison wardens. The prisoners inside their cells gripped the bars and shook them, screaming and hollering, shouting obscenities for no particular reason but to extend a middle finger high in the sky toward the system that had brought them there. He imagined Regina and Beth there—both seemed like nice people, but did they really possess hearts of gold? They were too nice, that was it: they did not deserve a wretch like him who always forgot to thank the bus driver. Maybe he was on the wrong side of the bars. He deserved to sit among the rubble on a dirty bench covered with hypodermic needles and think of all the shameful things he had done. John was a sick man, he was a spiteful man, he was grotesque and disfigured and bulbous and lecherous and hobbled and evil! John found it hard to look out on a beautiful world that had so many flaws. It was made of origami, and one stray match would set all the trees in the world alight, and all the birds would fry and turn into piles of ash, all indistinguishable from each other. Who would clean up the mess then, some celestial vacuum cleaner? Once he had tried to fold a paper crane after reading that one would be granted a wish if they folded one thousand. He cut out a square of paper, measuring with a ruler so he could get it right, and worked his hands and fingernails all to make something that could barely pass as a bird. He shed a tear that washed over his closed eyes—how could he ever hope to understand his own fragility if he could not understand paper? John's thoughts made little sense to any outsider, but he personally saw a beautiful logic that defied any attempts at examination.
Tom found Alan eating lunch alone, which was a fairly common occurrence. Before Tom was initiated into Frank's cabal, he had assumed that all of the club people would eat together in a faceless mass, but he had noticed that more and more, they ate quickly, treating lunch as a time to refuel and not one for social gathering. Regina was home sick with a bad cold, otherwise Tom would have obviously eaten with her; he decided bravely then that Alan would be a worthy lunch partner, especially as Alan was eating his sandwich with an unusual glumness.
"Why so gloomy, Alan?" Tom asked with anticipating eyes; Alan still seemed despondent, and so Tom did something rarely empathetic and sat down next to him. Alan thought a moment, then decided to respond honestly:
"It's my dad. He isn't doing so well. Cancer, you know. I don't want anyone else to know, otherwise they're going to feel pity for me and treat me like an emotional wreck. Can you keep a secret, Tom?" This was the first time Tom could remember that anyone had asked him to keep a secret of any importance. It felt good, he thought, like he was finally able to do something noble just for himself, not for anyone else. It felt so good that Tom ignored Alan's monotone, unusual brevity.
"Of course I can, Alan. That's what a good person does." Tom had no intention of betraying Alan's confidence. The poor guy. Out of all the people he could have turned to, he turned to him. That meant a lot. It really did. Tom thought for a minute if he should give Alan some sort of gift, ostensibly out of the kindness of his heart, but really to show that he cared. Maybe a Nintendo Switch or something like that, that way they could play together at his house sometime.
"You know, I lost my mother when I was young," Tom suddenly said with a hint of sorrow. Alan immediately offered his condolences, but Tom shrugged them off.
"Not in that sense. She's still alive. She had an affair with her masseuse and they ran off to Italy. I haven't seen her since; she doesn't even send me birthday cards. But my dad and I cope just fine." Alan stifled his laughter—it seemed poetic, in a way, that Tom had a personal problem so alien, so cinematic, so... Alan hated the word, but bourgeois.
"It's not funny!" Tom cried out in anger, but he was so happy to see Alan's good spirits returned that he, too, laughed. "Never tell anyone about that either, please. Now we're even: you know a secret, and I know a secret too." Tom found it a bit harder to maintain his own good spirits that night when he video-called Regina, who seemed quite healthy aside from an extremely nasal voice and intermittent sneezes.
"So Tom, I was just wondering, are you friends with Alan? I've seen him be nicer to you during club meetings recently, and I was curious if there was something happening there." Regina disliked Alan's mood swings and standoffish nature, seeing them as an inconvenience during class; recently, he had adopted tinges of officiousness, and that only compounded her feelings. Regina saw in Alan all that she disliked about Tom with none of the positives either. Tom walked with a swagger and a peculiar insistence on fist-bumping everyone he met. Tom still hadn't learned how to chew consistently with his mouth closed, and he constantly referred to Regina as "his girl," a habit she found cute at first but not as nice as being called by name. Regina had no doubts that if Alan were to somehow acquire a girlfriend, he would do the same. "Is not general incivility the very essence of love?" Beth once commented when Regina told her yet another story of Tom making a fool of himself.
"Yeah, we're friends. He's one of the guys. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking about that awesome trip to the lake we all had, and how you two seem like such different people, you know? It made me wonder how you two became friends. Is there a story behind it?"
"I really can't think of anything. One day we weren't friends, and then we were. There's nothing unnatural about it. Things happen." Tom's soreness from lunch that day shone through, which Regina interpreted as defensiveness.
"Is there something you aren't telling me? You can trust me with anything, Tom, like I trust you."
"In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. Pay it forward, he said, always pay it forward. You never know when a good deed will come back around to repay you later. I never thought about that until I grew wiser, like I said, and I started seeing the benefits of even a tiny bit of charity. You should try it sometime, Regina." Tom placed a particular emphasis on her name, and Regina suddenly wished he'd go back to saying "babe" or "my girl."
"I had always known you to be a charitable person, Tom," she said with the same emphasis, "but every day you surprise me with the new ways in which you show it. Was he a coincidence? I can't help but wonder if his new leadership position meant anything to you last year." Regina knew she was on thin ice already, but she found Tom's generosity less romantic when she knew there were other recipients. If she were the only one, she could avoid thinking of herself as easily bribed.
"It was his lucky day. I need to go now, dinner's ready. Get well soon, I miss you," Tom curtly finished, turning off the call before she could say goodbye to him. Dinner wasn't ready, of course, but Tom needed some time to cool off. If Regina truly thought Tom's motives were ever anything but pure, maybe she was deceitful herself. That would make her a bad person, someone who needed a firmer hand for a proper education. Tom considered himself adequately qualified.
"Frank?" Ms. Norris barked from her desk as everyone was leaving. Frank stood still for a moment, immediately unsure if he had done something wrong. When he walked to her desk, her typical resting frown faded slightly.
"I've heard some interesting things about your club, in particular how you keep everyone organized. Quite effective, so I am told. Could you explain more? I've always believed that the truth is rarely pure and never simple."
"Why, yes, I have noticed that too," Frank responded, still not quite sure if Ms. Norris was about to segue into criticism.
"It does sound a bit, shall I say, inventive, but it is certainly effective. You have a natural talent for leadership. Maybe I'll steal your system for next year, how about that?" Ms. Norris continued, still intently focused on something on her screen.
"Well, uh, I am sure that you know best," Frank stammered before quickly walking outside. She could smell his fear, he was certain. But still, her emphasis on scientific precision certainly was not out of character. Any teacher who insisted on starting lab sessions at 7 AM sharp could be the sort of teacher who saw the merit in Frank's system of drilling, and even more distressingly, see the merit while being aware of the irony. Ms. Norris was not an anomaly, Frank thought: many saw him as the one who finally had the chutzpah to do what they all had been thinking all along. They may not believe all the cheers they shouted to end meetings, even if they wrote some of them, but they still showed up every week to watch those who did not act as double agents simply follow orders. Frank was told that on club days, many gathered in the library to watch the live-stream of the meeting on someone's laptop, and in this way customs spread through the small group of loyalists. The ones who attended the meetings consistently, some by design and some through dogged determination (Tom and Juliet always found a way for their groups to attend), gained an elite status. They had seen him speak in the flesh, and despite this being exactly the same as watching him on YouTube, were somehow best qualified to understand his wisdom. Frank couldn't help but admire the sheer conceit of the scheme, especially because through some miracle, he had pulled it off.
Frank was unsure if Ms. Liu wanted to speak to him because she admired his conceit or if she disliked how he helped Pranav. He quickly stopped by Mr. T's room to refuel (Frank's custom of watching Food Network with his parents proved helpful to Mr. T, as Frank was able to give cogent feedback when Mr. T created culinary experiments) and then knocked on Ms. Liu's glass door. Ms. Liu's room was one of the few that opened into the central courtyard, and was sufficiently shaded to create an interesting optical effect, the opposite of the other classrooms with similar doors: anyone outside could look in easily because the room was brightly lit, but from inside, the courtyard appeared shrouded in darkness.
"Welcome to my domain!" Ms. Liu said exuberantly from her desk. Frank looked around with open eyes, not used to English classrooms that were normally-furnished. One side of the room was completely plastered with old senior portraits, ranging back to when Frank was a toddler.
"It's certainly a spacious classroom," Frank remarked.
"So, first off, I'm not quite sure what you're doing with the club, but I love it—I hear my students talk about it amusedly quite often, and Mr. T has only the highest regard for whatever you're doing." This was going a lot better than his talk with Ms. Norris, Frank thought—far less cryptic, at least.
"I appreciate it. It's really just a casual melding of minds, you know. I cannot take any credit for anything. I couldn't do it without my people."
"It's funny you say that, Frank. Did Ms. Norris say exactly why she was so curious about your 'inventive' methods?"
"No, she did not; I assumed she wanted to try out my ideas for her class," Frank said with a mild laugh, which Ms. Liu reciprocated with worried eyes.
"As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news and make an awful first impression, she was concerned about bullying, namely that some of your club members seemed to be creating a hostile work environment for each other, and apparently some of her other students were concerned."
"Were they attacking people who weren't in the club?"
"No, no, it's just that apparently they thought it a bit cliquey, and even degrading for those in the know—being blunt with each other while working, that sort of thing. One student said that she heard one of your members call another an 'incompetent simpleton with rags for brains,' and it made her feel bad for them." Frank appeared pensive.
"So is this something I need to take action on, Ms. Liu?"
"I don't think so; Ms. Norris seemed to be more concerned that her students were concerned rather than being concerned herself. It's all very interesting, you're definitely giving us some food for thought in the teacher's lounge. I wanted to make sure you were in the loop so you wouldn't be surprised if something were to happen."
"Do you expect something to happen?"
"I'm scaring you, aren't I? No, of course not, I shouldn't have mentioned anything in the first place. Oh, before I forget: I'm impressed by your work on Pranav's essay. Sophomores typically don't write as well as you, but then again, you also wrote How To Be A Good Person—I guess I shouldn't be surprised."
"I really did little. It's far easier to write from an outsider's point of view. Lower stakes." While they talked, Ms. Norris made a rare trek to the principal's office, something she typically had her TAs do when needed. The email chain titled "HOW TO BE A GOOD PERSON???!?!?" had resolved itself in a rather unsatisfactory manner in her opinion. All of Frank's teachers said he was a good kid and that at least the club members weren't using homophobic slurs with each other, so in a way that was progress to be commended. She found Mr. Kurtz furiously typing on his computer, or with as much alacrity as the two-finger method could provide.
"Is this about Frank?" Mr. Kurtz asked, briefly looking away from his computer to make eye contact.
"As much as it's not my place to get involved in these cases and be the vocal minority, I do think all of you are brushing this away too quickly. Have you read his manifesto? It's incendiary. Someone wronged him and all his followers."
"It's a work of satire, Mary. It's just some kids having a bit of fun, fighting for something they believe in. It's remarkable, really. My wife sold pot brownies back in the 60s as a teen. This is no different—this is better, even."
"No, you aren't understanding. I agree with you, it's comedic, but I have kids who are coming to me to report those kids bullying each other and being condescending to those who aren't 'good people.' If they don't think I'm doing anything, they're going to go to Ms. Wolfe and then you, and all the parents are going to come in wondering how their teachers are neglecting their students. It's ridiculous—when I tell them to avoid rude language, they obey and switch into soldier mode, which only scares the others more." Ms. Norris did not work 60-plus hours per week to have Mr. Kurtz tell her she wasn't teaching properly.
"Let me tell you this: in my experience as an educator, sometimes students need to learn to live a little. That's why being such a competitive, academically strenuous school is a double-edged sword: our kids get so wound up over the tiniest of things that they only know how to function with their books and not with others. If you're really concerned about it, try modeling the behavior you want to see. Smile a bit, shake hands, tell a joke, don't be the sort of person they're scared to talk to. I can't wait to see what progress you make with them," Mr. Kurtz finished, dismissively waving Ms. Norris out of the room before she could argue more. The other teachers would hear about this.
Over the course of a few weeks, Beth and Behrooz had enjoyed a courtship that proved remarkably civil in comparison to their peers. Behrooz interpreted John's rambling as encouragement to reach out to Beth, who responded warmly to Behrooz's offer to eat lunch downtown; a few other social engagements blossomed from there, all leading to them taking a brisk walk in Beth's neighborhood. The pedestrian path alongside the overpass was thin, so Beth walked in front of Behrooz, shielding him from the breeze. Behrooz grew tired of this and shimmied up alongside her, and there was barely enough room for them to walk together, hips rubbing together. After a minute, Behrooz reached his hand out to her, and after a second she took it. They continued walking, still crammed together like sardines.
"It's a nice day, isn't it?" Beth tentatively offered. She wished it were warmer, but it was sunny, so that was all she could really ask for.
"I can't think of the last time it wasn't a nice day. Fall was so hot, and I'm glad that winter has calmed down." Behrooz was tempted to say something cheesy like "any day is nice with you," but he thought that would disturb the tranquility of the moment. There was a lot of value in silence, he thought. It ruined the point of actually going for a walk to spend it constantly thinking about someone else; the better alternative was to admire the scenery and let others serve as accents, or highlights. He took off his coat and gave it to Beth, who slid her arms through the floppy olive sleeves and smiled a thin grin. When they walked by a flower box, Behrooz leaned down and broke off a rose, brushing away the wetness of the fresh stem before offering it to her. She still accepted this gesture with a smile, holding the rose delicately to avoid the thorns. It felt romantic, or as romantic as they could walking down a suburban street in the morning; Beth hoped for a second that nobody would see them, before stopping to think why. Surely the dog-walkers and old men were no threat; aside from one puppy stopping to sniff Behrooz's shoe and receive a head rub, nobody paid them much notice. Beth put her finger on exactly what was wrong when, passing by a park, she saw an older gentleman take off his woolly overcoat and wrap it around his wife. Too soon, she thought. Too soon.
Behrooz often walked Beth to the bus stop after school to say a quick goodbye; they would quietly embrace, and he would return to the parking lot while she stared at her phone and predict if the bus would be late that day. Somehow she never grew tired of the shrieking crowds of her classmates that pushed themselves onto the bus given the first opportunity. They could behave so nicely in class, sitting fairly obediently and only occasionally talking back to the teacher, but come the familiar chime of the bus doors, they wouldn't hesitate to elbow anyone out of the way, even her. Politeness clearly did not work—when she tried the novel tactic of saying "excuse me" constantly, she woke up the following morning to an unfamiliar bruise on her thigh—and so she resigned herself to always being the last to board. She would really love to sit in the front of the bus more often, where people like John willing to roughhouse a little ended up, but if that was the price she had to pay for a good conscience, so be it.
Discussion Questions:
The discussion at the beginning is set around the theme of nature versus nurture—do any events thus far make a persuasive case for either side?
How does the quote from The Great Gatsby ("In my younger and more vulnerable years..."), especially in a different context (the "Pay it forward" part is not from the original text) reflect on Tom? In a broader sense, what do the frequent literary references accomplish?
What do we learn about Beth at the end of the chapter? Is this different from how John sees her?