There had been much debate about pushing Weed so far ahead so fast, especially since he clearly lagged miles behind the troops on most other fronts. Questions about his maturity and social adjustment had been discussed at length among faculty and counselors. Even Mrs. Lilly, the principal, had been brought in at the end, and had proposed that Weed take a class at Virginia Commonwealth University or perhaps specialized classes at the Center for Arts. But the county did not provide transportation beyond the morning and afternoon buses Weed was afraid of missing. He had no way to get around in the middle of the day. Godwin decided to take a chance.
Weed had free period and lunch between 11:40 and 12:31 and he needed to hide. He did not want to run into Smoke somewhere. Weed was desperate and had come up with a secret, brazen, bizarre plan. At 11:39 he walked into Mrs. Grannis’s classroom. His self-esteem was low. He was frightened about what lay ahead and could tell by the way Mrs. Grannis looked at him that she sensed he wasn’t himself.
‘How are you today, Weed?’ she asked with an uncertain smile.
‘I was wondering if it would be all right if I worked in here through free period,’ he said.
‘Certainly. What would you like to work on?’
Weed stared at the computers on a back counter.
‘Graphic art,’ he said. ‘I’m working on a project.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. There are many, many job opportunities in that field. You know where the CDs are,’ she said. ‘And I’ll see you back here fifth period.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Weed said as he pulled out a chair and sat in front of a computer.
He opened a drawer where graphic software was neatly arranged in stacks, and picked out what he wanted. He inserted CorelDRAW into the CD drive and waited until Mrs. Grannis left the room before logging onto America Online.
Lunch followed free period and Weed had no intention of eating. He hurried down the hallway to the band room, which was empty except for Jimbo ‘Sticks’ Sleeth, who was doing his thing on the red Pearl drums.
‘Hey, Sticks,’ Weed said.
Sticks was rolling on the snare, his feet keeping rhythm on the high hat and kick. He had his eyes squeezed shut, sweat running down his temples. Weed went over to a cabinet and retrieved the hard plastic Sabian case. He opened it and lovingly lifted out the heavy bronze crash cymbals. He checked the leather straps to make sure the knots were holding tight. He gripped the straps, index fingers and thumbs touching. He held the cymbals at an angle, the edge of the right one lower than the left.
Sticks opened his eyes and gave Weed the nod. Weed struck the left cymbal, glancing it off the right, punctuating toms and snare with his euphoric bright sound.
‘Do it, baby!’ Sticks yelled, and he started in.
It sounded like a musical war going on as Sticks beat and throbbed and boomed in a rhythm that made the blood wild, and Weed was march-dancing around the room, crashing and flipping up, flashing and spinning.
‘Go! Go! Oh yeah!’ Sticks was frenzied.
Weed was moonwalking, his bright sound rolling out from the edges, then crashing staccato, then crashing long. He didn’t hear the bell ring but he finally noticed the clock on the wall. He packed up the cymbals and made it back to Mrs. Grannis’s art room with two minutes to spare. He was the first one there. She was writing on a white board and turned around to see who had come in.
‘Did you get a lot done during your free time?’ she asked Weed.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Weed wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘I wish everybody liked the computer as much as you do.’ She started writing again. ‘You have a favorite software so far?’
‘QuarkXPress and Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop.’
‘Well, you have a real knack for it,’ she said as he chose his place at one of the tables and tucked his knapsack under his chair.
‘It’s no big deal,’ Weed mumbled.
‘Have you written your story of the power behind your fish?’ Mrs. Grannis asked as she continued writing this week’s project on the white board in long, looping letters.