CHAPTER FIVE

OUTSIDERS

Uncle Carl hands me a weathered version of A Briefs History of Superhero Uniforms. In it, I learn the origins of each item in my uniform along with a short description of their function.  

The first item I try on is the standard uniform. I hold out the orange tights and blue cape. Can’t they at least choose black? I heard somewhere that black hides the fat a little easier. No one ever uses that word fat. They’ll say hefty or chunky or big or whatever, but fat kids can see past the language. I’m fat. I’m not sure why. I play sports and I eat pretty much what I’m supposed to eat, but I’m still chunky. See, I did it there. Chunky instead of fat.

If you're a boy and you're fat, they make fun of you. Even friends have the permission to call you gordo and make comments about your jiggling celluloid and all the while you're supposed to smile and laugh and perhaps even tell the same kinds of jokes about yourself to show people that you're cool with that, because if you ever said, “Hey guys, that really hurts,” you'd be bludgeoned with a heavy pipe and left for dead next to the dumpster.

School is not the kind of place where you can just exist and blend in, even if you’re in the Invisible Middle Zone Tribe. Imagine a place where everyone is blindfolded and carrying machetes and they're all convinced that there's a battle going on because they're surrounded by what they believe are zombies with knives and it's simply one another, each person scared and hacking away with these heavy knives, convinced that he or she is the only one who feels any pain.

That's middle school right there. The scariest part is the sense of loneliness in all of the pain. It’s like no one has any idea that everyone else is just as scared or hurting or whatever it is that makes us hold onto our machetes so tightly.

I wonder if anyone else knows that we're all hurting and that when we choose not to learn about negative integers and we say it's not personal, what we mean is it's not the teacher's fault. But it is personal. It’s so personal that we can’t even make sense out of it ourselves.

We're just paralyzed by the game. We're all at the bottom of the dog pile and none of us has the ability to get up fast enough. We're all just tired and scared and lonely and if you're fat or you have zits or you didn't get invited to that party, well it can feel like the Apocalypse and what's the point in doing a book review if the world is ending anyway?

So, here I stand in my school uniform. I dread the entire getup, from the tights to the briefs on the outside to the cape and the mask. The mask is just a strip of cloth with eyeholes.  Eventually I’ll get my “real mask” with the second set of clothes after I have my first official assignment.  The real mask has a voice adjuster, so that I can sound tougher.  Maybe I can even make it to do a British accent.

The alter-ego outfit is the least conspicuous.  It’s basically dress pants and a shirt and tie with a fedora.  Except the entire outfit zips up like those pajamas that little kids wear.  It’s all supposed to fit inside the fedora.  When a crime occurs, superheroes just leave their fedoras in receptacles where they are washed, dried and brought back by an Outsider. Uncle Carl warns me that my alter-ego outfit is an off-brand and that I might get funny looks at the bistros, but I’ll be okay when I enter the cafés.

“Uncle Carl, why do we have to wear this uniform?”

“Back in the day it was called a costume. I think I still prefer that term.”

“Why?”

“The idea behind the costume was that one should do good deeds in secret. So, monks began wearing cloaks and robes. It evolved. A person had an alter-ego that they abandoned in a lifetime of service. They’d take on a new name, do some miracles and . . .”

“You actually believe in miracles?”

“Seriously? You don’t find aptitudes to be at least a little miraculous?” I shrug my shoulders and motion for him to continue.

 “So, the earliest comic books were stained-glass windows. But this evolved, I guess. Eventually the term ‘superpowers’ changed to ‘aptitudes,’ so it would sound more professional.”

“I don’t like wearing tights. It’s just not me at all. Can’t I wear jeans instead?”

“It’s one of the few rules we have, Gabe.”

“I look stupid.”

“It’s better to look stupid than to be stupid. Besides, it’s hard to recognize this, but no one cares. Really. Nobody cares at all. Everyone around here is so self-absorbed that they hardly notice you.”

“Even the briefs on the outside of our tights?”

“Even the tighty whities . . . or, I guess tighty orangies.”

“I still don’t want people looking at me.”

“Nobody cares.  The only time anyone will care about your uniform is when you are formally announced at the Banquet of Honor.  That’s when your final uniform will be ready.”

“Well, I’ll tell them not to put underwear on the outside.”

“Then do it.  It’s your uniform.  It’s your story.”

*     *     *

My nana used to have this huge painting of God and Adam hanging out half-naked in the clouds.  It sounds like a casual affair, but it’s not. God has his hand stretched out and Adam is trying his damndest to reach, but he can’t quite get it right and God looks pissed, really pissed. Or indifferent. It depends upon the angle and the lighting.

I never thought too hard about the picture, but I think it became the image of God for me. My uncles used to use the term orar when they prayed. They would talk in this funny language about lifting people up (maybe they believed in levitation) and God “just being with” people and I had the sense that they believed that he was there with them, like this big bearded imaginary friend who could make life less lonely. I always got the sense that they were part of a God-sponsored Secret Society where you had to say the right words off the little yellow booklet and that if you did, you could then call strangers “brother” and be part of the inside group. Like God had an Us Tribe that he loved more than anyone else and he sent out his invitations using really bad clip art.

I never prayed, because it never made any sense to talk to someone who wouldn’t talk back and the whole notion of trying to figure out when God had answered prayers felt like reading tea leafs or hopping over the intestines of a goat or shaking a Magic Eight Ball when the truth is that life is a crap shoot and sometimes you end up with a dad who kills himself when no one is looking.

Sometimes, though, after a monsoon storm, when our entire neighborhood would lose electricity, I would stand outside barefoot on the apartment lawn and look out to the moon and hope. Sometimes I would heave a heavy sigh and it would feel like I was completely free. I’m not sure why, but I’d let go of something and just hope that there might be space for a screw-up who can’t fit into the Us Tribe, even on his best behavior.

So I arrive to school thinking maybe the Universe has secretly bumped me into the Us Tribe. Jesse guides me around the campus.  The first hallway is three stories high and deliberately scaled up to make us feel shorter than we are, with huge oversized chairs and large pictures of heroes from the past.  Next, we move up a ramp and into a room where with ceilings less than four feet tall.  Here we feel like giants.  At another turn, we’re back in an immense hallway where the furniture is bolted to the ceilings and the lights are on the floor. 

“Why are they doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like I’m walking on the ceiling.” 

“Oh, they make the hallways like this to help with certain aptitudes.  Ceiling walkers can practice in this room.  Fliers can practice here, too.”

“And the last room?”

“That’s for the kids who can shrink themselves.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“I know. The whole place is unusual.  You know they don’t do grades here. They have this thing called a portfolio that you complete over your whole term.”

“Why would anyone try on the tests, then?”

“Oh, there aren’t tests either.  And the classrooms are huge.  They’re like three times the size of a normal classroom even though we only have twenty or so students.”  

I’m early to first period, so I stop by the classroom to get a sense of what I will experience. Mrs. Borkowski, the Linguistics teacher, ushers me in and opens the door.

“Why’d you quit being a superhero?” I ask as I glance at the photo collage above her desk.

“You don’t quit it. It’s not a job,” she answers as she writes the objectives on the board. I watch her write and then re-write the letters, interchanging verbs that seem synonymous. I want to tell her that she’s wasting her time. Students don’t care about the objective. Some learn for a grade. Others learn for the sake of learning. But I’ve never seen anyone, not even the schoolmarmiest of all, learn for the sake of an objective.

“But you don’t fight crime?”

“I never did,” she adds.

“But the picture . . .” I point.

“Ah, yes, I see. Well, you’ll soon learn the gist of this class.”

“I’m confused,” I stare at her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be cryptic. I sometimes jump ahead and assume others understand me. I simply mean this: you learn the art of language. They call it a science, but it’s art and it’s messy and it will be my job to help coach you through that mess.”

“I’m still not getting it.”

“Your story. You shape it. You form it, not through actions, but through words. Most kids look at this and think it’s a class about monologs, but it’s not. It’s about words and how they define our world.”

“So, what does that have to do with your story?”

“I was Hum Drum, the first female to avoid a name with ‘girl’ or ‘woman’ in it. I caused villains to doze off in meandering monologs and then, bam, I’d hit them with something vivid and unusual and in the midst of the confusion, I’d create a supersonic drum. I could shatter a car window with a simple snap.”

“Very cool.”

“Sometimes. But it made it difficult at times, when I’d accidentally snap my fingers to a favorite tune.”

“So, why did you leave that life?”

“I knew it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to have a graphic novel or a line of merchandise and I knew too much about myself to ever allow a child to worship me. So, I went with a deliberately dull name and focused on writing interesting monologs.”

“Were you part of the Wildfire Cadre?”

“Oh God, no.  I was a member of the Candlelight Cadre.  I chose it, of all things, for the alliteration.  Would you believe that?” She chuckles to herself.

“Now you teach?”

“I don’t think of myself as a teacher so much as a facilitator of learning.”  Oh God, one of those teachers.  I’ve seen it.  They try befriending the students and then the whole class runs all over them.

Not long after the students file in, Mrs. Borkowski asks us, “What do you see here?”

“It’s a classroom.  Just like elementary school,” a girl says.

“What makes it a classroom?”

“We have desks in rows,” a boy answers.

“There’s a chalkboard.”

“Keep going, keep going.”

“The teacher is upfront.”

“Would it change if I called it a Learning Café?”

Nobody answers, so she prods again.  “Does Learning Café mean anything different than classroom?”

Finally, I speak up.  “If nothing changes and you call it a Learning Café then it’s just a fancy word for a classroom, like soldiers who call people targets.  But if you actually act on it, then the words have changed the reality.”

“And that’s the point of this class.  Get to know how words shape reality.  I’m just curious about this. How many of you would prefer a Learning Café?” A few students raise their hands.

“Really?  That’s it?” The rest of the class obliges.

She presses a button and the front wall falls to the floor, creating a wooden stage.  The room begins expanding slowly, with windows opening and Garfield posters falling to the ground.  The backside of the classroom revolves and opens a third new section with a juice bar. 

“Everyone move to that side of the room,” she instructs. 

We watch the desks fall into an open pit and a new floor slowly slide through horizontally.  Tables and benches begin to rise from the ground. Soon, the only portion of the class remaining is her old wooden desk and photo collage. 

“Where do we sit?” a student asks.

“Well, you may sit at your table or on these!” Beanbag chairs fall from the ceiling, barely missing the candlelit tables.

It’s not exactly a Starbucks, per se. With the incense and candles, it resembles more of an underground hippie hangout. 

“Wow, that’s like magic,” I whisper to the boy next to me.

“Want to say that again, Jerome?” she asks him.

“I said it.  I’m sorry.  I said it was like magic.”

“And such is language.  Like magic.  Everything here is an illusion. I pressed a few buttons and the room changes into a whole new place.  It’s not exactly magic, but it is an illusion.  So is your table and so is the bench you are sitting at.”

“I’m not seeing your point.”

“Scientifically, it’s all a bunch of moving atoms, right?  It all comes down to how fast things move at a molecular level.  On another level, though, you create this reality.  It’s what you envision it.  It’s the way you frame things with words.  Either way, it’s about action. Movement. Verbs.”

She begins class with a scenario. We’re trapped alone with the villain and we need to buy time.

“Let’s think beyond a monolog. Just talking will bore a villain to death. So, what do you choose?”

“Ask a question,” a boy answers.

“Exactly,” she smiles.

“What question?”

“Who do you work for?” a girl asks.

“Solid start,” the teacher adds.

“No, no, no,” I find myself saying. Was that out loud? Did I really speak up?

“Why’s that?”

“I’m sorry. It’s a good question, I guess. Sorry . . .” I look at the name tag, “. . . Agatha.” 

“No,” Mrs. Borkowski pries. “Please explain.”

“It’s just that the question is so boring. No one wants to tell you who they work for. It’s the kind of question rich people ask at cocktail parties. It’s not bad. It’s just that it’s kind-of dull.”

Agatha smiles. I’m shocked. I just insulted the prettiest girl in class and she’s smiling about it.

“Besides, anyone who reads comic books . . .”

“ . . . graphic novels,” Mrs. Borkowksi corrects. “There is nothing comical about saving a crowd from an oncoming train.”

“Yeah, anyone who reads graphic novels will tell you that a villain is always self-employed.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. Start with something simple. Not too simple. Not ‘what’s your favorite color?’ But not a question about the meaning of life, either. Maybe ‘What was your favorite game growing up?’ Yeah, that’s what I would ask.”

Kids laugh.

“I’m curious why you would choose this,” Mrs. Borkowski asks.

“Because it becomes a metaphor and that buys you time. Start talking about games and you get into questions about purpose and competition and all that. Plus, you can relate to the villain at this point.”

Mrs. Borkowski points to the stage up front.  The class grows dark and the halogen set resembles a scummy sewer. “Jerome, you play the part of a villain.”

He steps up and the spotlight shines at his face.  I watch him squint and say, “I’m going to like, totally destroy the earth and all that,” he says flatly. I can tell he doesn’t want to be up in front of the group.

  “I get that. I have days when I wish the earth was all gone, when the whole human race seems like a big mistake.”

Jerome stands there silently and looks to Mrs. Borkowski for guidance.

“I think it’s your turn,” I tell him.

“So, like I said, I’m going to destroy the whole world.”

“Can you really destroy something that’s already broken?” I ask him.

He’s silent.

“Gabriel, now’s not the time for awkward silence. Remember, get him talking. You can use the silent trick later.”  I cringe at the word trick, as if I am a trained monkey rather than a superhero.

“What was your favorite game growing up?”

“Being a super-villain, I was never much of an athlete. So, I liked chess.”

“I can see that. It lets you call the shots.”

“What would you play?”

“My favorite game was orange baseball. We would steal oranges from the park and have a home run contest with them. The oranges, man, they just explode in everyone’s face and when the sun hits it just right I swear they look like they’re on fire.”

“I never played orange baseball, but it sounds like it was fun.”

“Did you ever play games with fruit?”

“Nope.” 

“When I was really little, I liked hide and seek. Until the day that my mom got distracted by a phone call and forgot about me. I waited past lunchtime and I began to think my whole family didn’t want me around. It made me wonder why people have to run from people who care about them. It made me wonder why we play chase and why people have to be ‘it.’ You ever get like that?”

“Like what?”

“Where you start to question not only the rules of the game but the game itself?”

“I know what you mean,” Jerome adds.

“You don’t see yourself as a villain, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you think you’re doing the right thing. You’re angry and you have nothing to lose and so you plan to blow up this building. But in your mind it’s revenge, isn’t it?”

“It’s not revenge.  Not at all. It’s justice. I’m trying to fight for transformation,” he responds.

The class murmurs for a moment.  “We’ll discuss the issues related to the Transformation Party at another time,” Mrs. Borkowski intervenes.

Meanwhile, Jerome stands there silently and gestures to the teacher.

“Play the part, Jerome. You’re a brilliant writer.  I’ve seen it in your portfolio from last year.  So make it verbal.”

“Yeah, I guess I want payback. Revenge is mine! You’ll pay for it.”

“And . . . stop. Nice work gentleman. That’s the longest first year dialogue I’ve seen in years. Very creative.  Please understand class that this is no joking matter.  It’s life or death.  Can someone tell me why?”

Agatha raises her hand, “Good monologs will mean good scores and good scores will equal new aptitudes.”

“That’s partly correct.  However, the deeper reality is that a monolog is the best defense against a ravenous, bloodthirsty villain.  It’s hard to believe it right now, but within the next few months, many of you will take on your first villain.”

I’m left feeling with a nauseating fear.  How in the world will words protect me from some psycho who wants me dead? 

*      *     *

In Applied Mathematics, we go over the syllabus and then listen to a long lecture on the necessity of responsibility. He quotes from the Book of Heroes, “The end of responsibility is the beginning of destruction” and “Freedom without boundaries is no freedom at all.” 

Mr. McDougal is the classic case of a passionate teacher who teaches a boring subject.  His room is decked out in solid white and instead of chairs, we have these three-dimensional shapes that hang from the ceiling. I sit in a pyramid, surrounded by a form-fitting cushion as I cradle my Guide. Students love Mr. McDougal, because he’s funny and the work is easy, but for all the passion and the laughter and the ease of work, I find myself bored on the first day.

Next we attend Superhero Science, which combines technology, science and physical challenges.  The room is filled with high-tech devices, but everything else is made entirely out of Legos.

Afterward, we go to lunch.  I expect discolored walls and the smell of bleach and the lady who doles out mashed artificial potato substance in an ice cream scooper. Instead, we sit at tables and order our food off the menu screen on our Guide. The servers wear ruffled shirts that look less like a uniform and more like a bad figure skating outfit. I think it’s supposed to look fancy. 

“I can’t believe we just sit down and order.”

“You don’t order them around. They might be Outsiders, but they’re not slaves. You make a request,” Jerome tells me.

“How do schools do lunch in the Outside?” Agatha asks. I’m still shocked that she isn’t offended by my earlier actions.

“We line up and grab a tray. Then they put the food on the tray and we sit down in rows.”

“Like a cow at a trough?” Jerome asks.

“Yep,” Jesse says. “And it’s nasty food, too. There’s this soggy pizza that doesn’t taste or feel like pizza.  I think they make it out of used sponges.”

“What’s it like to live in the Outside?” Agatha asks.

“I’m not sure how to explain it,” I respond.

“Is it scary?” Jerome asks.

“No. I mean, it never felt that way.”

After lunch, we go to our elective class and finally we end with History of Heroes, where the Mr. Moretti has us begin with an intense debate followed by an essay.  Students hate him, because he commands respect and for fifteen minutes of each class, we don’t touch the Guides (which he calls our electronic pacifiers).  Besides, his room is essentially a big garden with wrought iron benches.  Nothing about the class feels comfortable and sadly, I think he relishes in the discomfort he causes people.

“Gabriel, you need to know something about your dad.  He’s a hero around here.  Everyone thinks he died saving the day.  I just thought you should know.”

“Alright, well thanks I guess.”

“You know, I know the truth, though.”

“That’s nice,” I respond.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what really happened?”
“I already know.  Far too well, Mr. Moretti.  Look, I’m sure you mean well, but I need to go.  This isn’t really a conversation that I want to have right now.”

“Suit yourself. I just thought that . . .”

“Goodbye, Mr. Moretti,” I interrupt him.  

“Goodbye,” he responds. 

It’s the first day of school and I’ve already managed to alienate a teacher.  I’ve had this problem since I was little.  I treat adults as equals and then in moments like this, I overstep the boundaries. 

*     *     *

When the day is over, I ride the monorail to Downtown and I find the labyrinth again. I’d love to claim bravery here. However, if I learned anything in our apartment complex it’s that the caution tape is typically a false positive.  Ramon and I used to ride our bikes right up to the tape and if it smelled like death, we road away, but if not, we would peek in and see what was just dangerous enough to entice two bored kids into daredevil stunts.  Okay, not two.  Just Ramon.  Usually, I would watch him from a distance, just in case I needed a quick escape.   

I look both ways and then duck under the caution tape and expect sirens and lights and men with guns.  Instead, it’s silent.  In the movies, the hero always yells, “Hello!” which might be the dumbest possible way to enter a dark room.  Instead, I turn on the lights.  It’s a dimmer switch, so I push the knob high enough to see the cobwebs on the old chandeliers. It’s a formal library with furniture that’s carved to look swirly and with doilies that look sophisticated instead of homey.  I glance at the thick Persian rugs and notice the wall of mismatched antique mirrors.

I turn the light off, reasoning that if I’m caught, I might as well pretend that I just got here.  Besides, the windows are large enough to let in a few beams of light.   

I hold onto an old novel from a British author, Dickens.  Funny name, so I laugh aloud to myself.  I hold the dusty book and blow it off onto the wood floor below.  I study the speckles under the lone ray of light and it looks like magic.  I start thinking that maybe this place is supposed to be magical and maybe the caution tape is just a nice way of keeping away the cowards.

I’m not looking for anything in particular; just the feel of books and the smell of decaying ideas fermenting into mental wine.  I’m not asking to get drunk, just a little tipsy from the voice of an author who knows my soul without ever knowing me. 

I take a sip of a novel about this lonely old guy in the sea.  I probably won’t read it, but for now, I want the experience of the book at my fingertips, so I read a few lines.  Words I cannot comprehend, so I spit it out.

I know it sounds insane and I would never say this around my classmates, but the library can feel like a candy store if you’re open to it. It’s just that you’re stuck pushing aside a sea of pastel candy hearts and stale gumdrops before you find a decent chocolate bar. 

Finally, I find my chocolate bar. It’s supposed to be about a catcher in rye grass, but it turns out to be about neither a catcher nor rye grass.  Instead, it’s a story about a boy who whines about the world being phony.  I know that sounds really boring, but for me it is the first time that someone says it outright. It feels like I’ve been initiated into a secret club of insiders who finally recognize the phoniness of the world. I bet the folks who plan Cynics Day would enjoy this read.

I spend hours in the library, lost in this book.  Back in Phoenix, we used to have Sustained Silent Reading, but it always felt edgy and the buzz of the fluorescent lights would remind me that I could never completely escape the room.  But here, it feels different.  No time. No teacher.  No students taking heavy sighs that scream out to the teacher that silently reading will always be a punishment instead of a candy store.

I know it seems counterintuitive, but in coming to terms with my cynicism, I become hopeful.  I start to think that if maybe phoniness is real then there is at least something real to hold onto. I study the ray of light one more time.  Maybe it is magical. Maybe I belong here.

Maybe I’ve found something real. 

Maybe I don’t have to be on the outside anymore.