The Schwa was Here Read Free Page A

around the same time, I guess. Anyway, they get into New York Harbor, pass the Statue of Liberty, everybody starin’ up at the flame going ooh and ahh like tourists without Hawaiian shirts—because, you know, they’re poor, they can’t afford Hawaiian shirts. Anyway, they let everyone off the boat at Ellis Island and they get in this long line standing in the hot sun, all sweaty in heavy coats, because these people don’t yet know to dress for the weather, because it’s always subzero in the old country. Finally they get to the front of the line. Old Man Schwartz, he’s sweating from the heat, andhyperventilating from the excitement. There’s this guy in the front of the line with a fountain pen and a big, fat black book taking down names and letting you into the country. He says, ‘Your name, sir?’ And—get this—the old man says, ‘Schwa—,’ then puts his hand over his heart, has a massive heart attack, and drops dead on the spot.”
    “He got his wish,” says Howie. “He died on American soil.”
    “Yeah. So anyway, those guys at Ellis Island, they were like your cafeteria workers of today—they didn’t care what they stuck you with, as long as they got you through the line. So they marked down the family name as ‘Schwa,’ and it’s been that way ever since.”
    Ira, who had been quiet for most of the story, finally spoke up. “That’s not all I heard.”
    I turned to him. “What’d you hear?”
    “Weird stuff—not just about him this time, but about the whole family.”
    “Weird, like
Twilight Zone
weird?” Howie asked. “Or weird like
Eyewitness News
weird?”
    “I don’t know,” said Ira. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
    “So what did you hear?” I asked again.
    “I heard his mom went to the market one day and disappeared right before everyone’s eyes in the ten-items-or-less line. Nothing was left but a pile of coupons and a broken jar of pickles where she stood.”
    “Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared?”
    “And why a pile of coupons, if all she had was a jar of pickles?” Howie asked.
    “It’s just what I heard.” Then Ira gets real quiet. “Of course . . . there’s another story.”
    Howie and I leaned close to listen.
    “Some say the Schwa’s father cut her up into fifty pieces and mailed each piece . . . to a PO box . . . in a different state . . .”
    “Not Puerto Rico?” says Howie.
    “Puerto Rico’s not a state,” I reminded him.
    “It’s almost a state.”
    “Fine, so maybe he saved a piece to send to Puerto Rico when it becomes a state. Okay, are you happy?”
    To tell you the truth, I didn’t believe either of Ira’s stories. “If any of this stuff happened, the whole neighborhood would know about it—wouldn’t they?”
    Ira leaned in close and smirked. “Not if it happened before he moved here.”
    “When did he move here?” asked Howie.
    But neither Ira or I knew for sure. The thing is, there are always kids moving in and out of neighborhoods, and no matter how quietly a kid tries to come into a new school, he can’t do it without being noticed. But the Schwa did.
    “I guess he kinda slipped in under everybody’s radar,” I said.
    “Has anyone bothered to check if the color of his eyes really changes?” Howie asked.
    “I don’t want to get that close,” said Ira.
    There was silence for a second, and then Howie let off a shiver that I could feel like a tremor.

3. Quantizing the Schwa Effect Using the Scientific Method, and All That Garbage
    Mr. Werthog, our science teacher, has a weird twitch in his lip, like he’s always kissing the air. It’s something you never can get used to, and might explain why my science grade keeps dropping. You just can’t concentrate on his words when you look at him. The only time it gets him into trouble, though, is during parent conference night. One guy punched him out for making kissy faces at his wife.
    Now he stood in front of a science experiment featuring a large