The Schwa was Here Read Free Page B

beaker filled with ice and a long thermometer. On the board he writes 34°, then turned to us. “The scientific method (
kiss
) is one of hypothesis, trial (
kiss
), results, and conclusion (
kiss, kiss
).”
    Someone next to me taps my arm. “Hi, Antsy.”
    I turn, actually surprised to see someone there. It’s like I never realized there was even a desk next to me in science. For an instant I don’t recognize the face—like no part of it is distinctive enough to stick to my memory—a face like mental Teflon.
    “It’s me—Calvin Schwa.”
    “Hey, Schwa—how ya doin?”
    “Mr. Bonano, are you (
kiss
) with us today?”
    “Uh . . . yeah, I guess.” I don’t kiss back, on account of I once got dragged to the office for that. Mr. Werthog is sensitive that way.
    “As I was saying, (
kiss
) can anyone give me the hypothesis leading to today’s experiment?”
    The Schwa’s hand is up in an instant, before anyone else’s. We’re in the third row, right in the middle, but Werthog looks over his hand to Amy van Zandt, in the last row.
    “Water at room temperature will boil if left in the sun.”
    “Abominably incorrect!” He pours a packet of powder into the icy beaker, and stirs it. The water turns cloudly. “Anyone else?”
    The Schwa’s hand is still up. Werthog calls on LoQuisha Peel.
    “Lemonade reacts with ice to quench thirst?” LoQuisha says.
    “Even more wrong (
kiss, kiss
).” He pours in a second packet of powder. The ice in the beaker begins to melt quickly. By now the Schwa is waving his hand back and forth across Werthog’s field of vision like a signal flare. Werthog calls on Dennis Fiorello.
    “Uh . . .” Dennis puts down his hand. “Never mind.”
    The Schwa turns to me, grumbling beneath his breath. “He never calls on me.”
    That’s when I raise my hand.
    “Ah! Mr. Bonano. Do you have the answer?”
    “No, but I’ll bet the Schwa does.”
    He looks at me like I’m speaking Latin. “Excuse me?”
    “You know: Calvin Schwa.”
    Werthog turns his head slightly and his eyes refocus. “Calvin!” he says, like he’s surprised he’s even here. “Can you (
kiss
) give us the answer?”
    “The reaction between reagents A and B is an exothermic reaction.”
    “Excellent! And is our hypothesis proven, or disproven?”
    “Proven. All the ice melted when you added reagent B, so it’s exothermic.”
    Werthog pulls out the thermometer, marks down the temperature on the board, 89°, and continues his lesson.
    The Schwa turns to me and whispers, “Thanks. At least now he won’t mark me absent today.”
    I shake my head and laugh. “I swear, it’s like you’re invisible or something.” I say it like a joke, but then I catch the Schwa’s eyes—eyes that match the gray clouds outside the window. He doesn’t say anything, and I know I just stumbled onto something. He turns back to his notebook, but I can’t concentrate on my work. I feel like my foot is pressed down on a land mine that will blow the second I move.

    Howie, Ira, and I got together the next Saturday morning to detonate Manny. I had told the Schwa about it the day before, but in a way I was hoping he wouldn’t show—almost as much as I hoped he would. I call it the “film-at-eleven factor.” You know, on the news, how they say, “Horrible train wreck. Graphic footage. Film at eleven.” And then for the rest of the night you’re disgusted by how much you actually want to see it, and you’re relieved if you fall asleep before it comes on.
    The thing is, I can’t get past the feeling that there’s something . . . unnaturalabout the Schwa. I don’t do well with unnatural things. Take spiders, for instance. I mean, sorry, I don’t care what anyone says—there can’t be anything natural about spinning a web out of your butt. And then there’s those Hindu coal walkers. The way I see it, if God meant us to walk on hot coals, He would have given us asbestos hooves instead of feet—but first He