The Schwa Was Here

“It comes with being sixteen,” Mom said. “You teenagers, you go into a cocoon when you turn fifteen and don’t come out for years.”

“So they become butterflies when they finally come out?” my little sister Christina asked.

“No,” Mom said. “They’re still caterpillars, only now they’re big fat caterpillars that smell.”

Christina laughed and Frankie rolled over on the sofa, stick­ing his butt out toward us.

“So when do we get to be butterflies?” I asked.

“You don’t,” Mom answered. “You go off to college, or wher­ever, and then I get to be a butterfly.”

She was looking at me when she said “wherever,” so I said, “Maybe I’ll just stay here all my life. With a butterfly net.”

“Yeah,” said Mom. “Then you can use it to drag me off to the nuthouse.”

When it comes to Frankie, Mom always talks about college like it’s a given, but not me. I looked at Frankie snoring away. Sometimes I think God made an inventory error and gave Frankie some brain cells that were supposed to go to me. He could sleep away the afternoon and still pull straight A’s, but me? There were only two A’s I ever saw on my papers: the A in Anthony, and the A in Bonano. What made it worse was that Christina already seemed to be following in Frankie’s footsteps, gradewise, so it cleared the path for me to be the family disap­pointment.

“C’mon,” I told Howie and Ira, “we’ll talk in the basement,” which is the place we always talk about important things. Ours is what you call a finished basement, although it really should be called a someday-will-be-finished basement, because no matter how much work we put into it, there always seems to be a bare wall with insulation that’s never been covered up. It probably has something to do with my dad, who keeps putting in the wrong wiring, or my uncle, who got cheap insulation that just happens to cause cancer. Whatever the reason, walls keep having to come out. Still, the basement had become like our own military bunker where we discuss national security and play video games that my mother is convinced will rot out my brain even faster than professional wrestling. And it really pisses her off when we play the wrestling video game.

But today we’re not playing games. Today is a war council about the weird kid everyone calls the Schwa.

We sat on the floor, and I told them what I found out in the course of my investigation. “I’m not a hundred percent sure how the Schwa got his last name, but my aunt’s hairdresser’s brother is his next-door neighbor, so the story must be pretty reliable.” I paused for effect. “The story goes like this: The Schwa’s great-grandparents came over from the old country.”

“Which old country?” asked Howie.

“I don’t know, one of those old countries over there.”

“China’s an old country,” says Howie. “He doesn’t look Chinese.”

Now I know why Howie always buzzes his hair, because if he didn’t, he’d have millions of people trying to pull it out.

“He means somewhere in Eastern Europe,” Ira said.

“Anyway,” I said, “his great-grandfather’s last name is Schwartz, and for his whole life, all Great-Grandpa Schwartz wants to do is to get out of the old country and come to America, because the Statue of Liberty’s got this invitation: ’Give me your tired, your poor, your reeking homeless—”

‛“Huddled masses,’” said Ira. “‛Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’”

“Yeah,” says Howie. “If you’re go

“Okay, fine. So, like everybody in the old countries says, ‛Hey, I’m a huddled mass,’ and they all wa

“So, anyway, Old Man Schwartz, he’s stewing out there on his beet farm, or whatever, saving his pe

“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.