Once more I began to doubt that the stuff I had found would make a project solid enough to satisfy Ms. Song. But I had no other ideas.
Chapter 11
T he Book rushed into the library, a thick sheaf of papers in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, her running shoes chirping on the tile floor. She sat down beside me at a table in a quiet corner of the reading room and plunked down her cup, slopping coffee on the Formica top.
“Shoot!” she exclaimed, wiping up the puddle with a tissue, her idea of a really raunchy curse, I guessed. “Okay, Zack, I’m all ears. What do you have?”
I had ridden the bus to school with my treasures on my knee in a gym bag, my stomach fluttering, alternating between hope and the certainty that I was about to make a monumental fool of myself. “What is this junk?” I imagined The Book sneering. “I gave you a break and you come to me with something you dug up in your yard?”
If she doesn’t accept my proposal, my history credit goes down the drain and I might as well quit school now and avoid the June rush, I had thought as I sat fidgeting in the library, waiting for her to be late.
My notes were carefully arranged before me on the table, along with the kindergarten-level drawings.My gym bag was on the floor beside me.
“Well,” I began, “you’ll probably think this is a terminally goofy idea—”
“Nice sales pitch,” she interrupted, and sipped her coffee.
Great, I thought, she’s laughing at me already. But I plowed forward. I related how I had found the box, dug it up, cleaned and inspected both it and its contents. As I spoke I showed her my notes, pointed to the sketches, drew the objects one by one from the bag for dramatic effect.
As I spoke my confidence grew. She sat still and silent, her coffee cooling beside her, her hands resting on the pile of tests, fingers interlocked. I ended by handing her the iron Cs, now scraped clean of rust.
“And I have no idea what these metal things are,” I concluded. “But my proposal is, I want to find out what all this stuff is and how it ended up buried in the ground behind our house.”
“You really don’t know what this is?” she asked, taking the Cs from me. Her voice was quiet. “Are you serious?”
Damn. I had lost her. She hadn’t been interested at all; she had been letting me say my piece, politely, because that was the kind of teacher she was. Now would come the gentle criticism, the soft-spoken rejection.
“Yes, Ms. Song. I don’t have a clue.”
“I do.”
“And?” As if I cared at this point.
“Well, you’ll have to find out. I’m not telling. But, Zack, prepare yourself. You’re not going to like it.”
“You mean you accept the project?”
“Are you kidding? I think it sounds great. And you’ve made a terrific start, with your notes and all. Come on, I’ll give you some stuff to get you started.”
When we left the library, I was juggling my gym bag and six huge books Song had pulled from the shelves and slapped into my hands as I hurried behind her through the stacks.
“See you tomorrow, Zack. I’m late. Happy hunting.” And with that she tore off down the hall.
I stumbled to my locker and stored all the stuff, then began gathering my books for next class.
What had she meant when she’d said I should prepare myself?
The books Song had given me were about the American Revolutionary War, the War of 1812 and local history. I would have bet Fergus had about enough history to fill a pamphlet, but there were two fat volumes.
That evening I sat at my now crowded desk with a can of tonic water and a bowl of taco chips, Miles Davis on the stereo, and set to work. I liked the
Illustrated Encyclopedia of the American Revolution
best because it was all pictures. I flipped through it atrandom, wondering what The Book thought I’d find in there, since my box had been dug up in Canada. There were page after page of muskets, powder horns, uniforms, belts, swords, hats; pioneer tools
Chapter 11
T he Book rushed into the library, a thick sheaf of papers in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, her running shoes chirping on the tile floor. She sat down beside me at a table in a quiet corner of the reading room and plunked down her cup, slopping coffee on the Formica top.
“Shoot!” she exclaimed, wiping up the puddle with a tissue, her idea of a really raunchy curse, I guessed. “Okay, Zack, I’m all ears. What do you have?”
I had ridden the bus to school with my treasures on my knee in a gym bag, my stomach fluttering, alternating between hope and the certainty that I was about to make a monumental fool of myself. “What is this junk?” I imagined The Book sneering. “I gave you a break and you come to me with something you dug up in your yard?”
If she doesn’t accept my proposal, my history credit goes down the drain and I might as well quit school now and avoid the June rush, I had thought as I sat fidgeting in the library, waiting for her to be late.
My notes were carefully arranged before me on the table, along with the kindergarten-level drawings.My gym bag was on the floor beside me.
“Well,” I began, “you’ll probably think this is a terminally goofy idea—”
“Nice sales pitch,” she interrupted, and sipped her coffee.
Great, I thought, she’s laughing at me already. But I plowed forward. I related how I had found the box, dug it up, cleaned and inspected both it and its contents. As I spoke I showed her my notes, pointed to the sketches, drew the objects one by one from the bag for dramatic effect.
As I spoke my confidence grew. She sat still and silent, her coffee cooling beside her, her hands resting on the pile of tests, fingers interlocked. I ended by handing her the iron Cs, now scraped clean of rust.
“And I have no idea what these metal things are,” I concluded. “But my proposal is, I want to find out what all this stuff is and how it ended up buried in the ground behind our house.”
“You really don’t know what this is?” she asked, taking the Cs from me. Her voice was quiet. “Are you serious?”
Damn. I had lost her. She hadn’t been interested at all; she had been letting me say my piece, politely, because that was the kind of teacher she was. Now would come the gentle criticism, the soft-spoken rejection.
“Yes, Ms. Song. I don’t have a clue.”
“I do.”
“And?” As if I cared at this point.
“Well, you’ll have to find out. I’m not telling. But, Zack, prepare yourself. You’re not going to like it.”
“You mean you accept the project?”
“Are you kidding? I think it sounds great. And you’ve made a terrific start, with your notes and all. Come on, I’ll give you some stuff to get you started.”
When we left the library, I was juggling my gym bag and six huge books Song had pulled from the shelves and slapped into my hands as I hurried behind her through the stacks.
“See you tomorrow, Zack. I’m late. Happy hunting.” And with that she tore off down the hall.
I stumbled to my locker and stored all the stuff, then began gathering my books for next class.
What had she meant when she’d said I should prepare myself?
The books Song had given me were about the American Revolutionary War, the War of 1812 and local history. I would have bet Fergus had about enough history to fill a pamphlet, but there were two fat volumes.
That evening I sat at my now crowded desk with a can of tonic water and a bowl of taco chips, Miles Davis on the stereo, and set to work. I liked the
Illustrated Encyclopedia of the American Revolution
best because it was all pictures. I flipped through it atrandom, wondering what The Book thought I’d find in there, since my box had been dug up in Canada. There were page after page of muskets, powder horns, uniforms, belts, swords, hats; pioneer tools
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