Made 4 you, p.5
Made 4 You, page 5
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Please excuse my partner,” his wife said. “He can be a little socially obtuse.”
One more way that he was their kid.
“Perhaps in exchange for you helping to guide Gene through the mystery of high school he could offer to tutor you in some subjects,” his father suggested.
“Becky is one of the top students in the school,” Liv replied. “Her marks are about a ninety average.”
“Ah, so the standards are lower,” his father said, and his mother nodded in agreement.
I thought Liv and I and the whole school had just been insulted.
“Come to think about it, that is a great offer for Gene to help Becky!” Liv exclaimed. I could see a look in her eyes — a combination of amusement and mischief — that none of them could see or understand.
“We were studying for our SATs today. Have you started prepping for them?” I asked Gene.
“I’m not sure what SATs are.”
“You don’t know about SATs?” Liv asked. She sounded astonished.
He shook his head.
“They’re standardized tests that help to determine if you qualify for post-secondary education,” his mother explained.
“Did you take them?” Gene asked his mother.
“We both did,” his father said.
“Just out of curiosity, what did you two score on the test?” Liv asked.
“I scored fifteen-ninety,” his father answered.
“That’s almost perfect,” I said.
“I scored sixteen hundred,” his mother replied.
“That is perfect,” I gasped.
“Overall, the questions were remarkably unchallenging,” his mother continued.
“The most challenging part was providing an answer that would satisfy the requirement of what is believed to be correct rather than providing an alternate answer that might be more valid,” his father explained.
“Are you all geniuses?” Liv asked.
“By scientific definition, a genius is a person with an IQ of at least one hundred and sixty,” his mother explained
“Is that high?” Liv asked.
“Average IQ is considered to be between ninety and one hundred and ten, and approximately fifty percent of the population is contained in that range.”
“And how many people are above one-sixty?” I asked.
“Approximately one in every thirty-three hundred people,” his mother answered.
“So that means there are potentially five geniuses in our town,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” Liv said.
“I’m just going by the odds.”
“And I’m going by all the people I know,” Liv said. “Have you seen much genius at work around here?”
“But most experts in the field of human learning and intelligence would argue that a definition of genius cannot be based on something as basic and derivative as an IQ number,” his mother continued.
“Perhaps any person who ascribes to the numerical definition of genius automatically disqualifies themselves from the category of genius,” his father said.
The two of them and Gene started laughing. Apparently, this was their idea of a joke. Did they even joke on a smarter level?
“What would Einstein’s IQ have been?” Liv asked.
“Well above one-sixty, but he demonstrated so much more that would be considered true genius. He was able to apply abstract reasoning, non-parallel thinking, creative problem solving, and the ability to synthesize and amalgamate information to form new concepts and ideas.”
Liv turned to me. “Did you understand any of that?”
“A bit.”
“So, back to my question, are you three geniuses?”
Nobody answered.
“Don’t be humble. Do you all have IQs above one-sixty?”
Gene looked to his parents, and they both nodded like they were giving him permission to answer.
“We all would satisfy that numeric assessment. Will I take those SAT tests?” Gene asked.
“If you want to get in to university,” Liv said. “Do you want to study with us sometime?”
“Yes. Should we start tonight?”
“I think we’re through for the day,” I said.
“All that’s left is ice cream,” Liv said. “So, are you going to join us?”
“We gave permission, as it does seem like an appropriate teenaged activity,” his mother said.
“I concur,” his father added.
“One thing first,” Liv said. “Gene, you might want to rethink your wardrobe.”
Gene looked down at his shirt and shorts. “What should I put on?”
“Anything else except your blue suit,” Liv replied.
He disappeared out of the room, and I heard him going up the stairs. I turned back around, and his parents were staring at me again.
“Um, thanks for inviting us in,” I stammered.
“And you are welcome — both of you — to visit with us again.”
8
We were heading to the ice cream parlor downtown because they had the biggest cones in town. Their double cones were bigger than anybody else’s triple, and their triple was so big that it took two hands to hold. I almost started to drool thinking about it.
Gene was in shiny leather shoes, dress pants held up by suspenders, and a button-down collared shirt that was tucked in to his pants. We were headed to get ice cream, and he was dressed for a job interview — two decades ago.
“Are you going to explain those shorts you were wearing?” Liv asked.
“I was going out to rehearse my shooting skills,” Gene said. “I do not own any shorts, so I made them.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you cut them so short,” Liv exclaimed.
“They were the right length. I measured before I cut.”
“Then you measured wrong,” she said.
“I would never do that. I looked at pictures of Michael Jordan, and knowing his height I was able to calculate the exact length the shorts needed to be on me.”
“Those were how they wore basketball shorts in 1993,” I explained.
“That’s when he and his team completed the three-peat, winning the NBA championship for the third time. They defeated the Phoenix Suns, led by Charles Barkley. Jordan averaged forty-one points per game and was named the finals’ MVP for a third straight year, a feat previously reached only by Earvin Johnson, who is also known as Magic Johnson.”
“Look, if you’re going to be talking old school you should at least be talking about Indiana’s own Larry Bird,” Liv suggested.
“Larry Bird played for Indiana State University, leading them to the finals in which they lost to Michigan State, led by the previously mentioned Earvin ‘Magic’ Johnson. He then was drafted by the Boston Celtics and played from 1979 until —”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the history of basketball lesson,” Liv said.
Was this the same guy who couldn’t name any other player except Michael Jordan just a few days ago? Had he been studying basketball?
“You have to take those shorts and burn them,” Liv said.
Gene looked at me for my opinion.
“She’s right. Not about the burning part, but you should toss them out.”
Then I started thinking. Cutting down a pair of pants to make shorts, researching basketball, and, of course, going out to “rehearse shooting” on the driveway. He didn’t even know to call it “practice,” but there was no question that he was going to try out for the team.
“You definitely need new basketball shorts,” I suggested.
“Let’s be honest, you basically need an entire new wardrobe,” Liv added.
“Liv!”
“Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.” She turned to Gene. “Have you noticed that you dress differently from everybody at school?”
“Mr. McCarthy dresses like me.”
“He’s a seventy-year-old English teacher and not the role model you should be aiming for,” Liv said.
“Becky, would you help me pick out new clothes?”
“I think it might even be part of my job in helping you fit in.”
We came to the town square. There were lots of people, and, of course, we knew everybody.
The line for the ice cream parlor was out the door and snaking its way along the whole front of the store. It looked like there were two girls’ soccer teams — green uniforms for one team and red for the other — along with assorted parents.
“How badly do you want ice cream?” Liv asked me.
“Not that much. Gene, are you okay with not getting ice cream tonight?”
“Do you think we could do something else instead?” Gene asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
He pointed across the square. “Could we go shopping for clothes?”
“Right now?” Liv asked.
“It is open, and I would like to. You both think I need them.”
I turned to Liv. “We could get him a few things. A pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, maybe some basketball shoes.”
“And some basketball shorts,” she added.
“Do you have any money on you, or a credit card?” I asked.
Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. I was shocked by the size of it.
“Would this be enough?”
“How much do you have?”
“Eight hundred dollars.”
Liv and I looked at each other.
“Most people don’t walk around with that much cash on them,” I said.
“My parents believe in making only cash transactions.”
“I thought that only drug dealers did everything in cash,” Liv said and laughed.
I laughed along — sort of in support. Gene just looked confused.
“She doesn’t think your parents are drug dealers,” I explained.
“Let’s do it!” Liv exclaimed.
* * *
Gene was now dressed in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and new basketball shoes. The shoes, Air Jordans, were actually the identical bright blue of his suit. In a suit it was bad, on the shoes it was good. Liv had already told him that he was forbidden to wear these shoes and that suit together.
What had started as an item or two had taken up most of Gene’s cash. I’d asked him if his parents would be okay with this, and he said he knew they would. I wasn’t so sure. He’d asked if he could come and get an ice cream and instead was coming home with a full new wardrobe.
Gene seemed to be almost bouncing in his new Jordans. It was more than a spring and less than a skip. He had a big grin on his face. It made me smile too. He had an infectious sort of happiness to him.
A siren sounded right behind us, and I jumped. There was a police car on the road right behind us slowly rolling along. Of course, I knew who it was.
“Put your hands in the air!” came a voice over the loudspeaker.
Gene dropped his bags to the ground and raised his hands.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “It’s Liv’s father.”
The car stopped, and Liv’s father got out. Liv put down the bags she was carrying and gave her father a hug.
“Did you three rip off a store?” her father asked.
“No, sir, we have the receipts,” Gene said.
“Gene, he’s joking, it’s just a joke.”
“I don’t blame Gene for being confused,” Liv said. “That was a classic dad joke, so it wasn’t really funny at all.”
“This must be Gene,” her father said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Liv’s father, Kevin Riley. And you can call me Officer Riley.”
“Yes, sir,” Gene said as they shook hands.
“He’s joking,” Liv said.
“That depends. Are you dating my daughter?”
“Dad!”
“No, sir.”
“Then you can call me Kevin, but if you ever do start dating my daughter, I have a gun and I know how to use it.”
Gene turned to Liv. “A joke, right?”
“Possibly. And isn’t it now obvious why I’m not asked out more often?” Liv asked.
“Just out of curiosity, have you ever pulled your gun in this town?” I asked.
“Here? Come on, get real. It looks like you kids were on a real shopping spree.”
“We took Gene to get new clothes,” I said.
“Probably wise not to go wandering about in a bright blue suit,” Liv’s father said.
“You know about Gene’s suit?” I asked.
“Becky, in a town this big everybody knows about everybody’s suit.”
“Everybody knows about everybody’s everything,” Liv added.
“Although I didn’t stop to talk about clothes,” Liv’s father said. “Raise your hand if you forgot you had to babysit your cousin this evening.”
“Oh, my goodness! It slipped my mind!” Liv exclaimed.
“Your aunt sent me out to find you. She said she and your uncle haven’t been on a real date in almost two years, and she wasn’t letting anything get in the way. You better climb on in.”
“Sorry, Gene, sorry Becky.”
She gave me a hug and then hugged Gene. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t hug her back.
They climbed into the car and drove away, and the siren and lights came on. This was as close to an emergency as ever seemed to happen around here. We reshuffled the bags with Gene taking most of them.
“I have a question,” I said. “Why is your last name different from your parents?”
“My mother kept her name.”
“Then shouldn’t you be Gene Lawrence or Gene Wilson and not Gene Newman?”
“I am adopted. Newman is my original name.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to get personal.”
“Could I ask you a question?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“How long have you been getting headaches?”
“Did somebody mention that to you?”
He shook his head. “You had one the day we met. Today was not originally as bad but has become more intense over the past hour. You were just rubbing your temples, and your shoulders are now more tense and slightly elevated.”
“I’m just surprised that you noticed that.”
“I notice everything,” he said.
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing — and then felt bad and stopped.
“I notice, but that does not mean I understand or can put things into the proper context. Humor is probably the most difficult for me to understand.”
“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” I said.
“Ah, sarcasm. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but the highest form of intelligence.”
“What?”
“A quote from Oscar Wilde. He was an Irish playwright, essayist, and humorist born in 1854 who died in 1900.”
“It almost sounds like you’ve been researching humor.”
“How else would I learn about it?”
That actually made sense in a Gene sort of way.
“Are you going to answer my question?” he asked.
“Question? Oh, about the headaches. I’ve had them for the past couple of years. They come and they go, but they’ve been worse the last few months.”
“Do you worry about it being a brain tumor?”
“Of course not!”
“Really, never?” he asked.
“Well … sometimes, I guess.”
“It is not a tumor,” Gene said.
“It’s nice of you to say that.”
“I was not trying to be nice. It’s simple knowledge.”
“Are you an expert on brains as well as humor?” I asked.
“Nice joke,” he said and smiled. He had such a great smile. “I have done additional reading about human physiology and neurological functioning. If it was a tumor, it would be getting significantly worse and would be more constant instead of coming and going.”
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“And if it was a tumor, it would have shown on your MRIs, and they were clear.”
“Yes, but … wait, how did you know that I had MRIs?”
How could he know that? Had Liv told him?
“That would be standard medical investigation when somebody is having recurring headaches with no other causal factor.”
“But you said MRIs, plural.”
“You would need to have a series of MRIs to not only fully rule out a tumor but to see if there were any changes in brain structure or brain activity.”
“That’s what my doctor said as well.”
“By eliminating a physical cause, they are thereby assigning the causation of your headaches to a psychological reason.”
“They say that I worry too much.”
“You do worry too much,” Gene said. “You carry your stress in your upper body.”
“What?”
“You tense up. I can see your shoulders rise up and your neck becomes stiff and you turn your body to compensate for not wanting to turn your head. It has even gotten more noticeable since we started this discussion.”
He was right. Maybe he did notice everything.
“Put down the bags,” he said. I hesitated. “Put them down.”
I set the bags down on the sidewalk, and he did the same with his. Gene moved in behind me, and I was shocked when he placed his hands on my shoulders. “This is the focal point of the tension.”
He placed his fingers on the front of my shoulders and dug his thumbs into the blades on both sides. It hurt slightly. Then the pain gave way to ache, and then I could feel the stress leaving. I let out a little groan.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, not really. It feels good.”
My shoulders began slowly falling like balloons with a leak releasing the air. I let out another groan. I could feel the pressure in my head ease off too.
