Sunday Drive
"Middle School, My Dear Watson," Continued
(below is the fourth installment in my new middle grade book about Sherlock Holmes in middle school. You can read Chapter One here and follow the links from there. The next chapter is here.)
ELEMENTARY MIDDLE SCHOOL, MY DEAR WATSON — continued
CHAPTER FIVE
Holmes and I were pretty much best friends by then. I guess that’s how it works with best friends. Nobody says, “Let’s be best friends,” and nobody answers, “Okay” – you just suddenly are best friends before you even realize it.
We mostly hung out at my house because he lived a little farther away than I did. He usually rode his bike to school – I still couldn’t, because of my leg – but he would walk his bike over to my house with me after school. I can walk on my leg – in fact it’s good for me to walk, as part of the healing process – but I can’t stand on it for too long, and riding a bike is too dangerous, in case I fell and hurt it again. Anyway, at the end of the day he’d ride his bike home from my house.
But sometimes he didn’t have his bike and his Mom would pick him up. She’s a very pretty woman with lots and lots of beautiful curly hair; she drives a big old SUV with two bumper stickers on the back: EARP VARSITY FOOTBALL and MY CHILD IS AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT AT EARP MIDDLE SCHOOL. Wyatt Earp Middle School and Virgil Earp High School are in the next town over. I knew about Wyatt Earp Middle School because last year there were two stories every kid around here was talking about: the one about the kid named John at Douglas MacArthur Middle School who got his leg broken during recess by his best friends (that was me) and the one about the kid named Alvin at Wyatt Earp Middle School who stole all the money from the school bake sale.
I wondered if Holmes had had anything to do with cracking that case. Maybe Holmes had made a “powerful enemy” of Alvin, like we had with Moriarty. Maybe he’d made so many enemies solving crimes that he’d had to leave Earp and that’s why he was going to school with me now. Later on I found out I was wrong about that.
I didn’t ask him about it. That was one of the good things about our friendship, we didn’t feel like we had to ask each other stuff that maybe the other guy didn’t feel like talking about. Like, he never asked me about my leg, how I hurt it, how long it would be before I walked normally. It really wasn’t my favorite topic of conversation, so it was a relief that I didn’t have to go into it with him.
Of course, maybe he didn’t ask because he already knew. It’s awfully tough to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes.
I feel like I should say something about Jim Moriarty here, by the way. I haven’t really described him except to say he stole the math tests, and he tried to get Shonda in trouble, and his neck waves like a snake when he’s angry. So I wouldn’t be surprised if you think he’s some kind of monster. The thing is, he isn’t a monster at all – at least he doesn’t look like one. He’s actually good-looking. He’s pretty tall – taller than me – and he wears nice clothes. Like, preppy clothes. He’s a good athlete – he’s on the soccer team – and I already mentioned how smart he is, plus he’s funny. I mean, he’s really quick-witted. One time I was assigned to have a debate with him in History class, and even though you’re supposed to stand up during debates, I was allowed to sit because it hurts too much for me to be on my feet too long. Anyway, I made some point in the debate (we were discussing the causes of the first World War) and he immediately said, “John, you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
Pretty much the whole class burst out laughing, except for a few people. I didn’t enjoy it very much, actually, but I smiled to be a good sport, and I had to admit it was pretty quick. I don’t like people to make fun of my bum leg, but it’s not like it’s a surprise to me or anything, so it didn’t bother me that much.
Holmes didn’t like it at all. At all. He was furious, and the look on his face – it was like Moriarty had just stepped on a violin full of kittens. After class, he said, “Sorry about that, old bean. That crack from Moriarty about your leg, that wasn’t cricket – wasn’t cricket at all.” That was very strong language, coming from Holmes. I had no idea what something not being “cricket” meant, but I knew what he was trying to say anyway, and I appreciated it.
Holmes hadn’t really liked Moriarty from the start. One time I said to Sherlock: “On that first day you were at school, I was like, mentally begging you to sit next to Jim Moriarty so people wouldn’t know I wasn’t wearing underwear, and I feel like you almost did… but then you didn’t. Do you remember that?”
“I remember it well,” said Holmes, nodding. “Not that I could read your mind or anything like that, but it was plain from the expression on your face that I’d put you in an embarrassing position. So I turned to Jim and briefly thought of sitting next to him, since it didn’t look like it would bother him.”
“Well, then why didn’t you sit next to him?”
Holmes frowned. “You know that my methods are completely scientific. I don’t come to any of my conclusions based on gut feelings or hunches. That’s what normal people do, and why they so often make so many mistakes. But I reach all of my conclusions based on pure facts and logic. That’s why I’m never wrong –”
“Never is a strong word,” I said.
“Only to weak minds,” replied Holmes. “The point is, that while I pride myself on making my decisions scientifically, like a computer… my decision not to sit next to Jim Moriarty was based on pure instinct. I simply didn’t like the looks of him. I didn’t want to be near him.”
“He’s not bad looking.”
“I didn’t say he was. But there’s just something about him that I don’t like. And I think that everything that’s happened since – the incident with Shonda, for instance – has proved me right.”
There was no arguing with that. But I still had one more question. “Well, why did you choose to sit next to me in the first place?”
Holmes smiled broadly – maybe the biggest smile I’d ever seen him make – and said, “That was instinct, too.”
Anyway, you can see why I felt pretty lucky to have him for a friend.
Now, while Holmes might not have wanted to have anything to do with Jim – “repulsed” is the word Holmes used – most of the other kids seemed to like having him around. Or at least they seemed to think it was important to have his approval. Maybe they just didn’t want him making fun of them or something. His main friend is this giant kid, Sebastian, who’s really big and strong, and who will do anything Jim says. I mean, they act like they’re friends, but Jim really treats Sebastian more like his servant. For instance, Sebastian laughs at all of Jim’s jokes, but Jim doesn’t laugh at Sebastian’s jokes – that kind of thing.
“Why does Sebastian take orders from Jim like that?” I asked Holmes one time.
Holmes sucked on his Twizzler (we were eating Twizzlers again) and looked thoughtful for a second. “Because Sebastian doesn’t think he’s worthy of friendship. He’ll do anything to be allowed to stay in Jim’s presence.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes, it is.”
It made me examine my own friendship with Holmes, and I was glad to see that we were actual friends. As much as I liked being around him, if he’d started treating me nasty or trying to order me around, I wouldn’t have stayed friends with him for long. I’ve seen what “friendships” like that can do to people. And I’ve got the limp to prove it.
I felt like I was getting to know Sherlock pretty well, but there was one weird thing about him I didn’t understand. Okay, there were lots of weird thing about him – he was still wearing that stupid hat everywhere, for instance – but there was one weird thing that didn’t fit in with the other weird things, which made it even weirder than the other things. So I’ve mentioned how good his manners are, right? Sherlock Holmes had the best manners of any kid in the world. He didn’t just talk like a butler, he acted like one; he held the door for other kids, he always looked the teachers in the eye when he spoke to them. But there was one person he was always rude to. His Mom. Whenever she’d pick him up, he never even talked to her – just grunted. I guess I’ve been like that with my parents every now and then, when I was in an especially bad mood, but not all the time. She didn’t seem to mind, though. The conversations were basically:
“Hi, honey. Did you have fun with John?” (She doesn’t have an English accent, by the way, so I guess she’s American.)
Sherlock would grunt in response – literally grunt. Like an animal. And she’d say, “Hurry and get in the car… We have to get your brother from practice.” And then he’d grunt again and climb into the backseat, and they’d be gone.
That’s weird, right? It made me think that maybe he’s mean to his Mom because maybe she isn’t as nice as she seems to be. But, as it turned out, I was wrong about that, too.