Woody was looking less puzzled and more upset by the second. "Wait, this is your mom. She's not Chinese. Is your dad Chinese?"

I shook my head.

"So all that stuff about 'your traditions' and 'your culture' was just-what? A total lie? You just completely made it up? made it up?"

I nodded, just as Mildred and Sister Mary Clare walked in to see what the commotion was.

"And what about your whole Zen thing?"

My mom chimed in, less than helpfully. "Oh, you mean that research project you two are doing? When I first took San to the library, I didn't-"

"THE LIBRARY? SAN LEARNED ALL HIS ZEN STUFF FROM THE LIBRARY?" Woody grabbed my shirt like she was going to hit me. "You're not really a...a...Zen guy?"

Mildred burst out laughing. "Wait a minute, Emily. You thought San was a real Zen Buddhist? Oh, is that an absolute riot! This boy is about as Zen as Sister Mary here."

Woody was was going to hit me. Or cry, which would be worse. "San, if you're not really a Buddhist, who are you?" going to hit me. Or cry, which would be worse. "San, if you're not really a Buddhist, who are you?"

Mom stepped up to bat for me yet again. I wished she'd been born without a tongue. "Listen, Woody, San's had a tough year. Ever since his dad went to prison, he's been trying to find himself. I think this Zen thing is just, you know, a phase."

"Your dad's in prison? And this is a phase? Am I a phase too, San? Am I?"

Boy, the dishes were really piling up.

"Hey," I said, "you know, these dishes are really piling up. Do you think we could maybe get back to work? I mean, this is a very interesting conversation and all, but..."

Woody ran out of the room crying. My mom dropped all of my garish winter clothes at my feet and followed her. Sister Mary Clare left too, so I was standing there with Mildred, alone. "San, you're a nice boy. I can tell. But what on earth were you thinking, lying to Emily all year? Didn't you know the truth would come out? For goodness' sake, the essence essence of Zen is truth. Maybe I should have given you some philosophy books before the gardening one." of Zen is truth. Maybe I should have given you some philosophy books before the gardening one."

I kicked my clothes aside and started in on the dishes. Mildred rolled up her sleeves and got right to work next to me. "I'm not a nice boy," I said. "I'm a second-generation convict." Then for some reason I told her everything. By the time I was done talking, the dishes were all finished up. I sat on the counter, as usual, and Mildred swung herself up too, with shocking grace. She must have seen my surprise, because she flexed one bicep and said, "Pilates. And calcium tablets. Anyway, San, you are are a nice boy." a nice boy."

"How can you tell?"

"Library books. You've taken out what, forty books in the past few months? And you've brought them all back in the same condition you got 'em in. That's a sure sign of character. Plus you're a great dishwasher-another sure sign."

"Character? But I just spent twenty minutes telling you what a total liar I am."

"Well, son, I can tell you one thing I've learned: The real liars never own up to what they've done. So right there, you're not as bad as you think you are."

I smiled and started to thank her profusely, but she cut me off. "You're still in big trouble with that girl, though. So you'd better go find her and tell her everything you just told me."

"Do you think it will work? Do you think she'll understand?"

Mildred snickered. "Are you kidding me, San? There's no chance she'll understand."

"But-"

"But you still have to tell her. Now go!"

I went.

But Woody was gone. So was my mom. Sister Mary Clare was standing in the lobby, slowly and laboriously mopping up the slush that had been dragged in and smeared by hundreds of feet. I grabbed an extra mop and started helping. Right when I first started mopping, she said to me, "Your mother went to take Emily home. She told me she might come back for you, if you're lucky."

I kept mopping. Sister Mary Clare kept talking. "Have you spent much time thinking about repentance, Stanley?"

"Listen, I'm not Catholic. And my name is San Lee, NOT Stanley."

She grinned wickedly, if that's an OK description for a nun's facial expression, and said, "Listen, I'm not being a nun right now; I'm being a nosy old lady. And I know your name isn't Stanley. What do you think I am-deaf?"

I kept mopping. You know, it's actually a very strenuous activity. First of all, a big industrial-size mop weighs like thirty pounds when it's full of water, and you have to push it all around and lift it into the bucket-squeezy thing. Then you have to crank the handle of the squeezer really hard to squish the water out of the mop. Next you have to repeat the process until you realize you're weaker than an old lady. An old lady who doesn't particularly shut up.

"Anyway, San, I think you have some major-league repenting to do. Not because your father is in jail, by the way, but because you've hurt people. You can lay down the burden of whatever your father has done-but you have to carry what you've you've done on your shoulders until it's ready to be laid down." done on your shoulders until it's ready to be laid down."

"And how am I supposed to know when that is?"

"When it doesn't hurt anymore to look in the mirror, that's when you'll know."

"And how do I get there?"

"Well, for starters, you finish mopping this floor so an old lady can rest her feet. Then you figure out whom you've hurt, and start trying to make amends."

"What if they don't want to hear it?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is that at least I tricked you into mopping my floor."

"No, I'm serious. What if they really don't want to hear it?"

"You have to do what's right because it's right, not because somebody's going to give you a gold star at the end."

Just then, I heard a car horn and saw through the subsiding snow flurries that my mom had pulled up outside.

"Uh, Sister, I have to go now. Um, thanks. For talking to me, I mean."

"See you next week, San."

"Will you? Do you still want me here even though I lied to all of you?"

"Did the dishes get clean? Then we still want you. You might be a fake Zen master..." She snorted. "...but you're a real dishwasher."

My mom wasn't so kind. She reamed me out all the way home, all the way up the stairs, and all the way into my room. Then she stood outside my closed door and reamed me out some more.

The good news was that she liked Woody.

The bad news was that she wasn't currently so fond of me.

Eventually Mom stomped away down the hall, leaving me to stare at my wall and agonize. Who were the people I'd hurt? Woody, sure. My mom, definitely. Peter. Yikes, Peter. I had spent months purposely trying to make him look as dumb as possible just so I could look good. But he was the good guy. He'd been right that I was going to hurt his sister. Well, stepsister, but still. He'd even tried over and over to make make me make things right. And now because of my big ridiculous pointless scam, he had a broken bone and a grudge. me make things right. And now because of my big ridiculous pointless scam, he had a broken bone and a grudge.

And then there was one other person to think about: my dad. I didn't really think I'd hurt him much-he was so totally narcissistic that I wasn't sure anyone mattered mattered enough to hurt him. But I had still handled his whole prison situation pretty badly. If right actions were always right, whether you got the star at the end or not, then it didn't matter whether my dad was a total jerk. What mattered was that I couldn't be a jerk as a reaction to his jerkhood. enough to hurt him. But I had still handled his whole prison situation pretty badly. If right actions were always right, whether you got the star at the end or not, then it didn't matter whether my dad was a total jerk. What mattered was that I couldn't be a jerk as a reaction to his jerkhood.

Jerkitude? Jerk-osity?

Anyway, I decided that, as long as I was trapped in my room anyway, I might as well stop ducking my dad, and face this whole deal head-on. So I wrote him a letter. Here's how it started: Dear Dad, (Not bad, right? I kept going, since I was on a roll.) I'm not sure if you know this, because I'm not sure what Mom has told you, but I have been purposely avoiding your phone calls all year. I am still not ready to talk with you, and I don't know that I will ever be. You hurt me, and lied to me, and left me and Mom in a difficult situation. But I think you deserve an explanation. More than that, I deserve the opportunity to explain to you.

What I have learned since we last saw each other (and actually, I just figured a lot of it out right this minute) is that I am really, really angry with you. And instead of expressing my anger to the person who deserves it, I have reacted by lying, and by hurting everyone around me. So I am writing to tell you this: I am washing my hands of lying and anger. They didn't help you, and they won't help me. Maybe you're learning this too since your sentencing. I hope so.

In the meantime, I have a lot to answer for, but I will answer for it-honestly.

Your son, San When I was done writing the letter, I snuck out of my room to get an envelope. But I couldn't find one, and realized I didn't know my dad's current address. So I just left the letter on the living room table, right next to where my mother was sleeping in her chair. She didn't have a blanket on or anything, and it was pretty cold in the apartment, so I tiptoed back to my room, got my extra comforter, and tucked it around her.

It felt kind of good to take care of my mom.

The next morning we had a snow delay, so school started two hours late. My mom left for work without saying a word to me, but that was kind of OK. When I sat down to eat breakfast, I found that she had put my letter in an envelope that she'd addressed to my dad. She had also put a hot-pink Post-it note on the outside of the envelope: SAN- GLAD YOU WROTE THIS!.

So maybe things might be all right on the mom front. Since I had so much extra time before school, I sat on the living room floor in a sunbeam and meditated. Then I had an extra bowl of Cap'n Crunch. It seemed likely that the extra doses of tranquility and sugar might come in handy.

I put on my huge puffy winter coat, the white gloves, and even the red sneakers before I headed out. This was going to be my first nothing-to-hide day. Outside, the sun was blinding and the snow was about five inches deep. I guessed it would melt off pretty fast, but it sure was sparkly while it lasted. I was having fun stomping and kicking my way to school, until I came within sight of my rock. I had been vaguely hoping that maybe Woody was going to be there waiting to talk things out, but she wasn't around. Peter was there instead. He had dusted the snow off of my spot, and was sitting there like he owned the joint. I could have walked right into school and avoided him completely, but if you're going to have a nothing-to-hide day, you can't be running around hiding, can you? I took a deep breath and strode right over in front of Peter.

"Good morning, Peter."

"Good morning, San." Somehow his tone of voice made my name sound like a curse.

"That's a nice cast." It was one of those bright fluorescent green woven-looking ones, and stretched from almost his elbow down across the line of his second knuckles.

"Yeah, I'm really enjoying it. The best part is that since I broke my finger right at the hand joint, my whole wrist has to be immobilized for two months. So I'll miss out on the basketball tournaments and most of baseball season. Isn't that just great?"

"Listen, Peter, I'm sorry that you got hurt because of me. And I'm sorry I hurt your sister."

"You're kidding, right? This is your usual pretendsaint thing, isn't it? You're still showing off for your fans?"

"No, I'm serious. I feel terrible."

"Not as terrible as you're going to feel. You know, Emily cried for like an hour when she got home last night. What were you thinking? Did you really believe you could fool a whole town forever?"

"I don't know, I just-"

"You just what? You just wanted to be a lying criminal like your father?"

Whoa, that was uncalled for. "Woody told you about my dad?"

"No, San. The Internet told me about your dad. I used to be an office monitor, so I know where the home contact cards are. I snuck in early one morning and wrote down all your family information. It's amazing what you can find out if you know how to look. That's how I found out that Laughing Archer is just some band too."

"So why did you tell the whole world that whole seventh Buddha thing?"

"I wanted to make you stop lying. But you can't take a hint. I tried a million ways to get you to fess up, but you're just too much of a psycho."

"I'm a psycho? You stalked me, you dumped snow on my head, you ruined my Zen garden, you narc'ed on me and Woody to your mom, you tried to make a fool of me in basketball, you hit me hard enough to break your bone, you even left those little notes in my locker-but I'm a psycho?"

"A) I didn't leave any notes in your locker, and b) yes, you are a psycho-a second-generation psycho."

I stepped up to him. He didn't back down. As if by magic, a crowd started to form around us. I noticed that, with the usual perfect timing I'd been having, Woody had finally appeared. I remembered I'd promised her I wouldn't hurt him. That was fine, because I'd promised myself I would avoid getting pounded if possible.

"By the way, San, you know what's interesting about this piece of land right here? It's off school property. So when I beat you down, I won't get suspended."

Swell, I thought.

"Peter, this is stupid. I won't hit a guy with a cast."

"Well," Peter said, "I will!" And then he decked me.

san lee: boy outcast

It's amazing how fast they turn on you. Peter stood over my twitching form for maybe thirty seconds before he started to walk away. As soon as his back was turned, I propped myself up in a half-sitting position so that I could talk to Woody and Mike, along with whoever else wanted to stay and support me. But n.o.body stayed. Within a minute, I was alone in the snow, with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. My nose was gushing and felt like someone had been going at it with a ball-peen hammer and chisel. The inside of my cheek was puffing up against my teeth, and my neck hurt from the whiplash effect of Peter's punch. Of course, there were teachers on outside duty across the street, but the shuffling crowd must have blocked their view of my tragic hemorrhaging scene.

I lay back down on my back and considered my options. I could stay put until I froze to death. I could crawl behind my rock and freeze to death, leaving nothing but a b.l.o.o.d.y snow angel to mark the site of my destruction. I could get to my feet somehow, stagger home, take some Tylenol, apply ice, watch Oprah.

Or I could march right into school and face the music. After all, this was my nothing-to-hide day. I forced myself to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and trudged into the building. I slid my ID through the secretary's window. She handed me a late pa.s.s without even looking up, and said, "That's number five for you, Mr. Lee. You will have to stay tomorrow after school for detention." Then she glanced at me-the blood all over my ultra-bright jacket, the swelling face, the pathetic and beaten posture-and yelled for the a.s.sistant princ.i.p.al. I spent about fifteen minutes with him in the nurse's office refusing to tell him anything about what had happened, but insisting that whatever had had occurred had occurred off school property. Then I got sent to cla.s.s. occurred had occurred off school property. Then I got sent to cla.s.s.

Have you ever been your school's Loser of the Day? It's not like they put your name on the marquee or announce it over the intercom or anything. But everyone in the joint knows exactly who you are and what you've done by the end of homeroom-by first period, at the latest. So you walk through the halls and this little corridor of silence opens up in front of you, while a murmuring cone of scorn fills itself in behind you. Well, at least it was a shortened day, I thought optimistically. I didn't speak to a single soul until social studies ended-athough one kid I'd never met walked up to me, checked out my nose, and said, "Daaaaamn, San," before continuing on his way. I spent Dowd's whole cla.s.s period trying to get Woody to look at me, but her eyes never wavered from the video we were watching about medieval Europe. I hadn't known she was so fascinated by the feudal system.

When the bell rang, I was ready to bolt out of school before the hallway crowds could slow me down. But Dowd asked me to stay after. I heard various people snickering under their breath, and then the room was empty, except for me and my teacher. "San," he said.

I waited.

"San, San, San."

I felt like belting out, -TA CLAUS, HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS, RIGHT DOWN SANTA CLAUS LANE. -TA CLAUS, HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS, RIGHT DOWN SANTA CLAUS LANE. But the moment didn't seem quite right. Plus my mouth hurt. But the moment didn't seem quite right. Plus my mouth hurt.

"Yes, sir?"

"Sometimes life gets b.u.mpy, doesn't it?"

"Uh, well, in this case, it's just my face that got b.u.mpy."

"I'm glad you can see some small humor in your situation. You know, when a new student moves into my cla.s.s, especially one with so much ability and promise, I always try to provide support and, well, guidance. But I'm afraid I failed you, San. Did you know that I usually choose my students' project partners randomly, with straws? But just to make you feel more comfortable, I chose by alphabetical order this time around. I thought you would have a better experience if you were a.s.signed to someone helpful and friendly, like Emily Long. I also left several notes in your locker in the hopes that you would give up this little Zen deception of yours. But I suppose things spiraled out of control pretty quickly."

Dowd had left the notes in my locker? "Yeah, I suppose so." had left the notes in my locker? "Yeah, I suppose so."

"You know, San, I really have been deeply impressed with your knowledge of Buddhism, and Zen Buddhism in particular. I haven't mentioned this in cla.s.s, but Zen is of great personal interest to me. I spent several years in j.a.pan during the 1970s. I was in the Army, and there was a Zen monastery right next to the base. I used to go there and meditate with the monks. When I came back to the States and started teaching, I got my sister interested in Zen too. And now she's way ahead of me, I'm afraid."