"You distracted me by, uh, not yelling."

"OK," I said. "I didn't realize my not yelling was so loud. I won't not yell at you this time. I promise."

He set. Woody kicked. His legs sprang into action. I shouted, "HAI!"

The ball hit the rim and bounced off to the left. "Better," I said. "Try again."

We went through this whole thing maybe three more times before Mike's first shot went in. Then he missed two more before sinking three straight. Within fifteen minutes or so, Mike was shooting maybe eighty percent no matter what I did.

Woody took the ball from him and said, "Next!"

As some short, stubby kid stepped into place, Mike came over to me. "I don't understand what you did, but it actually worked. How did you do that?"

I gave him the half smile. "I did nothing."

"Oh, come on! I just want to understand."

"If you understand, things are just as they are; if you do not understand, things are just as they are."

He groaned. "So you're saying there are no answers?"

"Mike," I said gently, "there were no questions."

The short kid bent his knees. Mike jumped in his face and yelled, "HAI!"

service for seven, and a hundred feet in the air

You know what? Some jocks make great waiters. Mildred and Sister Mary Clare were overjoyed to have the basketball guys helping out and put them to work right away serving food in the dining hall. For weeks, everything was perfect: The team's shooting was improving dramatically-although that would turn out to be almost a bad thing later-and they were all very happy with Woody and me. After that first day of training, enough other members of the team got involved so that, even with the usual life stuff going on, we always managed to get five helpers to the soup kitchen. I asked Mildred one week why the hoops guys were always out front, while Woody and I were always in a back room alone, and she winked at me. "Why, Mr. Lee," she said, "I'd think a smart boy like you might figure out that being left alone with a pretty girl week after week is its own reward. Now stop asking so many questions before I send in a couple of sweaty athletes to help out in here!"

Now that there were so many other kids helping out, Woody's stepmom was allowing her to continue at the soup kitchen, and was even still driving me home every week. One day in the car, Mrs. Long asked me if my mother would perhaps like to come to their house for a monthly PTA tea meeting, "If she speaks English well enough to feel comfortable." I said that yes, my mom's English skills were sufficiently well-developed for PTA tea purposes, but that unfortunately, she worked full-time. When Mrs. Long replied, "Yes, I'd imagine it's terribly hard for immigrants to get ahead in this country nowadays," I had to bite on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. But I kept quiet, and the rides kept coming.

School was going great, my mom was leaving me alone, I was semi-famous as the "Zen Guy," I was getting to spend tons of time with Woody-for a while there, it all seemed too easy. Well, duh. Of course it was too easy. Life is suffering, remember?

Everything started to unravel the day I finally got up the nerve to ask Woody how she got the name. We were supposed to be putting the final touches on our project for social studies, but ours had been done for days. So we were pretending to color our poster masterpiece, t.i.tled "Zen and the Art of Free Throws," but were really talking about personal stuff. "San," Woody said. "Did you ever notice that you never tell me anything about your life?"

"No, I, uh, never noticed that. What do you want to know?"

"Like what does 'San' mean? Is it some kind of mystical thing?"

"Nope. It means 'three.'"

She looked at me and waited for more. When I didn't continue, she asked, "That's it? Just 'three'? Not 'three pandas running'? Not 'three blind mice'? Not 'shoots for three, and scores! The crowd goes wild! And there goes the buzzer-we're into overtime!'"

"Nope. Just three." I couldn't tell her what my mom had once told me: that San was a name typically given to third children in China, so I was probably given up for adoption because my real family couldn't keep a third kid. That wouldn't be a good line of conversation at all. "How about you? Why Woody? I mean, you already told me why not Emily-but not why you chose the name Woody over every other name in the world."

She must have known I was changing the subject away from myself again, but she let me, for the moment. "Well, my mom's family dropped us completely when she left, so I didn't want to be a.s.sociated with my grandma, right? But I still wanted a connection to my mom. And just before Mom left-when we didn't even know she was going to leave-she bought me a present. I walked home from the school bus stop one day and found her wrapping up something at the kitchen table. My snack was sitting out waiting for me; I still remember, it was vanilla pudding with Oreos crumbled on top and half a gla.s.s of milk. Anyway, she was sitting there cutting the ribbon for the gift, and when she looked at me, it looked like she'd been crying. I asked what was going on, and she told me I'd get the present in a couple of days-not that she'd give it to me in a couple of days, but that I'd get it in a couple of days. That was a Monday, and when I got home on Thursday the box was on the table with a note that said she couldn't do this anymore-whatever 'this' was-and that the present was her favorite music in the world. So what was I going to do? I opened the wrapping and found a set of Woody Guthrie CDs inside. She used to play folk music around the house all the time, so I knew a lot of the songs. When Dad got home three hours later, he found me sitting there at the table, crying and listening to Woody Guthrie.

"So when I started guitar lessons the next year, I asked my teacher to show me how to play a bunch of the songs. And here we are. I used to think that my mom would be so impressed with me when she came back if I could play all of her favorite songs. But I've been playing these songs for a couple of years now, and she hasn't come back yet."

"Wow. I'm sorry, Woody."

"Yeah, me too. I actually...can I tell you something really dorky?"

"Nothing you could tell me would seem dorky to me."

"Well, I recorded myself playing a bunch of Woody Guthrie songs three weeks ago, and mailed the DVD to my mom. You inspired me to do it, San."

"I did? How in the world did I inspire you to do something so fearless?" did? How in the world did I inspire you to do something so fearless?"

"Oh, come on. It was the day after you beat Peter in the foul-shooting contest. We were on the way to the shelter and you said that thing about the fire burning in your hair. Remember? 'All that matters right now is what you do right now'? So even though my mom hadn't come back or gotten in touch, I decided I could send her a message right then. You kind of, I don't know, showed me I could forgive her, in a way."

Wow, Woody really believed in me. n.o.body had ever believed in me before, n.o.body had ever given me that kind of power. Thank G.o.d I hadn't told her to jump off a cliff or eat yellow snow, or something. And the funny thing was, I believed in her too, but my belief was right and hers was wrong. She was forgiving, and I was hiding.

"That's not dorky, it's amazing. You're You're amazing." amazing."

"Yeah, well, Peter didn't think it was so amazing. He said I'm crazy and that I should just shut up and be happy with the parents I have. have. Maybe he's right. Maybe I was insane to do it. But I sent the package anyway." Maybe he's right. Maybe I was insane to do it. But I sent the package anyway."

A shadow fell over us. Dowd rumbled, "h.e.l.lo, Miss Long, Mr. Lee. I'm overjoyed to see that you are enjoying a bonding moment, but perhaps you could get back to pretending your project is still in progress?"

His eyes were in full twinkle. "By the way, Mrs. Romberger at the public library has been raving about your research skills, San-and your volunteer efforts at the soup kitchen, as well. Keep up the good work."

He strode away to stop two kids who were playing catch with their model Chinese paG.o.da project, and Woody looked at me. "Research skills? What are you researching?"

"Long story."

She leaned on the desk between us and put her chin on both hands. "I'd love to hear it."

Yikes! I had to say something. But what? How was I going to weasel my way out of this one?

Apparently, with a little help from Mother Nature. All of a sudden, Woody pulled back in horror, made a little squeaking noise, and pointed to my right. There was a centipede on the arm of the girl next to me, who saw Woody's gesture and looked down. The girl screamed. Her partner screamed. The girl whipped her arm up over her head, causing the centipede to tumble high in the air and down toward her partner's hair. The partner fell backward in her chair, and her feet whacked the edge of their desk. Their huge papier-mache Buddha flew about a foot off their desk and landed on the floor with a sickening crunch.

They both looked right at me for a split second, and the partner said, "Oops. Sorry, San."

I said, "No problem. The great master, Lin Chi, said, 'If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha.' Although, come to think of it, I'm guessing that was just a metaphor."

They both looked puzzled and relieved at the same time, at least until Woody said, "Oh, my G.o.d! There it is!"

And there it was, all right. The centipede was now on the partner's purse. The screaming started up again, and Woody said, "San! Take care of it!"

I couldn't help it. I shouted, "ME? I can't kill that thing!"

She looked at me like I was Prince Charming. "Oh, I know, San. Your Buddhist reverence for all living things, right?"

No, I thought, my wussy disgust for poisonous things with way too many legs. my wussy disgust for poisonous things with way too many legs. "Uh, right." "Uh, right."

"You're not the only one who knows how to do research, San Lee. Now take that bug outside before someone steps on it."

Sure enough, about five different guys, including Peter, were closing in on the revolting creature at an alarming rate. If I didn't act fast, this girl's handbag was going to have a thin coating of crunchy special sauce-and Woody was going to think I didn't revere the centipede.

Isn't it funny how life sucks a lot?

"OK," I said commandingly. "I'll get him. Stand back, everybody. We, uh, don't want to scare the little guy any worse than he already is." Or, you know, than I I already was. I crouched down so the bug bag was at eye level and gingerly lifted the bag's strap off the back of the girl's chair. I looked at the centipede. The centipede waved its loathsome pincers at me. I looked at Dowd, who was standing behind Woody. already was. I crouched down so the bug bag was at eye level and gingerly lifted the bag's strap off the back of the girl's chair. I looked at the centipede. The centipede waved its loathsome pincers at me. I looked at Dowd, who was standing behind Woody.

"Um, Mr. Dowd? May I please take this insect outside and set it free?" I held up the bag, and Dowd said, "Sure, San. I think that's very n.o.ble of..." He didn't finish, because he was distracted by the sight of the centipede doing a kamikaze backflip off the bag's zipper, caroming off the girl's cell phone, and landing on the hardwood floor at a dead hundred-foot run. This caused a whole lot of frenzied activity. All the girls were jumping up on chairs like I wanted desperately to do, but all the boys started cheering, "Go, San!" and "Get him, Buddha!" Some kid even called out, "Kill the bug, San!" Which was pretty entertaining, because maybe ten people instantly gave him dirty looks, like, "Don't you know about San's Buddhist reverence for all life? Moron!"

Ah, fame. Well, my fans wanted a show, so I had to give them one. With the speed and dexterity of a bird of prey-well, a vegetarian bird of prey-I s.n.a.t.c.hed up an oversized piece of construction paper from a desk and started chasing that little sucker around the cla.s.sroom until he fled under Dowd's desk. Just as he was about to disappear into the safety of Dowd's briefcase, I swept the edge of the paper under him from behind, tripping at least sixty of his little legs. I had the centipede! I folded up the edges of the paper so that it was like an upside-down pup tent, and Mister Bug was at my mercy.

Of course, every nerve in my body was screeching, THROW THE BUG! RUN! RU-U-UN! THROW THE BUG! RUN! RU-U-UN! But Dowd was watching. Woody was watching. Peter was watching. Very carefully I sealed the tent by crumpling up the edges in one fist. I waved a jaunty good-bye to the cla.s.s with the other hand and headed out of the room into the hall. Once out of sight, I allowed myself to sag against the lockers for a second and gasp desperately for air. Newsflash: I was HOLDING A CENTIPEDE! One minute I'd been having a deep heart-to-heart with Woody, and the next I was stuck in a wildlife doc.u.mentary. I just hoped it wasn't going to end like that horrible one where the bear researcher gets mauled by grizzlies. But Dowd was watching. Woody was watching. Peter was watching. Very carefully I sealed the tent by crumpling up the edges in one fist. I waved a jaunty good-bye to the cla.s.s with the other hand and headed out of the room into the hall. Once out of sight, I allowed myself to sag against the lockers for a second and gasp desperately for air. Newsflash: I was HOLDING A CENTIPEDE! One minute I'd been having a deep heart-to-heart with Woody, and the next I was stuck in a wildlife doc.u.mentary. I just hoped it wasn't going to end like that horrible one where the bear researcher gets mauled by grizzlies.

I took one last deep breath, and then ran like a madman for the stairs. You could probably have heard the smack-smack smack-smack of my sandals against my soles from about a mile away as I booked it out of the building, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the little popping noises the centipede's body was making as it bounced around inside my paper trap. I stopped on the gra.s.s just outside the back door of the school and looked at the paper, realizing that I was totally alone out there. I could put the whole thing down and then jump up and down on it until it looked like the world's goriest art project. Or I could just leave it there, run back in, and say I'd taken care of everything. of my sandals against my soles from about a mile away as I booked it out of the building, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the little popping noises the centipede's body was making as it bounced around inside my paper trap. I stopped on the gra.s.s just outside the back door of the school and looked at the paper, realizing that I was totally alone out there. I could put the whole thing down and then jump up and down on it until it looked like the world's goriest art project. Or I could just leave it there, run back in, and say I'd taken care of everything.

In fact, I admit it: I did drop my little package and take a few steps backward away from it. But then it occurred to me that I was supposed to have this reverence for all living things. I mean, Woody really believed I had it. I couldn't just walk away and leave the poor little bug to die in his paper prison.

I stepped back up to the paper. I tried to sort of prod it open with my foot. But of course that didn't work in the least. The only way I was going to free my venomous little amigo was with my hands. "Stupid freakin' reverence for all living things," I muttered. Bending way down, my fingers trembling, I reached for the paper.

got zen?

Spring came early in my eighth grade year-or at least that's what everyone told me. In Texas we hadn't particularly had seasons, so this was a bit new to my experience. But the trees got leaves again, the flowers bloomed, birds were suddenly all over the place-and I found myself thinking about Woody even more than usual. Teachers everywhere talk about spring fever, but I'd always thought I was immune, that I was just sort of mildly annoying to my teachers all year-round in an even kind of way. That year proved me wrong. It sounds like some cheeseball movie montage, but every bird song reminded me of Woody's voice; every flower was the blossomy scent of her hair; every chirping insect made me feel- Well, OK. I have to say that every chirping insect still pretty much made me want to climb up in my mom's lap and cry. But the rest of the spring stuff was true. Woody had really changed me. I had faced a horrible childhood fear because of her belief in me. She had taken a ma.s.sive risk by mailing her mother that DVD because of her belief in me. I guess one thing I was understanding for the first time is that faith is contagious. And Woody and I had such a bad case of it that we'd been infecting people everywhere we went. Except for Peter, who seemed to be immune.

The rest of the school, though, had a serious, critical case of faith-itis. The sickest people of all were the members of the basketball B team. In fact, they were in the late stages of Zen fever, so much so that they'd done something insane. They had challenged the A team to a game-a game they planned to win. It was like I had started a s...o...b..ll rolling down a hill, and now the s...o...b..ll was growing and growing as it tumbled out of my grasp-toward a humongous cliff.

n.o.body told me that any of this was going on, of course. If the guys had come to me and said they planned to beat the A team in a basketball game, I would have told them there was no way, that they were the B team for a reason. All right, maybe I couldn't tell them that all of my Zen teachings were a total load of BS, but I could have tried to talk them out of this team suicide mission somehow.

But the first I knew of the whole thing was when I walked into school one day with Woody and saw a poster of a yin-yang on the stairwell doors. It was black and white, on a brilliant red background, with no writing whatsoever. I said to Woody, "Hey, check that out. What do you think it's for?"

She looked away. "I don't know, a club maybe?"

"Wait a minute! You know what this is about, don't you?"

"I might." She was trying really hard not to smile, but not quite hard enough.

"Come on, tell me! What's it for?"

"You'll see, San. For now, how about using your famous Zen detachment and patience?"

"But...but..."

"You'll see, San. I promise!" And with that, she slipped into homeroom.

There were three more of the posters on the hallway walls between Woody's door and mine. I thought hard. Maybe my English teacher had put them up to coincide with the end of The Tao of Pooh. The Tao of Pooh. Maybe somebody in one of Dowd's cla.s.ses was doing this as a project. But on the other hand, maybe Peter was putting them up to increase the amount of pressure and attention I was getting. And maybe a strange race of alien beings had sent them as a message of brotherhood to all earthlings. Maybe somebody in one of Dowd's cla.s.ses was doing this as a project. But on the other hand, maybe Peter was putting them up to increase the amount of pressure and attention I was getting. And maybe a strange race of alien beings had sent them as a message of brotherhood to all earthlings.

All I could do was wonder.

In English cla.s.s, we had our end-of-book essay test for The Tao of Pooh. The Tao of Pooh. It was bizarre how all the parts of my life were overlapping all of a sudden; one of the questions was: It was bizarre how all the parts of my life were overlapping all of a sudden; one of the questions was: As you have learned, the essence of Taoism is the idea that one should walk the middle path between extremes, as symbolized by the yin-yang sign. How might this apply to your own experiences? As you have learned, the essence of Taoism is the idea that one should walk the middle path between extremes, as symbolized by the yin-yang sign. How might this apply to your own experiences? I had to roll that one around in my mind a bit, so I answered everything else first. Then I came back to it and started writing about my dad. And Woody. I had to roll that one around in my mind a bit, so I answered everything else first. Then I came back to it and started writing about my dad. And Woody.

The next day when we got to school, the yin-yang posters all said GOT ZEN? Woody raised an eyebrow at me. I said, "Are you ready to tell me what this is about?"

"Nope."

"Are you ready to give me a hint?"

"Nope."

"You know, the yinyang isn't even originally a Zen sign. It's Taoist."

"Wow."

"Are you going to tell me anything? Anything at all? Are you even listening to me right now?"

"Nope. Nope. Yup."

She blew her hair out of her eyes, grinned, and popped into her homeroom.

In gym that day, my disciple, Bison Mike, finally laid the truth on me: The posters were advertis.e.m.e.nts in the making. He told me that the team, along with Woody, had come up with this plan as a fund-raiser. Then he looked at me like I was supposed to pat him on the head and give him a cookie.

I argued that the whole thing was nuts, that they weren't ready to play the game. He argued back that this wasn't about winning or losing; it was about making money for the cause. I asked, "How much money does a middle school basketball team need anyway?"

He looked hurt, then maybe a little mad. "WE don't need the money, San. You know that. But we thought-I mean, Woody said-I mean, we and Woody-"

"You and Woody what?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise for you. We thought how great it would be if we could raise a lot of money for the soup kitchen. Don't you think so? Woody said you'd be pumped for this."

Oh, great. Now if I kept fighting against the idea, I was fighting directly against feeding the poor. So it looked like I had to be pumped. I turned to Mike and slapped him on the back. "Pumped isn't even the word," I said.

The game was on.

One night in the midst of all this, I came home and found my mom was there early. "Hi, San!" she said brightly. "You'll never guess who called today."

"Uh, the Pope? The Dalai Lama? Aunt Marlene?"

"None of the above. It was your friend's mom."

"Which friend?" Yeah, like I had so many.

"You know, the girl you're always with. The one with the 1950s Boy Scout name-Chippy? Gopher? Spanky?"

"Her name's Woody, Mom."

"I know. It's just so hard to keep track of the names of people I've never even met. never even met. Anyway, her mom told me she'd been hoping to get to know me. She asked if I was going to the big game. I said, what big game? She just laughed, like I had to be kidding. So I have a date with Jippy's mom to see some basketball thing at your school next week. Isn't that exciting?" Anyway, her mom told me she'd been hoping to get to know me. She asked if I was going to the big game. I said, what big game? She just laughed, like I had to be kidding. So I have a date with Jippy's mom to see some basketball thing at your school next week. Isn't that exciting?"