Darren Johnson - Arnesto Modesto - The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler

“Don’t worry,” Pete said. “I’ll pretend I’m sick and then we can work on it over the weekend.”

“Pete, no. We tried that. It didn’t work. We got shellacked.”

“What happened?”

“You fought bravely, my friend,” Arnesto sighed. “Really, I remember this all too well. You try to convince Mrs. Spencer that you aren’t up for it, but she doesn’t back down. She’s not mean or anything about it. You give it a shot, and it seems we’re in the clear, but then she comes back at you, repeat. Your debate with her about whether you’re fit to debate lasts twice as long as the actual debate! And then we wind up having to have the stupid debate anyway!”

“Jesus,” was all Pete could say. After a couple bites of his burger, he continued, “I guess we’d better prepare then.”

“Good. It’s not like we have to bust our asses. We only need to spend a little time—”

“Unless,” Pete interrupted, “I can talk our way out of it this time. No, hear me out. Now that I know I will lose the battle, can’t we prevent it? What do you remember us saying exactly?”

“Nothing! I don’t remember what either of you said because it was so painful to watch that I blocked it from my memory as soon as I could. All I remember is a lot of back and forth.” They were now debating the debate of whether they would debate.

“Come on, let me try. I know I can get us out of it this time. Please, ” Pete said.

Arnesto thought about it. What did it matter anyway? It was one graded assignment for one class. Did it ever affect their lives after that? Not really. But it did give them something to laugh about down the road.

“Fine,” Arnesto said at last.

Less than twenty-four hours later, it was time for battle.

“Next up: gun control. Who’s debating?” Mrs. Spencer asked.

“Uh, Mrs. Spencer? I’m not feeling well,” Pete said.

Here we go , thought Arnesto, while remaining steadfastly silent like the rest of the class.

“I’m sorry, Pete, but it won’t take long,” Mrs. Spencer said in her usual encouraging tone.

“I can’t — I’m really not feeling well today.”

Go, Pete, go , Arnesto thought . No, what am I saying, don’t get your hopes up .

“You don’t look that sick, are you sure you can’t give your debate?” Mrs. Spencer asked.

“I’m sure. I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

“It will only take ten minutes. Could you please try?”

While history was awkwardly repeating itself, Arnesto tried to think. He could rattle off the names of dozens of subatomic particles, many of which had yet to be discovered, but he couldn’t remember any decent arguments against gun control, other than gross misinterpretations of the Second Amendment. All he could come up with were slogans from bumper stickers, like, “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns” and “Gun control means using both hands.” Well, if history was going to repeat itself, and it sure seemed like it was, it couldn’t hurt to join in. Maybe he could save them.

“Mrs. Spencer? Pete’s really sick, I would like to motion for a continuance.” Pete turned and glared at Arnesto while Mrs. Spencer and half the class turned their heads toward him in bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, boys, I must ask you to try. And this is a school debate, not a courthouse hearing.” Several students snickered.

“Alright,” Arnesto said, getting up and walking to the front. Pete had no choice but to follow.

Michelle and Nicole went first and gave several well-thought-out and articulate arguments. Though unprepared, Pete did a surprisingly good job arguing. Arnesto’s rebuttal, on the other hand…

“Statistics, statistics, statistics. Sure, we can cite statistics all day, but then we’d be ignoring the human element.” It only got worse from there.

When it was all over, the remaining students voted on whether they were in favor of gun control. Like Arnesto remembered, they lost twenty to one.

“I had it. Now we’re screwed,” Pete hissed at Arnesto.

“It’s over now,” Arnesto whispered back. “Besides, you get a B+.”

“Oh,” Pete said, feeling satisfied. The following Monday, they would, in fact, receive the same grades Arnesto remembered, a B+ for Pete and a C- for Arnesto.

Homeroom

Thursday, March 2, 1989

Eager to put the debate debacle behind them, the boys chose to focus on other subjects. Pete was already seated in homeroom and engrossed in a textbook when Arnesto walked in and sat down.

“Hey,” Arnesto said.

Pete abruptly turned. “Oh, I didn’t hear you swish into class. You’re wearing jeans?! What happened to your corduroys?”

“I wanted to be prepared for when cords go out of fashion,” Arnesto whispered.

“Yes, it’s good to be prepared for five years ago . Hold on, something else is different about you. Your eyebrows…”

Arnesto smiled and rubbed the freshly shaved spot between his eyebrows. “I have two of them now.”

“Look at you making yourself over. I’m impressed. Any other surprises?”

“No other shurprishes.” Arnesto quickly covered his mouth with his hand but then slowly lowered it when he realized Pete wasn’t about to stop staring him down. Arnesto gave a fake smile, revealing the metal underneath.

“You’re wearing your retainer again? Why?”

“I didn’t wear it enough,” Arnesto said, “and I have the feeling my teeth might get a little crooked later in life.” He removed the retainer from his mouth. “It’s still annoying, though. Excuse me while I go rinse this off in the drinking fountain.” Arnesto left and returned a minute later.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward Pete’s book.

Pete flashed him the cover of the SAT prep guide he was reading.

“Ah, the SATs,” Arnesto said. “An excellent measure of one’s ability to… take the SATs.”

“Here,” Pete said, “let me ask you one. Yogh is to Futhorc as Kalian is to…? Is the answer, A) Witenagemot, B) Cacomistle, C) Simoom, or D) Chaulmoogra?” He saw Arnesto’s deer-in-the-headlights look and laughed. He held the book so Arnesto could read it for himself.

“Are you serious?” Arnesto asked. “What did they do, read Shakespeare and say, ‘Oh, hey, guys, here’s another word that’s never been used anywhere else in history, let’s hit them with it!’? It’s bullshit.”

“I concur, it’s retarded.”

“I haven’t heard of any of these, and I mean, ever . Alright, I’ll pick ‘A’, wine-age-moth or whatever.”

“Witenagemot? I’m thinking it’s ‘B’, Cacomistle, but who knows. Let me see,” Pete said, flipping to the answer guide in the back. “Aha, it’s ‘C’, Simoom. ‘Just as a yogh is a single letter as opposed to a futhorc which represents an alphabet, along the same scale, a kalian, which is a pipe, draws in a small amount of smoke, as compared to a simoom, which is an entire wind.’”

Arnesto simulated flipping his desk in rage. “Is there an answer guide for the answer guide? I guess they expect us to read the dictionary?”

“If they do, that’s pretty retarded.” Pete resumed reading.

Arnesto looked around, then leaned over and tapped Pete on the shoulder. “Why do you keep saying the r-word?”

“What? What r-word?” Pete thought for a moment. “‘Retarded?’”

“Yeah, it’s offensive. It’s like the n-word,” Arnesto said.

“Just because you got that question wrong doesn’t mean you’re retarded.”

“No, not me, people who are… specially abled.”

“You’re saying,” Pete said, “the r-word is offensive. Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed into slits. “Since when ?”