The Schwa was Here by Neal Shusterman Page A

really living, is it? That’s why I come to stay with him. My parents would much rather I stay somewhere else when they go out of the country, but I want to come here. I’m still working on changing him.”
    While the Schwa pondered his object, I pondered what she had said. I didn’t think Crawley could be changed. My dad once told me that people don’t change when they get older, they just get
more so
. I imagine that when Crawley was younger, he was the kind of kid who always saw the glass half empty instead of half full, and had a better relationship with his dog than with the neighborhood kids. In seventy-five years of living, half empty became bone-dry, solitary became isolated, and one dog became fourteen.
    “Saltshaker!” said the Schwa.
    “Wrong. It’s the queen from a chessboard,” said Lexie.
    “Your grandfather is who he is,” I told her. “You should just live your own life, and let him live his. Or
not
live his, I guess.”
    “I disagree,” said the Schwa. “I think people can be changed—but usually it takes a traumatic experience.”
    “You mean like brain damage?” I asked, then immediately thought about the Schwa’s father and was sorry I said it.
    “Trauma comes in many forms,” Lexie said. “It changes you, but it doesn’t always change you for the better.” She handed me my next object; something like a pen.
    “Well, if it’s directed trauma,” said the Schwa, “maybe it could change you for the better.”
    “Like radiation,” I said. They both waited for me to explain myself. This was easier said than done, on accounta the intuitive part of my brain was three steps ahead of the thinking part. It was like lightning before thunder. But sometimes you see lightning and the thunder never comes. Just like the way I’ll sometimes blurt out something that sounds smart, but if you ask me to explain it, the universe could end before you get an answer.
    “We’re listening,” Lexie said.
    I fiddled with my object, stalling for time. “You know, radiation . . .” And for once it all came to me—what I meant, and what I was holding. “Just like this . . . laser pointer!” I must have known in some subconscious way all along.
    “I get it,” said the Schwa. “Radiation can be like a nuclear missile, or it can be directed, like a medical treatment that saves your life.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “When my uncle got cancer, they used radiation therapy on him.”
    “And he lived?” asked Lexie.
    “Well, no—but that’s just because he got hit by a garbage truck.”
    “So,” said Lexie, “what my grandfather needs is
trauma therapy
. Something as dangerous as radiation, but focused, and in the proper dose.”
    “You’ll figure it out,” I told her.
    “Yes,” she said, “I will.”
    I gave her the plastic kneecap, but I could tell her mind was no longer on the game. She was already thinking of a way to traumatize her grandfather.
    “Maybe if we put our heads together,” the Schwa said, “we’ll come up with something quicker.”
    I squirmed. “Three heads are a crowd,” I said. But whatever Lexie’s opinion was, she kept it quiet.

    That Friday night I had Lexie all to myself, since the Schwa’s aunt came over every Friday night. I took her to a concert in the park at an outdoor amphitheater.
    The music was salsa—not my favorite, but that was okay. Concerts have a way of making music you don’t regularly like, likable. I guess it’s because when the people around you really like it, some of that soaks into you. It’s called osmosis, something I learned about in science—probably by osmosis, since it isn’t like I was listening. I was listening to the music, though, and so was Lexie. I watched the way she moved to it, and I didn’t even feel self-conscious watching her because she couldn’t see me doing it.
    We had great seats—right smack in the middle. The handicapped section. I have to admit I felt guilty—not only because I wasn’t handicapped,