Fouling Out (11 page)

Watching things die down from my bedroom window, I know my mother will be worried about what the neighbors think about the police coming to our house. It is a lot easier than thinking about what life must be like in the Hanrahan house.

Twenty-two

F
or the second morning in a row, Taryn and I walk to school together. We haven't made arrangements, but she is once again waiting on the sidewalk in front of her house. When she sees me and waves, I don't even do a shoulder check to see if anyone else is around. To be honest, I've been turning and scoping out what was behind me long before Taryn came into view. I am able to wave back casually without any risk of embarrassment.

The conversation sticks to yesterday's topic. For all her talk about not caring about what her fair-weather friends think, Taryn mentions them at least four times on the short walk to school.

As she rambles on about an incident last summer at Playland, I peer at the houses we pass and wonder where the new home is that Tom mentioned yesterday. It's a safe bet that I won't spot him in any of the front windows on my route to school. With the image of a worn and ragged Tom so clear in my mind, it is obvious that his home doesn't have food, running water or laundry facilities. I'm picturing something more like a
Survivor
-style fort made of twigs and branches.

I try hard to focus on Taryn's tragic tales of fickle friendship. I learn that you should never go in an odd-numbered group to an amusement park. Apparently the memory of sitting on a roller coaster beside a greasy-haired, acne-scarred stranger stays with you a long time.

“I have an apology to make,” Taryn declares as she stops and looks at me. I stop and glance at her, but I can't sustain the gaze. It's too awkward.

“Do you remember that day in the gym when Tom beat you up?”

Come on, how do I forget something like that? Still, it's a sore spot to have Taryn refer to it as Tom beating me up. I was the socially responsible one. I stood there and took it. Not that I had a chance to do anything else.

I nod and, thankfully, she goes on. “Well, I think that was sort of my fault. That was back when I was in with Erin and the others. Anyway, Tom was bugging Erin. He like offered her this cookie that he'd half eaten. She said something like ‘Gross' and he got all mad. He taunted her with stuff like, ‘You know you want it. You know you like me.' I jumped in and said, ‘Whatever. Leave Erin alone. Go find your boyfriend, Craig.' I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted him to lay off. And then he took it out on you.”

There you go. I guess Tom and I aren't the only grade-sevens with big confessions. When I dare to look at Taryn again, she has this pleading kind of look. I quickly say, “It's okay. You didn't know what he'd do.”

“No. Exactly!” She sounds relieved as we walk in silence. I'm not the least bit mad—just disappointed. Yeah, Tom went berserk. Not that big of a surprise. I just wish he'd explained it himself. He got shot down by a girl. It was never about me at all.

After lunch Miss Chang tells us to work on our persuasive essays. I'm not all that committed to the field trip topic, so my mind starts to wander. Mr. Hanrahan's glare flashes into mind, then Tom's filthy face with chocolate cake crumbs in the corners of his mouth, then a close-up of my spit on Mr. Hanrahan's nose. Back in grade three, Tom and I used to have spitting contests to see who could spit the farthest. As with most things between us, it was never much of a contest. I was just pleased to get to the point where my spit no longer landed on my shoe. For his part, Tom eventually broke his one-meter record and raised his arms in Olympic-style glory. Tom would've high-fived me over last night's bull's-eye, even if it had come at close range.

“Why don't you have anything on your paper, Craig?” Miss Chang's one of those teachers who moves around the room instead of sitting at her desk, catching up on marking.

“I've got writer's block, I guess.” There is at least some truth in that. Miss Chang crouches by my desk and quizzes me about my topic. She spends the next five minutes listening to my responses before recommending that I consider a different topic—something I feel passionate about. She expects an outline first thing in the morning. As if I don't have enough on my mind already!

Twenty-three

I
rush home, hoping the cedars will talk again. Nothing. Maybe Tom is perched on the back steps. Nothing there either. I decide to go to the garage and check my bike in case Tom ever does reappear. Both tires are flat since I haven't ridden it in about four months. I pump the tires back up, give the bars a quick dusting and then head inside to try and figure out what I feel passionate about. Once again, nothing.

I zip down to the kitchen and scan the cupboards for something to snack on. We have masses of canned stuff, so I pull some down for Tom. I load six cans into a plastic bag, and there isn't a cream of celery soup among them. As I stuff the bag in my backpack, I go back to thinking about food drives and how poor people should receive both quantity and quality. Then I realize there is something that I'm passionate about. I run upstairs and, forgoing an outline, start to write. How commendable are donors who give up things that have little or no value to them? On the other hand, does a starving person care what's in the can? Shouldn't even the neediest get to experience the small pleasure of eating something truly tasty?

I fill three pages of notebook paper. My ideas rush out faster than I can get them all down. They aren't organized at all, but I know I can go back and do that on a rewrite. Wow. I'm actually planning to do another draft without any prodding. As I grab another sheet from my binder, I hear a
ping
on my bedroom window. I run to the window, peek out and see Tom searching the ground for another pebble to chuck.

Only a month ago, I dreaded seeing Tom. Now I'm both relieved and excited to see him again. I am probably his only contact, and I know I have to keep in touch with him until I can find a way to make his life less miserable. There's this lump in my gut that tells me there's no way Tom can go home again unless Mr. Hanrahan gets thrown in jail for a decade or so. Tom needs a new start, and it's not going to happen as long as he has to keep hiding in the woods. For all my thinking that I'm a big shot at twelve, it's times like these when I know I'm still just a kid. How is it that one kid has to look out for another kid? As far as I can figure out, there aren't any other options. Grabbing my backpack and jacket, I head out.

“Is your bike ready or what?” No other words are exchanged. I pull my bike out of the garage and we are off. For a half-starved kid, he manages to set a wicked pace, faster than I am used to. I guess when your bike becomes an absolute necessity rather than a plaything there isn't time to idly zigzag down the street. If I hadn't been running regularly, I would never have been able to keep up. As it is, I am gasping when we hit a light. He doesn't seem out of breath at all.

We go along Number
3
Road past Steveston Highway. Tom and I have biked this area several times before. All housing developments end at Steveston, and there are empty fields, a few farms and then some business developments once you get closer to the water.

As soon as we veer left off the main road, I know where we are going—Finn Slough. I should have thought of that. We'd gone there only a few times, but it's the kind of quiet rundown place where a grimy scratched-up kid could go unnoticed.

Even though I've figured out our destination, it is still shocking when we pedal over the decrepit wooden bridge and pull up beside the beat-up fishing shack. This is the pathetic little hut that we once joked about giving one final shove so we could watch it slip and sink in the marshy drool of the Fraser River.

Tom leans his bike against the thicket of dead bushes and walks up to the open doorway. He turns, flashes a goofy, yet defiant, grin and says, “Welcome to my home. Get off your bike and come on in.”

I feel nauseous, and I know it isn't because of the whirlwind pace we'd set getting here. I try to paint on the kind of smile you've got to drag out when your grandmother gives you a knitting kit for your birthday. Luckily, Tom turns away and ducks into the shack. I scan the building again and start to feel a deep sense of anger, combined with the nausea. Sure, we'd played inside the abandoned shed and we might have talked about camping out for a night, but that was in the summer when we both knew we had homes to return to after a little adventure. It was a cool place to hang, but it's no home. Rats deserve better. Even the victims of Tom's worst stunts wouldn't wish this on him.

What am I supposed to do? How can I act like everything is just swell? I need to shake someone— hard; I need to tell all the adults that this isn't supposed to happen to kids even if they've done a ton of stupid things. The whole scene screams,
Do something,
but I have no idea what to do.

I don't realize Tom has come back out again until he nudges my shoulder. “It's not so bad.” His voice is soft and low. “Believe it or not, it's better than home, and it beats foster care. Just come in. It's really okay. I'm surviving.”

I want to argue; anything has to be better than this, but I find myself unsuccessfully trying to fight back a couple of tears. For once, Tom doesn't make fun of me. He just yanks my jacket sleeve and guides me in.

Not so bad? Nothing could be worse. The scattered tires and nets should be decorating a landfill, not someone's home. An old chipped table is propped up against a wall with a bag of apples and the remains of my food donation on top. The opened doorways on both sides of the shack create a chilling breezeway.

How could a lousy squirrel stunt have led to this? Nothing makes any sense. I can't keep looking around the place. Ashamed and disgusted, I stare down at the floorboards.

“I really am doing okay.” It's surreal. Tom is trying to comfort me when the roles should be reversed. I slump down to the floor, and we just sit there for a couple of minutes.

“You can't stay here. No matter what you say, this isn't living.”

Tom stands up abruptly and walks over to the large opening overlooking the slough. When he turns back to face me, he looks angry rather than reassuring. His voice quakes as he speaks. “What am I supposed to do? This is all there is. I don't come from a perfect little family where my mom stays home and wonders what kind of cookies to bake. My mom just prays that all the bad stuff will go away. I don't have a dad that businessmen want to do lunch with. My dad goes off and bums beers at noon and then downs a pack of mints, hoping no one will notice the smell of booze when he goes back to work. I don't have a sister who wins trophies on the school track team and mulls over scholarship letters each night. My sister's been arrested four times for shoplifting and she spends all day in the basement smokin' pot. Jerry is the great hope. He almost made it through grade eleven, and he's got himself a job that he's kept for five months. He's a shining star.

“Haven't you figured out we're different? Don't you realize I got no chance? They can't shove me in foster care. They did that when I was in grade one, and I'm never going through that again. In eight months, I was tossed to three different homes. Seems I was a little too angry.

“There's a reason we've never talked much about my home life. If I told you even one story about it or about my foster home experiences, you'd pity me. I don't need that. But more than anything, I don't need you coming here and telling me that this—my life on my own in this shack —is unacceptable.”

He is right. His big speech doesn't make me any less angry; instead, the anger kind of turns in at myself for being so stupid and so blind.

“Sorry.”

“Don't go doin' that! I don't need you feeling guilty just 'cuz I'm pissed off about my life. Don't go feeling like you could've changed a thing. We're just kids. We can't fill out our own transfer papers and put ourselves up in Buckingham Palace. I never needed a friend to talk to about my family. I only needed someone to make me forget them for a while. I have to stay here for now, but I'm working on a plan. I'll be gone soon.”

“To where?” Afraid to look Tom in the eye, I stare at the bag of apples. One of them has a bruise that covers most of the surface. I bet he'll eat the whole thing, bruise and all…maybe even core and all. “How will anything be any better?”

“Haven't you listened to anything I've said? I don't know that anything will be better. But at least it'll be different.”

Tom sits on the floor and closes his eyes. I feel like I've stayed too long, even though only ten minutes have passed. He doesn't stir as I shuffle to my feet. For the first time, the weight of my backpack gets my attention—or my back and shoulders' attention, to be precise—and I remember I've come with housewarming gifts. I kneel down, unzip the pack and start unloading the food onto the table. After placing the fifth can, one of the table legs gives out, sending me chasing after a rolling can and two speedy apples that are in a race to escape from this dismal place. Tom continues to sit motionless. It is only as I start to walk out that he acknowledges me again. “I need you to get Archie.”

“But—”

“I want Archie to come with me. You said yourself that no one's taking care of him and no one will. He's the only part of my past that I want to keep with me.”

“Well, how am I supposed to get him?”

“Do I have to tell you everything?” he snaps. “Get him tonight. You'll only need to keep him a night or two tops. I'll come get him Friday night or Saturday morning at the latest.”

“Fine.” And without hearing a thank-you or a goodbye, I walk out, wrestle my bike away from an overgrown bush and head home.

Twenty-four