Fouling Out (4 page)

My parents are too caught up in the news to notice the sweat beading my forehead. “That's not far from us, Neil. What's the world coming to?” My mother is about to say more, but my father shushes her. Apparently, the feature on goose droppings has hooked at least one viewer.

I'm quiet all through dinner, not that anyone seems to notice. Margo is whining about how she's the only person she knows who doesn't have a nose or tongue piercing. Mom gasps, but Dad fuels the fire when he wonders aloud if Margo should finish high school at the all-girls Catholic school. Margo throws a predictable hissy fit, Mom tries to soften Dad's threat, and the three go on talking at and over each other. I finish my share of the macaroni casserole and retreat to my room, totally unnoticed.

I slump in my armchair and wonder why I am still friends with a guy who thinks nothing of carrying a gun. Why do I have a friend that wants to see a squirrel die? Isn't that psychotic or some other psychiatric condition? What will he do next? And why don't I have the spine to just say no to his dumb—and dangerous—ideas of what is fun?

Was he always that way? When I first met him, it was all about soccer. Then he got obsessed with basketball. No harm in a couple of guys playing sports, right? Of course, he did make me pull the fire alarm at school in grade two. Okay, he didn't threaten me or anything, but he dared me. He dared me again in grade four. And we had a pretty sophisticated system of swiping candy from people's lunchboxes during “bathroom breaks” when we were in Mrs. Lind's class in grade three. Until Mr. Skye busted us. Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe without a willing accomplice, Tom would be harmless. All talk, nothing else.

Back to today. Tom pulled the trigger, but I'm the buffoon who tackled him. There was something awfully cute about that poor squirrel. I had to do something. Maybe I could have just yelled to make the thing move or to startle Tom and mess up his aim. Yeah, then I could have taken the bullet! I don't know. What good choices are there when your friend takes a gun along for an afternoon of amusement?

Each time I put all the blame on Tom, my conscience twists things up and tells me I'm equally at fault. My conscience seems to speak with my dad's voice.

Later, when I go to bed, I sleep surprisingly well. I feel guilty about it when I wake up at ten the next morning. Tom and I had probably given the new family a restless night. They may have gone to a hotel. How long will it take for them to sleep in peace? When will they stop looking fearfully at cars that pass by their house? I can't get that family out of my mind, even though I don't have any idea what they look like. If I were in their shoes, I'd probably be on edge every second I was at home. Who wouldn't? I wouldn't want to stay inside, but I also wouldn't feel safe out in the community. Hopefully, Gwen's mother and the other neighbors are consoling the family, stepping up their crime watch program and getting to know one another. Maybe something good will come out of this. I try hard to convince myself, but I don't really buy it.

I decide to get out of the house and go for a run. It is raining, and I usually skip running on really soggy days, but I can't stay indoors. I probably deserve to get rained on. Maybe a lightning strike is in the cards too.

Running is therapy for me. No matter how big the problem, it always gets pushed out of my mind five or ten minutes into my run. Running's a lot cheaper and more private than seeing a shrink. Of course, once the run is done, the problem pops back in my head, but for half an hour or so I can block it out.

I run for an hour and ten minutes. I keep going until I start to get a piercing pain in my left knee. That kind of thing always happens when I'm about as far from home as possible. The run back isn't pretty. The rain continues to pour down and soak through my “rain resistant” windbreaker. My right leg takes more of the weight as I run. Eventually, I am hobbling more than running.

Four blocks from home I have to stop. I stumble as my knee almost gives out on a landing. I scream in pain and look around to make sure no one has heard me. Who would have? On a day like today, not even a dog walker is in sight. I limp the rest of the way home—at least, until I am a couple of houses away. Then I put on a brave face and try to walk normally. If my mom sees me limping, she'll forbid me to run anymore or lecture me on running a reasonable distance or harp at me for wearing too light a jacket or, more likely, combine it all into one long nagfest. Every stride with my left leg is sheer torture. I feel a tear form in the corner of my eye, but I wipe it away and angrily tell myself to suck it up. There's no need to bring out the lightning. That can wait for another day. I'm totally miserable already.

I'm only half surprised that there isn't a squad car in our driveway. What if they've already come looking for me and concluded I was on the run? Maybe a special news bulletin has interrupted regular programming, and my hideous school photo from grade six—the one where my head is tilted and one eye is half closed—has flashed on the screen as an announcer bellows, “Fugitive on the loose! He may look harmless, but he's armed and very, very dangerous! Please, everyone, stay inside and call nine-one-one if you see this criminal.”

I decide to go in the back door even though that means I have to pull myself up twelve steps to the back deck. (I've never counted them before, but this time every stair presents a unique daunting challenge.) I hug the railing and try to pull myself up with my upper body to lessen the legwork.

My sister doesn't even look up as I come in. She is slouched on the sofa, hair uncombed, watching a fashion program on
TV
. Yeah, like that'll help. Well, I guess my criminal status isn't serious enough to interrupt a segment on the latest makeup tips.

Mom is loading the dishwasher and doesn't turn around as she calls out, “Did you have a nice run, dear?” I just grunt and brace myself for climbing the staircase that will lead me to the shower and my room. Right now an elevator seems like the most practical thing in the world to have in a two-story house. Why can't we be more practical?

A few more tears dribble down my face as I stagger up the final three steps. This time I don't bother to wipe them away. I'm too focused on finishing the climb. Can Mount Everest really be worse than this? I can't imagine why anyone would ever bother.

In my room, I peek out my window before getting into the shower. Still no police. My grandfather once said, “Some days you just grimace through.” At the time, I thought he was being his usual sour self and referring to things like getting stuck shoe-shopping “just for fun” with my mom and sister. His words now have a far more potent meaning. I can't say I'm glad to understand him a little better.

Eight

T
om hovers impatiently over my desk with his backpack strapped on, waiting for me to gather my stuff. You'd think the bell had rung twenty minutes rather than twenty seconds earlier. It reminds me of those dogs some psychologist trained to drool at the sound of a bell—their reward was a doggy treat. For Tom, basketball is the reward. Miss Chang does not allow us to throw or bounce balls in the classroom, and Tom has to control the urge to begin dribbling until he steps out of the portable. While he hasn't challenged Miss Chang's rule since the first week of school, there seems to be a battle raging between Tom's brain and his hyperactive, basketball-programmed muscles.

“C'mon!” he orders, sounding super-irritated. “Let's get outta here.”

I look into his face and make my decision. I'm not moving. I'm still angry with him about the shooting incident and, now that forty-eight hours have passed, I know he's due to do something else that's dangerous and/or foolish. Sorry…not today. At least not with me riding shotgun.

“I'm not going yet. I gotta get extra help on math.”

“What? Are you nuts? You want to stay after school to do
more
math?”

“I told you. I don't get it. I need help if I'm going to pass.”

“I don't get
you
.” Smart comeback. Off he goes in a huff. I pity the younger kids he'll encounter on his way home. But I am relieved. I don't have to get pulled into some crazy stunt. More importantly, I've come clean— not so much about the past, but at least about today and maybe about the future. Tom has no idea that I've been coming early to school every day for the last couple of weeks. Lately, I've been feeling like I finally understand the regular in-class math lessons, but I continue to get extra tutoring just to be sure. Since math has never been my thing, I keep waiting for the heavy fog to settle back in my brain.

Now that he knows, I can stay after school and I won't have to wake up early anymore. Tomorrow, my alarm clock will suffer a little less abuse and the chances have increased by seventy-five percent that I will get to my cereal before it turns to mush. Look at me, using math stats!

I stay away from Tom all week. To be fair, he isn't exactly seeking me out either. At first, we exchange strained hellos, but soon we're ignoring each other completely. Tom seems to go out of his way to show that he can have a good time without me. He does his best to be the class clown, spiking his hair with heavy duty gel, bowling with oranges at lunch, intentionally falling out of his seat a couple of times and performing impromptu finger puppet shows when Miss Chang uses the overhead projector in science. If you ask me, the overhead shadows stopped being funny in grade five, but a lot of the boys and some of the girls still give Tom the audience he craves.

Tom invests a great deal of time trying to impress Erin, Tracey, Taryn, Stephanie and any other girl who screams or otherwise reacts to his teasing and taunting. He thinks he is so cool, but he's never looked more ridiculous.

By Wednesday I've had enough of The Tom Show, so I invite Mark Tam over for lunch. Mark is one of the smart kids. Disgustingly smart at times. Math seems effortless for him. Whenever Miss Chang introduces some new concept, he absorbs it immediately and often raises his hand with a question or comment that extends the concept or applies it to something else. Miss Chang gets all excited about his “terrific question” or “excellent observation.” Usually I have to tune him out because I'm still trying to make sense of the basic stuff. Like I said, I'm still on shaky ground with all this math. Tom and I used to make faces every time Mark's hand went up, but I'm beginning to admire him even if I don't have a clue what he's talking about. Maybe I just envy him. Now that I'm actually trying to understand math, I wish I had even half his smarts.

Don't get me wrong though. I'm not having Mark over for lunch so I can con him into doing my homework. A year ago that might've been my motive. Now, I'm determined to figure out the math even if it turns my hair gray by the time I'm fourteen. Mark is actually a nice guy. He even has flaws. He can't really draw, and I remember Mr. Osmond screaming at him a few times last year about incomplete projects.

I first got to know Mark when we had to stay after school once every few weeks because of Desk Dumping. A few minutes before the bell at the end of the day, Osmond would tear through the classroom and dump all the contents of any desk he considered “catastrophically chaotic.” Tom only had to stay a couple of times. Surprisingly, his desk was always pretty clean. He told me that he just threw everything out that he didn't feel like organizing. Mark and I were never spared. I didn't learn to be better organized; I just learned to despise Osmond.

Mark never plays basketball, but he's amazing at hockey. I quit hockey two years ago after scoring only two goals for the season. I never figured out how to time my shots so they'd get by the goalie. And I didn't find it satisfying sitting on a bench watching other guys control our team's fate. Still, if Mark is up for some street hockey, it'd be fun to give it another try.

When I told my mom in the morning that Mark would be coming over for lunch, I thought she was going to do a cartwheel or something. Mothers always seem to know who the smart kids are and when they hear you are doing a project or hanging out with one of them, they go berserk, thinking the smart genes will somehow magically rub off on you. As Mark and I walk into the house, the smell of tomato sauce and homemade pizza dough wafts through the front hallway. Yep, Mom is pulling out her best dish to make sure The Genius will want to come back again and again. She starts pouring the soda as soon as she hears the creak of the door. Heck, she's probably been watching from one of the upstairs windows for the first sign of us walking up the street. I can just picture her sprinting down the stairs, skipping every second step, getting in position in the kitchen.

As we eat, she can't help herself.

“How's your mom, Mark? I worked with her on one of the bake sales last year, you know.”

“Oh, she's—”

“A very nice woman. No doubt about it. Your sister's going to university next year, isn't she?”

“Yes. That's right,” Mark manages to say between mouthfuls.

“She'll be getting a scholarship, won't she? I've heard that she can pretty much go anywhere she wants. Is she going to study premed?”

“Well, I don't—”

“Of course, it's still a little ways away. A lot can change in the next eight or nine months, I suppose. And how are you liking Miss Chang's class? I think she's probably Craig's favorite teacher ever…”

I want to put Mom on mute. How could she blurt that out? Sure, Miss Chang is all right, but how could she tell Mark I really like the teacher? This is one of those times I wish they had trade-ins on mothers. I'd happily take Tom's. His mother never says anything. She'd probably just go off in a separate room and pray that I could keep my smart new friend. That would be awesome. Instead, I have to have a wannabe talk show host as a mom. Of course, she isn't too good at it since she never allows the guest to get a word in. I try to completely tune her out, but I hear her mention that I used to have a sticker collection—WHEN I WAS FIVE, MOM!—and that I belonged to a library club last summer—BECAUSE YOU AND DAD FORCED ME TO!