Fouling Out (5 page)

Mark swallows his pizza even faster than I do. Never has Mom's pizza seemed so utterly tasteless. Embarrassment can drain the flavor out of anything. Mark looks incredibly appreciative when I whisk him off to my dad's office to play a couple of computer games. Fortunately, Mom doesn't follow us. She's too much of a clean freak to let the dishes sit for even a few minutes.

Strangely, Mom's assault doesn't scare Mark off. He's busy after school on Thursday, but he invites me to see a movie with him and Keith Fong on Friday night. Keith has only been in our class for a few weeks. He's from Hong Kong, but his English is pretty good and he seems to have a good sense of humor. My parents don't think twice about letting me go. In fact, Mom gives me twenty-five bucks for the movie and enough popcorn and snacks to share. I buy a large popcorn and pocket the rest of the money for later. If my new social life continues, I'll need it. Sure, my parents will keep funding all my Tom-free events, but it's nice not having to ask.

Nine

T
he Richmond Racist makes the news again on the weekend. The news anchor peers grimly into our family room, reminding viewers that in the past week anti-Asian graffiti has surfaced on a park bench in the Steveston area and at a Korean mini mall. The reporter who first covered the story is reporting live from another Richmond neighborhood, interviewing a Chinese man who speaks angrily about having the windshield of his new car smashed. There is no reference to graffiti or any sign that the man's car was targeted because he's Asian, but both the man and the reporter blame the Richmond Racist. The camera zooms in on broken glass littering the pavement. Still no leads.

Once again, no one at the house where the “attempted murder” took place will go on camera. My mother shakes her head and mumbles her usual, “What is the world coming to?” as the reporter adds that a special team of officers—the Richmond Anti-Racism Task Force—will aggressively investigate the incidents until the perpetrator, or perpetrators, are brought to justice.

I creep up to my room, worrying about how I will finish grade seven if I have to spend the next twenty years in prison. I envision myself as a heavily tattooed thirty-three-year-old student in a neon-orange jumpsuit, returning to Miss Chang's class. I won't remember any of the math, and every missing pencil will be blamed on me, the ex-con.

As I clutch a pillow and sit on my bed, I tell myself that none of the hysteria is my fault. Tom had taken the gun. He was the one who wanted to skin a squirrel. I'd said no to everything. Well, I had gone with him. And I had fled the scene.

Still, the
TV
reporter was blowing everything out of proportion.
What'll it be Sunday night, Lois? By gosh,
the Richmond Racist has slashed some tires! Tune in at
eleven! Richmond Racist writes on picnic table!
Anything racist is despicable. I know that, but since the media has it all wrong about the motive for the shooting, maybe the windshield smashing was random vandalism, not a hate crime. There's got to be a way to make all the craziness go away. A way other than confessing.

My deepest fear is that some horribly violent act will get pinned on the Richmond Racist and that somehow the cops will find out about Tom and me. Maybe in order to close the case and calm the city they will charge us with everything.

I worry that more Asians will be losing sleep or getting angry. Maybe even Miss Chang is upset. What will Mark Tam think if the police haul me in for questioning?

I think about calling the police and coming clean about my part in the shooting. If they believe me, people will learn that the “attempted murder” involved a squirrel, not a person. Maybe the whole media frenzy will wind down. Then again, maybe the media won't want their lead story ruined by a stupid seventh grader. What if they refuse to let the truth be told? Gosh, am I getting even more paranoid? How paranoid do you have to be to be committed? I seem destined for lockup of one kind or another. Still, by confessing, I'll have my dignity—such as it is.

Then I think of Tom beating me to a pulp. Then I think of Tom's dad doing the same to him. If a lima bean sandwich can trigger a whipping, God knows how that man will react if he finds out Tom stole his gun. If I take full responsibility for the window thing, how do I explain where I got the gun? You can't exactly just pick one up at the grocery store or find one in a ditch. Not in my neighborhood anyway…Richmond Racist or not.

I don't have an answer. I feel nauseous, so I clench my pillow against my stomach, hoping that will bring comfort. It's no use. I do the only thing I can think of doing. I turn on my dad's computer and download Space Explorers.
You have a lot of potential as a writer. You have a knack
for telling a story and a unique way of describing things.

I read the comments on my story draft once again. There is more, of course. My spelling is a little too creative, my sentences never end, and I need to throw in some apostrophes. (Those are the commas in the air, right? If they called them “flying commas” maybe people would learn how to use them.) But it's the first comment that catches me off guard. Potential? Wow! Everybody else must've turned in really awful stories if Miss Chang is pinning her hopes on me.

My thoughts are interrupted when Miss Chang comes to my desk and, with a huge smile, repeats her positive comments—and outlines the technical problems as well. She gives specific examples to support her claim that I can write. I even used something called
alliteration
although I don't have any idea what that is.

I'm amazed. I still think it must be a fluke. My last writing assignment got a “generous” C-minus. That was the one where I had to add a character to change the plot of the novel. To say that I even skimmed the book would be a stretch. Although Miss Chang had liked the novelty of my adding Big Bird, she'd found “wild inaccuracies” in the basic plot. Apparently they don't sing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” in a school play in
Anne of
Green Gables.
Canadian classic or not, it's a girl book. What did she expect?

Anyway, back to the sudden flash of writing success. Miss Chang is now reading parts of my story sentence by sentence and praising my
writing voice
, whatever that is. No teacher has ever seemed so excited about anything I've done in class. Well, Mrs. Jeter at my old school may have come close in kindergarten when I finished my macaroni sculpture of a seal. Although Miss Chang talks to me privately, she keeps getting louder. It's a little embarrassing, but I don't ask her to stop.

The story I'd handed in was about a couch potato named Gilligan. I took the name from an old
TV
show. Miss Chang even thinks that is clever, naming a
TV
addict after a famous television character. I'm not about to burst her bubble by telling her the only reason I came up with it was because I was watching reruns of
Gilligan's
Island
while writing.

Anyway, the story begins with Gilligan watching a rerun of
Wheel of Fortune
and solving each puzzle with amazing ease; the show is interrupted by a news bulletin about an escaped murderer. Upset that he's missing a chance to solve the next puzzle, Gilligan goes into a rage and flings a near-empty Cheetos bowl at the
TV
, accidentally smashing the screen. For the first time in months, Gilligan must find something else to pass the time, so he ventures out into that strange world known as “the outdoors.” Naturally, his path crosses with the escaped murderer. Gilligan saves the day, becomes a local hero, buys a new
TV
and becomes addicted to television news programs. End of story. No big deal.

Miss Chang creates such a fuss that I start to care about turning in a polished final copy. For the first time in—well, ever—I use a class dictionary to not only correct words she'd circled but also to look up words in the extra passages Miss Chang wants me to write.

I'd started out thinking Miss Chang was crazy. Perhaps I'd just lucked out. Is Miss Chang a
Wheel of
Fortune
fan? But what if I really do have potential?

I guess Tom got bored doing his own thing. The class clown routine works in the classroom with a captive audience, but I'm sure he wasn't hanging out with anyone after school. Which explains why he's shown up this evening and is trying to sit through my computer game. It's a miserable experience for both of us—he is antsy and bored and I'm impatient because he is so slow at picking up how to play.

“This game sucks,” he complains as he damages his shuttle on a rough landing on Neptune. “Why don't they make the spaceship explode?”

“That's not the point—”

“Well, what is the point? We've been playing this game for ten minutes and the biggest thrill has been taking a picture of Epsilon Microscopii in the Microscopium constellation for the Control Center. Whoopee.”

“It's about filling your photo log so you can—”

“Yeah, whatever. It's about wasting your time with dots in space that have stupid names stupid people made up. Hey! This one's called Norma! A star called Norma!”

“It's a constellation.”

“Whatever. Forget Microscopium. I just renamed it Sue. Norma's best friend. Put that in the photo log.”

“That's not what—”

“And I'm renaming your Camelo-something-or-other Bob. Norma's boyfriend. Hi, Bob!”

“Stop it! You're taking all the fun out of it!”

“Fun? This is fun?”

That does it. I quit the game in total frustration. He lets out a mocking “Awww,” and tacks on “See ya', Bob!” I sit and sulk for five minutes while he spins in my dad's office chair.

To my surprise, he suggests we go running. Tom hates running, since he doesn't see any purpose in it. No points, no body checking, no ball bouncing. We run a whole kilometer before he makes some excuse about an ankle problem. I don't bother to call him on it. It isn't so bad anyway since we've stopped only a block from McDonald's, and I still have money left from the movies. As we walk, Tom's hobble fades away completely. I guess fries and a shake are a good substitute for physical therapy.

Hanging out with Tom again isn't really so bad. I haven't missed him, but I'm used to him, so we fall back into our old ways without any discussion about how much we'd bugged each other after Squirrel Saturday. It takes a lot less effort to talk with Tom than with Mark. I don't have to think much when Tom and I tell jokes or make fun of people. There's something to be said for familiarity.

Ten

C
ommon sense. Miss Chang mentions it at least five times a day. Where another teacher would automatically yell at Tom as he prepares to spit a mouthful from the water fountain at one of the girls, Miss Chang calmly states, “Use common sense, Tom.” Strangely, it almost always works. It sounds better than “Act your age,” one of my dad's favorite phrases, even though it basically means the same thing.

As Tom and I are crossing Blair Road after school, a two-door rust bucket with stinky black smoke spewing from the tailpipe comes whirring around the corner and misses me by inches. It would have hit me if I hadn't been training on my sprint starts lately. Tom was walking a couple of paces ahead of me and had already reached the curb.

Naturally, I'm surprised and angry. But Tom is enraged. He grabs a rock and chucks it at the car, hitting the trunk. The driver, who seconds earlier had been in such a hurry, slams on the brakes, does a U-turn and speeds back in our direction.

“C'mon, Tom. Let's get out of here.” I know this won't be pretty.

“No way! He tried to kill you.”

“Well, he might try again.”

“Yeah, but this time we're ready.”

Ready? The guy is behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, and Tom has already chucked the only rock to be found. Still, one look at the rage in Tom's eyes and I know better than to say anything.

At this point, I don't think even Miss Chang could've calmed him down. Exhaust fumes have choked any trace of common sense.

The driver storms out of his car, engine still running, smoke still spewing. “You gonna pay for that dent, boy?” he hollers after letting loose a string of profanity.

“Sorry,” Tom replies, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I left my piggy bank at home.”

“Why, you little—”

What ensues is an exchange of every four-letter word ever created. I utter a few profanities as well, but neither Tom nor the driver seems to know I am there. I sit on the curb and wait.

The big-bellied driver lands the first punch. I can't believe it. The guy must be three times our age and he's taking a swing at a kid. An obnoxious, aggressive kid, but still—a kid. The shot hits Tom on the right cheek, and Tom responds with a punch that sinks deep into the guy's gut. The man grabs Tom's shoulders with both his hands, shakes him and then lifts him off the ground.

“I'm not afraid of you, loser!” Tom says, looking ridiculous yet defiant. Tom takes a well-aimed kick, hitting the man where it counts. The man drops Tom to the ground and topples over in agony.

Erin Patterson's dad comes running over from two houses down and stands between the two. As the driver gets up, Mr. Patterson folds his arms, assumes the position of a roadblock and stares directly into the guy's eyes. “Get out of here before the police arrive. They've been called; don't doubt me.”

For all I know, Mr. Patterson may be a former defensive end for the Dallas Cowboys. He is wide, but it isn't on account of rolls of fat. Even a lunatic (or two of them) can tell that this episode is over. The man stares back for a few seconds before hobbling to his car. He tosses out a few more choice phrases, turns his car around and speeds away. I guess if you can burn a little rubber it makes your retreat less humiliating.