Hemingway Tradition (5 page)

Our team had just been smoked. All we'd managed in the entire game were two lousy points. And the team that beat us wasn't even ranked! At least they hadn't been — though that was probably going to change after the tournament. One game away from the playoff
round and they were still undefeated.

The referee blew his whistle and we jogged around to the other side of the court and took our positions.

I raised my hands and faced the net. From the other side, my opponent leered back at me. He was so close I could feel his breath on my skin. I could smell it too. He reeked of onions. I tensed my nostrils and tried to concentrate on the game.

The whistle blew again, and the other team sent a floater to the back of our court. We returned it, but the ball nicked the net on the way over, and the opposition dug it up easily and drove it back. Jai tried to save it, but he never had a chance.

“Point,” the referee said, and we got set for the next serve.

Onion Breath was in my face again.

“Maybe you should just concede and let the bleeding stop,” he jeered. “You're only gonna get killed.”

“The only thing that's gonna kill us is your breath,” I muttered back. “Ever hear of mouth-wash?”

Then the ball was in play again. It was a long rally, the kind that could swing the momentum in our favor if we won the point. We didn't.

“What a bunch of losers,” Onion Breath sneered as we took our places at the net once more. “Especially your runt of a setter. Where'd you pick him up? At a refugee garage sale? What's the matter — no white kids go to your school?”

At first I thought I must have been hearing things. But when the look on Onion Breath's face became smugger than ever, I realized my hearing was just fine. If the ball hadn't been served then, I would have punched him in the mouth.

I tried to concentrate on the game, but part of me was thinking about how he'd insulted Jai. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. By the time the play had gone back and forth a couple of times, I was steaming. The other team hit the ball hard and deep, but Brian dug it up and passed it to Jai, and he made a great set — to me.

As I took my approach, I could see Onion Breath getting ready to block me. The part of me that was still thinking about the game considered dinking the ball past him for the sure point. But the part of me that was boiling mad needed to pound that ball with every ounce of strength in my body. Conscious of Onion Breath mirroring my moves on the other side of the net, I faked my jump, sending him into the air a split second before me. When I went up, he was already on his way back to the floor. Reaching all the way to my shoes, I laid into the ball with everything I had and slammed it straight down. Right into his face.

We lost the match, but seeing the red imprint of the ball on Onion Breath's forehead for the rest of the game helped soothe the disappointment a little. I'd made my point, and there were no more insults.

At least not during the game. After the tournament it was a different story.

As usual, Jai took forever to change, so by the time he was finally ready to go, the
rest of our team had left.

Onion Breath hadn't. He and four of his friends were waiting in the parking lot. I figured they'd glare at us and take cheap shots from a distance, but I was wrong. They cut us off before we got to the car.

Right away Onion Breath started in on Jai, pushing him and making racist remarks. Jai did his best to shrug free and keep heading for the car, but he was definitely outsized. Onion Breath's friends soon had him surrounded. I started to move to Jai's defense, but two of them cut me off.

“What's the matter? Your little ragtop friend need a babysitter?” one of them said in a singsong voice.

Onion Breath turned his attention from Jai to me. He took the volleyball he'd been holding under his arm and bounced it off my head — once, twice, three times. When I didn't react, he got right in my face and sneered, “Where's your smart mouth now, Paki-lover? Now that the net's gone, you're not quite so brave.” Then, with a cocky smile,
he threw the volleyball at my head again.

“Maybe not,” I said, catching it. “But you still stink, and you're still a jerk.” Then I whipped the ball back and caught him right between the eyes.

Onion Breath totally lost it and charged me like a tackle for the Green Bay Packers. We both went sprawling. I took a couple of blows to the head before I realized I was in a fight. But then I landed a shot to his gut, and the air rushed out of him like he was a popped balloon.

The next thing I knew, we were being yanked apart and dragged to our feet by a couple of teachers. But instead of hauling us back into the school like I expected, they simply lectured us for a few minutes and sent us on our way.

“Nice eye,” Tess said when I showed up at school on Monday.

I smirked. “You should see the other guy.”

Tess snorted. “I've heard that before. What happened?”

So I told her.

“What a bunch of losers,” she said when I'd finished.

“No kidding,” I agreed. “There's probably not a nicer guy than Jai in all of Winnipeg! Why pick on him?”

She shrugged. “Simple. He's East Indian. Idiots like Onion Breath and his friends don't care how great a human being he is. All they know is that he's different. They're prejudiced, and they probably don't even know why. No doubt they get it from their parents. I mean, hatred isn't a quality you're born with. It's something that's learned.”

“That's pathetic!”

“Of course it is,” Tess said calmly. “But it's not going to change unless we do something about it.”

I touched my black eye. “I already did.”

She shook her head. “That's not what I mean.” Then her eyes gleamed mischievously. “Haven't you heard? The pen is mightier than the sword.”

I expected Jai to be as upset about Onion Breath and his pals as I was. After all, he was the one they'd been picking on. But the incident didn't seem to faze him. Once it was over — it was over. He never mentioned it again.

So I didn't either.

After volleyball practice on Monday, Jai was standing in the middle of the court, staring up at the walls of the gym.

“What are you doing?” I said.

He grinned at me. “Just trying to figure out where we should hang our next championship banner.”

I rolled my eyes. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself just a little? Provincials are still a long way off. Considering how we played in that last tournament, we may not even get that far.”

Jai waved off my concerns. “No problem. We're getting better all the time. As long as we win our conference, we're in. The way I see it, we — ”

“Hey!” Brian poked his head out of the change room. Everybody's going over to Dale's to watch a video and order pizza. You guys coming?”

Jai immediately started jogging across the gym. I shook my head. “Nah. I can't. I have a ton of homework.”

It was the truth, and though some of my assignments weren't due for a while, I was determined to get them out of the way.

I headed for my books the second I got
home. I didn't even make a pit stop at the fridge. But as soon as I saw my dad's journal sitting on the headboard, my willpower took a nosedive.

There was something magnetic about that journal. It was so emotionally exhausting that I could never read more than one or two entries at a time, but as soon as I'd digested them, I was ready for more.

I tried to wrench my gaze away, but it was no use.

Just one entry!
I told myself sternly, picking up the journal and opening it to where I'd left off. I flopped onto my bed and wadded a pillow behind my head.
Just one entry!

That was my last thought before the words on the page swallowed me up and transported me back in time.

Mostly my dad had been a novelist, but every now and then he'd tried his hand at something else.
Foggy Friday
was one of those something elses. It was a play — a farce that he'd whipped up between books — just for fun. Therefore it was a major surprise
when a theatre company in Toronto decided to produce it. Dad said he'd always wanted to do the playwright-on-opening-night shtick, so when the company invited him to attend the premiere, he jumped at the chance. Naturally Mom and I went along too.

It was great! Dad gave us the royal tour of Toronto, and we even took in a Blue Jays' game. But the best part was the play itself.

As I gobbled up the journal description of the crazy events preceding the performance, I found myself smirking.

The curtain had been scheduled to go up at eight. We were going to hit the hotel lounge for pre-performance toasts, take in the play and have a celebration dinner afterwards. But no sooner had Dad told us the plan than there was a knock at the door. Then a troupe of strange-looking people swooped into our suite, toting a bunch of boxes and pushing a clothes rack dripping in glitter.

The next thing I knew, I was being whisked into another room and relieved of my clothes. Normally I wouldn't give up my
jeans without a fight, but the huge grin on my dad's face as he lost his own pants made me suspect he might have had a hand in this takeover. And since he'd never sold me out in the past, I let myself be abducted.

In twenty minutes it was over, and I was back in the main room, smelling like an ad for men's cologne and looking like a Liberace wannabe in a silver-sequined tux and black patent leather shoes.

And then I saw my parents. At least I think they were my parents, though the resemblance was minimal. Dad was wearing a black satin tux with tails. It might have been elegant if it weren't for the gold bowtie, cummerbund, gloves and shoes. Even his top hat and walking stick were gold.

But it was Mom who really took the cake. She looked as if she'd escaped from an old movie. From the sequined cloche covering her hair to the three-inch heels on her feet, she was dressed completely in red. Even the feather boa trailing behind her and the cigarette holder dangling from her fingers were
red. A long-sleeved dress hugged her like a shimmering snakeskin and puddled on the floor at her feet. Her fingers, wrists and throat sparkled with jewels. My jaw dropped.
This was my mother?

Then she pursed scarlet lips into a pout and batted two-inch eyelashes at my dad. And that's when we all cracked up.

At the theatre, cameras snapped our picture every time we turned around. In fact, everywhere we went that night, people's eyes bugged out, but we didn't care. We were having too much fun.

I put aside the journal and bounced off the bed.

“Mom,” I hollered, tearing down the hall and into the living room. “Where's the photo album?”

She looked up from her book.

“In the chest at the foot of my bed. Why? What are you looking for?”

I didn't bother answering. I just took off for her bedroom. That's where she found me fifteen minutes later, cross-legged on the
carpet, my nose buried in the album.

“Do you remember this?” I said, pointing to a picture of us in our
Foggy Friday
opening-night glitz.

“Oh my god,” she murmured, dropping down beside me. She started to chuckle. “Look at the three of us. What a bunch of hams! Trust your father to come up with that kind of a stunt. The costumes, the hairdresser, the make-up artist — it must have cost him a small fortune.” Then she laughed again. “But it sure was a hoot.”

She flipped the page. “And this was that summer we rented a houseboat in the Okanagan. Do you remember?”

“Sure do.” I grinned. “I snapped this one right before Dad threw you into the lake.”

She peered at the picture more closely. “You know, I think you're right.” Then she grinned too. “But that's okay. I got even with him. When he asked for a beer, he should have made it clear that he wanted to drink it — not wear it.”

For more than an hour, we pored over
the album, reliving the moments captured in the photographs. Each one brought back treasured memories.

“Were we really as happy as we look in the pictures?” I asked.

Mom eyed me curiously. “Don't you remember?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “Yes and no. I thought I was happy, but after … after what Dad did … ”

“You mean his suicide?”

I frowned and continued more quietly, “Yeah. After his suicide, I wasn't sure if my memories were real. I didn't know — ”

She squeezed my hand. “What you remember is how it was. Every minute was absolutely real.” She smiled. “Don't doubt that for a second.”

Most of me believed her, but there was still that particle of doubt. How could she be so sure? “But Dad … he … he wasn't who we thought he was. He was … he was … gay.” There, I'd said it.

Mom smiled sadly. “Yes, he was.”

“So how could he … how could you … why did you guys …” I couldn't seem to get the words out. “Did you know?” I finally blurted.

Mom smiled again and nodded.

“Of course I knew. Your father never told me, but he didn't have to. You don't share a bed with someone for twenty years and not know something like that. Still, I wish he'd felt he could have told me about it. We shared just about everything, but that was the one subject that was taboo. I tried to bring it up once, but the look of terror that came into his eyes made me back off. You see, Shaw, your father couldn't acknowledge his sexuality even to himself. When he was growing up, things weren't open like they are now. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the guilt. In his own eyes, he was a monster. How could he expect others to accept him?”

She squeezed my hand again.

“But that doesn't change the life we shared. It was every bit as wonderful as it looks in the photographs. I couldn't have had
a better husband, and you couldn't have had a better dad. Dylan Sebring was the finest man I have ever known. I truly loved him, and I shall miss him always.”