Fruit

by Brian Francis

  “Vow.”

  Two hundred and four pounds. I reached between my mattresses and pulled out a list I had made when I turned thirteen last year. I had written down all the things I needed to change in order to become a new and improved Peter Paddington.

  1) Lose weight.

  2) Buy more clothes.

  3) Learn how to play sports.

  4) Try to look Mr. Hanlan in the eye.

  5) Get a boy friend.

  6) Smile more.

  7) Be vague.

  8) Get tanned.

  9) Act confident.

  10) Lose weight.

  And here I was, almost a year later and I hadn’t managed to do one thing on the list. In fact, the list only got bigger. I grabbed a pen.

  II) Get normal nipples.

  “You think getting rid of us is going to turn you into the ‘new’ Peter Paddington?” my nipples asked.

  “It’d be a start.”

  “Give us a break,” my nipples said. “You made us this way in the first place.”

  “I did not!” I said. “I’m innocent.”

  “That’s a bunch of baloney. Let’s see. Who was it checking out the men’s underwear section in the Sears catalogue last night?”

  “I need new underwear,” I said. “How do I know what kind to get unless I see what the latest styles are?”

  “Face it,” my nipples said. “We’re going to be together for a long, long time. You might as well get used to us.”

  I got out the masking tape and shut them up. I was so angry at my evil nipples. Who did they think they were, anyway?

  I needed to do something to take my mind off things so I decided to play the Mirror Game. The Mirror Game is kind of creepy, so I only do it when there’s someone else home. I never do it late at night, either. To play the Mirror Game, I turn off all the lights and close my curtains and light the candle I keep in the right-hand drawer of my desk. I sit in front of my mirror and put the candle beside me. The trick is to keep staring at yourself without blinking. Once you blink, you lose your concentration and have to start all over again.

  After a while, everything will start to get cloudy. Then I’ll see other people’s faces. Sometimes, I see the face of an old woman. Sometimes, an old man. There’s a guy with a dark beard that shows up sometimes, too. One time, I think I saw the Devil, which creeped me out pretty good.

  Once, I told Christine about the Mirror Game. She said that the faces I saw were proof of reincarnation.

  “Your soul goes into another person that’s being born at the same time and you live your life as someone else,” she said. “Anyone with half a brain knows it’s true.”

  “Can a man come back as a woman?” I asked.

  “You could come back as anything — a tree, an eagle, even a fly. You just never know.”

  I don’t know if I’d like to come back if I had to be a boring old tree. Or if I had to be a fly and eat dog poop all day. If I had a choice, I’d like to come back as a fashion model or an Athlete Group boy.

  Christine told me that in a past life, she was Joan of Arc.

  “Why do you think I’m so petrified of fire?” she asked.

  Maybe Christine is right and the Mirror Game shows me all the people I once was. Or maybe they’re the people I’m going to be. I was thinking about that while I sat staring at my reflection, wondering if I was anyone famous, too. Then, I started to see someone in the mirror. It was a face worse than the Devil. And before the Hawaiian shirt got any clearer, I blinked really hard to break the spell and blew out the candle. I stayed in my room for the rest of the night and didn’t come out once, not even when my mom knocked on my door to tell me she had made peanut butter cookies.

  “Your favourite, Peter.”

  I said thanks and told her I’d be out in a little while.

  “What are you doing in there?” she asked in this fake-happy voice.

  “Nothing,” I said and waited for her to walk away. She didn’t. I could hear her breathing on the other side of the door. I sat there, quiet as I could, staring at the door knob. I knew that if I saw it start to turn, I would lose it on her. I’d scream at her to stop going through my drawers and stop calling me her “angel” and stop LISTENING AT MY DOOR WHEN ALL I WANT IS PRIVACY!

  But the doorknob didn’t turn. After a couple of minutes, I heard the floor creak as she walked back down the hall.

  From now on, when I need to take my mind off things, I’m using my Ouija board.

  six

  There are only three weeks left before Clarkedale’s annual Christmas pageant and Mrs. Forbisher, the music teacher, has already had two breakdowns. Twice a week, the class has been practising our big show-stopper, “One Tin Soldier.” It’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard and when we get to the part where the valley people turn over the stone only to have it say “Peace on Earth,” I get goosebumps.

  We’ve been rehearsing since the beginning of November, so you think we’d have it perfect by now. But a lot of students can’t remember the words, even though Mrs. Forbisher gave us ditto copies. And Mrs. Forbisher can’t get any of the boys to sing. She’s tried being nice, telling them that some of the world’s most admired singers are men and did you know that Santa doesn’t visit children who won’t sing? But none of the boys are buying it. Instead, they either laugh or whisper to each other or keep their lips pressed shut. I guess it’s been getting on Mrs. Forbisher’s nerves. I feel bad for her, smiling that phony smile and blowing into her round harmonica to get everyone on the same note. But the bottom line is that the boys never sing, no matter how nice Mrs. Forbisher acts. They’ll scream and shout to Banger music, but they can’t sing a normal song. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is. Secretly, I like singing and I think I have a very nice voice. But I’d never let anyone find that out.

  Anyways, there we were this afternoon, halfway through the third chorus. I was standing in the back row between Greg Walsh and Tony Marlot. They both belong to the Athlete Group and were fighting over who got to stand next to me.

  “I want to,” Greg said to Tony through a mental telepathy message. “You got to stand beside him last time.”

  “Well, he likes me better than he likes you!” Tony yelled back to Greg.

  I was afraid they were going to come to blows. And what message of peace would that send out to the audience?

  “Gentlemen, please,” I said. “For the record, there are two sides of me. Someone pick the left and someone pick the right and let’s call it a day.”

  Mrs. Forbisher was standing in front of us, mouthing the words like she always does and swooping her arms like a pterodactyl. Just when we got to the part where the valley people turn the stone over, Mrs. Forbisher blew into her harmonica so hard it flew out of her hand like a flying saucer and almost beaned Carrie Linely in the head.

  “Why aren’t you singing?” Mrs. Forbisher yelled. Everyone looked at each other to figure out who she was talking to.

  “Can someone please explain to me why the hell you aren’t singing?”

  I heard someone gasp and Eric Bird say, “Wicked.” No other teacher in the history of Clarkedale has ever said the “h” word before.

  “Can someone please tell me what’s so damn difficult about singing a song?”

  Another gasp. Tony leaned over to Greg and circled his finger around his temple.

  “Why am I even here?” Mrs. Forbisher was walking in a circle. “Can someone tell me that?” she asked the floor. “Why am I here? Is this it? Is this what it all comes down to? This is it, isn’t it?”

  Angie Mayer, one of the Goody-Goody girls, started crying. Hearing Mrs. Forbisher use the “h” and “d” words like that must’ve scared her. Then again, Angie cries when the eraser breaks off her pencil, so you never know. Margaret Stone slipped out of the gym and it wasn’t long before she came back with Mr. Grey. He called Mrs. Forbisher “Hilary,” took her by the arm and led her outside. Then Mr. Mitchell came to take us back to class. No one saw Mr
s. Forbisher for the rest of the day, although I heard Eddy Vanderberg say that he saw her getting into a white van wearing a straitjacket. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Forbisher ends up in a mental hospital. Music teachers can be very emotional people. I think it’s because when they were young, they thought they’d be Broadway stars someday. Instead, they end up teaching songs to a bunch of kids who don’t want to sing in the first place. It must be very depressing.

  The next day, Mr. Mitchell told us that Mrs. Forbisher was on vacation for a couple of weeks and that he’d be taking over our music lessons. He didn’t look very comfortable with the idea.

  “What was the song you were rehearsing?” he asked.

  “‘One Tin Soldier,’” Margaret said.

  “Hmm,” Mr. Mitchell put his finger to his lip, “doesn’t exactly seem the most fitting song to celebrate the birth of Christ, does it?”

  Now we have to sing “Away in a Manger” complete with all the hand motions. It’s very embarrassing and this will be the most humiliating Christmas pageant ever. The only person who gets out of doing it is Alexander Allesio. He’s a Jehovah’s Witness and has to stand outside in the hall when we say the Lord’s Prayer. So he got excused from singing at the Christmas pageant and sits in the library while we rehearse.

  I thought about telling Mr. Mitchell that my religion forbids me to sing Christmas songs, too, but something tells me that wouldn’t work. I’m United, which means I’m not very religious. United people aren’t afraid of God like Catholics and they don’t come knocking on your door like Jehovahs and you never see a United minister healing crippled people on TV. When I think of the United Church, I think of Goldilocks and the porridge that wasn’t too hot or too cold.

  I’ve been going to St. Paul’s all my life. It’s right around the corner from where I live, so it’s very convenient. Down the street from St. Paul’s United is our rival, St. Michael’s Catholic Church. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say “rival” because that’s not really true. The congregations don’t shoot spitballs at each other when church gets out. But there are some big differences between Catholics and Uniteds.

  For starters, Catholics are much more religious. They go to church all the time, even on Saturday nights. That upsets my mom because the Catholics park their cars along our street.

  “What is it with them? Those people just come out in droves. And what if we were having company over, hmm? Where would our guests park?”

  “Well, we’re not having company over, Beth.”

  “That’s not the point, Henry. It’s the principle of the matter. You’d think those Catholics would take over the whole city if they could.”

  I think my mom gets upset because she’ll see families coming out of the cars. Christine and Nancy don’t go to church anymore. Christine stopped going because she said she had too much self-respect. Nancy stopped going because she said church was boring. When my mom brought up the topic of Christmas Eve service last weekend, I knew there was going to be trouble. Even before she finished asking Nancy and Christine the question, she was already misting up. It was Sunday and Uncle Ed had bought Kentucky Fried Chicken for us. I was on my second chicken breast. My mom blew her nose into her napkin.

  “It would be nice for all of us to go. That is, if you don’t think you girls would burst into flames the second you stepped inside the church.”

  Christine said she would think about it.

  “It’s still a month away,” she said, picking at a piece of relish in her macaroni salad. “Do we need to make reservations?”

  Nancy said that she might go over to Bubbles’ house for Christmas Eve. Bubbles is her new best friend. I don’t know Bubbles’ real name, only that she got her nickname because she chews bubble gum all day.

  “Plus I’m perky,” I heard her tell Christine. “You know, how when you blow bubbles, it makes you feel kind of warm and gushy inside? I’m like that.”

  “You don’t say,” Christine said.

  Nancy and Bubbles became best friends just after Nancy dumped André. She said she didn’t have anything in common with him anymore. I don’t think it was nice of Nancy to break up with André even if he was a loser, and I don’t like Bubbles and lately, I’m not so sure I like Nancy herself. She’s gotten really annoying and walks around with a calorie counter booklet all the time.

  “Can anyone guess how many calories are in one glazed donut? Hmm? Anyone?”

  Nancy says she’s lost twelve pounds, thanks to her calorie counter booklet and Bubbles. But she looks the same to me.

  “Well, is Bubbles’ family going to church?” my mom asked. She reached for another napkin.

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said.

  “What religion are they?”

  “How should I know? Catholic. Born Again. Jehovahs, probably.”

  “Oh Nancy!” my mom whisper/screamed. “Don’t joke about something like that!”

  “They’re not Jehovahs, Mom,” Nancy said, “calm down.”

  “Bubbles can worship the Tooth Fairy for all I care,” my mom said. “I’m just sorry that you’d rather spend time with someone else’s family instead of your own. I guess I was expecting too much from you girls this year. I should have known better.”

  Then my mom pushed her chair back and went to her bedroom.

  Christine and Nancy rolled their eyes. My dad put his head in his hands. Uncle Ed asked me to pass him the drumstick on my mom’s plate.

  The Sears Christmas flyer came in the mail the other day. After I looked through the men’s underwear section to check out the latest styles, I flipped to the clothing section to see what new styles of sweatshirts were in. I stopped on a page that showed two male models laughing like they were best friends. I bit my lip and thought about Andrew Sinclair.

  “That could’ve been us,” I whispered. “Is it too late to try again, Andrew?”

  There are only ten months left until grade 9 and I still haven’t made a boy friend. Or cured my nipples. Or lost weight. In fact, I think I’ve gained more weight. When I did my knuckle test the other day, it went halfway between my second and third knuckle, so that means I’ve put on a half-knuckle’s worth of weight since September. I know I have to go on a diet soon if I’m going to be thin by next September. But in order for your diet to work, you have to focus all your concentration and lately, I’ve got too many things on the go, like writing down the things Andrew and I can do when we’re best friends.

  To cheer myself up, I decided to go down to the Shop ’N’ Bag to say hi to Mr. Bernard and maybe get a Crispy Crunch. When I passed the Papa Bertoli restaurant, Daniela was just finishing her shift.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” she said, pulling out her ponytail. “That was the busiest lunch ever. My hair smells like veal parmigiana. Come here and sniff it.”

  I almost gagged when she said that. I couldn’t imagine putting her split ends that close to my face. “That’s okay,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You going to the Shop ’N’ Bag? I’ll come with you. I gotta buy the new issue of Cosmo. My cousin Teresa says there’s a sex survey in it that tells you if you’re any good in bed.”

  “Why do you need to know something like that?”

  “Hey, just because I stink like veal parmigiana doesn’t mean I couldn’t fuckin’ get some action if I really wanted to!” Daniela said. “I could name a lot of guys who would kill to go around the way with me.”

  “I think you mean go ‘all the way,’” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. The point is that Cosmo tells you everything you need to know about screwing. You name it: blowjobs, diddling yourself, Chinese positions. It’s in there.”

  “What’s the big deal about that?” I tried to sound casual, but my dink went kind of hard when Daniela said “blowjob” and I heard Mr. Hanlan asking me if I wanted big or small marshmallows in my hot chocolate. I pulled my bomber jacket down as far as I could.

  “I’m just doing my homework, t
hat’s all,” Daniela said with her hand on the Shop ’N’ Bag door handle. “I’m teaching myself the stuff I’ll need to know when I get laid for the first time. Besides, I’m fourteen. I’m practically a woman. I should know these things.”

  Mr. Bernard had a big smile on his face when Daniela and I walked into his store.

  “Here comes my favourite couple!” he said. He thinks Daniela and I are girlfriend and boyfriend, which grosses me out. If I had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t be anything like Daniela. She’d be sweet and condition her hair and read magazines that teach you how to apply mascara, not how to “diddle yourself.”

  Mr. Bernard was out of the latest issue of Cosmo, so Daniela just bought a Hershey bar and a Lowry’s Cherry Blossom. I bought a bag of sour cream and onion chips and a Crispy Crunch.

  “You two stay out of trouble, now,” Mr. Bernard said and winked. Daniela looked at him like he was an alien.

  “That old fucker is gonna go out of business soon if he doesn’t catch up with the times,” Daniela said as we made our way home. “You’ve got seventeen dusty packages of clothing dye and you don’t have a single fuckin’ copy of Cosmo? Gimme a break.”

  As we were walking past St. Michael’s Church, Daniela stopped me and said she had to run inside for a minute.

  “I almost forgot. I’m supposed to light a candle for my cousin Rosa today.”

  “Why? Is it her birthday?”

  “No! What are you, stupid? She’s dead! Today is the third anniversary of her death.”

  “What did she die from?”

  “No one really knows,” Daniela said. “Some people, they say kidney stones. Some people, they say heart attack. Me, I say it was malocchio.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The Evil Eye.” Daniela’s eyes popped out of her head. “It’s a curse that someone puts on you because you’ve done something to piss them off.”

  “What did your cousin do?”

  Daniela checked over her shoulder and then leaned in close to me.