by Darren Groth
HOME
“I’m sorry…what exactly are you saying?”
Craig Varzani pulls his shoulders back. The red poppy on his lapel (WTF, dude—ANZAC Day was two weeks ago) dips and bobs, as if trying to avoid eye contact. For the fourth time since taking a seat in Ms. Mac’s office, he reads from the notepad in his lap.
“In the last few days, Munro, I’ve become aware of the full details surrounding your student exchange to date. Your marks are average at best, and you’re not actively engaging in school life or participating in extracurricular activities. These were points of discussion at our previous check-in meeting, and there hasn’t been any improvement since then. While these would be concerning on their own, additional matters brought to my attention have escalated the situation considerably. I’ve been reliably informed that there have been other issues, including altercations with students.”
I glare at Ms. MacGillivray. She doesn’t look up, preferring to focus on the paper in her hands.
“They were early in first term,” I say. “There hasn’t been an issue for over two months.”
Varzani tweaks his bumblebee-colored glasses. “That’s true. But it appears you replaced the fighting with something else—truancy. You’ve missed an unacceptable amount of school recently, Munro.”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m no longer da man. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Varzani ignores my sass. “This is not the sort of behavior we want associated with YOLO.” He takes off his glasses. “I rang your parents this morning and informed them of the situation. I recommended that you go home.”
“Home?”
“Yes.”
“No warning? No second chance?”
“This was your second chance.”
I shake my head. “My parents won’t agree.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. They felt you should go home too. But they wanted to tell you in person.” He checks his fluor-yellow fitness band. “That was almost two hours ago.”
I feel for the phone in my shorts pocket. In this brief lull, I half expect FaceTime to fire up and burn a hole right through to my skin. It stays quiet, though, the way it has been all morning. The only notification I’ve received so far was a text from Caro, thinking of you and a series of emojis: kissy-face, sad face, love heart, broken heart. She couldn’t know about this, could she?
“This is BS. I don’t get a vote?”
“In all fairness, Munro, you had a vote. You agreed to the terms of the exchange; you read the rules; you knew the expectations.”
“Look, I didn’t ditch anything that mattered, did I? The Thirty-Hour Famine? The Athletics Carnival? Vaccination Day? Really? And I wasn’t truly ditching! You know where I was.”
Varzani unbuttons his jacket. The ANZAC poppy stares at the door. “Your commitment to Fair Go—it’s admirable, no question. But here’s the thing. Once your fifty hours were up, continuing to go there had nothing to do with school. And that’s regrettable, Munro. It really is. Because this is a school exchange program. Your folks paid us a lot of money so you could come to Australia for school.” He closes his notepad. “You are a decent young man. And you’ve been through hell. If Fair Go is your calling, maybe you should come back.”
“Come back?”
“Yes. Maybe in a couple of years, on a temporary visa. Or you could work in a care-facility type of setup when you return home.”
I turn to Ms. Mac. “Help me out here. Please.”
She cricks her neck and leans forward, elbows on her knees. Traces of a black eye are visible under her makeup. “I’m sorry, Munro. It’s too late for me to help. When you get back to Vancouver, you should definitely get in touch with…what was the name of that counselor your mum mentioned in her email?”
“Ollie.”
“Ollie. You and she can work on a plan that will find your best and doesn’t involve sacrificing your education.”
I let the words percolate in my head. Then I stand and extend a hand to Ms. Mac.
“You’re leaving?” she says.
“Yeah. I’ve got a lot less time than I thought I had. You’d think I would’ve learned that by now.” I turn to Varzani. “You know where I’ll be.”
“Come on, Munro, my man. You’re not a criminal. And this doesn’t have to be a difficult exit.”
I walk toward the door of Ms. Mac’s office.
“Craig, my man…too late.”
I’m sick to my stomach. This can’t be happening, not when the finish line of my recovery is so close. I can’t say goodbye yet. I’m not ready.
My feet move quickly, walking fast, then jogging. They work in isolation from the rest of my body, as if someone’s controlling them with a remote. Past classrooms, along corridors, up stairs. I’m headed for my locker. But that fact is in the distance, somewhere on the horizon. A single thought is taking up all the available space in my head:
I’m headed home.
You knew this would happen, Munro.
Deep down in your heart, you knew.
You can be away from me for an hour, a day. Even a few weeks. But it could never be permanent. You could never leave me here. You need me too much.
Munro and the Coyote—we are together.
Forever.
I fumble with the key, then try to insert it upside down. Swearwords are muttered. My hands steady. I flip the door open, and it crashes against Toby Gresham’s locker with its peeling Pantera sticker. My bag and the folders of my Fair Go team—stained and bent from so much handling—are the only things I need. Planner, textbooks, spare school shirt…no longer required.
“Munro?”
Caro is standing in the middle of the hallway.
“I know what happened. I’m…I’m totally gutted for you.”
I’m set to ask how she found out about my take-down, but the question fizzles. Caro’s face is nuit.
She’s been crying, Munro. And it’s not because you’re going home, Munro.
She knows.
I point a shaky finger at her. “Rowan told you, didn’t he?”
“Rowan?”
“About Evie. He fucking told you.”
“No. He didn’t.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Munro—”
“He promised to stay quiet. He’s a fucking liar.”
“Rowan didn’t say a thing.” Caro steps forward. She holds a hand up toward me like I’m a dangerous dog. “I found out off my own bat. You were bailing on school so much, I was worried things were getting worse for you.”
Her palms come together and push up under her trembling chin.
“I spoke with Ms. Mac. I told her I was concerned. She didn’t want to say anything, but I got a tiny bit of info out of her, enough that I did a search on your old school. I found the article about…about what happened.”
My phone starts to buzz. FaceTime. I block the call.
“I’m here for you.”
Caro searches her pockets, finds a folded piece of paper. She opens it and passes it to me. I stare at the creased page. It’s a poster. The content—pics, logo, colors—I know very well. A familiar button sits in the center.
Sussex State High—support our exchange student, Munro Maddux!
Munro’s sister, Evelyn, passed away at age 13, and the The Evelyn Maddux Foundation was established in her honor.
Buy an E-LIFE badge for $2 and fund Down syndrome awareness and research!
They all know.
It’s just as well we’re going home.
“Don’t worry,” says Caro. “It’s just a draft. It hasn’t gone out anywhere. I got the go-ahead from student council, and I got in touch with your folks about the buttons. They’re on the way. Could definitely sell a ton of them this term.”
She takes hold of my left hand. Her wet cheeks shine in the hallway light.
“What happened to you, Munro, losing your sister like that—I can’t imagine how that feels. And I can’t blame you for seeing schoo
l as a shit place to be. But for the rest of the exchange”—she nods toward the poster—“I hope this helps you stick around a bit more.”
Ha! Not gonna happen.
My hand slides out of Caro’s grasp. I tear the poster in half, put it in my locker, close the door. The look on Caro’s face is shifting by the second, through shock, then alarm, then something close to outright panic.
“The exchange is done,” I say. “I fucked up. YOLO contacted my parents—they’re calling it quits. I guess I’ll be on a plane tomorrow or the next day. Either way, I’m headed home.”
Caro hugs herself, arms crossed over the sternum, hands clasped to her shoulders, knuckles white. Her black fingernails and wristbands are like fresh bruises. Her scattered hair hides much of her bowed face.
“So…this is goodbye?” she asks.
Not the voice you wanted saying those words, eh?
“I’m sorry,” I say.
A shudder rolls over her. “I could come to Fair Go with you. That’s where you’re going now, isn’t it? I could ditch, and we could go together one last time.”
“Ditching is not what you do, Caro.”
In my pocket FaceTime buzzes for the second time. Again I kill the call. The school bell rings. Last class is starting. The drone of students roaming from one class to the next begins to die away.
“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Munro. Not today. Not this way.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I open my arms. She falls in, buries her breaking face in my shoulder. Two minutes pass, a poor substitute for what’s left of six months. I take everything in. The curve of her back, the coconut smell of her hair, the squeak of her small sobs. The punch of her hammering heart. It’s the best I can do.
“I’ll text you.”
Caro wipes her eyes with my shirt sleeve. “Don’t.”
“Okay.”
We break apart. Caro takes hold of my left hand again, squeezes it, lets it fall back to my side.
“Say hi to the team for me.”
She turns and runs away, headed for H Block.
Varzani said I’m not a criminal, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m a fugitive. The Coyote always accused me of hiding out in Fair Go. Maybe I could do just that. Lie low there for a while, refuse to turn myself in. Seriously, what the fuck could YOLO do about it? Call the cops? Arrest me? Put me in handcuffs and force me to leave?
I could convince Kelvin to keep me around. I could do other stuff, not just be a Living Partner. I have some money. I could stay in the staff units. They have a spare room or two.
This is not over.
This is not goodbye.
I knock on the door to Kelvin’s office. The muffled murmurs inside continue for several seconds before I hear a strained “Who is it?”
“It’s Munro Maddux.”
Silence, then more muffled murmurs. “Get on with it,” I whisper. Time is short. And getting shorter. Finally, there’s a “Come in.” I enter to find Kelvin on his cell.
“I know where you’re coming from, no doubt… That’s right…Okay, I’ll be in touch. Bye.” He puts down the phone and looks me over like I’m a piece of abstract art.
“Munro Maddux. The young man I need to talk to, and poof! You appear just like that. I would say you’re psychic, but I don’t think you’re aware of our recent situation.”
“I don’t know about any situation. What’s up?”
“First things first. Why are you wagging school to come here?”
“Sorry?”
Kelvin folds his arms. “You can only do so many ‘diversity projects’ before the truth is apparent. What’s going on, mate? Why did you bail on school to come here today?”
It’s all falling apart, Munro.
I wince, nod. “You’re right, Kelvin, I’ve been ditching. But it’s actually not the case this time. I’m here because I want to…stay.”
Kelvin’s eyes narrow. He begins drumming his fingers on the mouse pad to his right. “Stay. You mean…live?”
“Yes. In the staff units, if you have room.”
“How long were you hoping to stay?”
“As long as you’ll have me.”
“Your host family been a problem?”
“No. They’re not the problem.”
Kelvin stops drumming. “Do the student-exchange people know about this? They can’t be okay with you making this request.”
“There is no student exchange. It ended this morning. So did my Sussex State High stint. I’m not ditching now. I’m a free man.”
“Free?”
“Free to be here at Fair Go.”
“Okay, but if the exchange is over, won’t you be on your way back to Vancouver soon?”
“I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
Kelvin leans back in his chair, plants his hands on top of his head. He starts a comment, but it falters in transit, peters out to a soft hmmm. He stands up and begins a lap of the office. One by one, he finds the framed pics of him with my team. Florence mid-arm wrestle. Iggy pointing at a vine of big ripe tomatoes. Bernie talking into a microphone. Dale going full farmer with overalls, boots, straw hat. Kelvin returns to the desk and opens one of the drawers. He takes out an unframed pic and lays it face down.
“The photos on display,” he says, “they’re the residents who currently call this place home. I make sure I get a snap with each person, print off a copy and frame it. I love seeing them and being around them every day.”
He points at the open drawer.
“I also keep photos in my desk. These are the folks that used to live here at one time or another, but now they’re gone.”
He turns over the pic. It’s Shah, in his Barcelona shirt, arms folded, right foot propped on top of a soccer ball.
“I would love to keep these photos on show too, but I don’t. Putting them away reminds me that things don’t stay the same, that people leave. That we walk side by side with our residents rather than holding their hands.”
A thought hits me. I scan the office gallery once, twice, then zone back in on the residential manager.
“Where’s Blake?”
The color leaches out of Kelvin’s face. He reaches into the drawer, finds a photo and places it face up next to Shah’s. Blake is eating ice cream and rocking the peace sign.
“Early Monday,” he begins, “Tom Kennedy came across one of the ‘wedding’ pics from Boggo Road on his daughter’s phone. He was livid and rang me immediately, demanding an explanation. I assured him that the ceremony was nothing more than spur-of-the-moment, harmless fun, that it had no actual meaning, no formal recognition. It was simply a wonderful moment of affection and commitment between two loving people. He saw it very differently. Blake has Down syndrome. She’s handicapped. She can’t properly grasp affection and commitment. She has no real clue about relationships. She sees marriage as some sort of fairy tale, not what it truly is: a holy union between a man and a woman of sound mind, sanctioned by God. Tom said we’d been grossly irresponsible and had gone against his express wishes. We’d indulged his daughter’s unrealistic expectations and he would forever have to deal with the fallout. Shame on us. He wanted to know whose idea it was. I said it was mine. He wondered what sort of sadistic organization we were running and mentioned he was considering legal action. In the meantime, he was taking Blake out of Fair Go, effective immediately.
“I apologized unreservedly and asked him how I could make things right. Anything short of turning back time was unacceptable. I asked him—no, not asked, begged him—to not have Blake pay the price for a mistake that we made. I pleaded with him to consider her work in the Digital Media Center and the pride and sense of achievement and responsibility and self-worth she’d gotten from it. Should all that be swept aside because of a momentary miscalculation? I said straight up that Fair Go is Blake’s home. Tom Kennedy laughed and said, Some sort of home. He reckoned we’d get Blake and that boy living together and sleeping in the same bed. Before long, he’d have a retar
ded grandchild to look after.
“Next morning, he collected Blake and her belongings. I won’t share the details of that scene with you, Munro. Suffice to say it was tense. And awful. And sad.”
Kelvin rises, walks around his desk and grabs a spare chair. He sets it down directly in front of me and sits. We are face to face, knee to knee.
“You’re blaming yourself,” he says. “But sometimes, Life takes on a life of its own. Fair Go is not immune to that truth. It’s why we walk side by side. It’s why I keep those pictures in my desk drawer.”
He leans forward and pats my shin.
“It’s why you should think about going home, Munro.”
My phone comes alive again, bustling and vibrating. I take it out and shut it off. It goes back in my pocket. Silent. Dead.
I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder and walk out of Kelvin’s office.
She’s gone.
Taken away.
Stolen.
You tried to do more, tried to do good. Be the big brother she could be proud of. But you let her down. You failed.
Now you’ll never see her again.
You never even got to say goodbye.
My head is a kite. My chest is on fire. My legs are filled with sand. It’s so hard to move, but I have to keep going, find an escape, somewhere to hide, away from all the people who want to say, It isn’t your fault and You did your best and You should go home. I blunder forward, one heavy foot after another. This hallway—when will it end? Soon, I expect. Sooner than I expect. That’s the way of the world. Sure enough, there’s a door. A sign: Emergency Exit Only. I push, like I pushed on Evie’s chest. But just once. Not dozens of times. Not hundreds. An ache chews on my wrists as the door swings open. No bells or alarms. No siren. That’s gone now. She went with it.
The sky. Bright blue. Full of sun. It’s a lie, a trick. You know it’s gray.
That’s it, Munro—crush every stray leaf on the path. spit in the flower beds. See the signs up ahead? They don’t have to tell you. You know where you’re going.
There’s no theater or tennis courts here like at DSS. No storage shed. There’s just a house. A front door with the number 4 on it. It’s locked. Doesn’t matter—this is your hideout. It’s quiet. Still. No one inside. Grab a rock from the pile near the mailbox and bring it back to the nearest window. Wrap it in your shirt. Smash the glass. Good. Now you’re inside, where no one can find you.
