Hurricane Wills

by Sally Grindley

  “That’s what lions do with their cubs,” I said. “They play fight with them so that they’ll know how to fight and kill when they’re grown up. Lots of animals do it.”

  “You’ve been teaching us to fight and kill, Dad,” said Wills.

  “We’re not animals,” said Dad. “We don’t need to kill to survive.”

  “Only if we hate someone,” sniggered Wills.

  Dad smacked him lightly on the head.

  “What about in war, Dad?” I asked. “We kill people then to survive.”

  “War should only be a last resort, if everything else has failed,” said Dad.

  “I’d like to be in the army,” said Wills. “It’d be cool shooting at the enemy—POW, POW, POW, GOT YOU, YOU’RE DEAD.”

  “Unless they shoot you first,” I said. “Then you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I think you’ve been playing too many video games,” Dad said to Wills. “War is never ‘cool,’ as you put it.”

  “I want to play a game now.” Wills jumped up. “Where’s the computer, Dad?”

  Dad looked uncomfortable for a moment, then barked, “No computer, I’m afraid. Can’t afford another one.”

  “But what are we supposed to do all the time we’re here?” Wills was beginning to blow again.

  “The same sort of thing as I used to do when I was your age,” Dad replied shortly. “Your mom’s given me some books, and I’ve bought some board games and jigsaw puzzles.”

  “Boring, boring, boring.” Wills thumped the arm of the couch as he said it.

  I thought Dad must have fallen off his rocker if he believed that Wills would read a book or settle down quietly to do a jigsaw puzzle, just because we were in his house.

  “And tomorrow I thought I’d take you to play basketball at the community center.”

  That stopped Wills in his tracks, and me too, if I’m honest. Dad had never done anything like that with us when he was living at home. Mom’s home. He felt he was doing his bit by kicking a ball around in the yard on the weekend, and coming to watch me play in a game on the odd occasion when I was picked. Wills is never picked for any of the school teams because he’s too excitable and unreliable, even though he’s a far better sportsman than me, and would be amazingly good if only he could concentrate and make an effort and control himself. Dad says I’m a hard worker and that’s why I get picked, even if I’m not the most skillful. I feel sorry for Wills when it comes to sports, because he gets really frustrated with himself and wishes he didn’t have Acts Dumb and Dumber.

  Anyway, he leapt around the room like an overgrown lamb when he heard what Dad said, which meant that he fell on top of us again because the room was so tiny. He made Dad promise that we would go, and Dad said he would only promise if Wills promised to behave himself that evening. Wills promised, scout’s honor and all that. Dad and I both knew that it wasn’t within his power to keep the promise, but it did reduce the hurricane to a gale-force wind and even, for a while, to a gentle bluster.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night. Everything was strange: the room, the bed, the thumps and creaks from the apartment above, the random noises from outside. The random noises from inside, the worst of which was Wills snoring alongside me like a hippopotamus. At four o’clock, he woke up and fell across my bed on the way to the toilet, then came back to tell me, with great hoots of laughter. He then went to raid the kitchen and came back with a packet of cookies.

  “Hungry, bro?” he asked, hurling two cookies at me, both of them hitting my head. “You’re supposed to dodge them,” he sniggered.

  “Funny ha ha,” I hissed. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Can’t,” said Wills. “What do you think of this place, then?”

  “Bit small, but it’s all right,” I yawned.

  “Bit small!” he scoffed, blowing crumbs over my bed. “This room’s like a matchbox.”

  “Dad can’t afford anything bigger.” I turned my back on him, hoping that he would get the message that I didn’t want to talk.

  “He should have stayed at home, then, shouldn’t he?” Wills persisted. “It’s because of him we’ve got to sleep in a matchbox and listen to people at it all night long.”

  “If you were asleep, it wouldn’t matter. Anyway, Dad says that’s the central heating we can hear.”

  “I’ve never heard it called that before,” Wills sniggered again.

  I turned back around. “Look, Wills, Dad’s doing what he thinks is best, even if we don’t like it, and at least he’s trying to make things right or he wouldn’t be taking us to basketball tomorrow.”

  “Bet I’ll be better than you,” bragged Wills.

  He began to leap around the room and threw a cookie into the lampshade. “What a shot,” he cried. “And another, and another.”

  “What in the world is going on? It’s the middle of the night.”

  Dad was at the door, bowling-pin belly hanging over his pajama trousers, hair sticking out sideways, sounding angry but looking like a circus clown.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said Wills. “We couldn’t sleep, could we Chris? We’re all excited about basketball.”

  “There won’t be any basketball if I hear another peep. God knows what the neighbors must be thinking.”

  “But—” Wills began.

  “Shut up,” I snapped at him. “Just go to sleep.”

  The hippopotamus came back soon afterward, but at least it stayed under the covers.

  Chapter Five

  When we signed in for the basketball session the following morning, the man in charge, Mr. Columbine—”call me Clingon”—looked at Wills and said, to Dad, “Is this one under fourteen? The under-eighteens train at a different time.”

  Dad confirmed that Wills was only thirteen. Clingon whistled and said, “Well, we can certainly use him up front.”

  He looked at me then, and I could see that he thought I would be useless. I nudged Dad and whispered, “Can’t I just watch?”

  “Get on with you,” Dad whispered back. “You’ll be all right. The exercise will do you good.”

  “I’m too small for basketball,” I argued. Everyone there was taller than me.

  “You’ll grow soon,” said Dad, as though a growth spurt would hit me the minute I stepped on the court.

  “Names?” asked Clingon.

  “Wills is the tall one, and Chris is the short one,” said Dad, just to make me feel really good.

  “First time at basketball?”

  Wills and I both nodded.

  “Let’s see what you can do, then.”

  Clingon called all the boys together and ran through the basic rules for those of us who were “rookies.” Then he made us do all sorts of practice drills, like dribbling the ball and passing to each other. I was hopeless at running and bouncing the ball at the same time. My feet kept getting in the way of the bounce, sending the ball across the court into the paths of other dribblers, who didn’t seem to have a problem, until I spoiled things for them. Wills leapt around, whooping wildly, getting in everyone’s way, but with the ball bouncing straight back up to his hand as though it were attached by a piece of elastic. Clingon kept shouting at him to quiet down, but Wills was enjoying himself and didn’t seem to notice the mayhem he was causing. Clingon went over and spoke to Dad. Dad must have explained about Wills’s Acts Dumb and Dumber, because Clingon called Wills over and talked to him for ages, before patting him on the back and telling everyone to gather round.

  He picked two teams and told the rest—including me—to sit at the side until he changed us in. Dad gave me a thumbs-up from the other side of the court, but I didn’t feel like thumbsing-him up back because I wanted to go home: to his home or Mom’s home, I didn’t care which. I just didn’t want the embarrassment of being the last one to be picked, especially since Wills was in one of the starting teams as a shooter.

  “Is that your brother?” the boy sitting next to me asked suddenly. He was pointing to Wills, who was pulling gruesome faces at the boy w
ho had the ball, and was trying to get past him.

  “Yes,” I muttered.

  “He’s a bit of a psycho, isn’t he?” the boy grimaced.

  “He gets a bit excited, that’s all,” I said.

  “Wow, I bet he’s a pain to live with,” the boy continued, as Wills stuck out his foot and tripped up another of the players.

  “Sometimes,” I nodded. “Not all the time.”

  “He’d better watch it. Clingon doesn’t put up with any crap.”

  Just as he said it, Clingon grabbed Wills by the elbow and pulled him off the court. “Take over, T.J.,” he shouted to the boy next to me. He hauled Wills right over to the far end of the hall. I could tell by the way he jabbed his fingers at Wills’s face that Wills was in big trouble, and getting punished. Dad sat on the edge of his seat, watching anxiously, and looking over to me every so often.

  When he had finished, Clingon pushed Wills back on court and took another boy off. Whatever he had said worked. Wills was still awkward and sprawly legged, but he wasn’t so psycho and he didn’t deliberately try to push people over or yell like a lunatic.

  I hoped Clingon had forgotten about me, but he suddenly shouted for me to take over in defense. I wanted to be a shooter even though I knew I was too small. Wills was a shooter for the other team and I wound up having to mark him, which wasn’t fair because he could just reach over the top of me, which he did, patting me on the head at the same time.

  “Great basket,” yelled Clingon as Wills got away from me yet again. “Try blocking him off before he gets into a scoring position, Chris.”

  I nodded but thought, Easier said than done. Wills was running rings around me, literally. The only time I managed to get the ball from him, I tripped over his great big feet and gave it away again. I felt like there was only me and Wills on the court, and that it was a battle between just the two of us. But at last Clingon took Wills off and moved me into a position where I had to feed the forwards. I did all right then, well, all right-ish, and Wills and Dad yelled encouragement from the side, but I was certain I wouldn’t be picked for the team if there was a game, and I was certain Wills would be if he could behave himself.

  On the way home—Mom’s home—Wills didn’t stop going on about the baskets he had scored and what an amazing game basketball was. He said he couldn’t wait to play again and asked if we were going to stay at Dad’s the following Sunday. Dad didn’t know, so Wills begged him and begged him, but I didn’t know where I wanted to be next Sunday because I was worried about Mom now and I was desperate to get back home.

  Mom was already waving at us from the front door as we got out of the car. Wills beat me to her. He gave her a big hug and wouldn’t let her go. Then he pulled away and told her that we would have to stay at Dad’s the following weekend because of basketball. I gave her a hug and said that I would stay with her if she didn’t want me to go, but then I was worried about Dad’s feelings. Dad said he would talk with Mom and that they would decide between them. He pecked her awkwardly on the cheek again, ruffled my hair, and pushed Wills playfully in the chest. Then he walked quickly down the path, jumped into his car, and drove away.

  Chapter Six

  We don’t go to Dad’s every weekend. Mom doesn’t want us to because she misses us, and I don’t think Dad wants us to because when we’re not there he can be neat and tidy and quiet. Wills went berserk when Mom explained that we wouldn’t be able to play basketball every week because it was too far to drive from our house, and that she wouldn’t have time to take us what with all the washing and ironing and housework to catch up with now that Dad wasn’t there to do his part. Wills said he would go and live with Dad, then. Mom said that wasn’t an option. Wills rampaged around the house, then wrapped himself around her and pleaded with her to ask Dad to take us.

  “I’m good at basketball,” he wheedled, “and Clingon thinks I can make the team if I behave myself, and I’m really going to try to behave myself. Really, really going to try.”

  He meant it. I knew that. Sometimes Wills is as frustrated by his Acts Dumb and Dumber as we are, and I feel sorry for him then. The trouble is that however much he starts out trying, it never lasts very long, and then the feeling sorry turns to feeling murderous.

  It was Dad who gave in. He said he would take us to basketball every Sunday, and on Mom’s Sundays he would pick us up first thing then bring us right back home afterward. That way she would be able to catch up on all the chores, so that she could spend proper time with us in the afternoon. You would think Dad had bought him the biggest ammonite in the world the way Wills danced around him, and hugged him, and wouldn’t let him go. I looked at Mom and Mom looked at me and I said, “I’ll stay and help you, Mom. I don’t think I’ll be any good at basketball.”

  “That’s all right, sweetie,” she smiled. “You go with your dad and Wills.”

  That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. I was about to argue when Wills started begging me to go, saying that he didn’t want to go on his own because he didn’t know anybody, and they might get at him if he messed up, and that he would behave himself if I went. I knew Dad wouldn’t want to stay with him. Nobody else’s parents stayed, and Dad had only stayed the first time just in case.

  “I promise I’ll be good, Chris,” he said, going down on his knees. “Promise, promise, promise. Chris cross my heart and hope to die, kick my head in if I tell a lie.”

  “I will too,” I growled. “Only joking, Mom.”

  I wondered what I had got myself in to, and why I had gotten myself into it. It’s what happened. I always wound up doing things I didn’t really want to do because of Wills. Like the not-telling-Mom things.

  “If you don’t behave, Wills, you know what will happen,” warned Dad. “Mr. Columbine won’t stand for any nonsense and you’ll be out at the first sign.”

  “I know, Daddy-waddy, and I’m going to be as good as gold.”

  He was, too, when we went the following weekend. As soon as he walked through the doors of the sports hall (not before!) he turned into Mr. Obedient. When Clingon called him over, he went over. When Clingon told him to put on a colored bib, he put it on. When Clingon told him to practice dribbling with the ball, he did it. Even his great gangly legs seemed to stay underneath his own body. Dad couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Why can’t he be like that all the time?” He hovered on the sideline, unsure whether it was safe to leave or not.

  “It won’t last,” I muttered, trying to concentrate on my own dribbling and hating every minute of it.

  “Well, I’ll be off, then.”

  He headed quickly for the door. He looked as though he had been shot in the back when Wills suddenly yelled out, “Bye, Dad!” but he didn’t turn around, just waggled his fingers over his shoulder and disappeared.

  Then it was just me and Wills. Groan. I was so uptight in case Wills decided to make me look stupid in front of a whole new load of people, that I made myself look stupid. I was terrible at everything Clingon asked us to do, and I was one of the useless ones he left on the bench when he put the others into two teams.

  Wills was one of the best, and he knew it. His height gave him a big advantage and he rattled in basket after basket. Whenever he got too loud or aggressive, or tried to be too clever, Clingon slapped him down with a few sharp words or a dagger-like glare. The amazing thing was that Wills accepted the slapping. Did Clingon realize that this wasn’t the real Wills? I wondered. This Wills even tried to encourage me when, in the last five minutes, I was given a chance to play. Clingon might have thought he had Wills figured out, but he didn’t have me figured out at all. I didn’t want him to give me a chance just because he felt he couldn’t leave me out any longer.

  I was so glad to see Dad when he arrived to take us home. Clingon told him again that Wills had great potential if he could just keep control of himself. As for me, he said that I needed to be more confident.

  “Get stuck in there, young man, and you’ll do fine. You’
re too damn scared of it at the moment.”

  I had to blush then, didn’t I, and I wished I was darker skinned because then it wouldn’t show.

  “See you next week, boys,” Clingon said, dismissing us.

  “He’s such a dude, isn’t he, Dad?” said Wills as we left.

  Chapter Seven

  Wills wasn’t as good as gold at home. He was more messy than ever now that Dad wasn’t there to yell at him to clear up, and Mom didn’t have the time or energy after a long day’s work and all the cooking and washing and cleaning. When we got in from school before Mom had arrived home, Wills would raid the fridge, plunk himself down in front of the television, volume LOUD, and start texting nonstop on his cell phone. Some days he would suddenly jump to his feet, waggle his fingers at me, and disappear out of the front door, leaving cartons, crumbs, and wrappers all over the couch for Mom or me to clear up. He hardly ever did his homework. We were supposed to get it done as soon as we got in and before we watched the TV, and Mom and Dad and the teachers had worked out all sorts of routines for Wills to follow to help him concentrate and make sure he kept up.

  But Wills didn’t always come home right after school. He’d set off, on his own, in the opposite direction, and tell me to mind my own business if I asked where he was going. Sometimes he’d come back really late, leaving Mom to worry about his work not being done, his dinner getting cold, where he was, and what he was up to; and me to worry that he was up to no good with his horrible friends, and that sooner or later I’d be dragged into it too. I didn’t tell Mom what I thought. I just tried to tell her that Wills was big enough and ugly enough to look after himself. And he was big enough and ugly enough, but whether he could look after himself was another matter. All I know is that it wasn’t fair on Mom, and it made me angry all over again with Dad.