“Hear that, Ally?” I shout. “You’re lucky to go to your new school.”
“Alexandra!” Lucas yells. “Answer your brother!”
“Don’t tell her what to do,” I snarl. I step into the hallway, into his vacant face.
He looks over his shoulder at the surveillance camera, then back to me. The kid behind him does the same. I expect them to shout, “Help! You don’t belong here!”
Ally turns around. She doesn’t smile or frown. She looks as blank as Lucas. “I know I’m lucky, Max. Every child who goes to school is lucky.”
“Exactly,” Lucas says. “Goodbye, Maxwell.”
Then he and his zombie friend walk away with my sister.
I used to complain about walking to school with Ally, stopping every ten paces to transplant worms or collect feathers, arriving at the high school just ahead of the bell, no time to socialize before class. Now I’m jostled by crowds of elbows and laughter and nodding heads, and I hate it.
“Hello, Max,” Xavier says. “I never knew you came to school on time.”
I message Mom seventeen times. What if Ally gets put in a trade she hates? What if Lucas ditched Ally in the middle of nowhere? What if Ally walks too slow and gets detention?
Mom replies once. I have to work, Max. The virus is hitting hard. Elaine sends her love. Like that’s going to cheer me up, a deathbed love note from the granny I’m neglecting.
I’m heading to football practice when Pepper takes my arm. “Walk me home?” she asks.
Dallas jogs toward the gym without noticing us. “Sure,” I say.
She barely speaks on the walk but she lets me hold her hand. I’m almost pissing myself with nerves.
She lives in a four-story row house. It’s a bracket up from my apartment complex but nowhere near as nice as my old place. She has an end unit with a flower bed in front. We stand inches apart outside the door, saying goodbye under a security camera.
I reach my hand behind her head and lean in to kiss her. She smells like cherry candy. The back of her neck is the softest thing I’ve ever touched. She kisses me warmly but much too briefly before she pulls away. Her hands rest on my chest, small and delicate. I can’t tell if she’s feeling my heartbeat or holding me off.
“Thanks for walking me home, Max.”
I stroke her hands, along her arms, up to her bare brown neck. I lean in to kiss her again, but she lowers her head so I end up smelling her hair.
“I just wanted you to know where I lived,” she says. She uses the past tense.
My shoulders slump as history and gravity pull me down.
I stumble back and scratch my head, slap an arm in the air.
“I’ll see you, Pepper.” I walk away before I have to watch her shut the door on me.
I can’t go home. Mom’s there with Ally, and I don’t want to hear how great trade school is.
I check the time. Late. I don’t care. I run back to school.
The team’s still doing drills when I arrive. I rush into the trailer for my gear.
“Why do you bother?” Coach Emery yells when I step onto the field. “You missed half the practice!”
I play hard, wiping Pepper and Ally and all my wasted hopes from my mind. The coach eases up on me eventually.
In the last play of practice, Dallas throws me the ball. I tuck it tight and clear a path down the field, dodging and dashing so fast I make it look easy. Bay plows through everyone who comes close, but soon he’s far behind me. I’ve got a clear view of the end zone and I run like the devil’s chasing me.
I see Brennan coming at me from the side, broken through his block. He’s fast, maybe faster than me. He’s huge, too, and if he tackles me from that angle at this speed I will certainly suffer.
I pump out an extra burst of speed as Brennan bends for the tackle. I spring into the air and leap over him, my hand shoving down his helmet, my legs scrambling above his arms. I clear his reach and land steady, running down the field. I throb with adrenaline through forty yards of open space.
I slam the ball into the end zone. I scream and stomp and walk on my hands, kicking my heels and raining down dirt, until my team arrives and knocks me over. Dallas almost takes my shoulder off. He laughs so hard he drools on his mask.
Coach Emery and Brennan jog up together. When I see them like that, shoulder to shoulder, I wish my dad were alive.
Brennan slams my shoulder and hugs me, lifts me off the ground, drops me, slams into me again. “Royal escape, Max.
Premium. Award-winning. Do that at our next game.”
I do some kingly prancing. I pat Brennan’s back and say, “Good try.” We all break into laughter.
I’m the first to walk off the field. Coach Emery catches up to me by the trailer. “I’m glad you made it today, Connors. I’ll remember that jump for years.”
I figure this is a good time to tell him I’ll miss Thursday’s practice.
His smile disappears. “For what reason?”
“The middle school has its first game.”
He frowns. “It’s good that you take your coaching seriously, but you can’t let it interfere with your own practice.”
“I need to be there, Coach. I’m asking my mom to come. You should come too.”
My teammates pass us on their way to the trailer. “Way to go, Max,” they say.
The coach lays a hand on my shoulder to hold me at the bottom of the steps. “Why on earth would I go? I have a practice to lead.”
“To see the kids. There’s something wrong with them. They’re like—”
“I’ve heard about the good children at that school,” he interrupts. “I’m glad you find them a pleasure to coach.” He glances up at the security camera while he pats my shoulder. Then he steps backward and collides with Bay. It’s strange—even with weak peripheral vision, you can’t miss somebody as big as Bay.
Coach Emery straightens up and says, “Let’s get out of the way.” He leads me to the back of the trailer where there’s no surveillance. “What are you organizing at this game?” he whispers.
I’m used to him shouting, so I’m unnerved. “I’m just asking people to see the kids.”
“Who are you asking?”
“My family. Dallas.”
He gasps. “Richmond’s family?”
“No. Just Dallas.”
“Don’t invite Arlington Richmond. And don’t invite any other teachers.”
“Why not? They should see these kids. You should see them. They’re not right.”
“Keep these opinions to yourself, Connors.” He holds me by the back of the neck and stares into my eyes. “I mean it. Do not go around talking this way.”
I don’t know if that’s a caution or a threat.
“I don’t have time for a football game,” Mom says. “Your games, yes, I love those. But the little kids? No. I’m tired at the end of the day. My shifts start at five am this month.”
“You have to come, Mom.”
“I know you’ve been working hard coaching them—”
“I told you, it’s not like that!”
“My teacher says you shouldn’t raise your voice to an adult,” Ally says. She sits across the table from me, eating her sandwich crusts. “The kids in my new school barely speak at all.”
“That’s too bad, Ally,” Mom says. “But Max and I are having a private conversation right now.”
“My teacher says private conversations are not good,” Ally says. “We work quietly all day long.”
Mom stares at her sadly.
“It’s not so bad,” Ally says. “There’s coloring and building.”
I interrupt before I have to hear the lonely details. “I need you there, Mom. I need to know if I’m imagining things.”
She sighs. “How long is the game?”
“An hour and a half. You could catch the end.”
She considers the minutes of lost money and sleep.
“Please,” I beg. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”
>
She thinks about that. “Never,” she says in surprise.
The middle school erected bleachers for the Warriors’ first game, and they’re full of students, uniformed and neatly spaced in rows.
A dozen parents stand on the sidelines, gabbing about the impending rain. Fathers scowl and pace with their hands on their hips, bellies sagging over polyester trousers. Mothers push the limits of their stretch pants and stare at the field with constipated squints.
The Chiefs bus over from the southwest quadrant. They’re no bigger than the Warriors but they look premium in red and orange uniforms that shimmer when the sun breaks through a cloud.
Mr. Hendricks shakes his head. “They’re a bit behind in Nesting. We’re never going to beat them.” Motivational leadership in action.
I shout at the Warriors as they pass by on laps. “Slow down, Frankie, save some for the game! That’s right, Chicago, get those feet off the ground!”
Mr. Hendricks rolls his eyes at me.
“Where’s Saffron?” I ask.
He points to the bleachers. Saffron sits at the end of the top row, watching her team jog around the field.
“Did she break a bone?”
“She quit,” he tells me. “It’s just as well. Boys slamming into her like they did? There was something about it that didn’t feel right.”
My mouth hangs open. I flap my hands around as if they’re going to come up with a response on their own. I give up on Hendricks and run up the bleachers.
Saffron looks at me politely. “Hello. How are you?”
“Why did you quit the team?” I yell.
“Girls need their own teams to express themselves adequately. I’m tired of competing with boys.”
“But you kick their asses. Is there a girls’ football team at this school?”
She shakes her head.
“Get in uniform.”
She looks at the field, looks up at me, shakes her head.
“There’s no place for girls on this team.”
“Did the coach tell you that?”
She frowns. “I don’t remember who told me that.”
“You’re the best player on the team, Saffron. They need you.”
“I don’t like this conversation anymore.” She turns to her friend, a tiny black girl with purple hair clips and a white zip-up sweater.
“No girl has to converse with a boy if it makes her uncomfortable,” the friend says.
Every student in the back row nods and waits for me to leave. They have the same eyes, same words, same minds.
I shudder and nearly stumble off the bleachers.
The coach calls in the team and the game begins.
Mr. Hendricks was right. The Warriors have no hope of winning. The Chiefs are no bigger or faster but they have the advantage of not yet being zombies. They jump and scream on the sidelines, “Go, Matty, go! Come on, come on, come on!” They dive for tackles they have no chance of making. They run the ball like they’re fleeing spear-wielding cannibals. When they score, they shout and leap and slam into each other joyously.
The Warriors stand on the sideline and shout stock phrases for no particular reason. “Good try! We’re the best!” They only dive for tackles they can take. They run the ball like they’re jogging to school. And when they score—which they only do once—they clap politely. Clap, clap, clap, pause, clap, clap, clap.
Mom arrives late and stands apart from the other parents, nervous and out of place. Ally stands beside her like a mechanical doll waiting for someone to wind her up.
“Do you see what I mean?” I ask.
“Your team’s not very good,” Mom says.
“Not good? Look at them, Mom. They’re not right. None of them. Even the eighth graders are defective now.”
Chicago runs for the ball, but he fumbles and a Chief throws himself on top of it. Chicago smiles and brushes off his hands.
“See that?” I ask. “He lost control and he doesn’t care. He’s not angry. He’s not embarrassed. You should have seen that kid two weeks ago. He was a mouthy little punk with an ego bigger than this field. Now he’s a robot. They all are. Look at them.”
“They’re like the kids at my school,” Ally says. She holds her teddy tight to her chest. “They’re all slowed down.” Mom frowns. “They run almost as fast as the other team.”
“Inside,” Ally whispers. “They’re all slowed down inside.”
“They are a bit quiet,” Mom says.
“Hello, Karenna!” a huge white woman shouts. She walks over, smiling and wheezing. “I thought that was you.”
“Linda MacMillan,” Mom says. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Look, Max. It’s Linda. She worked at Manor Heights with me and your dad.”
I don’t recall ever meeting Linda, and she’s not someone you could easily forget. She weighs about five hundred pounds and she doesn’t wear them well.
“Isn’t this the best week of your life?” she shouts. “All these good children! I’m so thankful for Nesting.”
“Nesting?” Mom repeats.
“The New Education Support Treatment.” Linda looks at Ally and says, “She must have been done the first week of school. She’s in grade one, isn’t she?”
Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then she closes it tight and puts a hand on Ally’s shoulder.
“You notice it most with the little ones,” Linda says. “It’s harder to tell in the older grades until you get their marks— then you’ll see the difference.” She looks me up and down and snorts. “You’re a hefty boy for eighth grade. You should be out there on the field.” She wags her finger and says to Mom, “I recall you saying this one was a bit of a troublemaker. I’m sure you’re glad that’s over. What’s he like now?”
“Max is as good as gold,” Mom says softly.
“These clouds are getting darker by the minute,” Linda says. “I hope we’re not rained out, though god knows the grass could use it. Did you see that mess of paint at the end of the field? It’s not right, letting the paint wash into the grounds like that. I don’t know why they didn’t just paint over it. How much does a can of paint cost these days?” She shakes her head at the conservatory and mutters, “You won’t see any more graffiti once they do the high schools this month. Thank god. These kids are out of hand.”
A fat black woman struts up to us. She holds out her hand to Mom. “I’m Denise Atkins. I work at the school. Thanks for coming out.” She nods toward me and Ally. “It must be so stressful with two of them. How did you manage before?”
Mom shrugs. “They’re not much trouble.”
“I’m sure they’re not now,” Denise says. “You wouldn’t believe the calls I’ve had this term. A lot of families are happy at last. No more constant battles. No mouthing off. No fighting over homework. No lies.”
“No need to worry about their future,” Linda adds. “That’s the main thing for me. With the new class sizes, every minute counts. I don’t want my child’s grades falling because some troublemaker is wasting time.”
“My Saffron is a gifted student,” Denise says. “Her talents were wasted in the old system.”
“You’re Saffron’s mother?” I exclaim.
Denise and Linda turn on me like I called them fat cows.
“She’s an excellent football player,” I add.
“Have you noticed any side effects?” Linda asks, surveying me closely. “Some kids on other meds get confused and have outbursts like that. Just like in Manor Heights.”
“Side effects of what?” Mom asks.
Linda and Denise exchange glances. “Aren’t you on the parent-teacher board?” Linda asks.
Mom shakes her head. “Not this year. I haven’t even read the minutes.”
“You don’t know about motivational leadership?” Denise gasps.
Mom shakes her head.
“Honey, you have to get on that,” Linda exclaims. “Parent participation is essential to program success. We can’t be giving the kids mixed messages.�
��
“You should have read the guidelines weeks ago,” Denise sneers. “These outbursts can’t be ignored.”
Linda pats her friend’s shoulder. “He just got done this week, Denise. It’s a lot for a boy to take in.” She turns to Mom. “Chicago had a bit of an adjustment last week when they did the grade sevens, but he’s fine now. Better than fine.” She points to Chicago, who stands like a zombie in a line of zombies. “He’s the best player on the team.”
I snort with laughter. It’s stupid, I know. I regret it immediately. But it’s impossible for me to leave that statement in the air without snorting at it.
Suspicion and hatred fly from the fat women’s faces.
I scratch my nose and cough and snort some more like I’m having a respiratory attack until at last they stop staring at me.
“Nesting saved Chicago’s academic career,” Linda says. “He never got anywhere on time. He always left his homework to the last minute and messed around in class. But now that’s all changed.”
Denise gives me a thorough inspection, scrutinizing my face, my arms, even peeking round my backside, like I’m a slave she might purchase for field work. “You don’t play football?” she asks me. “I saw you talking to the coach earlier. Why aren’t you on the field? Or sitting in the stands with your classmates?”
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder, just like she did with Ally. “I like having my children near me.”
Linda smiles. “We have a lot in common, Karenna. I’m a softy, too, where my boy is concerned.” She stares across the field and nods. “I was there for his treatment and I’m glad for that. It makes a difference to know it’s done right. Plus it’s extra money. I was let go from the hospital this summer. We’re mostly living on the one income.” She slaps a hand in the air and adds, “I’m sorry, honey. That was thoughtless. You’ve been on one income for a while now, haven’t you?”
Mom nods.
“You should come do vaccinations with me!” Linda grins and jiggles like she’s planning a garden party. “I’ve been telling them I need help, and they just said yes.”
All Good Children Page 9
