The Saturday Boy

by David Fleming

  * * *

  Me and Dad are buzzing over the desert with two Spitfires hot on our tail. Their machine guns are blazing. RAT-A-TATTA-TAT! RAT-A-TATTA-TAT! I weave in and out and in between the bullets as they streak past, barely missing us. My code name is Stingray. I’m wearing pilot sunglasses and chewing on a toothpick. Dad is in front of me in the gunner’s seat, his head moving back and forth as he looks for targets.

  “These bogies’re getting close, Stingray!” Dad shouts, his voice crackling in my headset. “We can’t outrun them much longer!”

  “Time to go upstairs!” I shout back.

  “What? You’re crazy!”

  “Hang on!”

  I pull back on the stick as far as she’ll go and the chopper starts to climb into the air as the g-force pushes us down into our seats. The stick’s wobbling like mad. I grit my teeth and hold on, biting the toothpick in half. The chopper climbs, climbs, goes upside down and starts to descend. Bright lights flash in my field of vision and as I start to slip into the black I hear a voice—Dad’s voice.

  “Dammit, Stingray, hang on! I can’t do this by myself!”

  Amazingly, I snap out of it. The Spitfires are ahead of us now. I can picture the pilots looking around, wondering where we went. Dad’s finger slips around the trigger of the Apache’s thirty-millimeter chain gun. RAT-A-TATTA-TATTA-TAT-BOOM! RAT-A-TATTA-TATTA-TAT-BOOM! The chopper slices through the cloud of smoke, leaving the Spitfires’ pilots behind, parachuting down and shaking their fists at us.

  4

  “HEY, SATURDAY BOY,” Budgie said the next morning at the bus stop. “What’s on your panties today? Unicorns?”

  I wanted to tell him shut up and that I wasn’t wearing unicorn underwear. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t even have unicorn underwear. I wanted to tell him that my underwear was better than his because mine had robots and his probably just had skid marks, but I didn’t. I was going to be the bigger person instead. And being the bigger person I decided to help because I figured that’s what bigger people did.

  “You’re only acting like that because there’s pain in your life,” I told him.

  “What? No there’s not!”

  “Yes there is. And you’re scared and insecure and that’s why you’re such a fudgebag.”

  Budgie’s face went blank and I continued to be the bigger person by ignoring him. The bus came and we got on and he still hadn’t said anything. He just looked confused. On the way to school this little kid called Ellory barfed up his pancakes all over the place so Budgie spent most of the time making fun of him and by the time we got to school he’d completely forgotten about me.

  Ms. Dickson was sitting at her desk when we got to the classroom and after everybody had taken their seats she did roll call. I remembered this one time Ms. Dickson said it was time to call the roll and Budgie said, “Here, roll! Come here, boy! Good roll!”

  Even Ms. Dickson had laughed and that never happened. I tried it the next day and got in trouble. Nobody laughed, either. Maybe I said it wrong.

  When Ms. Dickson had finished she picked Missy Sprout to take the attendance sheet to the office. She always picked Missy Sprout to do stuff like that but I couldn’t figure out why. It’s not like she was fast or anything. I bet I could take the attendance sheet to the office and be back a lot faster than Missy Sprout ever could. I wouldn’t stop for anything or anyone—not even the hall monitor. Missy Sprout takes so long I bet she stops for tea and crumpets with everyone she sees.

  “Now,” said Ms. Dickson, “do any of you know who Charles Dickens is?”

  “Your husband!”

  “No, Budgie.”

  “Your brother!”

  Ms. Dickson pinched the top of her nose and closed her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Let’s try this another way,” she said. “Do any of you know A Christmas Carol?”

  “‘Jingle Bells’!”

  “Somebody other than Budgie, maybe?” said Ms. Dickson. “Somebody with their hand up? Violet?”

  “Charles Dickens was an author,” Violet said.

  “That is correct,” said Ms. Dickson.

  Then she asked Violet if she knew what A Christmas Carol was about and Violet said she did, so Ms. Dickson asked her to share with the class and she did.

  I liked the sound of Violet’s voice and the way she said things. I listened to her tell about this mean, old miserly guy called Scrooge and how he had this guy who worked for him named Cratchit and how Scrooge wanted him to work all night but the guy didn’t want to because he had a son named Tiny Tim who was really sick and it was Christmas Eve outside. Then she told about how when Scrooge got home he was visited by the ghost of Bob Marley who said there were going to be three more ghosts and they were all going to show him different stuff and they did and in the morning it was Christmas and Scrooge bought a turkey.

  “That was very good, Violet,” said Ms. Dickson. “Now, at the end of next month Mr. Putnam and the middle school drama club will be putting on a play of A Christmas Carol and he told me he needs two volunteers, one boy and one girl, to be in it.”

  I knew what a play was. My mom and dad took me to one once. I don’t really remember the name of it but everyone was dressed up like cats. The Christmas carol play sounded good, though. It had ghosts. Maybe I could be one of them. Being a ghost would be cool. Violet’s hand was already up. She’d raised it even before Ms. Dickson had finished talking. I put my hand up, too. Mostly so Violet’s wouldn’t be lonely.

  I could feel everybody looking at me. They were probably looking at Violet, too. I looked down at my desk and felt my face get all warm. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Violet. She was smiling like she wasn’t bothered by the stares and giggles. Maybe she wasn’t. Then Violet was smiling at me and I was smiling back. It felt pretty good.

  Later that day when we came in from recess there was a note on my desk from Budgie that said,

  Derek loves Vilet.

  He didn’t sign it or anything but Budgie isn’t very good at spelling so I knew it was probably him. I looked around to tell him he was wrong but he was talking with this kid named Barely O’Donahue. His real name was Barry but pretty much everybody called him Barely because he was so short. I crushed up Budgie’s note and put it in my desk.

  During the last period Sally, who sits behind me, passed me a note. It was from Budgie. Nobody good ever passed me notes. It said,

  You

  I looked over my shoulder at Budgie but he had his head down and he was working. Was that it? Where was the rest of it? That was the worst note ever. I put it in my desk and went back to drawing superheroes in the margins of my math book. About a minute later Sally passed me another note. This one said,

  You love

  My face started to feel hot all of a sudden. I shoved the note into my desk before anyone could see. I drew Budgie as a big, fat, marshmallow thing with legs and I drew Bonfyre roasting it with her fire bolts. I also added a couple of Boy Scouts who were waiting around to make s’mores out of him. They had a box of graham crackers and everything. Then Sally passed me another note. I should have just put it in my desk without looking at it. I should have eaten it or burned it or done anything but open it but I opened it. In Budgie’s big, stupid handwriting it read,

  You love her!!!!!!

  I crumpled up the note, spun around in my seat, and whipped it at Budgie.

  “Eat it, fat boy!”

  Everything stopped. Ms. Dickson stopped writing on the whiteboard. Everyone stopped working. I think even the clock stopped ticking. Budgie held his hand over his eye like he was hurt even though I could tell he was totally faking. I knew it was wrong but I kinda wished he was hurt for real. Turning the other cheek all the time was hard work. What did they think? That I was made of them?

  “Derek! Office! Now!”

  Of course. Because it was my fault.

  I stopped in the boys’ room on the way to the office to splash some cold water on my face
because all the unfairness had gotten me all hot and mad. I plugged the drain with a paper towel and turned on the cold water in the sink. When it was full I turned the water off. I splashed some on my face and that helped a little but I was still thinking about Budgie sitting there holding his eye like he was hurt and I bet I didn’t even hit him. I bet everyone was paying attention to him and feeling bad for him and suddenly I was mad again so I took a deep breath and dunked my head in the sink as far as it would go.

  When I pulled my head out of the sink cold water splashed down my neck and onto the front of my shirt and even though I didn’t really feel angry anymore, I was still in trouble and now I was wet. I got a paper towel and dried my face and threw it out. Then I got another one and dried my neck and threw that one out. Then I got another one and started drying my hair. Ms. Dickson would have said I was dawdling.

  The way I saw it, I was just taking the time to do a good job.

  I was doing such a good job, in fact, that when the end-of-the-day bell rang I was still standing there. I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like I’d been gutpunched.

  I’d completely forgotten to go to the principal’s office.

  I was toast. I was dead. I was worse than dead—I was doomed. Making a mess in the boys’ room and using all the paper towels was one thing, but disobeying a teacher when they’d told you to do something was another. Forget sitting next to the teacher’s desk or writing something over and over again on the whiteboard until you couldn’t feel your hand anymore, this time Ms. Dickson was going to kill me.

  What was I going to do? I couldn’t get killed now. What would I say to my mom?

  I opened the bathroom door and peeked into the hallway. The doors to the classrooms were open and kids were coming out to get their coats and get ready to go outside to catch the buses. Man, it would be good to be one of those kids right about now. I’d be putting my jacket on and be thinking about Chocolate Ka-Blams and Zeroman instead of hiding out in the boys’ room with damp hair and no more paper towels.

  I had to think of something quick. Kids were starting to stream down the hall past the bathroom and it wasn’t like I could just step out and join them. I didn’t have my backpack or my jacket, and besides, if Budgie saw me he’d dime me out for sure. I’d have to wait. I couldn’t go home without my stuff and I couldn’t get my stuff until Ms. Dickson and the class had gone.

  I really wanted to stick my head out to see where Ms. Dickson and the rest of the class were but I knew that would be a bad idea so I didn’t. Luckily I heard Budgie’s fat, dumb laugh coming from down the hall. Somebody must have told him the one about the chicken crossing the road because he’s the only one in the whole world who thinks it’s funny. I closed the door and waited until I couldn’t hear his laugh anymore and when I opened the door again the hallway was empty.

  This was it.

  I snuck down the hall and into the classroom. Through the windows I could see the turnaround where the buses were lining up with all the kids waiting to get on. I didn’t have much time. Soon the buses would be full and they’d drive away and I’d be stuck here. I grabbed all my stuff and was pulling on my jacket when I noticed that Budgie had left his math workbook on his desk.

  Budgie. Budgie with the fat, dumb laugh. Budgie whose fault this all was.

  I went over and picked up the book and flipped through it a little. We had math homework tonight and he couldn’t do it without the book. The nice thing to do would be to bring it to him. The right thing to do would be to bring it to him. He could get in trouble if he didn’t do his homework.

  I looked out the window again. The buses were filling up. I thought about Budgie and what Mom had said about him having pain in his life. Then I thought about what a pain it was having him in my life. I thought about those two things for as long as I could without missing the bus.

  Then I glued the book to his desk and ran.

  * * *

  Mom was waiting for me when I got home.

  “Derek?”

  “Yeah?”

  I dropped my backpack on the floor and took off my jacket and hung it up and went into the pantry for a Chocolate Ka-Blam. When I turned around Mom was standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed. She didn’t look happy. She looked disappointed and a little sad.

  “Do you know who I just got off the phone with?”

  “No.”

  “Derek.”

  “Ms. Dickson?”

  “And Mr. Howard,” said Mom. “Do you know why they called?”

  I nodded and fiddled with the Chocolate Ka-Blam and then put it back on the shelf. I suddenly wasn’t very hungry anymore.

  I remembered the last thing Mr. Howard had called about. It was easy to remember because Dad had just gotten home and I always remembered everything that happened when he was here.

  It’d been late and I was supposed to be in bed but I’d had two sodas at the welcome home party and they’d had caffeine in them so I sat at the bottom of the stairs instead, listening to my daddy’s voice as he and Mom talked in the kitchen.

  I didn’t know what they were talking about and it didn’t matter. I’d just missed the sound of my dad’s voice. My mom once said she thought Dad must be afraid of the quiet the way he was always talking to himself and singing but I didn’t agree. My dad’s not afraid of anything. But the quiet is awfully loud when he’s away.

  I didn’t remember how long I’d been sitting there listening but at some point the tone of my dad’s voice changed and I started to pay attention. He was angry. I hoped it wasn’t because of me.

  “What? No. No way. We’ve been through this once already.”

  “We have, Jason, but—”

  “Remember first grade? His teacher decided there was something wrong with him and wouldn’t shut up about it until we agreed to have him tested?”

  I didn’t remember taking any tests or anything but first grade was ages ago.

  “And even after everything came back negative she still wouldn’t let it go?”

  “I remember. I do. Just—”

  “Annie, c’mon,” Dad said. “That’s messed up.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Why can’t he just be a high-spirited kid? Why do people feel the need to put labels on everything?” Dad said. “You want a label for Derek? Awesome. There it is. There’s your label.”

  I totally remember him saying that. Word for word. Mom agreed, saying something like if Dad was trying to get an argument out of her he’d have to try harder. Then she said, “Mr. Howard said Derek’s in a different kind of trouble. There have been a few… outbursts.”

  First of all, those had not been my fault. If Mrs. Bailey hadn’t spent so much time with her back to the classroom she’d have seen all the stuff that went down—all the spitballs and ear flicks—but that wasn’t the case. All she’d heard were the times I’d reacted. Because she was always facing the whiteboard she’d missed all the times I did ignore them—all the times I hadn’t done anything.

  She’d missed all the times I’d just sat there and taken it.

  “What have they decided is the matter this time?”

  “Don’t be like that, Jason,” Mom said. “It’s not like the teachers want him to fail.”

  “How should I be then?” said Dad. He was frowning. I could hear it in his voice. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. It got written down in some file that one teacher thought there was a problem and now that red flag’s always going to be there. I’m sorry. It just frustrates the hell out of me that he has to deal with this. Again. It sucks.”

  I remember him saying that because it was a word that I wasn’t allowed to use. But it did suck. It sucked a lot. I sat on the stairs then, feeling angry and frustrated at the unfairness—the suckiness—of it all. Feeling like there was nothing I could do.

  “You’re right. It completely sucks. But it happened.”

  “Did your sister ever have to deal with anything like this?”

  “Like what?”


  “People thinking she had a problem or was strange because of the way she dressed or the music she was into or whatever,” Dad said. “Don’t forget—I’ve seen Josie’s Mohawk pictures from high school.”

  I remember wondering how anybody could think Aunt Josie was strange. There was just no way. Maybe they were just jealous of how cool she was. Not everybody got to be an artist, after all, and I bet the number of people who got to be tattoo artists was even smaller. She’d also lived in Mexico and Japan and just about every time she came over she’d give me a new tattoo with Magic Markers. I was her favorite client because I sat like a rock. That’s what she told me.

  “…and right or wrong people are going to have their opinions of him,” Mom was saying. “They’re going to label him in the same way they felt the need to label my sister and everything else—because their world doesn’t make sense without them.

  “Listen—Derek has proven them wrong before. Just have him meet with their behaviorist and he’ll do it again and we can move on. Okay?” I remember hearing her chair scrape on the kitchen floor and her footsteps as she walked around the table. I knew she’d sat in my dad’s lap because his chair made a noise like it was complaining. “Would you like to know what I think?”

  “Yes I would,” my dad said.

  “I think he missed his daddy. Plain and simple. He puts on a brave face but I can tell it’s tough for him when you’re not here. He needed you.”

  “Well, he’s got me,” Dad said. “I’m home now.”

  “Why are you smiling?” Mom asked, smashing the memory to pieces and yanking me back to the present. “Is this funny to you? I asked you if you knew why they called.”

  “Ms. Dickson told me to go to the office and I didn’t go,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I was going to, I swear,” I said. “But I went to the boys’ room and I lost track of time.”

  “What were you doing in the boys’ room?”

  “Drying my hair.”

  “Drying your—wait. What?”