So they came to raid the refrigerator. Is that all? I open the cupboard above the sink. Mom keeps a jar there with money in case we run out of things during the week.
It’s empty.
I go to my wallet and get out a twenty. I take it back to the kitchen, put it in the jar and place the jar back on the shelf.
Finally, I get to my room and connect the iPod Kate and Ryan gave me for Christmas to my portable speaker. I pick a Metallica song, blast it and take out the comic Dave lent me. He found a used copy of the hardcover version of a classic comic from 1988, Batman: The Killing Joke. It’s supposed to be the one Heath Ledger used to learn how, in one bad day, the Joker became crazy. Some blogs say it drove him crazy, trying to get into the Joker’s head.
My friend Dave and I started getting obsessed with comics when we were really little. At first we watched the TMNT cartoon series on TV, and then we moved on to the comic books when we could read better. Comics got me through some rough times. One summer I had a stack of about a hundred of them beside my bed—Superman, Batman, Avengers, Titans, Ninja Turtles of course. I even had some Archies. I actually read every single one.
There’s supposed to be a new TMNT movie coming out soon. We’ll probably go see it for old-times’ sake, take our friend Mitch along. But I almost don’t want to because it’ll probably suck.
It should be a crime to make something about the Ninja Turtles that sucks. We still share other comics, but nothing’s ever been as great as those first TMNT comics.
I push my pillows against the wall and lean back with my burger on my chest. The Joker stares at me, propped up against my knees. After a swig of my drink and a good belch, I dig in. I can’t help smiling as James Hetfield sings, “And nothing else matters…”
Three
Monday morning. I get my ass into the seat just as the bell rings. Mr. Jamieson is correcting some suck-up’s homework, but he takes a break to give me a dirty look, even though I’m on time. There are still kids standing around, talking, and he’s giving me the evil eye. The girls in the corner are texting. How come they don’t get the look? We’re not allowed to use cell phones in class. Not that I have one.
From the seat in front of me, Mitch stretches back for a fist bump. I bump back, my eyes still on Jamieson. I’m sure he’s got it in for me this morning. I can feel it. You know how you can tell when someone is watching even when they’re doing something else? Well, I can tell he’s doing that. I slide down in my desk so I can’t see him. So he can’t see me.
The class gets quiet. Jamieson’s standing at the front, getting ready for what we idiots call Bobo math—the one you have to take if you failed math in ninth grade. It’s also why Jamieson thinks he can treat us like we’re lowlifes.
I look over at Theresa in the desk beside me. She glances at me so I can see she’s sulking, which is my usual cue to ask her what’s wrong. I pretend not to notice. We’ve gone out, off and on, since seventh grade. These days we’re off. She’d be more into me if I wore vampire clothes or a studded dog collar. I’d be more into her if she didn’t.
She always comes back to me when she has a problem with some other guy though. I feel like a fish on that catch-and-release TV program; I’m learning to avoid the hooks.
“Mr. O’Reilly!”
Hiding’s not working so well. Jamieson always calls us Mr. or Miss when he’s angry. He also likes to throw stuff. Chalk, markers—once he even threw a water bottle. Full! I straighten up.
“Please remove your winter coat and put it in your locker.”
I look at him. But I don’t say anything. I don’t move.
“Now.”
“But sir—”
“I said now, Mr. O’Reilly. Put your coat in your locker or leave my class and don’t come back.”
“Sir, I can’t—”
He cuts me off again. “You can’t remove your coat, or you can’t find your locker?”
A few kids snicker.
“Sir, the problem is—”
He’s walking toward me now. I get nervous, so I sit up straight as a board. He throws his shoulders back and starts to lift his right arm. I think he’s going to chuck the chalk he’s holding, so I put my left arm in front of my face. He grabs the sleeve of my jacket and starts to pull it up, like he’s going to lift me from my seat. I stand up fast and knock the books off the desk behind me. My legs are all tangled under the chair.
Jamieson guides me around the desks and up the aisle to the door. I’m tripping over my own feet, and I see the faces of the kids we’re passing, like their alarms just went off. The girls in the corner are texting like mad. “Don’t bother with your jacket or your locker. You can go straight to see Mr. Peters. Perhaps he’ll care about your problems.”
I turn around to look at him when we get to the door. He’s serious. I can see Mitch over his shoulder, a stupid grin on his face, waving bye-bye. Jamieson opens the door and launches me into the hall. The door bangs behind me. I wait for it: Clack! Chalk hits the back of the door.
I’m alone.
I stay put for a minute, trying to figure out what just happened and what to do. I decide I better go find the VP before he finds me. What I really want to do is take off, but either way I’ll end up in Mr. Peters’s office eventually. I keep my head down, hands in my pockets. I could sneak out for a smoke and then go see the VP. Better not. Jamieson probably already called him on the intercom to say I was on my way.
I pass a class with the door open. The lights are off and there’s a French movie on. Kids are sleeping sitting up with their arms crossed, bracing themselves so they won’t fall out of their chairs. The teacher is playing solitaire on her computer. Her screen glows in the dark. Why couldn’t this be my class?
Two gym teachers in track jackets and shorts are talking outside the weight room. It’s March—too cold for shorts. One of them used to do landscaping with my dad. His eyes meet mine as I pass, and he waves. I pull up my shoulders to hide my face in my jacket.
Finally I get to the main office. The secretary says Mr. Peters will be with me in a moment and to take a seat. Just like I thought. He’s expecting me. I can see him behind his desk, talking on the phone. When he sees me, he swivels around so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
On the wall beside me there’s a big map of the school. It says Harwood Senior High Catchment Region at the top and shows all the little towns around it where the kids who come here live. Harwood is right in Hudson, the town in the center. Hudson’s right next to Rigaud, but they’re completely different. Hudson’s a posh place with mansions on the lake and people living on golf courses. Who actually lives on a golf course? The other towns near Hudson are your basic suburbs. The country kids and trailer trash like me live in Rigaud and in tiny places farther from Hudson, like Coteaudu-Lac, where my dad lives. I have a pencil stub in my pocket. When I’m sure the secretary’s busy behind her big reception desk, I draw a penis on the map where my friend Dave’s house is.
Just as I’m putting my pencil back in my pocket, Mr. Peters calls me into his office. I sit in one of the chairs across from him. His computer is on the side of his desk, and the screen is swiveled toward me. The screen saver flashes a picture of him standing with a bunch of suck-ups. His desk is super neat, like everything fits into an invisible grid: one square for the stapler, one for his coffee cup, one for the pile of papers, one for the metal thing that holds his phone messages, one for his cell phone. Everything’s even facing the same direction. Seems kind of anal.
“Declan, Declan, Declan.”
Three Declans? “Sir.” I push my hair back so he can make eye contact with me. Adults like it better when you make eye contact. They’re nicer.
“So Declan.” That’s four. “Mr. Jamieson says you refused to take off your jacket in class.”
“No, sir. I just didn’t…” I realize I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him I don’t have a locker because I lost
it in a bet with a stoner. I think the guy uses it to stash stuff he’s selling. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, is it yes or no? I see you still have it on, so is it yes?”
“Yes, I mean, no. I still have it on, but I didn’t refuse. He didn’t give me a chance. He just pulled me out. I was trying to explain.”
“To explain what?”
“I would have been late for class if I’d gone to my locker. So I kept it on. I figured it was more important not to be late.”
“Hmmm. You shouldn’t be late or have your jacket on. You’re not allowed your jacket in class. I think you know that.”
“Yes, sir.” Maybe if I agree and look guilty enough he’ll just give me a detention and get this over with.
“This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation about your jacket.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it about this jacket? It looks pretty expensive. Maybe you’re afraid to take it off, afraid someone will steal it, eh?”
Expensive? Huh? “No, sir, I mean, I wouldn’t want someone to take it, because I need it. But my mom got it for me—” I was going to say secondhand, but I don’t want to tell him that. Mom found it for me at the church thrift shop. We get a lot of stuff there. I don’t exactly go around telling people. I love my jacket because it doesn’t look like it came from a church basement. It’s normal. Like the other kids wear.
“In fact, how many times has that jacket gotten you a detention?”
“Um…I don’t know. A couple?”
He swivels the screen away from me, turns to his keyboard and types something in. “Actually, seven. Seven for the jacket.” He scrolls down, following along with his pen.
Seven? Really? I guess I lost track. I hope he doesn’t go poking around to find out about my locker. If I get the guy who has it in trouble, I won’t have to worry about any more detentions.
He taps the screen with his pen. “Three for smoking on school property, one for just ‘being there’ while your pals passed around a joint, and eleven for being late to class. Twenty-one. Twenty-one detentions.” He’s boring a hole through me over his glasses.
How could there be twenty-one detentions? It’s only March. There must be some mistake. My face starts getting hot—I’m sure I’m turning red. I remember a detention here or there, but mostly, nobody bothers about me at school. I like it that way. Twenty-one? I guess twenty-one detentions means people are starting to notice.
I hold my hands in my lap and tap my thumbs together. My brother skipped so much school he eventually got kicked out. Of course, Seamus may have done a few other things. Like set fires in garbage cans, snap the mini wipers off some teacher’s headlights, come to school drunk…things like that.
Mr. Peters leans back in his chair with his arms crossed and stares some more at the computer, tapping the end of his pen on his teeth. Tick, tick, tick. He must be going over my impressive report card. I was real excited to show that one to Mom. Finally, he stops tapping and motions to me with the pen, straight out of his mouth, still looking at his screen. “I saw you last night.”
I look right at him. He’s totally changed the subject. Now I’m afraid he’s a creepy stalker, like one of those pedophiles that prey on teenage boys. Why would he pick someone as big as me? I’m, like, a head taller than he is.
“I saw you walking on the 138, near Rigaud. On the highway in the dark.” He says the last part peering at me over his glasses again, with his eyebrows up, like I’m supposed to know it means something.
“I live there.”
His raised eyebrows change positions, squinch in the middle of his forehead.
I explain. “Not on the highway, in Rigaud. I was walking home from work.” It’s not even a highway—it’s a country road. What a city boy.
“Where do you work?”
“At the rink. Old-timers play really late sometimes, to get the ice.”
Why was he driving on the 138 at eleven anyway? Once, when he was supervising DT and trying to look cool by comparing biceps with one of the guys (which, come to think of it, was also kind of creepy), he told us that he works out at a gym in Montreal. I’m sure he doesn’t live near me.
“Any other kind of work you’re doing out there?”
“Huh?”
“There’s quite a bit of alternative commerce in Rigaud these days, or so I hear.” He puts the words alternative commerce in air quotes.
Alternative commerce? What the hell does that mean? Then I realize what he’s talking about. “You mean drugs?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
He thinks I’m selling drugs? I clue in and start shaking my head. I can’t believe it. He’s accusing me of selling drugs, hiding stuff in my jacket. “I don’t know anything about that, sir. I have a job at the rink to help my mom out, and I can’t always be asking for a lift, so I walk. That’s why my mom got me this jacket—so I wouldn’t be cold. I would never sell drugs. She’d kill me. You can search me if you want.” I start pulling the lining out of my pockets. Nothing but smokes, keys, some change and that pencil stub.
He motions for me to put my stuff back, “No, it’s okay. I understand. You have to work to help out your mom. It’s tough with divorced parents, isn’t it? You working many hours?”
“Couple times during the week, and on the weekend. I guess about twenty hours.”
“That’s a lot. You’re only in tenth grade.”
“I can handle it. Like I said, it’s so I can help out.” I really don’t see why we’re talking about this. My family life is none of his business.
He nods, like he gets it. I can tell by his nice clothes that he doesn’t. I’m sure I’ve never seen him wear the same shirt twice. What would he know about not having any cash? “You can’t have much time for homework.”
We just look at each other. I’m pretty sure we both know I don’t do any. What’s the point? I’m basically putting in time till I can leave this place.
“You know, if you ever need to talk, I’m here. I’ve told you before, high school’s important. It’s going to help you get a good job, leave money problems behind. Besides”—he gets all serious and looks me in the eye—“I know something about being a stressed-out kid and about having a single mom.”
If he isn’t a creepy pedo, he sure acts like one. Does he really think I’m going to spill my guts to him? Why doesn’t he just get off my ass? I realize my eyebrows have risen to my hairline, so I straighten out my face and nod.
“So, about Mr. Jamieson and your jacket…”
Back to my jacket. He looks at me, waiting for me to add something. I take a deep breath to calm down.
“Sir, it won’t happen again. What’s the problem anyway? It’s just a jacket.”
“Declan, Declan, Declan.” Wow, three more. He really likes to say my name. “We’ve already been over this. It’s against school rules to keep it on in the building.”
“I understand, sir. I was late. I should’ve taken off my jacket before I went to class. It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure to leave it…in my locker.”
“Okay, okay. You have no books or school supplies with you?”
I decide not to pull out the pencil stub. “They’re in my locker.” Yeah, sure. They’re in there with my homework.
Of course he knows I’m lying. No school supplies. No binders. The school year’s half over. Twenty-one detentions. What does that say about a person?
“You have a job. Can’t you get yourself some school supplies?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods a few times, puts his pen down in its square and starts to straighten things on his desk, even though everything’s already perfectly in place. “Well, Declan, clearly detention isn’t doing anything for you. You’re late almost every day, and we can’t seem to get you to take off that jacket. I see no point in assigning another one.”
Yes! “Thanks, si
r.”
“Thanks for what? I said detentions aren’t working. We need something that will.”
I’m afraid to ask. “What?”
“I haven’t decided. When I do, I’ll let you know.”
The bell rings. Classroom doors open, and the hall starts to fill with kids. Students and teachers make their way into the office. I look at Mr. Peters for permission to leave. It’s recess. Time for a smoke.
As I’m pushing myself out of the chair, he says, “Hold on. You need to put away that jacket before you go to your next class.”
“I know, sir. I will. It’s just…”
He’s waiting for me to finish.
“…I’m going out first, for a smoke. I will put it away though.”
He shakes his head and looks at the papers on his desk. “Declan, Declan, Declan.”
If I counted right, that makes eleven.
Four
There are kids everywhere, talking, smoking, horsing around, outside for recess because it feels like spring. It’s so warm I can feel the sun on my legs through my jeans.
Mitch lights my smoke with a lighter he fishes out of his military-issue parka. He and his dad got their coats from an army surplus store. His dad’s this ancient hippie. They do stuff like that.
“So what the hell happened with you and the VP?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Man, I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of there!”
“I almost pissed myself when Jamieson hauled you out. You were, like, arms and legs everywhere!” Mitch imitates Jamieson dragging me out by my jacket, waving his arms and legs around. He’s even doing Jamieson’s squinched-up face. Pretty entertaining. Other kids are watching him and laughing too, reliving the moment.
Dave stops talking to the drama teacher and comes over to the smokers’ area. He fist-bumps us both. Dave’s the jock in our group. He doesn’t smoke. He plays lacrosse, and he’s like a friggin’ acrobat. He does these random backflips all over the place, has done since we were in elementary school. I remember one summer he even went to circus camp.
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