We start to tell Dave about what happened in math. Dave doesn’t take Bobo math. He’s in the kind of math you take so you can go to college, so you can take a whole bunch more math and then go to university and take even more. He’s with all the math brainiacs, but he’s already heard about me and Jamieson. Mitch isn’t the only one talking about how funny Mr. J looked dragging me to the door. In Dave’s version of the story, I towered over Jamieson and gave him the evil eye, and, after telling him he had problems, shut the door just in time to escape being hit in the head with Testical Math (that’s what we call our technical math text).
Way more interesting than what really happened, but I kind of hope Peters doesn’t hear it.
“So didja get another DT?” Dave asks.
“No. Apparently, I’ve already had twenty-one. He’s finding something better.” I make air quotes with my cigarette in one hand.
“Ooh, something special just for you.” Dave makes it sound creepy, like Peters is going to ask me to give him a blow job or something. Sometimes Dave has no filter.
Mitch slaps me on the back. “Twenty-one! That’s probably some kind of a record. I’m proud of you, little buddy.” He pretends to wipe away a tear.
“Thanks, guys. Real supportive.” I decide not to tell them about Mr. Peters stalking me at night on the 138. They’ll bug me about my “special relationship” with him for the rest of my life. I also don’t want Mitch to know he was asking about drugs. It’ll freak him out. Mitch has weed on him most of the time.
We goof around with the other smokers for a while. I spy Robbie the Moron standing with a group of hard-core stoners. He’s looking at the guy who has my locker with those same clueless, puppy-dog eyes he uses with Seamus. It makes my skin crawl. I turn my back on them.
A couple of kids come over to talk to Dave, and he wanders away with them. Something about the variety show. He gets roped into things like that because of his acrobatic skills and because he’s such a show-off. He’s also really smart. I’m sure his IQ is higher than Mitch’s and mine combined. We do what we can to keep him humble though. Like the time we ran out of the changing room with his jeans and gym shorts after gym class and put them in the lost and found. He showed up in the main office looking for them with a hoodie tied around his backside, like it was no big deal. But there’s something about a guy in briefs and running shoes that you just can’t forget.
If Dave is the jock with brains in our group, then Mitch is the stoner. In addition to carrying it around, he’ll share with anyone, not just me and Dave. His dad grows it. Once Mitch showed us the plants in his basement, with grow lights and a watering system and everything. Cool operation. Then he swore us to secrecy. Kids hang around him because he always has weed. It’s bullshit. It reminds me of a joke about the mom who ties a pork chop around her kid’s neck so the dog will play with him. Mitch is just this easygoing guy people take advantage of. So Dave and I watch his back.
Dave and I have been friends since elementary school. We met Mitch last year because they made him repeat ninth grade. But it feels like the three of us have been friends forever.
A woman in a tracksuit jogs by with her dog on a leash, a little white, fluffy thing wearing a red-and-white sweater with the Montreal Canadiens logo on it. The dog poops on the school lawn, and the woman just keeps going. She doesn’t even scoop it up. I want to call her on it, but it’s too much hassle, and besides, I don’t want to look like a Goody-Two-Shoes with everybody standing around. I watch them continue down St. Charles.
“When will you find out?” Mitch flicks ash onto the glistening pavement. The snow is melting so fast you can hear it crackling underneath the piles made by the snow plow on the front lawn.
“Good question. I guess it’s going to be a surprise.” I act excited, like it’s a birthday present. But I do wonder what it’ll be. Twenty-one detentions. I bet that’s even more than Seamus had.
I elbow Mitch. “What beats twenty-one detentions?”
“I dunno. Twenty-two?”
“No, asshole. Peters says detentions aren’t good enough anymore. What if he expels me?”
“Isn’t it more of a punishment if he makes you stay?”
Mitch hates school even more than I do. One of the good things about living in Quebec is that high school only goes up to eleventh grade.
A fire engine screams around the corner from Main Road a block away and heads toward the school. You can feel every kid praying for it to stop here so there’ll be no third period or at least an extended recess. But the school alarm isn’t even ringing. As the fire truck passes us, the guys in the cab wave out the open window, and the truck continues down the road until we can’t hear it anymore.
Theresa walks up to us, still sulking, still trying to get me to ask her what’s wrong. Someone probably said something mean about her online. Her mascara is smudged so everybody can tell she’s been crying. She’s wearing a beanie, and the ends of her hair are dyed blue. Cute for a train wreck.
“Hi, Declan.”
Mitch rolls his eyes. He can’t stand her.
“Hi, Theresa.”
She stays with us for a couple of minutes but leaves when she realizes I’m not going to take the bait. She actually flicks her cigarette butt at my feet as she’s walking away.
“Oh my god, what a bitch.” Mitch shakes his head.
I nod and butt out my own cigarette on the side of the Ville de Hudson garbage container, put there for the smokers. But I throw it on the ground. Something about fires in garbage cans. It makes me nervous.
The bell rings. Everyone who’s been standing outside bottlenecks at the entrance. I see Robbie the Moron again as we’re shuffling toward the door. He looks at me with that stupid grin. I turn my head away and pretend I didn’t notice.
“Hey, Mitch, remind me to leave my jacket in your locker, or I’ll end up back in Peters’s office.”
“Leave your jacket in my locker.”
Idiot. I smack him in the head.
If Dave is the smart jock in our group, and Mitch is the stoner, what am I? I love comic books and screaming-guitar rock, but I’m not really known for anything. I walk so much my sister calls me the hobo. My mom makes the best lasagna in the world. Does that count? On the flip side, my brother is a juvenile delinquent, and my dad? I don’t even want to go there.
Having twenty-one detentions is pretty special.
I guess that’s me. Mr. DT.
Five
Miss Fraser, the guidance counselor, sticks her head out the door of her office to see if I’ve bolted yet. “You can come in now, Declan.” For some reason, she’s called me out of art class. It’s one of the only two classes I like. Why couldn’t she have chosen French or history?
I put down the Smoking Kills brochure I’ve been hiding behind and get up from my chair. I check to see if anybody notices I’m here. This is so not cool. Inside her office, the walls are covered with posters. My favorite is for the kids’ help phone—the one with the telephone cord coming out of the bathroom stall like some kid’s calling and taking a crap at the same time—Please help me. It’s not coming out! What do I do?
She motions for me to sit, and I collapse into a chair with prick carved into the arm. Somebody’s idea of badass. I slide down to try and be inconspicuous, and peer at her over my crossed legs. She swivels in her office chair to face me.
“Thanks for coming down, Declan. Do you have any idea why I called you here?”
Why is she asking me? I just look at her, trying as hard as I can to give her a blank stare. I have no clue why she called me here, so I settle on a shrug, which is pretty effective in my big jacket.
“Mr. Peters suggested this appointment. He says you may have things you need to discuss.”
I roll my eyes. So this is what he decided on instead of detention. Sneaky. He thinks I have problems, so he sent me to the guidance counselor for an intervention, like on th
at TV show where they ambush people and send them to rehab. What does he know about my problems? I’d like to give him some problems!
“Well, Declan? Do you know why you’re here?”
Now I’m getting angry, and I feel like yelling at her. But that wouldn’t be smart. So I sit up and lean forward in my chair. “Yeah, Miss. He thinks there’s something going on because he saw me walking on the highway at night. But he doesn’t know anything about me! I’ll tell you what—he needs to get a life. Yesterday in his office, he’s all like, Oooh, Declan, your parents’ divorce must have been so hard for you. I guess having a single mom is tough, Declan. Declan, Declan, Declan! Fuck!” I realize I’ve gotten carried away and stop dead.
She looks amused and waves for me to continue. I try to calm down. “Sorry, Miss, but Mr. Peters is always on my case. He thinks I am a case, like he’s some kind of social worker. I don’t need a social worker. It’s none of his business why I’m walking home at night. Is he following me? ’Cause it seems like he is. It’s creepy!”
That felt good. I don’t need some stupid intervention. Maybe now she’ll back off.
She doesn’t look like she’s going to back off though. I can’t tell what she’s thinking because her blank stare is really good, but I can tell she’s about to say something. “Why were you in his office?”
That’s it?
I settle back in my chair and lean on the arm. “Mr. Jamieson freaked out because I had my jacket on in class.”
“You wouldn’t take off your jacket?” She checks a note-book on her desk, which makes me realize she already knew why I was there.
I snort. “Yeah.”
“Your jacket’s big, Declan. You know that the no-jacket rule is for safety. Students have been known to hide things in their jackets.”
“I know, I know, Miss. But I can’t afford a gun, and I don’t deal drugs. I wish Mr. Peters would just get off my back.”
“It’s not Mr. Peters, Declan. It’s just a rule. It’s for everybody. Can’t you see it’ll be easier for you if you just leave your jacket in your locker?”
I love it when adults say, It’ll be easier for you. Like I’m wearing my jacket because I haven’t figured out how to simplify my life. Yup, that’s me, always trying to make things more difficult for myself. Actually, I’m lucky. I have other people to do that for me. I’ll tell you what would simplify my life: if everyone would just lay off!
I hit the arm of the chair with my hand. “I don’t have a locker.” I hit it again. “I’m not in a gang or anything.” I hit both chair arms with both hands. “I live in Rigaud, in the middle of nowhere, and I sure as hell don’t have a car. Walking on country roads in the winter, it’s cold. It’s nobody’s business about my jacket.” I keep hitting the arms of the chair as I speak. “Or how much it cost. Or where my mom got it. Mr. Peters thinks he knows about me. Well, he doesn’t! Why can’t everyone just leave me alone about my jacket?”
“You want everyone to leave you alone?”
I’ve been to see Miss Fraser before. At the beginning of the year there was some special-needs meeting about me, and she tried to convince me to do a test for ADD. I know she plays these guidance-counselor games, answering everything I say with questions to keep me talking. It bugs me, so I turn away and take a few deep breaths. But I don’t answer her. My eyes land on another poster: For information on gay, lesbian and transgender issues visit www.lgb—
“Your mom bought you the jacket?”
I resist the temptation to answer her with another question. If I said, I don’t know, what do you think? we’d probably go around in circles all day, and I’d really like to get out of here. I decide to simplify my life and answer her. “Yeah.”
I look at her and chew my fingernail. She’s expecting me to say more. “She’s really busy,” I add. “She has a life.” Unlike Mr. Peters. I’d love to see him do what Mom does. I chuckle at the idea of Mr. Peters, with his dress shirts and nice shoes and manicured fingernails, working in the animal-testing lab.
“What does your mom do?”
I sigh. “She was an office manager. Now she takes care of research animals for a drug company. Cleans cages and stuff. It’s a shit job, but she lost her other one.”
I stop myself from telling her the whole story.
“Oh?”
I can tell she still wants me to talk about Mom losing her job, but instead I say, “Yeah. Last night she told me about a rabbit. A furry little bunny rabbit, like the one my brother-in-law got my niece for a pet. That thing craps all over the place. But it’s cute! What the drug company did to that rabbit… Man!” I shake my head.
“So are you going to tell me what they did?”
I shrug and continue. “She said they do a test where they drip chemicals into the rabbit’s eyes. Can you believe that? She told me rabbits don’t have tears—that’s why they use them. That’s torture! And there are no painkillers allowed. It’s cruel, man. No one should have to see that. I mean, why is that okay?” I pause. I’m thinking about why Mom had to leave my grandpa’s landscaping company, and all the crap that happened when Mom and Dad split. I slide down in my chair again.
She’s still watching me. Her eyebrows are a little raised now. “How does that make you feel?”
“What? You mean the rabbits? Obviously, it’s disgusting. Anyways, my mom takes care of the animals. Feeds them, cleans their cages and shit like that. It’s not easy.” Not like sitting in an office, organizing your desk and giving out detentions.
“Once she saw one having a fit. A seizure, she said. It went all stiff, and shook…” I stretch out every inch of my long skinny body so there are no bends in my arms and legs and start to kick. I even add gagging noises and hang out my tongue.
Now she’s pushing herself back in her chair, and her eyes are open wide. I stop, straighten up and blow a big puff of air out through my lips. Calm yourself, dickhead.
I shake my head. “Anyway, things aren’t easy for my mom, you know, me and my crazy brother still living at home. It’s hard for her. She has a pretty shitty life.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah, my brother. He’s the scary one. He can lose it, man.” I punch my fist into my palm, and she flinches. “He threw a chair at my head when I was ten. I got stitches, and now there’s a place above my left ear…”
I pull some long blond strings of hair aside so she can see my scar. I had twelve stitches! I’m pretty proud of it. Chicks are all, Eeewwww. That’s awesome! Miss Fraser, on the other hand, doesn’t react at all. “Anyway, he’s a total dick. My hair doesn’t grow there anymore.” I let my hair fall into place, lean back in my chair.
She raises her eyebrows. “I think I remember your brother. Seamus?”
“Yeah.”
She nods and makes a squinty face, but she’s smiling. She’s thinking about Seamus, and she’s smiling. Weird. Most people cringe when they find out who my brother is. Teachers try to hide it, but I can tell they’re relieved to find out I’m not like him. He’s one of those people who are busy unsimplifying my life.
“How is Seamus? How old is he now?”
“He’s eighteen. He’s fine, Miss.” He’ll never be fine. Fucked up is what he is. Makes me look like the good kid.
She’s staring out the window, probably lost in thought about Seamus. I wonder if he got sent here too before he got kicked out.
Seamus wasn’t always fucked up. When I was little, he was just a regular big brother. We fought sometimes, but just about normal stuff like toys and TV. And he always took my side when our big sister flipped out on me.
Before my dad left, Seamus did a lot of fun shit with him. Dad taught him how to drive the snowmobile, and they’d go up Rigaud Mountain, into the trees, and explore. I thought he was so lucky. Once they even went winter camping. Then everything changed. It’s like when Dad left, Seamus left too.
Miss Fraser’s waving to get my
attention. Her face is concerned. “Declan? What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” I want to tell her it’s none of her damn business, but I don’t. I don’t even feel that angry anymore. Just kind of droopy. I look down at the arm of the chair and start scraping the gooey varnish off with my fingernail. I wonder if I could change the letters of prick to make it say dickhead.
“Declan?”
My eyes wander up to her face, but my thoughts are still on my brother. The last time I was here, I never talked about my family. I didn’t think she even knew I had a brother. I nod my head to show I heard her, but I don’t say anything. She leaves me alone, and I go back to scraping varnish.
Seamus was two grades ahead of me. In elementary it was fun having my big brother in the same school. He looked out for me and didn’t set fires in garbage cans. By the time I got to junior high, Seamus already had a rep. I got nervous before every class, just waiting for my teachers to say something embarrassing in front of everyone about his latest stunt. He got kicked out when he was in tenth grade. I was relieved.
“Miss, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Declan.”
“Can somebody change because of something that happened to them? I mean, turn out different than they were going to be?”
“What do you mean, Declan?”
“Never mind.” I’ve got to stop thinking about my stupid brother. I check my watch. I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes, but it feels like forever.
My eyes are back on that poster. “What does transgender actually mean, Miss?”
“Pardon me?” She doesn’t get that I changed the subject.
I point to the poster.
“Oh.” She looks at the poster, then up at the ceiling tiles for a moment. “It means someone whose gender is different from the one they were assigned at birth. They feel it’s not who they really are.”
I nod like I get it, but I really don’t. I’m just sure I’m not supposed to say that. A lot of kids talk about whether they’re gay or bi or whatever. Theresa does. I don’t really get into it.
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