“Anyway, Miss, can I go now?” I reach into my pocket and put my hand around my cigarettes. I’m ready to leave.
“That all depends on whether I feel you understand about your jacket, and about the rules.”
“Yeah yeah, I understand. I won’t wear it anymore in class. Otherwise Mr. Peters will send me here again, and no offense, Miss, but…”
“I know you don’t want to be here, Declan. But there are still a few little things I want to talk to you about before you leave.”
I sigh and settle back down in my chair. Let go of my smokes.
“First, we’re going to make sure you have a locker. Second, I would like to set you up with a senior peer tutor, someone who can help you with history. I think you can graduate, Declan. But you’ll need some help catching up.”
She can’t be serious. I don’t want a tutor! I can’t wait to hear what she’s saving for number three.
“Also, I think it would be a good idea to have you tested by the school psychologist to see if you have an attention problem.”
“No, Miss, I’m not getting tested like some crazy nutcase. Forget it!”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Declan.”
I try to speak more calmly. “Please. I’m not doing that.”
“Then you’ll work with a tutor?”
“Aw, c’mon, Miss!”
“Tutoring or testing? Your choice. I’d like you to do both, but I’ll settle for one.”
“Miss, that’s blackmail!”
“No, it’s called helping.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can, Declan. But you have a lot on your plate. We—Mr. Peters and I—just want to help. So what’s it going to be?”
I want to laugh. School? Help? No way will she understand why this is so funny. I try to keep a straight face, but I feel strange, like I’m getting the giggles. “I mean, thanks and everything, but you can’t make me see a tutor, can you?”
“Maybe not. But Mr. Peters can. I’d rather leave him out of this though.”
I lean back in my chair and put my hand over my eyes. Man, I want a smoke. “Miss, can’t I just have a detention?”
“I don’t give detentions. That’s Mr. Peters’ job.”
No matter what, it’s back to Mr. Peters. So, dickhead, what’ll it be? Testing to see if you’re a moron or tutoring to prove it? Then I think about the rabbits in my mom’s lab. No one’s doing any testing on me.
“Fine. Tutoring.”
Six
Surprisingly, Miss Fraser doesn’t ask any questions about why I don’t have a locker anymore. She just talks to someone in the office and gets me a new one and—bonus—a new lock to go with it. She says the school will pay for my lock, which makes me feel like I’m in the lunch program again. I’m glad I didn’t have to tell her what happened to my locker, because for sure she’d try to get me to say how it made me feel when the guy took it, like she did about the lab rabbits.
I check the pockets of my jacket. Smokes? Wallet? Keys? Pencil stub? I put my wallet and the pencil stub in my pants, take off my jacket and hang it on one of the hooks. It looks pretty empty in there. The sleeve is sticking out, so I pat it into place. I check my watch. Mr. Peters will be patrolling the halls any minute. I don’t want to give him another excuse to be on my case. Get going, dickhead. I close the door. Slam! Fasten the lock. Click!
I stick the little piece of paper with the combination in my pocket, then make sure my fly is done up and my plaid shirt isn’t tucked into my jeans. I don’t want to look like a dork. I check the number of my new locker one last time. Then I turn on my heel, and my feet start running before my head gets all the way around.
I don’t even see her.
She’s coming around the corner full tilt and doesn’t see me either—a girl with a whole stack of books and stuff piled up in her arms. When we smash into each other, it’s epic. Books and papers go flying everywhere.
I get the corner of a math text right in the ribs. It hurts, but I don’t say anything. I think her name is Leah, one of the popular kids in eleventh grade. A real Little Miss Perfect who’s always doing volunteer work and organizing dumb events at school. She’s staring at me like she thinks I’m going to say something. I stare back because I’m not. I bend down and start picking up her stuff while she stands there and watches. She’s irritated. I can feel her eyes searing the back of my neck.
When I’m finished, I hold the pile of papers and books out to her. Then I try to step around her and head to my class, but she doesn’t actually take her stuff, so I have to stop. Why is she just standing there? I guess she hasn’t checked the instruction manual for how to talk to lowlifes like me.
I muster up the most brilliant low-life thing I can think of to say. “Uhhh.”
“Thanks. I mean, I’m sorry. You were going kinda fast.” She’s perky. I hate perky.
“Yeah, whatever.” It would be supercool if you’d take your stuff, lame-o.
She flips her long hair over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be running in the hallway.”
I feel my eyes get big. Who is this bossy chick? “You ran into me! I was barely moving!”
“You were running and not even looking where you were going.”
“How could I have been running? My locker’s right there.” I point at some random locker with my elbow because my hands are still full of her stuff.
She’s looking up at me with annoyed big brown eyes. Her arms are crossed over her chest. Guys are weird. Even though this perfect little pain in the ass is totally yanking my chain, I catch myself checking her out. She’s wearing those stretchy black pants that all the girls say make their asses look good. They do.
“Whatever. Here, can you take your things? I’ve gotta go to class. I’m late. Sorry.” But I’m not that sorry. She’s being a bitch. She finally reaches for her stuff.
I’m about to make my getaway, only Miss Fraser sails around the same corner right into our little crash site. A long purple sweater and the smell of her perfume float in with her. Shit.
“Declan, Leah, what are you doing still in the hallway?”
“Actually, I was just trying to get to cl—”
“Hi, Miss Fraser. We were both rushing, I guess.” Little Miss Perfect’s all smiles now. “Bumped right into each other.” She chuckles.
Yeah. It was hilarious. I feel like she’s all nice now because Miss Fraser is here.
“Ah.” She pauses and nods her head. “Well, seeing you together has given me a great idea.”
I can hardly wait. I love her ideas.
“Can the two of you spare a couple of minutes?”
I start to protest, and she puts up her hand. “I’ll give you both admit slips to get into class.”
Right, ’cause that’s what I’m most worried about.
Little Miss Perfect chirps, “Sure!”
I sigh.
I can tell by the way Miss Fraser looks at Little Miss Perfect that they know each other. “Leah, Declan could use some help, some tutoring. Right, Declan? For history.”
I roll my eyes. Miss Fraser frowns and wrinkles her forehead at me so her eyebrows almost meet in the middle.
“Yeah, history.” Out of habit, I start to pat for my smokes in my jacket pocket, which of course is not there because my jacket’s in my new locker. This is going to take some getting used to. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and start scanning the lockers along the wall, trying to figure out which one’s mine. Until I realize it’s on the other side.
Miss Fraser has a goofy smile on her face, waiting for me to say something. I haven’t been listening, but the word tutor registers in my brain. “Wait, you want her—Leah—to be my tutor?”
“Leah’s a very good tutor.”
I’m sure she is. But not for me.
Leah slides a snotty stare in my direction. She has
n’t exactly fallen in love with me either.
How’s this supposed to work exactly? Would she have to come to my house? What if my crazy brother shows up? Or, worse, am I going to have to stay after school? Any longer in this place and I’ll probably hang myself.
Miss Fraser is tapping her foot. “Declan?”
“Yeah. I’m just thinking.”
“Maybe you two could meet later to make the arrangements. Perhaps at recess?”
Sure. Why not? Who needs recess? I’d probably just waste it hanging around with the only people I can stand in this place. I open my mouth, hoping some fantastic excuse will find its way out, but Little Miss Perfect beats me to it. “Actually, it would be better for me if we could just figure that out now. I’m pretty busy all day.”
Of course, because you’re a ninja-level suck-up, saving the world from loser lowlifes like me.
Miss Fraser asks us to take out our agendas. I haven’t seen my agenda since about September. I’m sure it’s helping some other kid simplify his life. “I’ll keep it in my head, Miss.”
She raises her eyebrows, but I’ve never missed an appointment with her or Mr. Peters or anyone else, for that matter. My problem isn’t my memory.
“After school Tuesdays is really good for me. Or Saturday?” says Leah, like it’s the coolest idea ever.
Are you kidding? There’s no way I’m giving up part of my Saturday for her. “Okay. Tuesday it is.” I take a step in the direction of my class and do a little wave with my hand. I’m finished here. Surprisingly, I’d rather be in French.
“Declan?”
I turn around as Miss Fraser says my name. “Yeah?”
“Where are you going to meet Leah on Tuesday?”
“I assumed at school. Don’t people do tutoring in the library?”
“Actually, I have to go home after school to stay with my bubby,” Leah says. “But you could take the bus with me and come to my house.”
Bubby? What’s a bubby? I must look clued out, because she says, “My grandma is eighty-three.”
Her house? Eighty-three-year-old grandma? What the hell do I want with tutoring anyway? I suck at everything at school, except maybe art and science. I even failed phys ed, and all you have to be able to do is dress yourself. Let’s just say I do pass history. What good is it going to do? I haven’t passed math since about third grade. Or French. I don’t need a tutor. I need a surgical brain implant.
Leah’s standing with her hip stuck out and her arms crossed in front of her, over her books. I’m starting to feel like I’m wasting everyone’s time.
“I get it. I need help. I really appreciate all this. I’m sure your grandma doesn’t want me in her house. And I’m not sure about Tuesday.”
“You can’t make it Tuesday, Declan?” says Miss Fraser, again with the raised eyebrows. She knows I’m not going to say I can’t make it. She also knows I just don’t want to.
“Fine.”
“Good. You can speak to Mr. Peters, Declan, and he’ll give you a permission slip to get on Leah’s bus with her. And before I forget…” She takes a pen out of her purple sweater and starts writing our admit slips.
I sneak a glance at Leah. She’s entering our tutoring appointment into her phone. How am I going to do this? With her? I don’t even want to think about the fun Mitch and Dave are going to have when they find out. And am I going to have to pay for it? “What about—”
Miss Fraser glances up, waiting for me to finish.
“How much does it cost?”
“The school pays for peer tutoring, Declan. You just have to show up.”
I close my mouth and nod slowly. They have it all covered, don’t they?
Miss Fraser hands us our slips, and I watch my brand-new tutor head down the hall, her perky hair bouncing. I hate perky people even more than I hate perfect little suck-ups. And Leah is both.
But at least I didn’t have to give up my recess.
Seven
Great. I’m finally home, ready to crash in my room and listen to Black Sabbath, but there’s a note from Mom on the table. Dekkie, Plese make a box of spageti. Sauce is in the frige. Put it in the med. pot and leave it on simmer. I’ll make a salad when I get home. Kate and Mandy coming for supper.
I feel like heading right back out the door. I’m not in the mood for company.
I could go out, pretend I didn’t see the note, but Mandy will be disappointed. She’s always happy to see me. She’s so beautiful, man. And smart. She won’t need a Little Miss Perfect tutor when she’s in high school.
I fill the big pot with water and put it on the stove to boil. It’s freezing on the deck, but at least I can take a few minutes for a cigarette. I’ve got Mom’s note in my hand to make sure I know what she wants. She really can’t spell. Add her to the list of high school dropouts in my family. Did any of us learn anything in school? I don’t even know if Dad graduated. Anyway, who the fuck cares?
What if I don’t want to finish high school? What do I need with a locker and a tutor? Isn’t it just going to mean more work for me? I dread the idea of all the extra homework as much as I dread the idea of spending my time with Little Miss Perfect. It better be worth it.
Imagine me being the first one in the family to graduate.
I take a drag off my cigarette, and when I exhale, the smoke comes out with a laugh. Instinctively I look around to see if anyone heard me. You live in the middle of nowhere, Dickhead. No one heard you.
Even though it’s only March, there’ve been some warm days, and a lot of the snow around our place has melted. The banks are all crusty and dirty on top. It’s quiet as hell.
That’s why my parents wanted to live in Rigaud, away from the big-city hassles of Montreal, like parking and traffic and noise. Dad’s family has lived out here since the 1800s. His great-great-grandfather was a farmer on Rigaud Mountain or something, and his parents used to live in town. So, back when Dad and Grandpa were still talking, Mom and Dad bought a mobile home and plunked it down here. The acreage used to belong to some relative from his family, only they died, and luckily Dad got the land. How else could we afford a huge yard like this? I was glad we didn’t have to move after my parents split.
Yeah. Before my parents split, they both worked in my grandpa’s landscaping business, and they said one day we’d have enough money to build a house. The company was supposed to go to my dad. Instead, my grandparents sold their house and the business and moved to Florida.
When I was little, we had a big garden in the back. It’s all grown over now, but Dad’s a landscaper, and he grew all kinds of things: vegetables, flowers, raspberries. I take Mandy back there in the summer to pick the berries off the few bushes that haven’t died. The yard used to be beautiful, green grass and lots of space for us to play, with the forest behind it. I still mow the lawn, but I can’t make it look like my dad did.
Before Kate moved out, Seamus and I shared a room, back when he was a normal human. He had a transistor radio, and he used to say to me, “Let’s go fishing.” I’d crawl into bed beside him and we’d search for radio stations in the dark. I loved it. We’d find stuff from all over the place: baseball games from Boston, traffic reports from New York City. We had a favorite hard-rock station that came from Ottawa. Music is one of the few things Seamus and I still have in common.
I take the last drag off my smoke and drop it into the coffee can that’s been sitting on the picnic table since last summer. It sizzles as it goes out. The can is full of sand and all kinds of other crud that’s crawled in there over the winter. Now, on top, there’s a bunch of soggy dead cigarettes sitting in sludge. The filters are all puffed up from the water, but I can still tell them apart. Seamus and I smoke the same brand—Player’s—my sister’s have lipstick on them, and Mom’s are Craven Export Menthol. There’s even a couple of Old Ports from my brother-in-law. Dad used to let me taste the plastic tips of those when I was a little ki
d. I actually went digging in the ashtray for them when no one was looking. Yuck.
I jump down from my perch on the picnic table. Time to get going with the spaghetti.
The water’s boiling in the big pot, which is all blue and speckled on the outside because Seamus put it in a fire once to cook corn. He and his buddies had a party last summer and trashed a whole bunch of stuff. I throw in the box of spaghetti and catch my reflection in the damaged pot. It makes me look all scrambled. Sort of like how I feel.
I push aside all kinds of crap and pile up five plates on the dining room table. One each for Mom, Kate, Mandy and me, and a fifth one in case Seamus shows up. Mandy has cute little Winnie-the-Pooh dishes with spoons and forks and everything. There’s a stack of five cups, and I stick five forks in a mug. I put hot pads down so the spaghetti and sauce pots don’t make marks on Mom’s nice table. I miss sitting down together for meals at the big wooden table like we used to.
We stopped setting the table for meals after Dad left. Usually it’s just Mom and me for supper, so we eat in front of the TV. But why do we have to do that when people come over? We should eat sitting down at the table. Like a family.
The big farm-style dining room table is the one nice thing my mom has. Dad knocked down a wall between the kitchen and the living room so it would fit. Mobile homes aren’t exactly made for farm furniture. She’s always talking about how we have to be careful of it because it was her grandma’s. I know she’s proud of it. What’s weird is that it’s always totally covered with crap: notices from school, old newspapers, unopened mail, Mandy’s toys, fish food, a random leather winter glove. It bugs me.
I go feed the fish. The first one home always does it, unless it’s Seamus. I doubt he even knows we have them. I watch as the three fat goldfish swim to the top and suck in their food. Mandy named them—SpongeBob, Patrick and Squidward. She doesn’t know they’re not the same fish all the time. We scoop out and replace a lot of dead ones before she sees them. The whole time I’m feeding the fish, I’m thinking about the table. And then I decide that I’m damn well gonna set it properly.
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