We hear Bubby’s slippers again. Leah squeezes my hand. I grab her pinkie, then let go. She smiles at me over her shoulder as she turns to her grandmother.
“Here you go, dear.” In Bubby’s outstretched hand there’s a small black paperback with a pink triangle on the cover. In the triangle there’s a man’s face. Leah nudges me to take the book.
Before she lets go, Bubby’s eyes peer out from under gray eyebrows until they find mine. Her wrinkled face is kind. “Now this is not an easy read, Declan. But it’s important. Your generation should understand how destructive fear and misunderstanding can be. I lived through or saw much of what you’ll read in here, and I want you to know you can come talk to me anytime.”
She doesn’t know that I have a personal connection to the book. But for a moment I’m speechless. I understand something now I didn’t get before. It’s all about fear. It’s like Bubby sees the mixed-up feelings inside of me, and sees my family caught up in that same anger and hate and fear. I’ve never been less proud of my family—and myself—than I am right now.
I glance at Leah. She has a little smile on her face. A week ago I’d have called it smug, but I think knowing is a better word.
I reach for the book. “Thank you, Mrs. Zimmerman. I will.”
The Men with the Pink Triangle is cool in my hand. It smells old. The pages are golden and soft, and curled where a corner of the cover is missing. The musty smell stays in my head after I slide the book into my bag.
Maybe walking home together wasn’t such a good idea after all. My hands are sweating. We’re finally alone. I’m afraid if I open my mouth something stupid will come out.
“So tell me about your job.” I want to kiss her for starting the conversation. She’s so pretty with her curls sticking out of her hat. I want to kiss her anyway.
“I work at the canteen.” I check up the street for the blue Taurus.
“Oh. You make French fries and stuff.”
“Yup.”
“Cool. My friends and I go skating there. Maybe we’ll come sometime when you’re working. The best thing is French fries after skating.”
“The best thing is French fries after anything.”
She smiles at me. Our arms bump together as we walk, and I can smell her perfume in the fresh air. I inhale and hold it in, but because I’m nervous, it makes me dizzy. I exhale. “Do you have a job?”
“Well, tutoring, but my parents don’t want me to get a job yet. I need a lot of time for schoolwork and dancing.”
It occurs to me that she’s graduating and will probably be going to CEGEP, a pre-university program, in the fall. Immediately I feel sad and wish we lived somewhere in the rest of Canada, where high school goes to twelfth grade. But I ask anyway. “What’re you going to do next year?”
“I applied to the science program at John Abbott. When I’m done CEGEP, I’ll go to university. But I’m not sure what I’ll major in yet. I like sciences, but I also really love history. Maybe forensic anthropology.”
“You mean like on CSI?” That’s the only place I’ve ever heard the word forensic before.
“Well, kind of like what my dad does. He studies dead people’s stuff to learn about how they lived.” Then in a scary voice she says, “I want to dig up dead people’s bones to see how they died!”
“Wow. You’re so, so interesting.” Way to go, Romeo.
She looks sideways at me and smiles. “Thanks, I think.”
We walk for a minute without talking. I try to sift through the usual crap that floats through my mind for something intelligent to say. I find nothing.
“Bubby likes you.”
“Huh?”
“Bubby likes you. I told her about the dance.”
“You told her?” I try to catch her eye.
She won’t look at me. She’s staring at the ground. “Yes.”
“And she likes me?”
She doesn’t get that I’m surprised by that. “Yes, really!”
I hold her arm so she stops, then step in front of her and lean down. “What about you?”
Her face is less than a foot from mine. I can feel the warmth of her breath in the air between us. She smiles nervously, and her eyes flit away. “Why do you think I told her?”
“Oh.” Heat creeps from the top of my cheeks to my ears. I get what they mean about knees turning to jelly.
“And, well, also I was upset. I thought you were an asshole because of—”
“Because of Theresa.”
She nods.
She actually felt bad? Because of me? “Trust me, the only woman I’ve been thinking about since the dance…”
“Yeah?”
“…is Little Miss Perfect and how she can move her body!” I pretend to be sexy by imitating her and her friends at the variety-show rehearsal.
She starts hitting me with her mittens.
“Hey!” I hold both of her arms down at her sides, and she gives me a dirty look. She doesn’t like being trapped. She squirms for a few seconds but gives up because I’m way stronger than her. I leave my hands on her arms.
“I’m not kidding. You are sexy.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yes, really. But the best part was when…” I pull her close and hold her just like when we were dancing. Close, so our bodies are touching all the way down.
She reaches up and puts her arms around my neck, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I bend to meet her upturned face and kiss her, right on her beautiful lips. They’re so soft, and warm, and real. I’m kissing Little Miss Perfect, and she’s kissing me back!
She pulls away. “Wait.”
Aw, shit. What now?
“Is this still going to be real tomorrow?” Her forehead is creased, like she’s concerned.
“Do you want it to be?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Me too.”
She smiles at me, and we kiss again, longer this time. A waterfall rushes through me. All of a sudden her eyes spring open. “Bubby! I have to go back.”
“I know. It’s okay. It’s only been about fifteen minutes. Just one more.”
I kiss her one last time, hard, like I’m making an imprint of it. Then she turns around, adjusts her hat and heads back in the direction we came from. She flicks her wrist and one red mitten waves at me from behind.
I watch her. Even in her winter coat, I can see the smooth swing of her hips. I shake my head—she actually got me to dance hip-hop with her! I watch till her perfect little body disappears into the gray dusk.
I take out a cigarette and light it, then throw it on the ground.
I’m too excited, nervous. My heart is racing and my legs are jumpy.
I start running home. This time, when I pass the stop sign near Kate’s, I jump up and smack it with my open hand. It resonates behind me like a chime.
Twenty-Five
I enjoy the walk home, thinking about Leah. On the last stretch of the 138, I see the blue car just beyond my driveway. After watching for it for days, there it is, idling on the shoulder about forty-five meters in front of me. Exhaust puffs out the tail pipe. It jerks me back down to earth.
The road is empty and quiet. It’s dusk. Everything is wrapped in gray. Dark shadows are beginning to color in the spaces between the trees beside the road. Branches creak in the wind. As I get closer, I hear the rumble of the car’s engine.
There are two heads in the front seat. One checks the rearview mirror every couple of seconds. If I wanted to turn around and get away, I couldn’t. He’s already seen me, and he opens the passenger door. A cigarette hits the frosted pavement first. He gets out of the car and grinds the cigarette into the road even though there’s no reason to. It’s a habit. The right thing to do.
Seamus steps out of the car, zips up his jacket and rams his hands in his pockets. Then he starts walking to meet me.
I can h
ardly look at him.
He looks like shit.
I’m nervous way down in the pit of my stomach, the way it feels when you pass an accident on the highway. Revolted, scared, but you have to look.
As we get closer to each other, two intense blue eyes search for mine. I turn my head away.
I stop at the driveway and wait for him to reach me. Except for his eyes, I would hardly have recognized him. He’s thin and seems so much smaller. His face is gray except for the watery blue spots of his eyes. His hair is greasy. He pushes it to the side in order to see.
I notice he’s trembling. Is he sick? Or is it drugs? Or alcohol? Where has he been?
We stand facing each other for a few seconds before he speaks. His voice comes out in a rasp. “Hey.”
“You ambushed me?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d come if I called.”
“No kidding. What makes you think I’m gonna stay now?” If I left, would he follow me?
“I have to keep moving. I can’t stay, especially here. The cops—”
“I know. Me and the cops, we’re pretty tight. Had a sleepover there last week.”
He’s quiet and looks like he’s trying to decide what to say. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
He knows! “Sure you are. I’m sure you’re just full of fuckin’ gratitude. That’s what brothers are for, right? Well, I’m happy I could help by getting arrested for you. Fuck!”
He narrows his eyes at me, but not in a mean way. More like he’s trying to figure something out. “Look, little bro. I’m desperate. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“Did you just call me little bro? You have a lot of nerve, Seamus, showing up here.” I back off, shaking my head. “What do you want?”
He sighs. A jittery hand covers his eyes, then slides over his nose and mouth, past his chin, and rests on his neck like he has himself in a choke hold. He’s struggling to stand up, swaying, unsteady, but I don’t think he’s drunk. It’s something else. It’s cold in the wind, but there’s sweat on his forehead.
Seamus turns and coughs, and I can hear rumbling deep in his chest. He turns and spits gray phlegm onto the frost-covered pavement.
“You’re sick.”
He nods. “Pneumonia.”
“Have you been fucking sleeping in that car?”
“I need antibiotics. I went to the clinic—” He breaks into a coughing fit. It sounds like he’s coughing up rocks. He spits again. Phlegm and blood spew into the road and land with a wet splat.
What am I supposed to do? Watch him cough his guts out, turn around and just head up the driveway? Say hi to Mom when I walk in the door? Hey, Ma, just saw Seamus. He looks great! Says hi. She’d die if she saw him like this.
I’m shaking inside.
Shouldn’t I call the cops? Sergeant Lefebvre’s business card is still in my pocket. I feel it there, cool against the palm of my hand.
Is that what brothers are for?
My brother is standing on the side of the highway, looking like death, with his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to make a decision. I’m sure if I say no he’ll just turn around and walk away.
“How much?”
He exhales loudly and tells me sixty bucks, and I give him three twenties from the pocket of my jeans. He’s lucky I have the cash on me. Normally it would be in the bank. “If I had my wallet…” I start to say, but what difference would it make? Seamus will have to battle it all out with the cops when they catch up to him anyway.
“Thanks, man.” He takes the money from my hand, but he doesn’t look at me. He can’t. He looks down at his feet and turns one ankle over in the snow, something Mandy would do. I can’t watch.
“Where you gonna go?”
He raises his head again, slowly, as if it’s really heavy. He levels a half smile at me, bores into me with those blue eyes. “I don’t know.” It sounds like a warning, but there’s something else. He’s protecting himself, but he’s also trying to protect me. It’s better if I don’t know. It’s better if I can be honest if someone asks.
He leaves me standing on the side of the road and heads back toward the blue car, away from home. He tries to run, and I can feel his anxiety about getting to the car fast, but every few steps he stumbles. It reminds me of Dad calling him a crab. It’s pathetic, and I have to turn away. He stops and leans on the trunk to catch his breath. Before he opens the passenger door he raises his arm, so I can see the three twenties flutter in his fist.
I want to call out to him, Stop! He should be coming back to the house, where it’s warm. To Mom. She’d take care of him. I swallow hard, once, twice, three times.
The Taurus makes a U-turn before it glides by me on its way to the highway. The mags spin slowly at first, so I can see each spoke, then faster as the car accelerates, until each wheel is a blur that seems to rotate in the wrong direction. It’s almost dark. I keep my eye on the taillights until the car reaches the exit, then turn up the driveway to the house.
I know I’m going to pretend this never happened.
Twenty-Six
It’s Thursday. History test. And for a change I don’t feel like this is a complete waste of time. I actually know I’m getting some of the answers right. I can hardly believe it. Mrs. Sparks is walking around the room in case we have questions. She’s stopped at my desk and nodded a couple of times. She doesn’t treat me like a do-nothing anymore now that I have a tutor.
I imagine doing well on the test. How great would that be? Sure, it’d be nice not to be at the bottom of the pile for once. But I’m not going to lie: I’d love to impress Leah. Last night on the phone she said she’d meet me after class to see how it went. Can’t think about her right now though.
I’m on the last question: What was one economic effect of the French government in Paris always controlling the economic decisions of the North American colonies?
I know this!
Just as I’m about to start writing my answer, the receptionist’s voice crashes through the intercom. “MRS. SPARKS.” We all jump, including Mrs. Sparks.
“Yes?”
“CAN YOU PLEASE SEND DECLAN O’REILLY TO THE MAIN OFFICE?”
She glances at me and my test paper. “He’s finishing the last question on a test. Can he come at the end of class?”
I glance at the clock. Less than fifteen minutes to go.
“AS SOON AS POSSIBLE, PLEASE. THANK YOU.”
The whole class bursts into catcalls.
“Quiet, please! Thirteen more minutes and I’m taking your papers in!”
I’m stunned. I want to get this last question. But now I’m wondering why they called me. Am I in trouble for something? Things have been so much better lately with me and the VP. I look at Mrs. Sparks. She nods and points at my paper. Finish up!
Head down, I write everything I can remember about France’s economic control of the colonies in Old Quebec. I should read my answers over, but I can’t make myself sit still any longer. I decide to take a chance and hand my test in like it is. That I finished it at all is a miracle.
I grab my stuff off the desk and hand my test to Mrs. Sparks. As she takes it from me she whispers, “Good work, Declan.” Well, that’s a first.
“Thanks, Miss.”
I open and close the door as quietly as I can, but once I’m in the hall I speed-walk. I want to get whatever this is about over with before the bell rings. In five minutes I’m supposed to meet Leah.
When I reach the main office the receptionist is expecting me. “Oh, hi, Declan. Ms. Fraser and Mr. Peters are waiting for you in her office. Just go ahead.”
That’s weird.
I spin around to head back down the hall and take the steps up to the guidance office two at a time. The door is open. Mr. Peters is sitting in the prick chair. Miss Fraser’s leaning on the edge of her desk.
“Come in, Declan.” She motions to the other
chair and closes the door. “Have a seat.” It’s not an invitation. Without taking my eyes off her, I sit, half-assed, my binder on my lap.
“Declan?”
I whip my head around to face Mr. Peters. “Yes.”
“Declan, there’s been an accident.” My stomach drops. “Your brother is in the hospital. Your parents want you to meet them there.”
“My parents? What? Right now? Is he okay?”
“Well, you’re dad said it’s pretty serious. I don’t think Seamus”—he hesitates—“is conscious.”
They give me a second to digest what he’s saying. My parents? Both of them? The hospital? I feel like a million tiny fish are swimming around in my body. I can hear my blood in my ears. I just look at Miss Fraser. My mind is blank. My face is going all prickly. Everything in the room seems fuzzy and far away. I rub my hand on my jeans.
“You okay, Declan?” she says.
“I dunno. Should I be scared?”
“We’re not sure. Your dad was pretty upset. He wants you to come now.”
I still can’t believe she’s saying your dad. This doesn’t seem real.
Mr. Peters stands up and takes a step toward the door. “I’ll go with you to your locker to get your things. Then I’m going to drive you to the hospital. I’m sure you won’t be back today.” He motions for me to lead the way.
I stand up to go with him. “Bye, Miss.”
“Bye, Declan. Take care. Please call if you can.” Tears well up in her eyes. It freaks me out.
As we’re walking to my locker, I remember Seamus and Robbie in the Taurus, driving around drunk. It seemed different then. All I could think of was how angry he made me. I never believed anything bad would really happen. Now it feels like I’m carrying a load of bricks while I walk. I just pray he’s okay.
We pass an open classroom door. The art room. A few kids see me walking by with the VP. They call out, “Oooh, someone’s in trouble.” Walking down the hall with Mr. Peters usually means you’re about to get your locker searched. Enough to strike fear in the heart of the toughest stoner. I wish I was in trouble. Anything but this.
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