by David Starr
“Hey!” shouted Abbas, rubbing his leg.
“It’s not my fault you’re too slow,” Dylan sneered.
“Take it easy, guys,” Ms. Jorgensen warned. “This isn’t the World Cup.”
Play started again. Fatima took a shot but it was blocked. When the ball rolled into the middle of the gym, Dylan saw Abbas run for it. No way are you getting that ball, he thought. The two boys came together, legs kicking furiously trying to gain control. Then Abbas kicked Dylan on the shin. It was the sort of thing that happens when players fight for a ball, but Dylan was furious. He shoved Abbas to the ground.
Suddenly both the ball and the game were forgotten. Abbas jumped to his feet and pushed Dylan hard in the chest. Before he knew it, Dylan was swinging wildly with his fists. Abbas hit back, his fist connecting with Dylan’s face so hard Dylan saw stars. Just as Dylan was about to throw another punch, someone grabbed him from behind.
“Claude!” shouted Ms. Jorgensen as she dragged Dylan away from Abbas. “Quick! Get Ms. Bhullar!”
* * *
Dylan sat outside Ms. Bhullar’s office, waiting for his mom. His left eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split. His knuckles were scraped and bleeding. Dylan could see Abbas sitting in Ms. Bhullar’s office, nursing similar wounds on his face. Most likely he was telling the principal his side of the story.
Dylan didn’t care if he was about to be kicked out of school forever. That would be fine, he thought hopefully. He hated Grandview. If Ms. Bhullar expelled him, then his mom would have to let him go back to Regent Heights.
“Dylan!” His mom’s face was red and flushed as she hurried into the school office. “You look awful! Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mrs. West,” said Ms. Bhullar stepping out of her office. “He’ll have a black eye. His lip will be swollen for a week or so, but he doesn’t need stitches.”
“What happened? Who did this to him?” Dylan’s mother asked.
“Dylan got into a fight during gym class,” Ms. Bhullar said. “And I’m afraid to say that he started it.”
“Dylan! You’ve never been in a fight in your life!” His mom’s voice was surprised. But there was something else there too, something he’d never heard before. She was embarrassed. She was embarrassed of him. Dylan hung his head and shut his eyes.
“Why don’t you step into my office and we can talk about it,” said Ms. Bhullar. “Abbas,” she said over her shoulder, “your mom’s coming too. You can wait in the chair in the hallway.”
Abbas stood and walked out of Ms. Bhullar’s office. He glared at Dylan as he passed. This isn’t over, his eyes said. Dylan looked away.
He watched Ms. Bhullar and his mom step into the office and close the door. It was then he realized how much his face hurt. Ms. Dawson, the secretary, had given him a plastic bag of ice when he’d first come down to the office. But Dylan had been too angry to use it. He lifted the bag to his swollen lip. Now the bag held nothing but cold water.
“Here’s some more ice,” Ms. Dawson said, handing Dylan a fresh bag.
“Thanks,” Dylan replied. He took the ice gratefully. The cold made his face feel a little better.
Ten minutes later, his mom and Ms. Bhullar stepped out of the office.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Bhullar,” his mom said. “Once again, I’m so sorry. Like I said, Dylan’s never been in a fight in his life.”
“These things happen,” the principal said. Then she turned to Dylan. “People make mistakes, Dylan, but you have to learn from them. When you get back to school you will have to fix things with Abbas.”
“Yes, Ms. Bhullar,” he mumbled. Get back to school? No way! I’m never coming back here!
4
Sent Home
As he followed his mom out of the school office, Dylan saw Abbas sitting in the hallway. A woman wearing a scarf that covered her head sat beside him. She touched the cut on Abbas’s cheek. She spoke rapidly to Abbas in a language Dylan didn’t recognize.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Dylan’s mom said to Abbas. “Dylan’s not usually like this — he’s been through a lot recently.”
Abbas’s mom spoke to her son. He shook his head and said something that sounded to Dylan like ‘la’. “I told you to say sorry to that boy,” Abbas’s mom said slowly, this time speaking in English.
“I’m sorry,” Abbas said to Dylan. The look on his face showed that he didn’t really mean it.
Abbas’s mom extended her arm. “My name is Amira. Amira Wassef,” she said.
Dylan’s mom took her hand. “Erin West,” she said. “I am so sorry for what happened, Mrs. Wassef. Dylan is too. Aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” Dylan mumbled. He didn’t mean it either.
Sincere or not, the apologies were made. There was nothing left to say. Dylan and his mom left the school and walked back to their apartment on Salisbury in silence. It wasn’t until they stepped into their place that he finally spoke.
“I hate that school, Mom. Please, I just want to go back to Regent Heights.”
His mom looked exhausted. “I can’t believe you’re still talking about that! Is that why you got into a fight? To go back to Regent?”
“Mom! You don’t get it!” Dylan shouted.
“I don’t get it, Dylan? I get it perfectly. I had to leave work to get you. Now I’m losing half a day’s pay. This is only my second week, for goodness sake! It’s you who doesn’t seem to get it!”
Dylan lost all control. “I hate you!” he screamed.
“Dylan! Keep it down,” his mother said. “Do you want our neighbours to hear you?”
“I don’t care!” Dylan was crying now, sobs shaking his entire body. “I hate this apartment. I hate Grandview and I hate Dad for dying and leaving us like this! It’s his fault this happened!”
“Dylan!” his mom gasped, but Dylan was beyond caring. He stormed to his room, slammed the door and threw himself down onto his bed.
* * *
“Dinner’s in the fridge,” his mom said when Dylan finally came out of the bedroom.
“I’m not hungry,” Dylan said. “I don’t think I could eat even if I was.” His lower lip was swollen, with an ugly red scab where it had split. There was a large yellow and black bruise around his eye. “I’m sorry, Mom,” Dylan went on. “I didn’t mean all those things — especially what I said about Dad.”
Dylan had spent most of the day in his room and had plenty of time to calm down and think about things. He felt awful about how he’d reacted, both at school and at home. He knew his dad wouldn’t have wanted him to act that way. His mom had every reason to be embarrassed. Dylan was embarrassed with himself.
“It’s okay, honey,” said his mom. She put down the book she’d been reading and hugged Dylan. “Things have been very hard for you. We will find a way to get through it.”
“How long do I have to stay home?” he asked. Dylan knew that being suspended was the usual punishment for fighting at school. In Grade 6, his friend Tony had gotten into a fight on the playground when a game of tag got out of hand. Mr. Cornell, Regent’s principal, had sent him home for three days.
“You’re not staying home,” his mom replied.
“What? But I got into a fight!” Dylan was shocked.
“Ms. Bhullar said she would prefer to solve things at the school. That was one of the things we talked about in her office.”
“So I’m going back to class tomorrow?”
“You are going back to school tomorrow. But not to your class. You’re going to serve a one-day, in-school suspension in the office with Ms. Bhullar tomorrow. And then you’re going to make things right with that Abbas boy.”
“That’s it?” Dylan couldn’t believe it. Mr. Cornell would never have gone so easy on a student who got into a fight.
“Not quite,” his mom
said. “There’s something else we agreed you’d do as well.”
“What?” Dylan asked nervously. “Detention every day until I’m nineteen or something?”
His mom smiled mysteriously. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find that out.”
Dylan hardly slept all night. He was worrying about the next day at school. In the morning he left home without eating breakfast. He walked slowly through the January rain and reached Grandview just as the bell rang.
Abbas was waiting in the office. He said nothing as Dylan sat down in the empty chair next to him. Dylan could hardly look at Abbas and the large, ugly bruise on his cheek. Thankfully he only sat for a few seconds before Ms. Bhullar waved them both into her office.
“So, are you two ready to fix this problem?” she asked.
“It was my fault, Ms. Bhullar,” Dylan said quickly. He had made this mess and he wanted to fix it. “Abbas didn’t do anything wrong. Abbas kicked me in the leg by accident and I lost my temper.” He turned to the boy next to him. “I’m really sorry, Abbas. I didn’t mean to hit you.” Dylan held out his hand.
“I accept your apology,” Abbas said. He shook Dylan’s hand, though the look on his face clearly showed he was still angry. Dylan was a little surprised that Abbas was still mad. After all, Dylan had said it was his fault.
“Are you both okay? Really?” asked Ms. Bhullar, eyeing them closely. “Grandview’s a small school. And since you two are in the same class, you won’t be able to avoid each other. The next time I will have no choice but to send you both home for three days at least. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Ms. Bhullar,” the boys said at the same time.
“Good. Abbas, you can go back to class. Tell Ms. Jorgensen I will come and talk to her in a bit. Dylan, you get to work with me today down here.”
“You did a good job,” the principal said to Dylan when they were alone. “You owned up to your mistake and tried to make it better.”
“My dad taught me to do the right thing,” Dylan told her.
His dad would have been so disappointed in him for fighting. For what seemed like the millionth time, Dylan fought back the urge to cry.
“Ms. Jorgensen gave me some work for you,” said Ms. Bhullar. “I know Abbas said he was fine, but I can tell he’s still quite upset. I think you’re going to have to come up with a plan to make sure things are truly fixed.”
“I know,” Dylan said.
“I have an idea if you’re stuck,” Ms. Bhullar said. “I’ll talk to you about it at the end of the day.”
5
An Unexpected Consequence
For the rest of the morning Dylan worked at the small table in Ms. Bhullar’s office. Wondering what his mom and Ms. Bhullar were hinting at was driving him crazy. He tried to forget about it and do his work. At least Dylan liked the novel Ms. Jorgensen had assigned him to read. He read several chapters and wrote a journal response before he went outside for a break.
Dylan turned his thoughts to Abbas, trying to think of a way to make things up to him. But when he couldn’t think of anything, he gave up and turned to math worksheets until Ms. Bhullar told him it was time for lunch.
“It’s teriyaki chicken today. It’s one of my favourite items on the menu,” she said.
“You eat the hot lunch?” Dylan said in surprise.
“Almost every day. I usually eat with the students in one of the classrooms. My favourite place is the kindergarten room. But Ms. Jorgensen’s class is pretty fun, too.”
Dylan tried to picture straight-laced Mr. Cornell sitting in one of the tiny chairs in the kindergarten room, eating with a bunch of screaming six year olds. It was too much to imagine.
“The butter chicken is good and I like the macaroni and cheese as well,” Ms. Bhullar went on. “But once a month, they serve something called a fun bun. Don’t let Ms. Pucci in the cafeteria fool you. It’s nothing but a cheese sandwich. Not very fun at all.”
“Where are you going to eat today?” Dylan asked.
“Today you are my special guest. I am going to eat with you,” the principal said. “Then after lunch we’ll both get back to work.”
Together they walked to the cafeteria. Each of them received a tray full of rice and teriyaki chicken, as well as some carrots and milk.
Ms. Pucci looked a little like a bun herself, Dylan thought. She was short and round and kind-looking. Her thick, black hair was covered by a hairnet. “Enjoy your lunch, Dylan,” she said as he took his food.
“You know my name?” Dylan was surprised.
“The lunch lady knows everyone.” She smiled. “Welcome to Grandview. It’s a good school. I think you will like it.”
Dylan took the meal back to Ms. Bhullar’s office and had a bite. It was good. Really good.
“Your mom said you weren’t happy to be signed up for the lunch program,” said Ms. Bhullar. “What do you think of the food now?”
“It’s okay,” Dylan admitted. He wolfed down his lunch. Between his nerves and his sore lip he’d not had much to eat for nearly a full day.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “Can you tell me why you didn’t want to be on the hot lunch program?”
Dylan struggled to answer the question. “When I was at Regent I thought schools with a hot lunch program were for…”
“For poor kids right?”
“I guess so,” Dylan murmured. He hoped his answer didn’t make him seem like a jerk.
“The students in this school are just as smart and talented as kids in any other school in the city,” Ms. Bhullar said. “But a lot of them don’t have the same advantages. Some are immigrants, some are refugees. And some are people from right here in Burnaby. We want all of our students to succeed. Success comes easier with a good meal.”
After lunch, Dylan took both of their trays back to the cafeteria. Then he returned to Ms. Bhullar’s office and went back to work. He read three more chapters of the book, did a vocabulary crossword and completed a map of Renaissance Italy. By the time he was done with the map it was almost three.
“You did well today, Dylan,” said Ms. Bhullar. She’d been out of her office most of the afternoon and returned just before the bell rang.
“Do I go back to class tomorrow?” Dylan asked.
“You do,” she replied. “As long as you can fix things with Abbas. I don’t want you guys back down here after another fight. Have you come up with anything?”
“I’m still thinking,” Dylan admitted.
“Well, your mother and I have an idea.” Ms. Bhullar grinned. “Did she tell you?”
“No,” Dylan said. This was it. He was finally going to learn what his mother had been so mysterious about. “She told me you talked about something with her, but I would have to wait to hear it from you.”
“The best way to get to know a person, to understand them, is to spend time with them doing things you like to do. Your mom and I agreed that you need to get back to soccer. Abbas is on the school soccer team, and, as of right now, so are you. We get to kill two birds with one stone, as the old saying goes. The coach has already been told. He’s expecting you on the field in fifteen minutes!”
Oh, no! The last thing Dylan wanted was to play soccer. He had to play soccer for Grandview with Abbas? He couldn’t believe it. Dylan walked slowly onto the field toward the group of boys standing around the goal post.
Dylan saw some of the boys from his class on the field, as well as other kids he didn’t know. Claude was there, and he smiled when he saw Dylan. Abbas, on the other hand, glared as he got closer. Ms. Bhullar must be crazy, Dylan thought. There was no way playing soccer together was going to fix this. It was soccer that had caused the problem in the first place.
6
Coach T
“All right, guys, do a lap and warm up.” The voice came from behind Dylan.
He
turned to see a tall man with short, black hair carrying a mesh bag full of soccer balls. He must be the coach, Dylan thought, though he didn’t much look like one. All of Dylan’s coaches at Regent wore team jackets and track pants. This man was dressed in blue jeans and wore a brown leather jacket.
The rest of the team started to jog around the field. Dylan followed slowly behind them.
“Warming up means running, not walking, Dylan West,” the coach said, to Dylan’s surprise. How on earth did he know his name? Did everyone at Grandview know about him already?
Dylan picked up the pace. He was a good runner, though he’d not had much practice over the last few months. Even in jeans he managed to catch up with the slower players. Abbas was only ten metres ahead. Dylan sped up to close the distance between them. Soon, Dylan was only a few metres behind Abbas, and gaining quickly.
Abbas turned his head and Dylan knew what that look meant. You’re not going to catch me.
Oh, yes I am, thought Dylan. The race was on. Dylan forgot about the coach, forgot about soccer, forgot about everything except passing Abbas. Within a few seconds, Abbas and Dylan were sprinting well ahead of the rest of the team. At the corner of the field Abbas turned and entered the home stretch.
With less than fifty metres to go, Dylan was only a few steps behind. He could hear the sound of Abbas’s shoes kicking up gravel and of Abbas panting. He’s out of breath, Dylan thought. I’m going to beat him.
Dylan pressed on. With thirty metres to go he was half a step behind. At twenty he pulled even.
Ten metres from the coach and Dylan was about to pass. But Abbas kicked it into high gear. He stretched out his legs and shot forward, almost like he was flying. There was no way Dylan could catch up.
Abbas stopped by the coach and waited for Dylan to arrive. A triumphant smile shone on his face.
“Well done, boys,” the coach laughed. “Though I said warm up, not set a new Olympic record for 400 metres! Gather ’round,” he said to the rest of the team. “Let’s get the season started.”
