“I knowd.” Squealing, she swung around, arms out. “Buddon haiya lood so pweddy.”
“Actually, it doesn’t look pretty.” I inner-sighed, took her plump hand in mine, squeezed her soft fingers. “Your hair looks like shit.”
“No, no, id lood pweddy.”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is you let that whore talk to you like that. You didn’t have to listen, Button. You can get up and you can walk away. Do you understand that? If someone, even a full big person, is not treating you right, use your two legs and get the hell away from them. I mean it.” I cleared what mucus I could from my nose and throat, glanced inside, found the front of the hairdresser’s shop empty, then spat on the doorknob. “And then do that.”
Grabbing her stomach then, as laughter rolled through her. “Oday, oday.”
I walked, while Button skipped her hobbling overweight skip. We turned off Main Street, strode through the area with expensive brick homes. Older houses with verandas, and sloping roofs, and two shiny cars parked in each circular driveway. Some days I would pretend I lived in a particular one — dull red brick covered in glittery ivy, rippling glass in the windows, a tiny balcony jutting out over the front door. I deserved a home like that. A home without stained carpet, nicked linoleum, and countertops covered in cut marks because someone was too lazy to use a board. The toilets (and there would be more than one) would never grow a film so thick it sloughed off on its own. Self-cleaning, my ass.
I stopped in front of my future home. A blue bicycle with a white banana-style seat was thrown down near the steps. Probably belonging to the ungrateful dirtbag that lived there. “Do you like this one, Button? This house? Would you want to live here?”
Button shook her head, “Nope. Nevah. No-sih-wee.”
“What?” I squeezed her flabby fingers tighter.
“Owh-as beddah.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I said, annoyed at her loyalty to a dump. “How could ours be better?”
“You livahs deah.”
I live there. I released my grip, glanced at Button. She was smiling at me. Of course. Her lips spread so widely, her eyes were lost in the chubby pink folds of her face. My heart tipped inside my chest, and I will admit, it took a moment to realign it.
“Shit, Button,” I said, trying not to sound too soft. “I could live anywhere.”
I sometimes wondered what it was like to perceive the world through my sister’s brain. So full of false sugary thoughts. How could she float around in such rosy space, day after day, oblivious to all the suffering, the never-ending stream of misery in the world? How was she unaware of the pointlessness of most human life? Her mind packed with rainbows and kittens, ice cream and cotton candy. Pure crap. Surely that was some sort of mental disorder. There had to be a way to cure her. To treat that illness. Seeing goodness everywhere was just an alternate form of deviance. The Lollipop Syndrome.
“Hey, dickwads! Get your hooves off my land.”
I looked up. A girl who no doubt owned the discarded bike and lived in my future house was standing a couple of feet ahead of us. I recognized her. She went to my school, was in my grade, though I was certain she had never noticed me before. Her summery clothes were unstained, and I would even guess they had been ironed. Another person clearly cared about her. The thought of that made me sick. I hated her instantly, and our interaction had barely begun.
“Heddo!” Button said.
In her arms, the girl held an ugly mutt, its face reminiscent of a fox’s. Burnt orange, and pointy. She ran her hand down over its back, along its curling tail.
“Did you know poor people stink?” The girl ignored Button’s courteous greeting. “It’s an honest fact. They stink cause of what they eat. Cheap junky food. Oozes out their skin.”
Watching her small mouth, I noticed tiny brown crumbs on her lips. She had been consuming chocolate cake or a brownie or something. Then I turned my attention to Button, to see how she would respond. “Heddo heddo,” she repeated, wriggling her fingers. My sister grinned, plumped her horrible hair.
“That’s my polite way of saying, I don’t want your shit-smell near my house. All trash goes in the garbage. So, why are you out?”
“Did you hear that Button? She says you’re trash. She’s telling you that you stink, and she does not want your particular odour near her fancy house. Though if you will note, Button, we are situated on the sidewalk, which is legally considered public property.”
“Huh?”
“Do you understand, Button? We are permitted to stand here.”
“I don’t care if it’s the shitty sidewalk. Leave. Now.”
“Button?”
Her reaction was not what I had hoped it would be. She raced toward the girl, cooed, “I luvas puppahs. I do.” Dove her fingers into the dog’s orange fur. Made kissing faces. “Led me see id dayull. Id dayull.”
Seriously? She loves its tail?
The girl twisted, shielding the dog, “Back off, you fat fucking white-haired troll. Get your sweaty mitts away from her. Trying to pinch her.” Then to the dog, “It’s okay, Noodle. No one’s going to hurt you.” Back to Button, “Now, get to fuck.”
Button whined and pinched her crotch. Said, “Dayull so pweddy. Pleadz. You ma fwend.”
Her friend?
“Yeah, I know. Her tail’s the best part.” She unrolled it, took her hand away, and it sprung back. Did it two more times. Lifting the dog just out of Button’s reach.
My little sister was fucking mesmerized.
“Oh, pleadz? Pleadz?”
“Plead! Plead!” She mocked her. “What happened to you, anyway? Lawnmower run over your gross head?”
I continued to observe the exchange with total objectivity. “Button,” I said. “Are you listening? Do you recall what we discussed earlier, Button? About spitting, or using your legs to — ”
She was focused on the dog. “No, I don. I don. I wanna puppahs.”
“Button. Think!” My fingers began to clench. “Use your brain.”
“Button? Rabbit button, rabbit button!” the stupid bitch sang. “What does it feel like to be named after crap? Hear that, Noodle? Her name’s Button. And her friends call her little lump of shit.” She laughed. “Oh, that’s right. Crap don’t got no friends. Cause crap stinks.”
I gripped my sister’s wrist. While I would have loved to see her slam that eleven-year-old in the guts, it was clear Button had learned nothing from me. Nothing yet. That level of personality alteration would be more difficult than I had imagined.
“Shut your prissy gob,” I said calmly.
She took a step toward us. “Oh yeah? And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll be sorry.” I smiled at her, very softly, very gently. I imagined my slit eyes were twinkling. While she was the same age as me, she was several inches taller, several inches thicker. Not that height or weight made a difference. Tone and eye contact were so much more important.
“Oh yeah? Just what’re you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” I tapped my chin. “I have to think. You’ll find out.”
“Yeah?”
“Not today, though. No. Sometime soon.” I stared at Noodle. “You’ll need to wait.”
Her expression shifted, and she gripped the dog to her chest. Voice no longer as forceful, “You think your shit’s special? Freak.”
I smiled again, blinked. A picture of calmness. Of geniality. “Nice to meet you, Noodle. See you soon.”
Hoping Button might notice, I had just demonstrated two of my prized traits. Patience and Control.
[14]
“Orange cones,” Warren yelled at the girls. “Check in the storeroom. They’re in the same place they were last week.”
He had dragged himself through the entire day, and had heard nothing from Ms. Fairley. In the staffroom during lunch, no one had spoken to him, or even ac
knowledged him. Seated at the corner table, he ate his dry sandwich, alone, counting the clicks of the coffee maker that came in six-second intervals.
Libby arrived with an armload of cones, and Evie tugged a red mesh bag full of soccer balls.
“Now put them in a row for warm-up. Eight feet apart, as accurate as you can manage, please. Oh, and an actual line.” It bothered him. Uneven spaces. Wonky lines that should be straight.
Her back stiffened, bony knees touching, feet slightly apart. “I know, Mr. Botts. I do this every practice.”
“Sorry, Libby.” Softer, then. “And you do a great job.”
Warren looked around the gymnasium. Libby was rapidly clapping down the cones, and while Evie normally assisted, this time she wandered away. Went to one of the benches, folded her arms across her chest, and stared at the seat. It only took him a moment to realize that was the same place where Amanda often sat. Watching the practice. Watching the girls. But mostly watching Evie.
Warren went and stood beside her. Her arms and legs were thin and purple, though the skin on her face was pale.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. He was not certain what else to say. Consoling a stranger was not straightforward. He could not determine the social rules.
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Botts?”
“Of course.”
She scratched at bumps on the back of her arm. “Does it make someone a weirdo if they’re not sad? I mean, about her. If they don’t feel upset?”
“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I don’t believe so. Everyone’s reactions are different, right? Everyone’s emotions are unique. Who’s to say what’s right or wrong or weird or normal?”
She nodded again, unfolded her arms, then refolded them.
“You can join us in a minute, if you want.”
“Thanks, Mr. Botts. But I’m fine.”
Warren went to the bag of soccer balls, and let them roll onto the floor. “Should we get started?” he yelled. No one responded. “Girls?” Some were sprinting around the edges, while a few clustered near the door, heads pressed together, talking. He wondered where the rest of the team was. So many were late.
“I heard she was pregnant.”
“No, her mother drove her insane. Constant pressure.”
“Apparently, she was in love with —”
“They’re looking at him, you know. Think he was involved.”
“That he hung her up? Him?”
“Yeah. And left her there. Swinging. Thought it was hilarious.”
“Girls!” Warren said.
Swinging. They turned their glittering eyes toward him. “Yes, Mr. Botts?” Singsong chorus.
“Get moving. Now.”
Surely he had misheard. His mind was forming words that were not in the air. He wanted to blow the whistle that dangled around his neck, but he could not tolerate the sound. Lifting his hand, pointing at them, he felt the sweat on his shirt, cold against his skin. Eye rolls, and they brushed past him, a lazy swagger to the opposite corner.
“Does anyone know where the others are?”
“Nope.”
“Should we wait?”
“For what?” Quartet of laughter. “Doubt if they’re coming.”
“Why?”
“Not allowed.”
He frowned, shook his head. “Um, why?”
One of them made a choking sound, and Warren said, “What was that?”
“Naaaah-thing, Mr. Botts.”
When he had agreed to teach, he had not factored in coaching. Ms. Fairley told him afterwards it was the responsibility of each teacher to contribute to extracurriculars. “In fact,” she said, “some teachers say it is the best part of their day. A time to really connect. Make a difference.” Even though he had suggested leading a robotics club, or after-school chess, he was assigned to the girls’ soccer team. Grades six, seven, and eight, though it was mostly eights that showed up, a pack of surly girls.
Warren hated it. Hated team sports. Every time someone’s sneaker struck the ball, he could not help but wince, lift his shoulders, and tuck in his head. But he need not have worried much. During the ninety-minute activity on Monday and Thursday afternoons, there was minimal ball-striking. While some of the girls attempted the drills, and listened to his instructions, most of them did not want to be there. Soccer practice served as a place to go, rather than home, or walking the streets, or hiding in the woods, or someone’s basement, or wandering up and down the aisles at the grocery store.
In October, his team had played two games against schools in neighbouring towns. A handful of parents came and sat in the stands, mothers and fathers staring at their daughters. No one cheered. Especially when his team lost shamefully. Many of the girls just stood there, hands on hips, annoyed, as though they were offended by the wind coming off the opposing team. If the soccer ball did drift their way, approaching their feet, more often than not they would gape at it. It could have been a rolling head. A face they did not recognize. Could not even bother to boot away.
“The parents blame you,” Ms. Fairley had said after the game. “They’ve had some choice things to say.”
“Blame me? What have they said?”
“You need to inspire them, Dr. Botts. It costs a pretty penny to bus girls in, bus girls out. To host these kinds of events. And I don’t need to tell you, our district does not have money.”
“I understand, but —”
“It’s supposed to build community.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see community happening here.” She snapped her fingers. “Inspire, Dr. Botts. Inspire!”
Inspire!
While he thought he was capable in the classroom, he did not know how to inspire in the gymnasium. In September he had wheeled a blackboard in, and outlined various plays copied from a library book. The girls could not keep up, or did not bother, even though he explained the reasoning behind each technique, each piece of instruction. He complimented nearly every movement, every single time one of the girls tapped the ball, and though she refused (“On principle, Mr. Botts”), he had even asked Libby to allow a few shots to sneak past her in goal. With his own money, he purchased bags of oranges, kept them sliced and chilled in a flat container on the wooden bench. He bought badges they could sew on their jackets in hopes of creating a sense of responsibility to other teammates. A sense of unity. “No, a safety pin looks terrible,” he had said. “Take ten minutes with a needle and thread. Please.” Only Evie had affixed hers to her coat with a neat white stitch.
“Maybe you’re trying too hard, Mr. Botts.” Libby had said to him after the last practice.
“I’m supposed to get them excited about it. I can’t do that if I don’t try. It certainly won’t happen if I try less.” He was frustrated, saying too much to a student.
“I don’t know. Maybe they just don’t care.”
“But why?” Warren had asked. He wondered how many lines were on the floor of the gymnasium. Red, navy, green, white. Circles, semi-circles, rectangles, dotted, solid. “How can they not care?”
Libby had shrugged, “Most people don’t care about important stuff. Don’t take it personally.”
“Okay,” Warren yelled, and was forced to blow his whistle, the sound vibrating in his enamel. “We’re going to try something new.”
Groaning.
“If you manage to zigzag between the cones, with the ball of course, in under fifteen seconds, you get one of these.” He held up a foil-covered chocolate between thumb and forefinger.
“Oh. My. Gawd,” one girl squealed. “Mr. Botts is giving out kisses.”
“Ooo, kisses. Mwahh!”
Warren looked at the bag of candy. They were indeed kisses. He had not realized when he dropped them into his cart at the convenie
nce store, and it was too late now. He heard them puckering and popping their lips. Face flushing, he said, “Libby. Can you hand them out?” She shook her head.
“I just did it, Mr. Botts,” a girl squealed. “Were you counting? That was under fifteen. I get a kiss.”
She bolted over, and reluctantly, he handed her a chocolate.
Another girl moved the ball through the cones.
“Kissies, please!”
He lay the open package on the bench. “You may take your own,” he said, and instead of continuing with the cone warm-up, the girls surrounded the bag, tore it apart. In that instant, as Warren watched the swarm of them reaching and ripping and shrieking and elbowing, he missed his lab. Missed working in the silence with the fluorescent lighting, the gentle sound of water running, and the steady ticking of the wall clock. He missed the platform he had constructed, covered in sand, the necessary warmth of his space, the effort his tiny subjects displayed as they tried to adapt to their new environment. The fatherly pride he felt at their success. He missed the clink of a glass slide, slipping into his microscope, and the promising sound as the printhead spilled ink across the page. Just last year all he could think about was getting away from the lab, from the university, from the constant drone of responsibility, but now, he craved the peace of that tiny room. He wanted the memory of Amanda to disappear from his brain. Sarie’s scratchy voice to dissolve from his answering machine. But then he would never have met Nora, and that thought made his heart seize.
“Girls? Should we get —” he started, but was interrupted by a slamming door near the sidelines.
“Evie!” A woman was hovering just outside the painted green line. She wore old sneakers, a crocheted hat. “Evie! Come here now.”
As Evie went to the woman, Warren followed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is soccer. We’re in the middle of a practice.”
“Yes, and this is my daughter, and I left word with the office. She was supposed to go straight home.” Evie kicked the floor, leaving black streaks. “Not a very good listener, is she?”
The woman would not look at Warren. One layer of his mind began to count. “For what reason?”
The Substitute Page 7
