“Yeah,” I said. “You know…” I stomped my feet a few times and finished off with jazz hands.
“Ha! You call that dancing?”
“Semi-Irish-jazzy-step-tap-dancing, to be exact. Will you come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, turning to leave. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a good comedy routine.”
Old people. They were always getting confused. I was going to call after him and say, “No, not comedy…dancing!” But I didn’t want to embarrass him.
CHAPTER THREE
Gord was up from his nap, sitting in his high chair and sticking a Cheerio up his nose. His arms started flailing the minute he saw me. “Bah. Bah.”
I bent down close. “Guess what, Gord? I’m dancing at the nursing home on Thursday.”
He slapped me across the face.
“Jesus, Gord!”
Shelagh looked up from her homework. “It’s your fault. You’re always invading his personal space.”
Nan filled the teapot and looked around. “Now where’s that teapot lid?”
“Teapot lid—kid!” I shouted.
Shelagh jumped a mile. “What the hell, Barry?”
“I just figured out something Uneven Steven said.”
“That man is a nutcase,” she said. “He’s always talking in riddles.”
I pulled Gord out of the high chair. As soon as he was in my arms, he started biting my cheek.
“Ha!” said Pius as he walked into the room. “He thinks that thing on your face is a plum.”
“Pius!” said Nan.
I didn’t wait for the apology he’d be forced to give. I stormed off to my room and sat Gord on my bed.
“Repeat after me, Gord. Pius…”
“Ba.”
“Is a…”
“Ah.”
“Arsehole.”
“O-ba-da-bah-gah!”
I was amazed. His language skills were really coming along.
We listened to Raffi’s “Baby Beluga” over and over. On the ten-millionth play, we heard Mom calling from the hall.
“Now where’s my little blunder?”
Dark humor. That’s how Uneven Steven described Mom’s nickname for Gord. But Gord was a surprise, not a mistake. I whispered in his ear. “Did you hear that? Mommy’s looking for her little wonder.”
Mom opened my door and looked at Gord like he was the best thing since sliced bread, which he was. Wonder bread.
“Look what I’ve got,” she sang.
She pulled a pair of monkey sleepers out of a Zellers bag. They were the same ones she’d bought sized 0–3 months, then 3–6.
“They had them in six to twelve months too,” she said.
“You went out?” I said.
“Just nipped out for some fresh air.”
I didn’t react but my insides jumped for joy.
“Guess what?” I said.
She scooped Gord up and breathed him in. “What?”
“I’m going to be giving a performance at the nursing home.”
“Really?” she said. “Doing what?”
“Step dancing. I’m going to prove myself to Father O’Flaherty.”
The surprise on her face turned to concern.
“Don’t get your hopes up, okay, Barry?”
“I won’t,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure I’m gonna nail it.”
She sat down with Gord on her lap and cleared her throat. “The thing is, Barry, being a Full Tilt Dancer…it costs money.”
“I know,” I said. “A hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
Gord crawled away from her and into my arms.
“It’s a total bargain,” I said. “Think about it—you get the vest, the pants, and the tap shoes too.”
She looked down at my bedspread, picked at a loose thread. “I could get an outfit like that down at the Sally Ann for a quarter of that.”
“But the pants and vest wouldn’t be Newfoundland tartan, now, would they?” I said. “And I think I heard somewhere that wearing secondhand tap shoes was unlucky.”
She looked up. “I’m sorry, Barry. It’s too much.”
I could feel the growling stirring in my belly. “All the other parents pay it.”
“Well, those parents have more money than sense.”
I rolled my eyes. “Money is cents.”
“Not cents,” she said. “Sense. As in sensible?”
I passed Gord back. If I was going to have an effective freak-out, I was gonna need two hands.
“Tell me,” I said. “Is it sensible for a parent to buy a child who will never amount to anything brand-new hockey equipment while denying the child with the most potential the very tools he needs to succeed in life?”
“That’s different,” she said. “Pius sticks things out. You, on the other hand, drop out of every extracurricular activity you join.”
“I don’t drop out!” I yelled. “I get kicked out!”
Mom shook her head. “That temper of yours will be the death of you.”
“So you want me dead now,” I said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“What I want,” she said, “is for you to control your anger.”
“And what I want,” I said, “is a Newfoundland tartan outfit.”
“It’s too expensive.”
“Maybe I could earn the money,” I said.
“Earn it how?”
“By taking care of Gord.”
“I’m not paying you for that, Barry. Taking care of each other is just part of being a family.”
I was starting to wonder if I’d liked her better when she stayed in her room.
“But I go above and beyond with Gord,” I said. “For instance, today I taught him a new word.”
“You did?” she said. “What word?”
I scrambled to think of a word that wasn’t arsehole.
“Arson.”
“That’s not funny, Barry.”
I’d forgotten about the fire. Pius had claimed he was sober, but everyone knew he’d gotten into the communion wine before snuffing the candles after mass. Father Molloy smelled the burning from the sacristy and called the fire department. Pius had to give up his altar boy duties after that. And they say I’m the one that can’t stick things out.
When Mom took Gord to his room for a diaper change, I went downstairs and sat in the front window. I found it comforting, pulling back the sheers and watching people return to their homes after a hard day’s work. Especially in the cold, dark months when they’d turn on their lights and I could see right inside their houses. Mrs. Inkpen’s dog, Labatt, greeted her every day by stealing one of her nursing shoes after she’d just slipped it off. Mr. O’Brien went straight to his bedroom and changed from his mechanic coveralls to his Snoopy pajama bottoms. They were his favorite. Mr. Power came home and went straight to his wife for a kiss. She’d be in the kitchen cooking and as he’d walk away, loosening his tie, she’d smack his bum. If things were the other way around and the neighbors were watching my house, they’d see me move away from the window when Dad pulled up. They’d see me pretend to read The Herald as he ruffled my hair, only looking up when he walked away. They’d catch my smile and they’d understand—it’s not cool to greet your dad like you’re five, not when you’re twelve. Except when there’s fish and chips involved.
One whiff and I ran to the door. Brown paper bags filled his arms. Grease stained the bottoms and steam rose from the tops. Inside was a feed of Ches’s Fish and Chips. I couldn’t wait to dig in.
“Grab the Pepsi, Barry.”
We moved to the table. Everyone followed their noses and met us there.
“What are we celebrating?” said Pius. “We haven’t had Ches’s since my birthday six months ago.”
“Your birthday wa
s December,” said Shelagh. “Try again.”
He paused. “Okay, four months. So what? I was close.”
She shook her head. “Poor, dumb Pius. It’s March. Try using your fingers this time.”
He raised his hand. “I’ll be using my fingers to smack you across the face in a minute.”
“Give it up,” said Dad. “Both of ye.”
He smiled at Mom. It was a reassuring smile and suddenly I got it. We were celebrating. The laundry on the line, the trip to Zellers.
“Excuse me,” said Shelagh. “Did anyone hear what Pius just said? He said he was going to smack me. SMACK ME!”
“BAH-DAH!” yelled Gord.
“Oh, shut up, Shelagh,” said Pius. “As slapable as your ugly mug is, you know I’d never lay a finger on you.”
“Now, now,” said Nan. “Let’s all calm down and enjoy our Ches’s.”
“By the way,” said Pius. “I hear you and Bob the Schnoz are doing more than running student council.”
“Shut up, Pius,” said Shelagh.
“Who’s Bob the Schnoz?” I asked.
“Bob Myrick. Shelagh’s vice president. His nose is the size of the basilica.”
“Pius,” said Nan. “That’s not nice.”
“Well, it’s true,” he said.
Mom rubbed her temples. “You know, I think I might go lie down.”
“But I have a song,” I blurted.
“A song?” said Dad.
I nodded. “To sing.”
“Lovely,” said Nan. “What’s it called?”
I thought fast.
“ ‘Baby Beluga.’ ”
“God help us,” said Pius.
Mom stood up.
I belted it out.
“Baaa-by be-luuuuu-ga!”
Nan swooned. “God love him. He’s got the voice of an angel.”
Dad ruffled my hair as he went after Mom. “He sure does.”
I sang to my battered cod.
“You can shut up now,” said Pius.
But I didn’t shut up. I sang until Nan and Gord were my only audience. When the song was over, they clapped.
“Bravo, bravo,” said Nan.
“I think I’ll go lie down,” I said.
“You do that, love,” said Nan.
As I left the room, I ruffled the wisps on the top of Gord’s head.
The next morning I walked into Mr. McGraw’s English class in the middle of a vocab test.
He pointed at the door. “I think it’s time we had a little chat, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I said. (I’d been wondering why his sweaters had elbow pads and now would be the perfect opportunity to ask.)
Out in the hallway, Mr. McGraw clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his feet. “I have two problems with you, Squires.”
“Just two?” I said.
(Mrs. Muckle had a trillion.)
“Number one. You’re always late—”
I held up my hand. “Whoa there, Trigger. It’s a proven fact that people who run late are optometrists—and being full of optometry is a great personality trait.”
“Optometry isn’t a personality trait,” said Mr. McGraw. “It’s an occupation.”
“You mean I could make an entire career out of positive thinking?”
“The word you’re looking for is optimist,” he said. “Not optometrist.”
I shrugged. “Ehh, close enough. Starts with an o, ends in a t. The point is, people who are late don’t do it out of laziness or disrespect—they do it because they think they have way more time than they have. Because they’re positive thinkers.”
Mr. McGraw rubbed his chin. “Interesting.”
I waited for him to continue. “What is?”
He re-clasped his hands and resumed rocking. “You’ve been storming out of my English class for the last six months. Now, a positive thinker would stick each class out, believing that it could only get better, that education is of the utmost importance.”
I nodded. “I take it this is problem number two.”
“Indeed it is, Finbar.”
I rubbed my chin. “Interesting.”
“What is?” he asked.
“You seem to be suggesting that my escape-atory behavior is down to a lack of positivity but what’s interesting is—”
He raised a hand to silence me. “Escape-atory is not a word, Finbar.”
“Indeed it’s not,” I said. “But I think we can both agree it should be.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Watch yourself,” I said. “If the wind changes direction, your eyes will get stuck up in the back of your head forever.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale, Finbar.”
“Is it now?” I said. “Then explain to me how it happened to Thomas Budgell’s father’s sister’s daughter.”
“You mean Thomas Budgell’s cousin.”
As usual Mr. McGraw felt the need to complicate things with unnecessary details. I gave him a patient smile. “If you like.”
I clasped my hands behind my back and rocked back and forth on my feet. “Now, if you’ll allow me to finish. I think you’ll be surprised to learn that the reason I storm out of your class is not because of my lack of positivity, but because of yours. Take, for example, your incredible disrespect for inter-student engagement. Your constant shushing while I am engaging in meaningful dialogue with my fellow classmates is extremely rude.”
“Finbar—”
I raised a hand to silence him. “And this interrupting, sir—it’s getting out of control. Not to mention this nasty habit you have of calling me Aleck. You can call me smart all you want, but if you don’t start calling me by the name my mother lovingly gave me when I was expelled from her womb, you and me are going to have a problem.”
He folded his arms. “Are you finished?”
“Not quite,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I have a question.”
He looked intrigued. “Go ahead.”
“It’s the elbow pads,” I said. “I can see getting holes in the knees of your pants, especially if you pray a lot. But what in God’s name causes holes in your elbows?”
He caressed the suede pads on his beige wool sweater. “You don’t like them?” he said. “I thought they made me look professorial.”
“If professorial is a fancy word for poor,” I said, “you’re nailing it.”
He looked deflated. “This sweater cost me 39.99.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, sir, but you must have more money than sense.”
He sighed.
“I like your shoes, though,” I said, even though they were nothing special. “They’re really fantabulous.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Finbar. Now, the reason I called you out here is—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “You have all kinds of problems with me because I’m a horrible person. Don’t go thinking you’re something special. You’re not the only one who thinks so.”
I looked to the ceiling. I thought I saw the face of God in a water stain. He was laughing at me.
“Just so you know,” said Mr. McGraw, “I’m something of an optimist too.”
I heard a rustling sound and cast my eyes downward. In his hand was a pastel blue candy wrapped in translucent paper, the kind they sold in the tourist shops downtown.
“I thought a little incentive might help,” he said. “One piece of saltwater taffy every time you make it to the bell. Deal?”
My mouth watered. “Deal.”
As we shook on it, I said, “Thank you, sir. I can’t think of a better incentive than a colorful confection made from the very waters that surround us on this beautiful, ruggadacious island.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t get i
t, Finbar. You obviously have a love of words—admittedly you make most of them up, but still. You could do really well in my English class. You just need to apply yourself and focus.”
It was easier said than done. The inside of my brain was like one of those wind booths on game shows—the kind where paper money gets blown around and the contestant has to try to grab as many bills as possible. My thoughts were like the money. They were all over the place. I’d try to grab one, but then another would blow by, then another, and another. How could I possibly decide which thought was worth more than the other? It was easier just to let them all blow away.
“Mr. McGraw?”
“Yes?”
“I just want you to know—even if you did have holes in your sweaters and you had to sew on patches because you were too poor to buy new clothes, you’d still be a nice teacher.”
“That’s a really kind thing to say, Finbar.”
The bell rang through the halls.
“Darn,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to apply myself next time.”
Mr. McGraw sighed. “I guess so.”
As I walked away, he said, “By the way, saltwater taffy is not actually made of saltwater.”
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But I think we can both agree that it should be.”
Later, at recess, I was in the office taking the vocab test I’d missed earlier. It caused the army men in my head to have a war. They fought over what meant what. They used their bayonets to poke holes in my definitions. They shot through my confidence. They marched to the sides of my brain. They wanted out, to the playground, where the cold air made happy faces healthy and red.
“Concentrate, Finbar,” said Mrs. Muckle.
I chewed my pencil. “You try concentrating in the middle of World War III.”
I answered two more questions, then walked out because, as I said to Judes, recess was my God-given right.
On the walk home from school, it suddenly dawned on me that the answer to fluke on the vocab quiz was “a parasitic flatworm” not “when you pass a vocab quiz you didn’t study for.”
It was the mist that made me realize my mistake. There was a layer on my face that perked me up and made everything clearer. The mist could switch on my brain in an instant—which was weird because water and electricity don’t mix.
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 4
