Mrs. Muckle gave Damian a wad of tissues for his nose and sent him to the nurse.
She gave me a look of despair and told me to write an apology.
I settled into my desk. “I’ll do my very best to make this genuine,” I promised. “No matter how long it takes.”
Then I began:
Dear Damian,
I’m sorry you are an arshole…
Mrs. Muckle looked over my shoulder. “Your arsehole is missing an e.”
“An e?” I said. “That would make it earshole. Damian’s full of shit, not wax.”
She pointed to the door. “Out. You know how I feel about swearing.”
“Actually,” I said, “I don’t know how you feel about swearing. I mean, how is shit worse than arsehole? And where does the f-word fit in? Maybe you could make me an easy-to-follow flowchart. I’d like to know where you stand on all this.”
She walked to the door and opened it. “Go.”
Poor woman, she was completely frazzled. I stood outside her office and gave her a moment to compose herself. When I returned thirty seconds later, she looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh, Judes,” I said. “Don’t you know you can’t fill the emptiness inside you with food?”
She shouted “out!” again. A piece of Twix flew from her mouth. It landed by my foot. I wasn’t sure what to do. Leaving it there seemed wrong. Especially when there were children starving in Africa. I picked it up and offered it to her. “Did you want this or…”
Her face turned the color of her fantabulous slut shoes.
I gave her a wide berth as I walked to the garbage bin under her desk. I paused behind her.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” I said, “but you seem a bit on edge. Perhaps you shouldn’t be alone right now. I’ll stay if you like. Just for one more period. Even though I’d hate to miss math.”
“You can stay,” she sighed. “But if I hear another word out of you…”
I dropped the Twix chunk in the garbage and backed away with my hands up. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
I sat down and rubbed my hands together over the apology letter. “Now,” I said. “Time to return to the task I’d been working on so enthusiastically before you interrupted me with your nitpicky criticism.”
She sucked in her breath.
I turned to her. “You know, you need to be more mindful of your breathing,” I said. “Especially if you want to find inner peace.” I stuck my fingers in my ears. “Watch and learn.”
I inhaled through my nose, then exhaled through my mouth. Bzzzzzzz.
“Bumblebee breathing,” I said. “I learned it at an anger management class my mother forced me to go to. It relieves stress, especially the angry kind. Apparently it takes a lot of practice. It hasn’t worked for me yet. Which is not surprising. I’m not good at anything.”
She threw me the other half of her Twix. “You’re good at driving me nuts, I can tell ya that.”
I wasn’t sure that was the most appropriate thing for a school official to say to a student, but I gave her a wink and took a bite of the bar. “You’re the bee’s knees, Judes.”
CHAPTER FIVE
After school I bundled Gord up and went to the war memorial. Saibal was already there with two birch beers and a giant sour key for Gord.
“He can’t have that,” I said. “He has no teeth.”
Saibal put his pointer finger through the hole in the top and popped the long end in Gord’s mouth.
“You don’t need teeth to suck,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll hold it so he doesn’t choke.”
Gord made a sour face on the first lick.
“He doesn’t like it,” I said.
A second later he was leaning forward with his tongue out, gagging for more.
“He loves it,” said Saibal, popping it back in. “Just make sure you rinse his mouth out after so he doesn’t get cavities.”
“Even though he has no teeth?” I said, opening my can of pop. “Duly noted.”
Saibal looked impressed. “You really have a way with words, Finbar.”
“I have to admit,” I said, “for the longest time I thought it was Julie noted. Then I saw it written down.”
“Imagine if your name was Julie,” he said. “Instead of saying okay, you could say ‘Julie noted.’ ”
“Julie, dear, don’t forget you have a dentist appointment at three,” I said.
“Julie noted,” said Saibal in a female voice.
I laughed and pointed to my face. “This is a port-wine stain, by the way.”
Saibal wiped some drool off Gord’s chin. “So?”
“I just thought you might be wondering.”
“Why would I?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
He crushed his empty can with his one hand. “So. What no good should we get up to today?”
“I want to buy a Playboy magazine.”
“Ew,” said Saibal.
“Not for me,” I said. “For Billy Walsh. I need to borrow his tap shoes. I figure a naked lady magazine would be a good trade.”
“What makes you think he’d want a Playboy magazine?”
“He looks like a bit of a pervert.”
Saibal shrugged. “Fair enough.”
I puffed out my chest. “Guess what? I’m going to be a Full Tilt Dancer.”
“Really?” said Saibal. “I tried out last year but Father Molloy said I wasn’t a good fit.”
He put finger quotes around the word fit.
“What are you suggesting?” I said.
“I’m suggesting I didn’t have the right look.”
He didn’t put quotes around the word look, but I caught his drift.
“Father Molloy may be a fedora-wearing thieving jerk,” I said, “but he’s no racist.”
Saibal frowned. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“How?”
“Because Newfoundlanders aren’t like that.”
“Do tell,” said Saibal, popping the sour key from Gord’s mouth to his own.
“Way back in history,” I said, “there was a black man from the US who ended up on a beach in Newfoundland after a shipwreck. People saved him and nursed him back to good health and he was amazed because back at home, white people weren’t nice to him. In Newfoundland, he was treated like all the other survivors.”
Saibal threw the soggy sour key in the grass. “Nice story. Now tell me, how does that prove Father Molloy can’t be racist?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Don’t be so naive, Finbar. Open your eyes and look around.”
I did.
“Get a room!” I shouted to a couple making out under a tree.
Saibal laughed. “Come on,” he said. “Time to buy some porn.”
We headed toward Water Street.
The panhandlers knew Saibal by name.
“How come I’ve never seen you around here before?” I asked.
“I live in King William Estates,” he said. “I wasn’t allowed to get the bus until I turned twelve.”
“King William Estates, huh? You must be loaded.”
“My dad’s a family doctor and my mom’s a cardiologist.”
“Does she use those big paddles like they do on TV?”
Saibal jumped in front of me and hit my chest with an imaginary defibrillator. “Clear!”
I jolted with an almighty shock.
“What do your parents do?” asked Saibal.
“Nothing as good as yours,” I said. “Mom was a lunch lady before Gord was born and Dad fixes clocks.”
“Interesting,” said Saibal, even though it wasn’t.
When we got to Atlantic Place, Saibal helped me carry the stroller up the steps.
The top shelf of the magazine shop had lots of choices.
“What do you think, Saibal?” I said. “They have Penthouse and Hustler too.”
“Get the Playboy,” he said. “Then, when you give it to Billy Walsh, you can say, ‘A Playboy for a playboy.’ ”
I grinned. “I like the way you think, Saibal.”
The lady behind the counter wouldn’t sell us the magazine, so I gave it to Gord. When he ripped the cover in half, Saibal pointed to the YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT sign. He slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter. “That should cover it.”
We left before she could protest.
Back on Water Street, Saibal said, “When you think about it, my mom and your dad do the same thing. They both get things ticking again.”
I liked that Saibal thought my dad and his mom were the same. I pictured my dad standing over a timepiece shouting, “Clear!”
“What are you smiling about?” said Saibal.
“Nothing,” I said. “Come on. It’s time to trade some porn for a dream.”
The dancers practiced at the Benevolent Irish Society, or BIS as we called it. I caught Billy Walsh’s eye from the window. A moment later, he was outside.
“What do you want, Squires?”
I gave him a devilish grin.
“A Playboy,” I said, “for a playboy.”
He looked confused. “What?”
Saibal elbowed me in the ribs. “Finbar. The magazine.”
I looked around. “Gord! You dirty thing!”
His face was right in the centerfold.
I gave the magazine to Billy and proposed the deal. His eyes widened as he scanned the pages. He took his shoes off right then and there.
“I want them back in good condition.”
I told him he could keep the magazine.
We went back to York Street to drop the shoes off. When I got to the doorstep, Nan looked beyond me into the street.
“Who’s that?” she said.
“That’s Saibal,” I said. “He’s my—”
“Why is he on the curb?” she said. “Is he begging?”
“No, he—”
“He’s begging, isn’t he? Poor little thing. These refugees, they have a hard time when they first arrive, God love ’em.”
“Nan. He’s not—”
“Come over, my ducky,” she yelled. “Come in and I gives ya some supper.”
Saibal walked over and took Nan’s hand in both of his. “Thank you so verrry, verrry much. I am so verrry, verrry hungry.”
Nan was charmed. “God love his cotton socks.”
I elbowed him in the side. “Drop the act, will ya? It’s annoying.”
He smiled. “I’m just filling the role that is expected of me,” he whispered.
“Come in, come in,” said Nan. “I’m just about to put supper on the table.”
It was a home-cooked meal for once and I was glad. Mom’s empty chair was a lot less depressing when we weren’t eating off paper plates.
There was also a rack of freshly baked tea buns cooling in the kitchen. Saibal reached for one. “May I?”
I’d have had my hand smacked this close to supper but Nan smiled and said, “Yes, my duck. Take as many as you want.”
Pius strutted in and nodded toward Saibal. “Who’s that?”
“A refugee,” whispered Nan. “Starved to death, the poor thing.”
Pius passed him another bun.
When Dad and Shelagh came in, it was the same. One whisper from Nan and they were filled with compassion.
“I should call home,” said Saibal, his accent thick. “Hopefully my mother can make it to the phone. Her legs, they do not work so well anymore. And my father, well, he is probably out begging.”
I ignored the collective “awww” from my family and pulled Saibal roughly into the living room. “How long are you planning on keeping this up?”
He patted his stomach. “Until my tummy is verrry, verrry full.”
His fake accent was getting on my last nerve.
He picked up the phone and called home. “What are ya at, Mudder? Me? I’m fine. Best kind. Listen, I got invited to a friend’s house for supper. Yup…yup…yup. Okay, Mudder. Loves ya.”
He hung up. “I have to get the seven-thirty bus back to King William,” he said. “I hope I have time for dessert. If your nan’s tea buns are anything to go by, dessert’s gonna be tasty.”
We turned toward the kitchen to find Pius standing at the door with his arms crossed. “I have to say,” he said, “I’m verrry, verrry disappointed.”
“Saibal’s just filling the role that is expected of him,” I said.
“Whatever,” said Pius. “Ten bucks and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Saibal pulled a leather wallet out of his back pocket and gave Pius a ten-dollar bill.
At the supper table, Saibal asked if someone could pass the ketchup for his fried bologna.
“Your English is so good,” yelled Dad.
“Bah-gah!” yelled Gord.
Nan put another slice of bologna on Saibal’s plate. “Look at him. He’s skin and bones.”
He was anything but. Saibal had broad shoulders, a full, round face—he was the picture of health.
Pius passed Saibal the ketchup. “You know, Saibal,” he said, “what you’re eating there is pretty rare. It’s not very often a hunter comes across the wild bologna. Fierce creatures, they are. They’d bite the hand right off ya.”
Saibal laughed. “Go on wit’ ya, b’y. We all knows this bologna was sliced off the Maple Leaf Big Stick.”
There was a collective gasp.
“He’s a bloody Newfoundlander!” said Shelagh.
“He took advantage of my good nature!” said Nan.
“He ate all the tea buns!” said Dad.
“Bah-gah!” yelled Gord.
Saibal just kept eating. That’s how good fried bologna is.
“He was just filling the role that was expected of him,” I said.
Mom walked in in her dressing gown. “Who’s this?”
“Barry’s new friend,” said Dad. “He’s a real little scoundrel.”
Mom sat down. “So they’re two peas in a pod, then.”
Nan jabbed a bony finger in Saibal’s direction. “I made trifle for dessert. And you, young man, are getting one scoop. Just like everyone else.”
“Just like everyone else, eh?” said Saibal. “Sounds good to me.”
I walked Saibal to the bus stop.
“Sorry about that. It’s like they’ve never seen a brown person before.”
“Well, there aren’t a lot of visible minorities in this city.”
I wrapped my arm around his shoulder. “I bet by the time we’re twenty, St. John’s will look like a rainbow.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Saibal, “brown isn’t a color of the rainbow.”
“Neither is white.”
“I bet you turn red in the summer, though,” he said.
“Fair point,” I said
Saibal looked at his watch. “We have ten minutes before the bus comes. Want to go get up to no good?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go throw rocks at my school’s windows.”
We threw assorted stones and pebbles, but nothing broke the glass.
“This is ridiculous,” said Saibal. “What if there was a fire inside? You’d never break out.”
“They don’t care,” I said. “This place is like a prison. I’m surprised there are no iron bars.”
We stood back and took in the red brick building.
“I suppose if there was a fire, we would just open the window,” I said.
“Yeah,
” said Saibal. “They’re still a bunch of bastards, though.”
We walked back to the bus stop.
“What’s your school like, Saibal?”
He kicked a pebble with his shoe. “White.”
I laughed. “Who paints a school white?”
“The school isn’t white,” said Saibal. “The people are.”
I picked up the pebble and dropped it in a random mailbox. “All of them?”
He nodded. “Yup.”
He started hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”
I joined in. “It’s always the mothers,” I said. “I feel bad for them.”
“Good point,” he said. “Let’s change it to father.”
“How about brothers?” I said. “Older brothers.”
We stomped on every crack.
Saibal laughed. “Poor Pius.”
We slowed down and caught our breath.
“Sometimes I make brown jokes,” said Saibal.
I looked over at him. “You do?”
He nodded. “It’s better if I make them first. Doesn’t hurt as much.”
It was an interesting strategy. Maybe, I thought, I should try it with my face.
“The kids think I’m cool and funny when I make fun of myself. But there’s this one kid, Freddie Fudge. I’ll never win him over. He’s been to the office six times for calling me a Paki. He doesn’t say it out loud anymore. But I hear it, you know?”
“It’s called telepathy,” I said.
Damian Clarke was a master.
“Do you have a bully?” asked Saibal.
I pointed to my face. “Duh.”
We kept walking.
“Maybe we could put an ad in the paper,” I said. “Like they did in that movie Desperately Seeking Susan. You know, the one with Madonna? We could say, ‘Desperately Seeking Brown Kids,’ and maybe you’d find a friend.”
Saibal smiled. “That’s okay, Finbar. I already have a friend.”
I hoped he meant me.
We sat on the curb under the Route 12 sign. Saibal flicked an ant off my jeans.
“My mom has the baby blues,” I said. “That’s why she was in her dressing gown.”
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 7
