“Other than that,” I said, “is it good?”
She sighed. “Well. It’s passionate.”
“It’s like they say,” I said. “Go big or go home. And speaking of going home—I’m feeling a bit emotionally drained. I think I might call it a day.”
She passed me my schoolbag. “Go to class, Barry.”
Mr. McGraw kicked me out of class. It wasn’t my fault everyone jumped on their chairs. I was sure I saw two rats scurrying across the floor with foam around their mouths. Turns out I’d just imagined them. I blamed McGraw. His talk about compound adjectives was mind-numbing. As for my peers, why should I be blamed for their overreaction? They could have just stayed seated with their legs up, like me. I left on a high note, though, passing in a copy of my letter to Father O’Flaherty as my persuasive essay. I said I’d be happy with a B-plus if he couldn’t find it within his cold, dead heart to give me an A. It’s amazing how many shades of purple and red the human face can turn. It’s really quite mind-blowing.
I managed to sit through my other classes without causing a disruption. Mostly because I’d mastered the art of dreaming with my eyes open. In science, I was Father O’Flaherty’s lead dancer and by the end of last period, I was on stage with Michael Flatley. All in all it was a successful day, even without a saltwater taffy reward.
On my way home, I went to the corner of Cochrane and Duckworth because Uneven Steven hadn’t been there before school.
“Did you sleep in this morning?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was up late last night replacing the broken lamps.”
“Where did you buy them?” I asked.
“I said replacing, not buying.”
“So you robbed them?”
“I may be a lot of things,” said Steven, “but I’m no tea leaf.”
“So you borrowed them?”
“I went to the dump,” he said. “They’re ugly and cracked but they work.”
“Thanks, Steven. You’re a pal.”
I went home and got Gord. Saibal was at the war memorial with two birch beers and a Pixy Stix for Gord.
“He can’t have that,” I said.
“It’s just a bit of sugar,” said Saibal.
He ripped the paper straw with his teeth. “Open up, Gord.”
Gord tipped his head back and opened wide.
“Oh my God!” I said. “A tooth!”
“It looks like a Chiclet,” said Saibal.
I ran my finger along the pearly-white eruption.
“He’s growing up,” I said.
“His first tooth,” said Saibal. “Let’s take him to Bannerman Park to celebrate.”
We arrived at the park to find the swings wound over the top bar.
“Some people have too much time on their hands,” I said.
“Now what are we going to do?” said Saibal.
“We could go throw rocks at my school again,” I said.
“Why don’t we complain to the city,” said Saibal. “These swings are their responsibility.”
“Better yet,” I said, “let’s take it up with the lieutenant governor.”
“Good idea,” said Saibal.
Government House was just across the street. We crossed Bannerman Road and headed toward the grand brick building.
“My parents got invited to the garden party last year,” said Saibal. “Someone thought my dad was a server and handed him an empty glass.”
“That’s the height of rudeness,” I said.
“It was a good party, though,” said Saibal. “There was a band and everything.”
“My nan has always wanted to go,” I said, “but I think you gotta be someone to get an invite.”
“Your nan’s someone,” said Saibal.
“It’s okay,” I said. “She doesn’t have a big hat anyway.”
Saibal stayed with Gord while I climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. A maid in black-and-white uniform answered.
“I’d like to speak to the lieutenant governor,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“I most certainly do.”
“Your name?”
“Finbar T. Squires. The T is for Turlough. I’m telling you this because a highfalutin middle name such as mine is an indication of the grand family from which I was born into. We really are quite the bunch of someones.”
She stared at me blankly.
Gord rat-tat-tat-tatted like a machine gun.
“Babies are so uncouth,” I said.
She turned back into the building.
“Don’t forget,” I said. “Turlough. Spelled with an o-u-g-h but pronounced like ‘lock.’ It means ‘dry lake,’ which is an oxymoron.”
The door slammed in my face.
“That went well,” said Saibal.
A few moments later, the door opened again. A man in a gray suit stood in the doorway.
“Finbar Turlough Squires?”
I was amazed. Namedropping really worked. Even if it was your own.
I put out my hand. “The one and only. And you, sir, must be the lieutenant governor of this very fine province I’m proud to call home.”
The man took my hand. “I’m his private secretary. You can call me Gord.”
My eyes lit up. “He’s Gord too,” I said, pointing at the stroller.
“A fine Scottish name,” said the man.
“My mother felt it was important to acknowledge the long line of Scottish royalty on her father’s side,” I said.
In reality, Gord was named after Gordon Lightfoot. Apparently Dad agreed because her second favorite singer was Elvis.
Big Gord looked at Saibal. “And what’s your name?”
“Saibal,” said Saibal. “It’s Indian.”
“An Irishman, a Scotsman, and an Indian,” said Big Gord. “You three should walk into a bar.”
“The past, present, and the future walked into a bar,” I said.
“Let me guess,” said Big Gord. “It was tense.”
We all laughed. Except Gord. He knew nothing about grammar.
“So,” I said. “Where’s the big man himself? We kind of have a bone to pick with him.”
“He’s in a meeting,” said Big Gord. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
I pointed across to Bannerman Park. “Some yahoo has swung the swings around the top pole and we can’t reach them.”
He went inside and grabbed a cap. It was navy with a braid above the peak.
“You’re going to help us?” I said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Big Gord.
“Because you’re an important someone,” I said.
He smiled. “I hear you’re quite the someone too.”
Big Gord stretched his arms in front of us as cars whizzed by.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s safe to go.”
We parked Gord near the swings. A seagull landed on the canopy of the stroller.
“Yah!” yelled Big Gord.
“Bah!” yelled Little Gord.
The seagull flew away.
Big Gord stood in his suit whacking the swings with a stick. I told him how my nan had always wanted to go to the garden party and about Saibal’s dad being mistaken for a server.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a server,” said Saibal. “It’s just that people make assumptions.”
“Do you think if the whole world was blind, there’d be no prejudice?” I asked.
Big Gord unraveled one swing and moved to the next.
“To quote Thomas Hardy,” he said, “ ‘There is a condition worse than blindness, and that is, seeing something that isn’t there.’ ”
“What does that mean?” asked Saibal.
“It means that sometimes pe
ople see what they want to see,” said Big Gord. “Like differences.”
“Why would people want to see differences?” I said.
Big Gord unraveled the last swing. “Maybe it helps them feel superior.”
He put down the stick and put a hand on Saibal’s shoulder. “What they don’t realize,” he said, “is that they may feel superior but they look like pompous twits.”
He gave a little bow. “Good day, boys.”
We watched him walk away.
“He’s a nice man,” said Saibal.
“Bah-gah!” yelled Gord.
At suppertime, Mom came to the table fully dressed and ready to eat. She doled fish and brewis onto everyone’s plate.
“I have some news,” she said.
“Good God,” said Pius. “You’re not pregnant, are ya?”
Mom gave a little laugh. “No.”
Dad put his arm around her.
She cleared her throat. “A few weeks back I went to the doctor. He gave me some antidepressants. I’m starting to feel better. I’m sorry for being so absent.”
It sounded rehearsed. I wondered if she’d been practicing all morning.
“I have some news too,” said Nan.
“Good God,” said Pius. “You’re not pregnant, are ya?”
Nan laughed. “Go ’way with ya, Pius. You’re as foolish as an odd sock.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Father O’Flaherty called. He said you can join the troupe on a trial basis.”
I grinned. “I knew he’d see things my way.”
“I have news too,” said Shelagh.
“What is it?” asked Mom.
Shelagh looked to the table. “I want Pius to ask.”
Pius looked up from his fish and brewis. “What?”
“I want you to ask about my news. The same way you asked everyone else.”
As soon as he asked it, we understood.
Mom’s voice was a growl. “You silly girl.”
“What about Bob?” said Shelagh. “Is he silly too?”
Dad put his head in his hands. “Just what we need. Another mouth to feed.”
The concern about money surprised me. The last time I checked, sex before marriage was against our religion. Then again, so was taking the Lord’s name in vain and Lord Jumpin’ Jesus, we did enough of that.
When Shelagh started crying, I took Gord upstairs. “Well, one good thing’s come out of it,” I whispered. “Mom can’t call you her little blunder anymore.”
Shelagh cried for three days. “There goes my studies at Memorial.”
“And whose fault is that?” said Mom.
Dad, who was still in shock, could only nod in agreement.
Nan, on the other hand, moved on. “Shelagh’s not the first pregnant teen,” she said, “and she won’t be the last.”
I overheard Pius ask Shelagh if Bob was a good guy and when she said yes, he said, “Good.”
I didn’t care either way. I just hoped Mom’s happy pills were extra strength.
A few nights later, just as things were settling down, all hell broke loose. Pius and his hockey friends were in the basement kicking the crap out of each other in a makeshift boxing ring while the rest of us were upstairs watching The Price Is Right. An overexcited contestant in a Hawaiian shirt was losing his shit over a game of Plinko when there was a knock on the door. I peeked out the window. “It’s a guy with a big schnoz.” Shelagh’s face turned red, then white, then green.
“It’s okay, love,” said Mom. “Invite him in. We’ll have to meet him sometime.” My poor mother. If she had a white flag, she’d have probably waved it.
Shelagh went to the door but never came back.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I got this.”
Just as I was positioning myself behind the slightly open front door, Pius and his friends came upstairs. Pius said, “When is a door not a door?”
The answer was “when it’s ajar,” but I didn’t respond. I had work to do. “Shush,” I said. “I’m eavesdropping.”
I reported back to the living room in a loud whisper.
“He says he hasn’t told his parents yet.”
“She told him he has to.”
“He says he’s scared.”
“She said tough shit.”
“He said maybe she should make this go away.”
“She said it’s her body and she’ll damn well decide what to do with it.”
“He says of course it’s her decision. He’s sorry.”
“She says she doesn’t want to fight.”
“He says he doesn’t either but he can’t tell his parents.”
“She says he has to.”
“He says he’s sorry but he can’t do it. His parents will kill him.”
Pius pushed me out of the way. “Not if I kill him first.”
With the door now wide open, I was able to give a full play-by-play.
“Pius just punched Bob in the face. I think Bob just called Pius a rubberducker. Shelagh’s saying the Hail Mary.”
Dad, Mom, and Nan ran to the door. I grabbed Gord from Nan’s arms. “This is gonna be good, Gord,” I said. “Real good.”
I gave the gathering neighbors a little wave as I settled onto the front steps with Gord. Pius and Bob were squaring off again. The adults were saying, “Stop this right now!” At least I think they were—it was hard to hear them over the chants of “Kill him!” coming from Pius’s friends. Pius was scuffing his foot like a bull about to charge when Shelagh blocked him from Bob, saying, “Please don’t kill the father of my child.” The neighbors gasped. Mom, suddenly aware that the neighbors were watching, started applauding. “Aren’t they marvelous?” she said. “The best youth acting troupe in town.”
Nan herded everyone back into the house, where Shelagh wiped the blood off Bob’s face with his own shirt—I don’t think she loved him enough to use her own. Nan put the kettle on and sliced up one of her boiled raisin cakes. Dad snorted. “The best youth acting troupe in town.” We all laughed. Even Mom. The hockey boys said Nan’s cake was the best they’d had. Nan beamed. When the teapot was drained, Pius invited Bob downstairs to check out the makeshift boxing ring. He said he figured Bob could use some pointers. Bob said he’d like that. He also said he’d tell his parents that night. It’s amazing what a punch in the face, a cup of tea, and a slice of boiled raisin cake can do.
I probably shouldn’t have broadcast it, but when I saw the petition, I had no choice. It was posted on the lunchroom wall and as I approached it, a kid in fifth grade said, “Sorry, but I had to sign it. Herpes is very contagious. Especially when it’s on your face.”
I looked around. Damian Clarke and Thomas Budgell were doubled over. With all eyes on me, I said, “This practical joke has come at a very difficult time. My teenaged sister is pregnant. My family is in crisis. I’d appreciate prayers, not stares.”
A hush fell over the room. After all, premarital sex was against our religion. For the rest of the day, I was left alone. I had successfully managed to get the focus off my face and onto the shame of my family. All in all, it was a good day.
After school Saibal and I pushed Gord up Signal Hill.
“When’s the baby coming?” he asked.
“September. Shelagh’s three months already.”
Saibal pinched Gord’s cheeks. “You’re gonna be second fiddle soon, buddy boy.”
“No one will ever replace Gord,” I said.
At the top of the hill, we sat on a wall overlooking the harbor. Saibal held Gord tightly in his lap and the wind whipped at our faces. The basilica stood out in the distance, surrounded by the old buildings and colorful houses of downtown. A coast guard boat made its way out through the Narrows.
“We’re lucky to live here, aren’t we, Saibal?”
“We sure are,” he said.
I wondered what time it was.
“My first dance lesson is soon,” I said.
“But you don’t have a uniform,” said Saibal.
“Whenever I bring it up, Dad tells me to hold my tongue,” I said. “I brought pennies to tape to my shoes, though.”
“You can’t do that,” said Saibal. “It’s very unprofessional.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“How ’bout this,” he said. “You go to practice and promise O’Flaherty the money will be there by the end of class. In the meantime, I’ll drop Gord off, get the bus home, grab my bank card, get the bus back, go to the Royal Bank, get you some money, and meet you at the BIS for the end of class.”
“Really?” I said.
I was stunned. A bank card at age twelve?
He put an arm around my shoulder. “What are friends for?”
We headed back down the winding, steep Signal Hill Road.
Gord, who rarely got fussy, got fussy.
When we got to a relatively straight bit of sidewalk, I said, “I have an idea.”
I gave Saibal the stroller and ran ahead.
“Okay,” I said, turning around and bracing myself. “Let him go.”
Saibal laughed. “What? I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can,” I said. “I’ll catch him. Don’t worry.”
Saibal shrugged and let go. Gord shrieked as the stroller sped down the incline.
“I gotcha, Gord!” I said. “I gotcha!”
The stroller raced toward me. When it got close, I reached out and grabbed Gord by the waist.
“Bah!” he yelled.
Saibal caught up to us.
“He wants to go again,” I said.
At the next straight stretch of sidewalk, we switched. I trusted Saibal to catch him and he did.
At the bottom of the hill, I said, “Nan made raisin squares this morning. She’ll probably only give you one, seeing as you’re not a refugee anymore.”
Saibal tightened Gord’s seatbelt. “Oh, don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll get at least three squares off your nan.”
“How do you plan on doing that?” I asked.
“I’m gonna charm the pants right off her.”
Barry Squires, Full Tilt Page 9
