by David Skuy
Lionel swiveled completely to the right. Let him try to kick him now.
A note landed on his desk.
“It’s for you,” the girl said to him.
Lionel opened it slowly.
You’re a fat, sweaty lard-ass — and don’t mess up the throw again.
Lionel didn’t react. He looked at his book. The words started to blur, like someone had thrown water on the page and had made the ink run. His head was going to explode. For a second he was tempted to ask Ghaboor to let him go to the office. Bad idea, though. The other kids would laugh and remember him. It would be worse when he got back. He needed to tough this out. A few more kicks and Nick would get tired of it and pick on someone else. As long as he didn’t react, he’d be fine. That’s why Stephane and Jaime always got targeted. They didn’t know how to take it. A little pain, and it was done. Complain, and it would never end.
Wednesday: 6:30 p.m.
“Destroy,” the ogre screeched in a blood-curdling yell.
Two skeletons charged from behind a tree, swords brandished overhead. To the right, a flock of vultures, faces twisted in hate, swooped over the craggy rock overhang. The ranger raised his machine gun and fixed his viewer on the ogre. He hesitated only to enjoy the moment and then pulled the trigger — nothing.
Jammed.
The ogre raised his massive hammer and swung at the ranger’s head. The ranger did a shoulder roll to get away. The skeletons pressed closer. The ranger pulled out his swords. Two-handed he’d have the advantage, and the vultures were far enough away he could escape on his horse into the forest. The first skeleton thrust his sword at the ranger’s chest. He parried the blow easily and, with a sweeping slash of his right hand, severed its head off. The bones collapsed into a pile of dust and disappeared. The vultures’ shrieks reminded him that time was pressing. The ogre was stomping across the field to get him.
The second skeleton sprang forward, sword extended overhead. The ranger almost laughed. Stupid move. He pressed the button. The ranger’s sword remained by his side. The skeleton reared back and sliced into the ranger. His swords slipped from his hands and the ranger fell to his knees. The ogre jumped up high and brought a crushing blow to his head with his hammer. The ranger crumpled. His horse faded away. The ogre let loose a hideous victory cry and the skeleton danced a jig, his bones clinking and clanking to a macabre beat. The vultures plummeted downwards, a mass of repulsive blackness, and began to pick at the fallen ranger. In five seconds, he was gone. The screen went black and dark blobs of colored rain fell to the ground.
The ranger popped up again, machine gun in hand, the ogre across the field, the two skeletons to his right behind the trees, and the vultures back in the valley.
Lionel squeezed his controller, rage momentarily overwhelming him. The stupid thing never worked anymore. He gripped the sides of the computer screen. He wanted to fling it across the living room. He could picture it, the screen in tiny pieces scattered on the floor. He imagined his mom and Brent staring at him, in shock. He’d shrug, real chill, as if he didn’t care, and go to his bedroom and slam the door.
“Earth to Lionel. Can you understand English?”
“Brent, he can’t hear with those headphones on.”
“Charlene, nothing personal, but I think your kid is retarded,” Brent said.
“You’re so … rude,” Charlene said.
“Relax. He can’t hear me,” Brent chuckled.
Lionel punched the start button. He couldn’t let Brent know he’d heard every word.
“Lionel, honey.” His mom put a hand on his shoulder. “Lionel, do you feel like pizza for dinner?”
He pulled his headphones off.
“Does pizza sound good tonight?” she repeated.
“That garbage can will eat anything,” Brent said. “Look at his gut. I bet he couldn’t run ten feet without puking.”
“Hush, Brent. You’re being so mean tonight,” Charlene said. She squeezed Lionel’s shoulder. “You pick the pizza.”
“I don’t care,” Lionel said.
He put his headphones back on. They’d leave him alone soon, and then he could game all weekend. Even his mom sometimes forgot about him. The trick was turning off your mind, breathing steady, dropping your head and shoulders a bit, and closing your eyes slightly. It worked every time, like he could actually disappear.
“We should be celebrating tonight,” Charlene said as she walked back to the television.
“Don’t jinx it,” Brent said sharply.
She changed the channel. Lionel snuck a peek. Two guys and a girl were racing through a forest towards a flag. His mom loved this show — some challenge race.
“Let’s watch the game,” Brent said.
“I want to see the end of this,” she said. Charlene offered Brent a bright smile. “How about we go to The Uptown later?”
“Don’t feel like it,” Brent growled.
“You’re such a homebody. Take me out. It’ll be fun. We’ll have a drink.”
“Ech. Not tonight.”
“You go there all the time.”
“Shut up about it,” Brent snapped.
Lionel caught of glimpse of his mom’s face. She looked tired — and sad. She flicked the channel and laughed.
“You’re right. We’ll go out tomorrow to celebrate the new job. I’m excited about it, that’s all,” she said. “Maybe we can go on a holiday this summer, like to New York or even somewhere sunny.”
“You’re spending the money already?” Brent said.
“I thought it might be fun for Lionel …”
Brent waved a hand in the air. “All he wants to do is sit in front of that computer and eat. He’s a big Do-Nothing. What would he do on a beach anyway, other than look like a beached whale?” He chuckled to himself. “Hey, Lionel,” he yelled. “Do you want to go to a beach or sit on your butt and game?”
Lionel felt weak all over and his chest hurt when he breathed in.
His thumb hovered over the controller button. The figures were fidgeting back and forth, waiting for him to give them life. He put the controller on the table. He had to buy a new one. Maybe if Brent actually got that job his mom would have some extra money.
His butt was sore and he was hungry.
“Mom, what are you going to order?” Lionel said.
“Hush, Brent,” she said. “I told you to choose, honey.”
“You can,” Lionel said.
“You guys are killing me. Pick the damn pizza already,” Brent said. “You two would lose an IQ competition to a chair.”
Lionel kept his eyes focused on the computer screen. A rush of dizziness swept over him, his head spinning faster and faster until his stomach began to sway and a bit of vomit came up his throat. It was happening again.
“I’ll pick something,” his mom laughed. “You are in a mood tonight, Brent. I think you’re nervous about the job.”
“I ain’t nervous about nothing,” Brent said. “My bro Fergus is gonna nail that job for me. You wait. And once I get it, it’s easy street for yours truly.”
“What do we feel about the Quattro Formaggio?” Charlene said.
“Fine. Doesn’t matter,” Lionel managed.
“If you don’t want it …”
“It’s fine.”
He ran to the bathroom.
Brent began laughing. “Your boy has the runs.”
“Lionel, honey, are you not feeling well?” she called out.
Lionel closed the door and dropped to his knees, leaning his head over the toilet bowl. This had to stop, this getting dizzy and his stomach feeling queasy for no reason. Two days ago, in English, he thought he was going to hurl.
Smart move that would have been. Puke Boy. He’d wear that nickname forever.
For a second, he thought the vomit was coming.
&nb
sp; Nothing.
“Honey, are you okay?” his mom asked. She knocked gently on the door.
Lionel sat down on the floor and leaned against the toilet. He couldn’t answer. His throat felt full, like something was choking him.
“Honey. Answer me. I’m going to come in if you don’t tell me you’re okay.”
She sounded worried.
“I’m okay.”
“Okay, honey. I’m going to order the pizza.”
He let his chin drop to his chest and he forced himself to breathe slowly. He prayed for his stomach to be okay before the pizza came.
Thursday: 8:20 a.m.
Lionel took a few more cookies and finished his Coke. “I’m not feeling that well,” he said.
“It’s all that pizza you ate last night. I can’t believe you and Brent,” his mom said. “Like animals. Two party-size and all we have is a few pieces left. I thought we’d have enough for dinner. I’ll see you after school. We’ll probably all go out to celebrate Brent’s new job. I’ll send you a text, okay? He finds out after lunch.”
Lionel shrugged and bit into a cookie. His head was still fuzzy. He hadn’t slept much. The pizza had turned on him and he’d felt sick, his stomach tight like a drum.
“He’s going to meet Fergus and get ready for his interview. Isn’t it exciting? He’ll be making twenty-five dollars an hour, plus overtime, and we can finally get that Visa bill paid off, and maybe buy a car, a used one, but it’ll be nice to be able to drive places. I know he was being kinda nasty last night. He was just nervous. We’ll go on a holiday this summer, somewhere sunny. Won’t that be nice?”
Lionel finished the cookie. He moaned and put his hand on his stomach.
“Like I said, there’s a bit of leftover pizza if you’re hungry.” She looked at her phone. “Shoot. I’m going to be late. Sheila’s gonna nag at me, like it’s such a big deal. If I’m so much as five minutes late she has a complete meltdown in front of everyone.”
Lionel groaned again, but she wasn’t buying it. He gave up and said goodbye. He’d have to time it perfectly so he wasn’t standing in the yard before the bell rang. He had English first thing today. Nick was in his class, but then he was Nick-free for the rest of the day and he could chill.
He munched on another cookie. It was nice to be alone in the apartment. This used to be his favorite part of the day, after his mom left for work and before he had to leave for school. Until Brent moved in about three months ago and ruined it. Brent usually sat at the table and drank coffee, playing a game on his phone.
Lionel opened the fridge and took out another Coke. He tilted his head back and poured it into his mouth a couple of inches from his lips so he could feel the burn at the back of his throat. Slowly, rhythmically, he swallowed it down until the can was empty. With his thumb and index finger he squeezed the middle so the sides touched and then, using both hands, wiggled the top and bottom back and forth until the can split in two. He tossed the pieces in the garbage.
He went to his bedroom to grab his backpack. He swept aside some blue jeans with his foot, looked under a pile of towels, pushed a jumble of shirts and socks to the wall, threw a pair of underwear into his closet, and then saw a blue shoulder strap peeking out from under his bed. He pulled his backpack out and then noticed his underwear had hooked itself onto the doorknob — a miracle shot. He couldn’t do that again in a thousand more throws.
Where’d he put his shoes?
He tried to remember what he did when he came back from school yesterday … a Coke, then some nachos, then the com-puter …
He found them up against the wall under the computer desk. He shoved his feet in, locked the door behind him, and went to the elevator. An old woman, a cane in one hand and a large, white shopping bag slung over her shoulder, waited by the doors. Lionel pushed the button.
“I pushed it already. I may be old, but I’m not that senile,” she laughed. She pointed to the elevator with her cane. “This elevator is the worst. Takes forever. I spoke to the superintendent about it, and of course he promised to look into it. That was two weeks ago, and it’s still the same. Three days ago I wrote the company that manages the building. I’d tried calling, but all I got was an answering machine — and no return call, believe me. We pay rent and we deserve a working elevator. I’m too old to take the stairs.”
Lionel stared at the floor. He was going to be late. Mrs. Dempsey would hassle him and give him a lecture and maybe even take him to Ryder. He considered going back home and gaming, except the last time he did that, the school called his mom at work and it turned into a huge deal — not worth the yelling. He stabbed the button a few more times.
He’d seen the old lady around the building. She’d moved in about a month ago.
The doors opened and they went in.
“I’m recycling,” the old woman said, holding her bag up. “I complained to the superintendent that we didn’t have a recycling bin outside and he finally got us one. Of course, he had to. It’s the law.”
Lionel stared at the buttons. Number one finally lit up and the doors opened.
“Take care,” the old lady said. “My name’s Donna, by the way. Have a good day at school.”
He figured that meant he was supposed to leave first.
“So, what’s your name?” she said, as he stepped out.
“Sorry … I’m … My name’s Lionel.”
“See you later, Lionel,” she said.
“Goodbye.”
He crossed the street and headed to the Market. It wasn’t really a market. Years ago there used to be tons of stores in the area and the name just stuck. Now the Market was only a block long, with mostly run-down places. Manuel’s Garage was open already, and he could see Manuel hunched under the hood of a car. Up ahead, across from The Uptown Bar, where Brent hung out, a man sat on a steel chair smoking a cigarette. He leaned forward and petted a dog who lay on the sidewalk in front of his feet. Lionel had seen the man a lot — he worked at Binny’s Café. Sometimes the man said hi, which was awkward. Lionel crossed the street so he wouldn’t have to talk to him.
At the end of the Market, Lionel turned the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of the bus pulling away. Perfect! Now he was definitely going to be late. The next bus wouldn’t be by for at least fifteen minutes.
Should’ve stayed home.
Thursday: 9:30 a.m.
Lionel walked into the office.
Mrs. Dempsey’s jaw set. “Lionel, I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to arrive on time. Do I need to buy you an alarm clock?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Dempsey.”
She continued to look at him for a few seconds — and then her shoulders fell slowly and her eyes softened. “I have trouble getting ready in the morning, too. But I wish you’d make more of an effort. Principal Ryder is concerned about you.”
Ryder had called him into her office two weeks ago and asked him whether he was happy at school, if things were okay at home, and if he needed any help. She told him her door was always open — which wasn’t really true because it was closed right now.
He felt bad for Mrs. Dempsey. She had to deal with late slips, and it wasn’t her fault he was always late. That was the bus driver’s fault — and the elevator’s.
“Sorry. Tomorrow I’ll get up early,” he said.
Mrs. Dempsey grunted and placed a strip of paper on the counter. “I should print off a pile of these with your name on it. It would save me time. You’re finished grade eight in a few months, so I’ll only need a few hundred, I reckon.” She crossed her arms, and then lowered her head, shaking it slowly side-to-side. “Lionel, one of these days I’m going to make you laugh. It’s become my mission in life. Don’t worry — I’ve got better material. I’m just saving it up for the perfect moment.”
He forced himself to smile. “That wasn’t bad. I’m kinda tired. Had to run for th
e bus.”
“Of course, the famous missed bus. That’s one crazy bus you take. It disappears the second you get near.”
Lionel headed down the hall and up the stairs to English.
The classroom door was closed. He should’ve waited until it was too late to go to class. Now he had to go or he’d get in trouble.
He reached for the door handle but it pulled away from his hand. He heard giggling.
“You’ve decided to join us, Lionel?”
Mr. Whellan had opened the door. Lionel glanced over Mr. Whellan’s shoulder at the grinning students. His seat sat empty, two rows over, three back — next to Kiana. The first day of class he had pulled off a huge coup and got the seat beside her.
He gave Whellan the late slip and walked in, stone-faced, eyes down, all thoughts banished, disconnected from the unfriendly, staring faces.
“Thanks, Rashmi,” Whellan said. “I liked your story. Nice character. She’s smart, tough, and funny. That’s the most important thing in a story, to create someone the reader cares about, and I cared about her. The plot is important too, and so is grammar and all the other elements of story-writing we’ve studied. But what I really want from you guys are characters that make me feel something. So what did you feel when you heard Rashmi’s story?”
“Angry because her dad treated her so bad,” Kiana said.
“Good. Excellent. What else?” Whellan said.
“Curious,” Angelina said. “She had to decide what she would do next, and I had no idea what she would do — and that’s the cool part of the story. You want to read more to find out.”
Lionel tuned out. He liked being in a class with Kiana, Rashmi, and Angelina because they knew all the answers, so Whellan didn’t bother picking other kids too often. He was a nice guy, really. He never embarrassed Lionel, at least not too often.
Last class, Kiana had read her story about a street kid begging for money to get something to eat. The kid ended up going to sleep hungry. Lionel loved listening to her voice, and he’d closed his eyes and let her words wash over him, forming pictures in his mind — intense, colorful. There wasn’t much he didn’t like about Kiana; she was so smart, and funny, and athletic, and popular. Even though she had all that going for her, she never treated people badly — never — at least he’d never seen it. Lionel had perfected the art of looking at someone without them knowing, and he’d snuck his share of looks at Kiana.
