Instead Fabrizio took in my outfit and shook his head. “How can one person own so much beige?”
“Baby steps, Fabrizio, remember?” said Alex. Suddenly he covered his nose. “Ugh, what’s that smell?”
It turns out holding your head high comes with certain risks.
I spent the next fifteen minutes in the washroom, using a stick to dig dog poop out of the treads of my boots.
* * *
—
But crazy as it sounds, I did feel small improvements over the week. The repetition of my tasks made a difference. I felt a little less blue. In phys ed I felt like I ran around the track faster than I ever had before, even though I only came in ahead of Peter Jensen, and he currently has to wear a leg brace. In English class I actually raised my hand to answer a question.
I felt just a tiny bit better about me.
Until I saw Tyler, and my new confidence spontaneously combusted into a tiny heap of beige-colored ashes.
* * *
—
He was in fine form after our next band practice. The basketball team had won the city championships the day before, which had wound him up big-time. He snuck up on Jo Lin and blasted his sax loudly; she almost burst into tears. He marched up to Alex and Fab and said, “You two are so cute together. Chubby and Chubbier.” Alex immediately started to hum and blink. Even Fab looked upset. “You’re an asshat, Kertz.”
“Relax! Jeez, learn to take a joke, people. Seriously, I don’t care if you guys make fun of me. Go for it! It’s all in fun!”
“It’s not fun if no one else is laughing,” said Laura.
“Oh, Lucas, relax,” he said, then “remembering”: “I mean, Laura.”
It was my turn next. “Hey, Wank. No hard feelings, eh?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. Okay.” I finished packing up my instruments. “You do know you never stood a chance, right? Charlie’s, like, a seven—”
I snapped to attention. “A seven? Are you out of your mind? She’s an eleventy-seven—”
“In your universe, maybe. My point is—you’ve got to lower the bar. Find someone at your level. Like a troll, living under a bridge.” He laughed. When I didn’t join in he said, “Kidding! Man, what is with everyone today? Sense of humor much?”
Then he did something truly awful before he walked away.
He patted my arm.
His “humor” was bad enough.
His pity was worse.
On Friday I sat with Alex and Fab in a corner of the cafeteria. They were eating fries with gravy. I was trying to digest the quinoa fritters Mum had made the night before. My phone pinged.
It was a text from Charlie; our first communication since she’d gone home.
Bonjour Wilbur! Sorry I have not texted sooner! It has been very busy since I got back with much homework to catch up on. How R U?
Alex read her text over my shoulder. I started to type a response. “What are you saying?”
“Not much.”
Things aren’t the same without you here. I miss you terribly and—
Alex slapped the phone from my hand. It landed on the table. Fabrizio picked it up and read. His eyes widened. “Assassin! You are your own assassin!” He deleted my message and started typing.
“What are you—”
“Saving you from yourself.”
I tried to grab my phone, but Alex stopped me. “Let him do his thing, Wil. He is a master.”
Fab showed me what he’d typed.
Great.
“That’s it?” I asked. He pressed Send. A moment later he pointed to the screen. Three moving dots; she was typing a response.
I am home, but I am homesick! I miss you and my new mothers very much.
“Can I have my phone back?”
“No.”
“But I should respond—”
“No, you should not.”
“But—that’s rude.”
Alex shook his head. “No. It’s strategic.” He held out his hand, and Fab gave him my phone. Alex tucked it into his backpack.
“What are you—you can’t—”
“I’m keeping it till the end of the day.”
“Then you’re allowed to send Charlie a smile emoji,” said Fab.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“But—that says nothing—”
“Oh, Wilbur. Oh, young grasshopper,” said Fab as he popped one of my quinoa fritters into his mouth, then made a face and spat it out. “Sit at my feet and learn from a master. A smile emoji, sent hours after her text, says, I’m busy enjoying a rich and full life. I barely have time to respond to you. But you are someone I care about, therefore I don’t want to NOT respond, so I send this emoji because it’s fast and simple and you can read absolutely nothing into it.”
I stared at him. “One smile emoji says all that?”
“Yep.”
Alex beamed at Fabrizio. “He sent me so many smile emojis when we started dating.”
Fabrizio reached across the table and took Alex’s hand. “I was reeling you in a little bit at a time.”
At the end of the school day, as promised, Alex gave me back my phone. I selected a smiley-face emoji to send to Charlie.
But just before I pressed Send, Alex grabbed the phone away from me again and showed it to Fabrizio.
“Not the one with the hearts for eyes! Dios mío, it’s like trying to teach a giraffe to sing!”
Alex held the phone out of my reach. “I need you to promise me something before I give this back to you. Any time you want to text Charlie, you have to let me vet it.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I reached for my phone—
Alex slipped it down the front of his pants.
“Please tell me it’s between your jeans and your undies.”
“Nope. Skin on skin.” He started to laugh, and as per usual it was so infectious, I almost started laughing too, till I remembered where my phone was. “It stays there till you promise.” When I didn’t answer right away, he started gyrating his hips. “Oops. It’s slipping down toward my oysters—”
“Aaaaagh! Fine. I promise.”
He fished out my phone. He selected the blandest smiley-face emoji of them all and pressed Send. Then he dug around in his backpack, found a wet wipe, and gave my phone a thorough clean.
Alex is considerate that way.
I was so focused on my self-improvement plan that I’d conveniently forgotten about the more practical obstacle that stood in the way of me and Paris:
Money.
On Thursday after school, Mr. Papadopoulos asked to speak with me. He leaned against a kettledrum, sporting a black turtleneck and brand-new, stiff, dark blue jeans. “Wilbur.” He stroked his chin. He had the beginnings of what I think was supposed to be a goatee but looked more like a tuft of belly button fluff. “I was going through my records last night. I still haven’t received the rest of your money for our trip. Twelve hundred dollars.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll need it at least two weeks ahead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would be a real shame if you couldn’t go.”
I was touched by the compliment. “Thank you, sir. I do think my triangle, tambourine, and cowbell add a certain pop to our music—”
“I—no. I just meant that the flights are booked and paid for. You won’t get your deposit back.”
“Oh. I can bring in what I’ve saved from my part-time job. I have at least one hundred and twenty dollars….”
“That’s one tenth of what you owe,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “Just—talk to your mothers. Maybe we can come up with some sort of installment plan between now and then? I would still need full payment before we le
ave.”
“Okay, Mr. P. Thank you.”
He walked me to the door. “Since you’re here, I’m gathering opinions.”
“On what?”
“I’m trying a new look for—for Paris.” His skin, I noticed, had turned a bright shade of pink.
“Ah.”
He stroked the dust bunny on his chin. “Keep? Or lose?”
“Um. I would vote for lose?”
His face fell. “Really?” He glanced at me, in my beige sweatshirt and baggy beige pants, and his expression brightened. “But fashion isn’t really your thing, is it?”
“Definitely not.”
“Meaning I can take your opinion with a grain of salt?”
“Absolutely, Mr. P. It’s what most people do.”
* * *
—
That evening when I took Templeton out for his post-dinner walk, we wandered past Lloyd’s patty shop; he was just locking up for the night. “Hey, Wilbur. Hang on.” He went back into the shop and returned with two paper bags. “These ones are vegetarian, for your mothers. These ones are beef, for Sal. Just a few that didn’t get sold today.”
“Thanks, Lloyd.” Lloyd knew that we, and Sal, were on tight budgets.
“And this one’s for your ugly dog.” He tossed a misshapen beef patty to Templeton, who barked his thanks before gobbling it up.
When I got home, I took off my boots and Templeton’s booties and headed into the kitchen, ready to broach the subject of money with the Mumps.
Their heads were bent over Mup’s laptop. “I don’t know how we’re short again. It feels like every month, we’re short,” she said.
“It’s the unforeseen stuff. The leak in the roof…another mouth to feed for ten days…”
“That entirely avoidable parking ticket…”
“Don’t rub it in, love.”
Mup gave Mum a kiss. “But it’s so much fun, Dove.” She pushed her curls out of her face and sighed. “We’ve already missed a mortgage payment. We can’t miss another one.”
“I’ll call my agent tomorrow and grovel for more work. Maybe I could get a part-time job in the Market, too.”
“But that means you’re making yourself unavailable for acting gigs. No, I won’t hear of it. I’ll take on more Uber shifts.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re the best?” Mum asked.
“You have. But you can never say it too much.” They put their foreheads together and stayed like that until Templeton barked a greeting from the doorway.
“Hey, Wil. I was just putting on the kettle for tea,” said Mum with a big smile. She really is a very good actress.
“What’s up?” said Mup. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I do,” I replied. “I just wanted to say…”
They waited.
“That I’m lucky to have you as my parents. And that I love you both very much.”
The hugs and kisses went on for far too long.
* * *
—
“Why didn’t you tell us about the money before?” Alex said the next day after school. He and Fabrizio walked a few meters ahead of me because they were headed to Alex’s house, but technically I was still supposed to be walking by myself. It was overcast and a bit warmer; our winter coats were unzipped, and we had to dodge piles of slush. Fab wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Could you ask Sal?” asked Fabrizio.
“Definitely not. He has his house, but other than that I think he lives on his social security checks. He jokes that he can’t afford to live past ninety.”
“What about your job?” asked Alex.
“I’ve done the calculations,” I hollered up to them as we neared Spadina Ave. “I work twice a week, Thursday nights and Saturdays. A total of fifteen hours. I get paid minimum wage, so, even if I use every penny, I’ll still have a significant shortfall—”
Alex stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a guy in a hot dog suit. The hot dog was trying to wave people into a fast food joint. “Wait…did you say you’re paid minimum wage?” Alex asked.
I nodded. The hot dog nodded, too.
“But you got a promotion a few months ago, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That didn’t come with a raise?”
“No. But it did come with more responsibility, which my boss said was even better.”
Fab looked at me over the rims of his mirrored sunglasses. “You actually fell for that?”
“Um…”
The hot dog put his head in his oversized hands.
Alex gave me a pained looked. “Wil. He fed you a crock of turds. You need a raise. Like, yesterday!”
The hot dog nodded.
“I see your point. But I don’t think Mr. Chernov is going to offer me one anytime soon—”
“Of course he won’t offer it!” said Fab. “You have to ask.”
“Oh. Oh, no. I—no.”
“When’s your next shift?” asked Alex.
“Tomorrow at noon.”
“Do you have your boss’s number?”
“Yes, but—”
“Call him right now. Ask to meet him at eleven thirty. This is the perfect opportunity for you to put some of your newfound confidence to work!”
I pulled out my phone. Then I stopped. “Guys, I don’t think I can—” Alex grabbed my phone. “No! Do not put my phone down your pants again, please—” I tried to grab it back, but he just ducked out of my way and stood behind a Toronto Star box. When I tried to follow, Fab and the hot dog guy stood in my way.
Alex scrolled through my contacts. “Mr. Chernov, right?” He pressed Call, then put it on speaker and held it out to me.
We heard Mr. Chernov’s voice. “This is Oleg Chernov. I can’t take your call right now—you know the drill.” Beep.
I stared at the two of them, frozen. Alex rolled his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Chernov?” he started. “This is your highly valued employee, Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf. I’d like to meet with you tomorrow at the restaurant before my shift starts. Say, eleven thirty? I have an important matter to discuss. Please text me to confirm you got this. Thank you so much, see you then, byeeeeeeeeeee!”
Alex hung up.
“That—you—you just impersonated me.”
They both just grinned. Alex handed me back my phone. They kept walking. I fell back into step a few meters behind.
The hot dog guy gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
* * *
—
At aquacise the next morning I was a bucket of nerves. I couldn’t “dance like no one is watching,” which is another one of Mup’s favorite expressions, because I was terrified my bowels might let loose and the pool would have to be evacuated.
I managed to get through class. Afterward, while I waited for Sal to do up the buttons on his shirt, I checked my phone.
I had a text message from Mr. Chernov, confirming our meeting.
I told Sal all about it when we walked over to the ROM.
“I’m going to tell you a story, Wilbur,” he said as we made ourselves comfortable under Fulton. “When I was first sent to live with that family in England, I was terrified. Quiet and obedient. But after a time, I started asking for small things. Nothing outrageous. An extra blanket at night. A second serving of potatoes if I was still hungry. Sometimes they said yes, sometimes they said no. Sometimes they beat me.”
“They beat you?”
“But that was the worst thing that would happen. I’d get a no.”
“Or a beating—”
“My point is, I learned that my voice mattered. By the time I got to Canada, I’d developed a pretty good voice, and sometimes I didn’t just ask. Somet
imes I insisted.” He turned his head to look at me. “If you don’t stand up for yourself, no one else will. You are your own best advocate.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t. But remember what we talked about. It’s all about how you present yourself. You may feel like a quivering mess on the inside but ask your boss for a raise like you think you deserve it. Because you do deserve it. Confident people make others have confidence in them.”
“Sal. Wilbur.” José loomed over us.
“Hi, José.” Sal held out his hands. José pulled him to his feet and handed him his fedora. “Oh, I have more goodies for you.” Sal reached into his canvas tote and handed José a baggie.
José grinned. “Peanut brittle. My favorite.”
“I eat that stuff, I’ll break a crown.” Sal indicated his teeth.
“Thanks, Sal.”
The two of us made our way toward the exit. Sal put a hand on my shoulder. “Remember, Wilbur: you are terrific.”
“Radiant.”
Then, in unison: “Some pig.”
* * *
—
“…so, what I’m trying to get at, sir, is that, well, I think I’ve been doing a pretty decent job for you, and so I’m wondering—I mean, only if it’s possible—”
“For the love of—spit it out, kid, I’m a busy man,” said Mr. Chernov. He ran a hand over his comb-over and leaned back in his office chair. I sat across from him. Above us the fluorescent lights emitted their continual buzz. The walls were bare except for a few Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue centerfolds, which felt like all kinds of wrong.
I’d rehearsed my speech during my walk down to Queen Street. I’d sounded good. Confident. Maybe even radiant and terrific.
But in front of Mr. Chernov, it had fallen apart. Or rather, I had fallen apart. “You currently pay me the minimum hourly wage. I’d like to ask if it’s possible for me to get a raise.”
“What? Speak up.”
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