Coconut Dreams

by Derek Mascarenhas

  Johnny and I were playing catch in his backyard one day when Cory joined us. He leaned against the tall wooden post where Johnny’s dad had hung a hummingbird feeder. I liked to watch the tiny birds hover and dart through the air, their wings flapping so fast they were invisible. They’d sip the sweet red liquid, then disappear. But today there were none because Cory shook the post. Once he’d got bored of that, he suggested we go light a fire in the field behind our houses.

  “Don’t worry, kids,” he said, “I’ll bring some water.”

  He held up an old Coke can and gave it a slight shake. I hated when he called us “kids.” We were only a year and a half younger than Cory, who was twelve, but he acted like he’d already learned how crappy life could get and treated anyone who thought otherwise like they were kidding themselves. I felt sorry for him sometimes. My mom had told me to be extra nice to him while he was here. “It’ll do him wonders being in a good home out of the big city,” she’d said. I wasn’t so sure.

  To get to the field, we took a path only a child could have carved: no roads, lots of shortcuts, and past any obstacles along the way. The first step was the creek. We crossed on wobbly stones just close enough to jump from one to the next. In the spring, the creek was full of spawning fish trying to get upstream. Johnny and I once caught two hundred suckers in a single day. We just picked them out of the water with our bare hands, then dropped them back in before they drank too much air. You’d need to use a net to get any fish now. Cory caught one when he first came, but he bashed it with a stone, then a brick, and left us with the mess.

  I trailed behind Johnny. We both followed Cory. The chain on his wallet jangled with each step, and the smell from his lit cigarette surrounded him. He exhaled the smoke from his nose like a dragon, and every so often he blew smoke rings up into the air.

  A long chain-link fence separated us from the field; to get over it we climbed the old willow tree. I loved that tree. Its giant trunk swallowed up the fence like it was nothing. Chain-links just disappeared into the bark. I wondered how it had grown like that, and wished I could have watched it happen with one of those time-lapse cameras. From the top branches, we could see the fence stretched out in a straight line in both directions. Johnny and I used to pretend we were sentry guards at some important border crossing. Today we still swung down from the tree’s long hair, but Cory just jumped down from the branch and stormed past it.

  As we walked, Cory told us stories of the foster homes he’d been in, and how he’d hitchhiked to Toronto. He claimed to be an atheist. I’d heard other people say they didn’t believe in God, but Cory was the first I thought was telling the truth. As we walked, he said, “Any good in this world is nothing versus all the shitty things that happen. You guys, me, we’re all going to get caught in the system in the end. Nothing we can do about it.”

  We passed the spot in the field where Johnny and I had gotten stuck while walking in the mud last spring. One of us could have saved our new white socks if the other had gone for help, but we both left our tall rubber boots behind instead. We hung our mud-soaked socks on the fence near the willow tree, hoping the rain would clean them. It didn’t rain, though, and they turned stiff, like boomerangs that broke on the first throw. I didn’t remind Johnny of it this time because Cory was with us. The sun had baked the whole place dry now, anyway.

  Johnny asked Cory if he’d brought his switchblade, and he stopped beneath the tall evergreens to take it out and show us. It had a black handle and a shiny-sharp edge, and Mrs. Long didn’t know about it.

  “I always carry it just in case I run into the old man.”

  Johnny had already warned me not to ask about Cory’s mother. But Cory talked about what he’d do to his father all the time. He actually showed us then, approaching a pine tree with a trunk as thick as a man. Cory put one arm around its imaginary shoulder. “Hey, Pops! Long time no see!” His other hand, down by his side, held the switchblade. With one quick upward motion he thrust the blade into the bark’s belly. “How do you like that, old man?”

  I looked away, scared. Up in the sky, I spotted the hawk. It slowly soared across the sky with brown-and-white wings stretched wide; there was an ease in its glide and glance for prey.

  “Johnny, there’s the hawk again,” I said, pointing.

  Johnny looked up and asked Cory, “Think he’s hunting?”

  “Maybe,” Cory said. He watched the hawk with a hand raised to block the sun. “I would love to fly that high, you could go anywhere you want.” I was surprised Cory said this, and not something about the hawk’s sharp claws and beak and tearing animals to pieces.

  Johnny and I had seen the hawk land in the tall evergreen trees a few times and guessed that that must be where it nested. From a nature program, I’d learned that hummingbirds make their nests in the same trees as hawks. Hawks attacked other birds, but hummingbirds were too small. And being so close to a top predator meant the hummingbirds were safe from squirrels and rodents. I wondered if they were affected by the hawk’s presence. Or was it the other way around? Maybe nature brought them together on purpose.

  Cory stopped us in the field and said, “It’s as good a spot as any.”

  We were a few hundred feet from the tall evergreens, and in the other direction sat a lone model home. The show house had popped up almost overnight and looked out of place in the field. My dad had said one day there would be a sea of houses here.

  “Think they can see us?” I pointed to the house.

  Cory barely glanced over his shoulder. “Fuck ’em.” It made me smile because I didn’t like that house either; they were trying to take our field away. To them the field looked empty, but they were wrong.

  “Grab anything that will burn,” Cory commanded.

  Johnny and I collected dead grass, large and small sticks, and a few fallen branches. Everything was so dry this time of year, it was easy. We made a monster of a pile.

  Cory watched us and smoked. It seemed like we’d been doing everything he ordered ever since he came. The previous week at the outdoor pool, Cory had brought a girl with blond hair and braces into the family change room and made us keep watch outside. She came out first, pale, with a single tear rolling down her cheek. When we asked Cory what he’d done, the only answer we got was, “Wholesome things.”

  I watched Cory tear a piece of cardboard from his cigarette pack and light it. He placed it at the bottom of the mountain we’d made, then picked up his Coke can and stepped back.

  For the first few seconds the fire was lovely; it was just grasping at life. I had never seen a fire uncaged like that. The flame burned bright yellow as it grew.

  “It’s getting bigger,” I said, taking a step back.

  Johnny looked to Cory, who was like a statue watching the fire.

  When the fire let out its first roar, I knew we were in trouble. I couldn’t turn away, though; part of me wanted to see the fire grow.

  “Maybe we should put some water on it?” Johnny asked Cory.

  Cory held out the Coke can. Johnny took it and stretched his arm out to tilt it over the fire. Water tumbled out and sizzled below with each shake, but the can couldn’t have been more than half-full.

  I tried to kick dirt on the fire, but it was full of dried grass and plants, and I ended up just providing more fuel.

  “I’m going to go get some more water,” Johnny shouted, holding up the can. He ran a few yards before he stopped and looked back at me alone with Cory and the fire, then came back, standing by my side.

  Cory finally moved. The fire was half his height, but he took a few steps closer, dropped his shorts, and started to pee. The smell of urine filled the air. The fire hissed, but took only a few moments to recover. It roared back with twice the life, as if insulted by what Cory had just done.

  “You little bitches! Don’t just stand there and stare at my cock!” He waited for a response, but we were
stuck in our places like we had been in the mud.

  The fire was taller than us now. Grey smoke and orange embers raced one another toward the sky. The air surrounding the fire was a blur, like a street on a hot day, and waves of heat came off the blaze onto our faces. The earth all around us glowed and crackled.

  I realized Cory was moving toward us. My eyes followed his arm down to his hand, which was clenched tight around his switchblade. Smaller flames spread between us, but all I could see was that blade. And Cory was pointing it at us now, the fire reflected in his eyes.

  “Either of you say a word about this and I’ll take you down with me. You’ll both be sent to juvie till you’re old enough to go to a real jail. And when you get out, your parents won’t want anything to do with you.”

  Then the smoke surged, forcing me to turn away and cough.

  “Do you hear me?” Cory screamed.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. Johnny. His face determined. “We gotta go.”

  And we ran. As fast as we could.

  I didn’t look back until we were up in the willow tree again. Johnny and I perched there, out of breath, as the smoke rose high in the distance, now dark and thick. The fire must have gotten hold of something big—the model home, I realized. I couldn’t tell if it had reached the tall evergreens. I hoped the hawk had escaped. I could hear bird cries all around but couldn’t pick it out of the many in the air, flying away.

  1995

  Picking Trilliums

  Only when we’re the last ones left on the bus ride home does Aiden talk to me. Between bumps that send us bouncing slightly in our seats he turns to me and asks, “Why were you late today, Ally?”

  “Tommy Groh wanted to see my feet,” I say.

  “And why did that make you late?” Aiden takes an orange, leftover from lunch, out of his bag. He bites it with his bottom teeth to break the skin and starts peeling it.

  “Ms. Bisset made me dust the chalk brushes before I left,” I tell him, and hold my hands up as proof. They’re dried white by the chalk, like I’ve switched hands with an old person. I rest them at my sides so I don’t get chalk on my skirt.

  “But why did your teacher keep you?” Aiden peels the orange skin off in a spiral, like a pig’s tail. He always tries to take the whole thing off in one go.

  “Tommy wouldn’t stop bothering me, so I kicked him in the stomach.” I think my brother will be happy that I’ve stuck up for myself, but he stops peeling the orange and shakes his head.

  “Ally, you’re not going to make any new friends if you go around kicking people.”

  “But it’s not my fault! That meanie kept asking me if my toes were brown, too. And I don’t want to be Tommy’s friend, anyway.”

  It isn’t fair—I used to have a best friend named Sara in my class. She had a grey cat named Smoke, and she liked dill pickle chips, too. But she moved away when her dad got a new job in Peterborough. I still don’t know where that is. Everyone says it isn’t far, but I haven’t seen her since.

  A few weeks later we got Tommy Groh in our class.

  “Tommy’s probably only curious,” says Aiden. “Next time tell him your feet are the same colour as the rest of you.” Aiden removes the whole orange peel, forms it into its original shape, and puts it back in his lunch bag. He splits the orange in two and offers me half.

  I shake my head, then pick at a piece of dark green sticky tape that covers a hole in the back of the seat ahead of us. “You said you’d protect me.”

  “I will,” Aiden says quickly, with orange slices in his mouth. He swallows and adds, “I’ll talk to Tommy tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s our field trip.”

  “Then the day after.”

  I nod my head, feeling better. “Did anyone ever ask to see your feet when you were in Grade 2?” I ask.

  “Worse. The boys asked what colour my you-know-what was.” He points at his crotch. “And the girls, the girls wanted to feel my soft brown ears.” Aiden smiles his slow smile, like honey being poured. It’s impossible not to smile with him. “And don’t worry, Ally-cat, I won’t tell Mom. We’ll just rinse your hands with the garden hose before we go inside.”

  I forgot about Mom. I’d be in big trouble at home if I got in small trouble at school. She always puts our education first. It’s a good thing she won’t find out tonight, or she might not let me go on my field trip tomorrow. I’ll tell her after that. I think she’ll be on my side, anyway—she was last time something like this happened. It was during Black History Month when we learned about Rosa Parks not sitting at the back of the bus. I found it strange how she wanted to sit at the front; everyone I know fights for a spot at the back of the bus.

  I asked Ms. Bisset, “Where would I sit on the bus back then?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “It’s not an appropriate question.”

  When I told Mom, she said it was a perfectly fine question, and she agreed with me that I’d probably sit somewhere in the middle, like I do now.

  The Royal Botanical Gardens are only a short bus ride from our school, but so different from the concrete schoolyard. Everywhere giant trees and plants are coming to life. Our class spends most of the morning inside the greenhouses—the air is wet and there are shiny-leafed plants from all around the world, some with flowers as bright and colourful as saris.

  Then it’s lunch. I avoid sitting near Tommy because of what happened yesterday, and because Mom packed me a brown paper bag with a juice box and two chapatis with peanut butter. “East meets West,” she said. Almost everyone else has white-bread sandwiches. Chapatis are tastier, but sometimes I wish I had the same lunch so I wouldn’t have to explain what I was eating. Natalie Dibben is the one who asks me about it today. She’s my buddy for the trip, and her mom brought her a special lunch, too. Natalie always tells people she’s different because she has diabetes, and she shows everyone her lunch instead of keeping it hidden like me.

  After lunch we are led on a nature walk through the forest trails. I’ve worn my pink rubber boots because Mom said it might rain. Our guide points out things along the way as she leads the group; she’s wearing a dark green windbreaker and has three earrings in each ear. My teacher, Ms. Bisset, is at the back of the line chatting with Mrs. Dibben, who’s a nurse and works night shifts, so she can usually come on our trips to help supervise. I wish my mom could get time off work one day to come, too.

  The plump, grey clouds above look ready to burst, but the sun peeks out every once in a while. I hear birds chirping in the trees but can’t spot any because Natalie keeps distracting me.

  “Do you like my medic alert?” she holds up her arm, showing the bracelet off like it’s diamond jewellery.

  “It’s nice,” I say.

  “How many needles have you had?”

  I shrug.

  “I’ve taken so many needles, they don’t even hurt anymore.”

  Needles are scary. I could never imagine them not hurting. When I think of them, a circus starts in my stomach.

  We stop walking, surrounded by tall trees that show only small pieces of sky. Our guide pulls a big bag of birdseed from her knapsack. She carefully pours little piles of seed into our hands, one by one. Everyone crowds around her and wants to be the first to get theirs, including Tommy. I wait until he’s moved on to get my seeds.

  “Spread out into a circle,” our guide says. “Hold your hands very still and they will come and get it.”

  Small birds appear from the forest like magic. They come closer, down to lower branches, then right into the hands of my classmates. Some of the students laugh out loud, a few scream and drop the seed on the ground, and others stare silently. But no birds land in my hands. I’m in the same circle and I hold my hands as still as I can, but none come.

  Ms. Bisset begins to gather students to continue along the trail. I tell her I haven’t fed any birds yet. She giv
es me a look.

  “I can stay behind with Ally until she gets one.” It’s Mrs. Dibben, Natalie’s mom.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Ms. Bisset says.

  “It’s no problem. I’d be glad to.”

  “Alright, then. Ally, what do you say to Mrs. Dibben?”

  “Thank you,” I say. I could have hugged Mrs. Dibben. I like her much better than Natalie.

  Tommy approaches Ms. Bisset and says, “I didn’t get any birds either.”

  I don’t blame the birds for not wanting to land in Tommy’s hands—he’d probably try and catch them. I can’t understand why the birds wouldn’t come into my hands, though. Maybe they can still smell the chalk from yesterday. But I washed my hands well. Plus I’m not even sure birds can smell.

  “Okay. You can stay behind as well,” says Ms. Bisset. “We’ll have to switch partners. Tommy, you’re now with Ally, and Natalie, you go with Ryan.”

  The rest of my class follows the guide down the trail while Tommy and I wait to see if we’ll have more luck with the birds. Mrs. Dibben tells us to stretch out our arms as far away from us as we can and be very quiet. My hands are cupped tight to try and hold them still. I worry the birds are no longer hungry. But then one lands on the tips of my fingers. It’s small with brown feathers on its back and lighter ones on its tummy. The bird has a short beak and black eyes that stare at me for just a second, as if asking first. Its feet prick my fingers, but they are too light to hurt. The bird dives in to eat the seed, but soon pops back up to stop and look around, its head moving from side to side. It looks delicate. My dad sometimes says I eat like a bird. He says I get distracted easily and sit with half a bum on my chair, ready to run if the doorbell or phone rings.

  One more nibble and the bird takes off into the trees. I brush my hands together and let the few remaining seeds fall to the ground. Then I put my hands back in the pockets of my sweater and look over at Tommy. He’s standing very still with his hands cupped together. He has two birds nibbling at the seed and isn’t trying to kill them. Mrs. Dibben gives me a wink—but I’ve spotted something: trilliums.