Still. We were already into profits.
“GWF Smash-Up Live! here we come!” announced Farley.
“Um. I’d like to bring one more person, if that’s okay.”
“Who?”
“My mom.”
“She’s a GWF fan?”
“Huge.”
“So, they’re not getting divorced.”
“Did I ever say they were getting divorced??”
“So where is she?”
“Away. On business.”
Farley just looked at me with his magnified eyes. I could tell he didn’t believe me. But all he said was, “One more ticket plus a little more spending money.… We should probably raise another hundred bucks. That brings our grand total to five hundred.”
“I know it’s not really fair, ’cause I’ll be using three-quarters of the money –”
“So? I don’t mind.” Then he opened his palm, revealing the loonie and change we had left. “Check it out. Only four hundred and ninety-eight dollars and eighty-three cents to go!”
Maybe I don’t need an upgrade, after all.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28
After Farley and I did our rounds this morning (which went much smoother, thanks to our new rules), we lugged our garbage bags back to our lockers. Something was leaning against my locker door.
It was a baby stroller, covered in a thick layer of dust.
“There’s a note,” Farley said.
I picked up the piece of paper and read it: “For transporting you’re garbadge. Alberta.”
“Wow. Now I know why she never answers the spelling questions at Reach For The Top,” Farley said.
I thanked her later in Home Ec.
“No probs. I found it in our basement.”
“You’re sure your parents won’t mind?”
“Are you kidding? It’s like an episode of ‘Hoarders’ down there,” she said. “Trust me, no one will notice it’s gone.” We were at our cooking stations, making muffins.
The timer went off. I took my tray of apple cinnamon muffins out of the oven. They looked perfect – golden and delicious. Alberta took hers out. They were brown and burnt.
Mrs. Bardus was doing her rounds. Just before she came to our station, Alberta said, “Oh my God, look!” and pointed at something over my shoulder.
I turned around. “What? I don’t see anything.”
When I turned back, her tray of burnt muffins sat on the counter in front of me. “Tsk, tsk,” Mrs. Bardus said, looming up behind us. “I expected more from you, Henry. These look and feel like rocks. Completely inedible.” Then she turned to Alberta, who held my muffins in her oven-mitt-clad hands. Mrs. Bardus plucked a muffin out of the tray and took a bite. “Delicious!” she said with her mouth full. “Nicely done, Alberta. This is a first.”
Mrs. Bardus moved on to the next station. And Alberta burst out laughing. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HEEE-haw!”
RUDE!!!
But guess what? The stroller is perfect. If we balance the bags really carefully, we can bring them all to the recycling depot in one go. Never mind that one of the wheels is wonky and makes the stroller veer to the left all the time – it’s still a huge improvement.
Do other kids laugh when they see us pushing a baby stroller piled high with garbage bags? Yes. Do they laugh when they see us at school in our aprons and rubber gloves (’cause no matter how early we get there, there are always a few kids who are there even earlier than us)? Of course they do. But when they find out how much money Farley and I have made in just one week, they laugh a lot less.
And, of course, my work doesn’t stop with Recycling Managerial Services. I’m also laying the groundwork for my plan.
Every time Mom and I talk, I make sure I’m always really chatty. She asks me to tell her all about school. So I do, in minute detail. I’m never, ever frosty with her. I tell her about the Reach For The Top team; I tell her about Farley and Alberta. I tell her about Mr. Atapattu.
I do not tell her about Karen.
I tell her about the flowers that are already blooming in February and about the trees that have exploded with cherry blossoms, because I know that was one of her favorite things about living on the West Coast.
I do my best to paint a nice, happy picture of our lives out here.
And whenever she’s missed one of the GWF shows, I tell her what happened in such vivid detail that she says, “I feel like I’m there.”
And in the back of my head, I’m thinking, You WILL be there! And sooner than you think!
SATURDAY, MARCH 2
Cecil is a jerk.
He started our session yesterday by talking about my behavior with Carol. “You really frightened her, Henry. You told her you were going to shoot her.”
“I did not! I told her I was going to zap her. With my ray gun. Big, significant difference.” I unzipped my backpack and stuffed my hat inside.
“Still, you might consider apologizing.”
“You should apologize.”
“For what?”
“For subjecting me to such a horrible therapist! From now on, I speak to no one but you.”
He smiled. “So, you do want to talk to me.”
“I don’t want to. But if I have to talk to someone, I want it to be you.”
I swear he looked a little pleased, like I’d just paid him a compliment.
“I couldn’t help but notice: You’re carrying the journal I gave you.” He pointed at my backpack, which was still open on the floor. Sure enough, this book was poking up just enough for him to recognize it.
“So? I use it for homework.”
“Oh. Okay.”
We sat in silence for at least a minute after that. I think he was hoping I’d break down and start talking, but really, as if.
“What’s new in your world?” he finally asked.
So I told him about Recycling Managerial Services. I told him that Farley and I had already made thirty-six dollars and twenty-nine cents, and that’s after the money we spent on supplies. I told him that our goal is to bring in at least fifty bucks a week between now and the end of April, excluding March Break.
He was impressed. “Holy Moly! You’re a real entrepreneur, Henry. Are you saving up for anything special?”
“I most certainly am.”
“What?”
So I told him all about the GWF Smash-Up Live! in Seattle.
“Who’s going with you?”
“My mom and dad.”
He paused. “Your mom and dad?”
I nodded. “They don’t know it yet. It’s a surprise.”
He pulled on his ponytail. “Your mom’s still in the hospital, Henry. In Ontario.”
“So? She won’t be in there forever. It’s still two months away.”
He pulled on his ponytail again. “When tragedy occurs in a family … it can take a long time to heal. Sometimes, things never go back to the way they were before.”
“Duh,” I said. But I knew what he was driving at. He was trying to tell me my parents might never get back together. Cecil and my dad could start a Pessimists Society.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
I didn’t answer.
He put his feet on the desk. This time his socks were pink and his left heel poked through. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m Thinking. You Should Start Living. In the Twenty-First. Century. And Cut Off. That Gross. Ponytail,” I said in Robot-Voice.
Then I got up and left.
Screw Cecil.
Screw this journal.
I only wrote this entry so that I could make the following announcement: I quit.
FRIDAY, MARCH 8
Okay, so I didn’t quit. But I am only writing because I need to record what happened today.
First of all, I got to miss my session with Cecil (hallelujah!) because we had our seventh Reach For The Top game after school. It was at St. Patrick’s, a private school up the hill.
They crushed us.
<
br /> “No worries, guys,” Mr. Jankovich said to us as we packed up our gear. “We’re still going to the Provincials in Richmond in early April.”
“We’ve qualified for the Provincials?” I said. “That’s great!”
“Any team can go to the Provincials,” said Koula dismissively.
“Yes, but not any team has won five out of seven of their games so far,” Mr. Jankovich replied.
When we left the school, I was totally surprised to see Dad in the parking lot, leaning against his truck, still in his work clothes and boots.
“You saw that?” I groaned.
But he was beaming. “That was amazing! I had no idea you knew so much,” he said. Then he ruffled my hair in front of all of my teammates, which was embarrassing and nice at the same time. “I think you knew about the cheese-rolling contest in Gloucestershire from Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, am I right?”
I smiled. “Bingo.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?”
He meant Farley and Alberta, who were hovering behind me. I was still mad at Alberta for the muffin switch, but I introduced them both anyway.
“Anyone want to grab a Blizzard at DQ?” Dad asked.
That threw me. What if Dad starts talking about Jesse? I thought. But I figured this was unlikely; even when it’s just the two of us, he never talks about Jesse.
Farley and Alberta both said yes, and next thing I knew, we were all piling into the truck. Farley yelled, “Shotgun!” which I thought was unfair since it was my dad’s truck. But I didn’t argue; I just squeezed into the cramped backseat with Alberta.
Farley talked my dad’s ear off during the fifteen-minute drive. “I hear you’re a GWF fan,” he began, and I kicked the back of his seat hard because I was afraid he was going to ruin our surprise.
But he didn’t. He just asked my dad who his favorite wrestler was (the Twister) and compared stats on the Twister (Height: five feet eleven, Weight: 265, Signature Move: Atomic Skull Crusher) to stats on Vlad the Impaler (Height: six feet four, Weight: 302, Signature Move: Human Torture Rack).
While they talked wrestling, Alberta tried to get my attention by poking me in the ribs. I ignored her at first. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I blurted, “Stop touching me.”
So she started waving her finger millimeters from my face instead. “I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you.”
Jesse used to do that to me. It drove me mental. I’d wind up grabbing his hand and trying to bring him down with a Supersonic Arm Twist (the Exterminator’s signature move), but he’d easily break free and pull me to the ground and tickle me till I’d almost pee my pants.
It would be impossible to put Alberta into a Supersonic Arm Twist in the back of the truck (and, if I’m honest, I think she’d easily take me in a fight), so I just turned away and stared out the window.
Farley was talking at full volume in the front seat, so I didn’t hear Alberta unzip my backpack. That’s not true – I heard her unzip a backpack, I just assumed it was her backpack. A moment later, she said, “What’s the K stand for?”
I turned. She was holding my journal, this very book, which I’d left in my backpack since my last session with Cecil. “And why is your journal reluctant? How can a notebook be reluctant?” she asked.
I grabbed the journal from her hands. “Quit snooping! That’s private.”
“I didn’t open it. As if I care what you write about.”
I shoved it back into my bag and clutched the pack to my chest.
After a moment, she said, “Do you write about me in there?”
“Hardly,” I snorted, but I could feel my ears burn. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t care what I write about.”
“I don’t.”
Alberta and I rode the rest of the way in silence. When we pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot, I practically catapulted out of the truck.
We had a good time at DQ. Dad bought us all Blizzards. Farley got his with Smarties; Alberta and I both got cookie dough.
Farley left just before six because he’d promised Maria he’d be home for dinner. Then my dad went to the bathroom. And Alberta said, “You’re mad about the muffins.”
“Yes.”
“Kinda stupid, don’t you think?”
“I lost marks, thanks to you.”
“Big dealio. It’s Home Ec.”
“Well, if it isn’t a big dealio to you, then don’t do it again.”
“Whatever you say, Henry Kenneth Larsen.”
“Nice try.”
“Karl? Kerby? Kenilworth?”
“Not even close.”
“Look,” she said. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to my house this weekend and teach me how to bake? That way I’ll never have to pull the ol’ switcheroo again. Sunday, one o’clock?”
I almost choked on a chunk of cookie dough. “I guess I could maybe do that.”
She took a pen out of her backpack, grabbed my hand, and wrote her address in my palm. Then my dad came back and asked Alberta if she’d like a ride home.
“Nah, thanks anyway. I just live a few blocks east of here.” She put on her coat; it was sheepskin and smelled like rotting animal flesh. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Larsen. Thanks a lot for the Blizzard.”
On the drive home, Dad said, “Manitoba likes you.”
“Alberta. And she does not.”
But secretly I think maybe she does.
When we entered Cedar Manor, Karen and Mr. Atapattu were in the foyer, screaming at each other.
“It is common courtesy to dispose of your junk mail!” he said.
“But I’ve posted a sign on my mailbox – NO JUNK MAIL! And they keep delivering junk mail! I shouldn’t have to clean it up!”
“Then who should clean it up?”
“Whoever keeps delivering it!”
“And when do you think that will happen? When hell freezes over, perhaps?”
“Everything okay here?” my dad said.
Karen nodded. She was wearing tons of makeup, a miniskirt, and another pair of highly impractical shoes. “Just this jerk,” she said, waving her hand toward Mr. Atapattu. “Nothing I can’t handle.” A taxi pulled up out front. “There’s my cab.”
She tottered out the front door on her high heels, and as she passed me, I smelled a waft of perfume and booze.
“She is a horrible woman!” Mr. Atapattu said when she was gone.
“She’s not so bad,” said my dad.
“I’m with Mr. Atapattu,” I said. “She’s gross.”
Since the elevator was still broken, the three of us walked up the stairs to the second floor together.
“And I am not a jerk,” Mr. Atapattu muttered.
“Of course you aren’t,” said my dad.
We arrived outside our door. “I made a big pot of chicken curry this afternoon,” said Mr. Atapattu. “If you haven’t already eaten, you would do me a great favor by sharing it with me.”
“I was going to order a pizza,” said my dad. “Hockey game’s about to start.” Mr. Atapattu’s face fell. Then Dad said, “If you don’t mind eating in front of the TV, you’d be welcome to join us.”
Mr. Atapattu grinned. “I would like that very much.”
And you know what? We had a pretty good evening.
And you know what else? I think his teeth are getting whiter.
SUNDAY, MARCH 10
This was the best weekend of my life. And also the worst.
On Saturday morning, at about ten o’clock, our phone rang. I was still in bed, and I didn’t try to answer it because I assumed it was a telemarketer. But then my dad hollered, “Henry, it’s for you.”
It was Farley. “Wanna come over and play video games?” he said.
So, for the first time since we moved here, I went to a friend’s house. I think Dad was pretty pleased because his eyes got all watery and he said, “Stay as long as you like. I’ll do the grocery shopping.”
I left after breakfast. Two new
signs were posted in the foyer. The first said PLEASE KEEP COMMON AREAS TIDY AND RECYCLE YOUR JUNK MAIL. The second said WHAT IS THIS, A DICTATORSHIP???
I walked up to Farley’s place. He lives on 15th Ave, about six blocks straight up the hill. My jaw almost dropped when I arrived outside his house. It’s huge – flesh-colored stucco with actual columns out front.
Farley was at the window, watching for me. He ran to the front door and flung it open. “Hi! Welcome! Enter!”
He took me on a tour of the place. This took awhile because his house is at least five times the size of our apartment. It was weird, though. Only a few of the rooms were furnished: Farley’s bedroom, one of the guest rooms (for Maria), the family room, and the kitchen. All the other rooms were empty. It felt kind of like a ghost town.
Maria was in the kitchen, putting on her coat. “You be a good boy,” she said to Farley, patting him on the cheek. Then she left.
“Saturday’s the day she visits her sister in Surrey,” Farley explained. “But she left snacks.”
We set ourselves up in the family room and played on Farley’s PS3 for hours. Then we went to the local park and threw a Frisbee around. When we came back, we played more video games. Finally, at around five, I told him I should go. Maria still wasn’t back.
“She stays out there for supper and takes the last bus home,” he told me. “It’s okay, I have money to order a pizza. And ‘Saturday Night Smash-Up’ is on later.”
I suddenly felt really sad for Farley, which was almost refreshing after so many months of only feeling sad for myself. “You could come to our place,” I said. “We’re going to order pizza, too.”
He grinned. “Really?”
So Farley came over, and the three of us ordered pizza and watched “Saturday Night Smash-Up” together. When the Great Dane gave Vlad the Impaler his signature Body Splash, I cheered and Farley booed. It was fun.
Dad and I gave Farley a ride home afterward. All the lights were off; Maria still wasn’t back.
“It’s okay,” he said. “She’ll be home by midnight.” We waited till he was safely inside. He looked dwarfed by that huge, empty house.
The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen Page 9