by W. C. Mack
I read the question over again: 400 kilometres, 70 kilometres, and 210 kilometres. “Three.”
“Then that’s all we need to concentrate on. Get it?”
“I guess,” I lied. That seemed way too simple.
“The rest of it, like the names and all that? They’re only there to confuse you.”
What was the point of that? Wasn’t Math confusing enough already?
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.
Eddie sat forward in his seat and stared.
Now what?
“So, what do we care about?” he asked.
Surviving the afternoon. “Numbers?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He actually smiled (not wide enough to show the fangs I was sure were there, but it was something) and reached across the table to punch me lightly on the arm. “Numbers.”
Whew.
We worked through the problem together and when we got the answer, it kind of made sense. Kind of.
“Okay, next one,” Eddie said, pointing to the second word problem.
I read it, but was confused about whether we were supposed to be figuring out how far Winnipeg was from Moose Jaw, or how long it would take to get there.
“Get started,” Eddie said.
“I’m, uh … not sure where to —”
The cold stare was back, this time with a groan. “We did one just like this, two seconds ago.”
“I know, but it’s different information and —”
“It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “We only care about the numbers. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Yeah, but —”
“Why don’t you get it?”
Was he kidding me? Did he honestly think figuring out one measly problem was going to solve everything?
“Nugget,” he sneered.
“Look,” I growled back. “It’s not like I’m going to master it in one stinking try. It’s going to take practise.” I thought of his kryptonite. “Just like you have to practise your slapshot.”
Eddie Bosko looked like me might punch me, but he spoke instead. “My slapshot kills. It’s the most accurate in the league, okay?”
Nuts. Not what I wanted to hear.
“Fine,” I muttered.
“Pretty soon, no one’s going to be able to stop it.”
“Great.” I shrugged like it didn’t matter, but it did.
“Because I’m working on speed. Every afternoon, from five until six, I whale on a puck in the backyard.”
“Good for you,” I grunted.
“Now, do you want to figure out this problem or not? It doesn’t matter to me, since —”
“I know,” I sneered back. “You get paid by the hour.”
“That’s right,” he said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.
Another silent stare-down between us. I lost again, breaking eye contact and looking back at my textbook. I read over the problem again, and it still didn’t make sense.
“Come on, man,” Eddie said, checking his watch again.
I was getting seriously ticked off. After all, he was supposed to be helping me.
Eddie tilted the chair back, so it was balancing on the back two legs and it creaked like it might break.
“Hey, my Mum doesn’t like us to do that,” I told him.
“So?”
“So cut it out.”
“Make me,” he said, with a laugh.
I was about to jump up and do just that when Wendy walked in from the kitchen. She barely looked at us, but as she walked behind Eddie Bosko, she shoved his chair forward.
Eddie had to catch himself so he wouldn’t slam face-first into the table.
“Hey,” he snapped, spinning around in his seat to confront her. “What’s your —”
“It’s a chair, not a ride, you moron,” Wendy said, and kept walking.
Eddie Bosko watched her go, his mouth hanging open for a change.
Who’s the flounder now?
I almost started laughing, but held it in.
“Who was that?” he finally asked.
“My sister.” I told him. Obviously.
He didn’t say anything else, but sat there with a dazed look on his face. I was willing to bet no one had ever dared to call Eddie Bosko a moron before. And lived, anyway.
“So, we’re trying to figure out how long the trip takes, right?” I asked.
“Huh?” Eddie grunted.
“The problem. It’s about travel time, not distance.” I waited. “Isn’t it?”
“I guess,” he said, looking toward the stairway. “What’s her name?”
“Uh,” I scanned the question again. “It’s just guys. Mark and Paul.”
“No, your sister.”
“What?”
“What’s her name?”
“Wendy,” I told him, as I continued to read.
If Mark was leaving Winnipeg at eight in the morning and wanted to meet Paul in Regina, how long was it going to take him to get there?
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
I glanced up at Eddie Bosko, who was still watching the stairs. “Wendy? I don’t know. I think they broke up or something.”
“How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
He spun around to face me. “Sixteen?”
“Yeah, you know. The one that comes after fifteen.” I tried to get back on topic. “If Mark was going 70 kilometres an hour —”
“Does she go to Cutter Bay?”
What was his problem? “Last time I checked, it’s the only high school here.”
We got back to work, and after a few more questions, I felt like I was actually starting to get it. I liked the way he had shown me to ignore all the extra details and focus on the numbers. The more we did, the more they made sense.
Wendy came downstairs and before I knew it, Eddie Bosko was pushing what was left of the cookies toward her.
“Want some?”
Wendy looked at him, then at the cookies, most of which were broken. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Not after you losers have mauled them.”
“They’re really good,” Eddie called after her, but she’d already disappeared into the kitchen.
I started to read out loud. “Claire and Samantha are selling Girl Guide cookies, and —”
“I’m thirsty,” Eddie said, pushing his seat back and standing up.
I pointed to his glass of milk. It was still half full.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and moving toward the kitchen. “I need some water or something. My throat’s really dry.”
This was getting suspicious.
When he came back, he had a glass of water and a red face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Your face is all red.”
“I’m warm.”
Very suspicious.
We did a couple more problems and then the doorbell rang.
When I answered it, I found a teeny lady with a pointy nose and beady eyes on the front step.
“Hello there. I’m Mrs. Bosko,” she said.
The gorilla’s mother looked like a baby bird?
“Uh, hi. I’m Jonathan.” I opened the door wider so she could come inside.
“Are you ready?’ she asked Eddie.
“I guess so,” he said, packing up his bag. The whole time, he was staring at the kitchen door.
I grabbed his jacket from the closet, more than ready for him to leave. “Thanks for your help,” I told him, and actually meant it. I may not have had fun hanging out with him, but I had made some Math progress. “I’ll see you at school.”
I’d never seen anyone take so long to put a jacket on. It was like he was moving in slow motion.
“I can come over again tomorrow, you know,” Eddie said.
“No, you can’t,” Mrs. Bosko told him. “We’re having dinner at Grandma’s.”
Eddie Bosko not only had a mother, but a
grandma?
“Maybe on the weekend?” he said to me, hopefully.
“I think we have some family stuff going on,” I lied. “Plus the game and everything.”
Eddie Bosko frowned.
Wendy walked in, the phone stuck to her ear. She walked past us and smiled at Mrs. Bosko with the sweet and innocent look she saved for adults. Eddie waved at my sister, who barely glanced at him and definitely didn’t wave back.
“I see,” Mrs. Bosko said, watching Wendy climb the stairs.
And suddenly I saw too. Eddie Bosko had a weakness.
His kryptonite … was Wendy.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, I practically jumped out of bed the second I heard Mum coming down the hallway. “I’m up!” I called out to her, before she even had a chance to tap on my door.
“A feather could knock me over,” she said, whatever that meant.
I zipped into the shower, humming to myself. All it took was one afternoon, just one stinking tutoring session, and everything had turned around for me. Math was kind of making some sense and Eddie Bosko was quite possibly at my mercy (well, Wendy’s anyway). And in unrelated but good news, I’d known the answer to Big Danny Donlin’s trivia question the night before.
Big Danny asked, “What position did Gordie Howe play?”
Easy peasy. The same position as me, which was right wing. And if he’d asked, I also could have told him that Gordie scored more than 800 goals in his career. Eight hundred and one, to be precise.
Awesome.
When I was out of the shower, I threw on my sweats and met Mum downstairs. My bag was already packed and waiting by the front door. My stomach was growling for bacon, eggs and hash browns. Luckily, toast and yogurt could work too, and I smiled all the way through breakfast.
On the way to practice, Mum and I listened to the news Well, she listened to it while I daydreamed about starting for the Canucks.
He shoots, he scores!
“You’re in an awfully good mood,” Mum said.
“I know,” I told her.
“It’s nice to see you back to normal.”
It was nice to feel that way, too.
In the locker room, I put on my gear while Kenny and Jason talked about a movie I’d never seen.
After a couple of minutes, Eddie Bosko walked into the room.
“Uh, hey,” he said, dropping his bag next to mine. “How’s it going?”
“Fine.” I had him right where I wanted him!
He unzipped his bag and pulled out his shoulder pads. “So, I was thinking we could meet up again on Monday.”
I glanced up and saw both Kenny and Jason staring at us.
“To study?” I asked, nice and clearly, so they wouldn’t get the wrong idea. It wasn’t like we were friends.
“Well, yeah. I was thinking we could go over some fractions and stuff.”
“Monday could work,” I said, with a shrug, then decided to test my theory. “Why don’t we meet at your place?”
Eddie Bosko shook his head. “Probably better at yours.”
“Why?” I asked, casually, like it didn’t matter. I had the power for once, and I was loving it!
“I just think your house is set up better for studying. My brother would get in the way.”
“So would my sister,” I told him.
“Do you think so?” he asked, and by the hope in his voice, I knew I had him.
Kryptonite!
I pretended to think. “Actually, I think she’s got volleyball practice on Monday, so maybe we’ll be okay.”
Eddie Bosko licked his lips and actually looked nervous. “Now that I’m thinking about it, Tuesday might work better. That way my brother can drop me off.”
“But I thought you said —”
“Definitely Tuesday,” he told me.
“Sure,” I said. Now I knew what Godzilla felt like, messing with all the tiny humans. Who was in charge now?
When we got out onto the ice, I was feeling stronger, faster and better than ever. I guess it was adrenaline that had me skating harder than anyone else.
“Nice work, McDonald,” Coach O’Neal said.
When he put out the cones and we took turns weaving in and out of them with the puck, finishing up with a shot on goal, I scored every time. Eddie Bosko missed twice.
Ha!
I knew I shouldn’t have been happy about that, but I couldn’t help it.
“Man, you’re on fire today,” Kenny said, slapping me on the back.
“Thanks.”
“Your Mum must have put an extra something in the cereal this morning.”
“Yeah, like steroids,” Matt said, laughing. “I can’t believe you beat Bosko on the laps.”
Neither could I. And things went just as well for me at school. At least until Math class, that is.
James picked up the homework assignments, and when I dug in my bag I realized I hadn’t even thought about my Math homework the night before. The stuff Eddie Bosko and I had done was just random questions for practise. Mr. Holloway had assigned something totally different!
Nuts!
James stood next to my desk, waiting as I shook my head.
“You didn’t do it?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“You must be crazy,” he said, moving to collect Danielle Borthwick’s paper.
I watched as even Kenny turned in the assignment.
“Mr. McDonald,” Mr. Holloway said, from the front of the class. “Will you join me at the board?”
I got up from my seat and walked toward him. Please, let it be a word problem. I know what to do. Just ignore all the extra stuff and focus on the numbers.
Kenny covered his eyes and shook his head, like he knew I was doomed, but there was a chance I wasn’t. It was entirely possible that I could answer whatever question was coming my way, and the whole class would be shocked.
Mr. Holloway most of all.
Please, let it be a word problem.
I stood at the board and waited while Mr. Holloway read a question. About fractions.
Nuts!
Why did it have to be fractions?
“Could you please repeat it?” I asked, when he was done.
“That depends on whether you are simply stalling, Mr. McDonald.”
“No,” I told him. “I just want to make sure I got all the info.”
“The what?” he asked, frowning.
“Sorry. I meant the information.”
“Thank you. This is not the place for jargon, slang or abbreviations.”
“I know,” I sighed. It also wasn’t the place for me to wow anybody. Obviously.
I thought about one of the questions I’d done with Eddie the day before. It was about the number of hot dog buns, hamburger buns, patties and dogs for a summer barbecue. Even though part of me had wanted to solve the problem the way Mum did, by cutting the extra dogs in half and putting them in the hamburger buns, I knew that wasn’t a Math solution. Just like I knew the jumbled bunch of numbers Mr. Holloway had given me couldn’t be figured out like a word problem.
I glanced over my shoulder at Eddie Bosko, who nodded, like he was encouraging me. Encouraging me to do what, though? What did I know about stupid fractions? I turned back to the board and tried to work my way through the question, but none of it was making sense. Even worse, whenever I started to write something on the board, Mr. Holloway would make a “tsk” noise that had me reaching for the eraser.
After three minutes that felt like three hours, he finally let me go back to my seat.
“Too bad they don’t make Math steroids,” Kenny whispered.
For the rest of class, I did my best to concentrate, but my best still wasn’t enough. Was Math ever going to be easy? I stared out the window and wished I was on the ice, knowing the rink was the only place things ever really went my way.
* * *
At the end of the day, Kenny and I walked home together.
“Rough day, eh?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“Mr. Holloway kind of has it in for you, doesn’t he?”
“It sure feels like it. He’s always making me go up to the board and everything.”
“How did it go with Bosko yesterday?”
“Fine,” I told him. “We worked on word problems and it was really helping, but —”
“Mr. Holloway asked about fractions,” Kenny said.
“Exactly. I don’t know how I’m ever going to learn all this stuff.”
“Me neither.”
“I wish all I had to do was play hockey.”
“That would be awesome!”
“I know!”
“I’ve been practising shots against the garage and stuff. You know, trying to get better.”
“That’s cool,” I told him. And it was. Kenny needed all the help he could get.
“I’m excited about the game this weekend.”
“Me too,” I said.
“I won’t be starting, but you have a good chance, don’t you think?”
“I hope so.” I didn’t want to say anything to jinx it, but I’d been working out a plan to guarantee starting and I was pretty sure it would work.
“The way you were playing this morning, I think you’re in.”
“Thanks, Kenny.” Between my hard work and my secret plan, I figured he was right. And I loved thinking about it.
* * *
At dinner that night, Mum brought up something I had no interest in thinking or talking about. But I had no choice.
“So, parent-teacher interviews are next week,” she said.
Uh-oh.
“Yup,” I told her.
“Pardon me?”
“Yes, they are.” Sometimes it seemed like everyone cared way too much about grammar.
“Monday night. Is there anything I need to know up front?” she asked. She was probably remembering all the other times she’d gone and been disappointed by what my teachers had to say.
“I don’t think so,” I told her.
“Any teachers you particularly want me to see?”
“Uh, not that I can think of.” But I could think of one she should avoid. Maybe Mr. Holloway would catch laryngitis over the weekend and have to stay home. Maybe he’d get stuck in an elevator. For a week.
Anything was possible, right?
If Mr. Holloway wasn’t there, Mum could just talk to my English teacher, which would be good, and Socials with Mr. Marshall would be okay, too. If she finished off with a chat about my P.E. class, the whole thing could actually be totally fine. And with that, I found myself hoping that for once in my life, parent-teacher interviews might be a breeze.