by Darren Groth
I can’t blame them, Munro. Who wants to be around someone sad and angry all the time?
That’s not fun.
We’re out of the cells and on to stage two.
I’m not really sure how that happened.
I remember Lobe Guy came and gave us a clue because we hadn’t done squat in the first half hour. Then, after he left, Rowan and Caro figured something out that made Renee angry. She groaned and said, “Why the fuck didn’t you notice that before? We’re in this together!” It had to do with the stray boot on the floor, out of reach. And the broom. That was important. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t paying close attention.
I tried, early on. I tried hard to think about the clues, what they might mean. I read out the number sequences on the wall so Rowan could work the lock. I listened to the others, speaking through the gap above our cells. I even suggested there might be something in the boot at one point. But as the number on the clock got smaller, and the noise of the gang increased, thinking became too much of an effort. I massaged my temples. I bit my nails. My groin felt like water. I sat out. Literally. I sat on the cell bench, trying to remember that this was supposed to be fun, that I was here for a good time. I shouldn’t have had that Bundy and Coke.
I’m standing now in the second room, the others bouncing around me like Ping-Pong balls. The scene is grim. There’s a handprint on the wall and more blood on the floor. A nasty-looking machine with wires and electrodes and switches with large handles is off to one side. A suicide note is taped to a large mirror beside the locked door; it’s signed Vera. The ceiling lights are in metal cages. They flicker every now and then, as if spelling out a warning. In my hand is a disc, smaller than a puck, with lines that look like sound waves on one side. The digital clock in the corner shows we’ve just over twelve minutes left.
My legs are turning to jelly. There aren’t any benches or chairs in this ugly room. I wish I was back in the padded cell.
At home, everyone knew why you were angry and sad. Apart from Rowan, these guys have no clue. They figure it’s tough for a new kid coming from the other side of the world. But is it so tough that you’re freaked out by a girl lying on the grass? Or you’re in the face of some goof on the basketball court? Or you’re afraid of volunteering with disabled people?
And now you’re standing around like you’re waiting for a bus while they work their butts off to get you out of this place?
The gang’s voices are bleeding into each other, but I can still make out some of the talk.
“We need to get this open!”
“We tried that already!”
“It’s gonna be something really simple!”
“Calm down. Let’s think it through.”
“Look at the time!”
I’d like Caro to stand behind me again, put her hands on my shoulders. That would feel good. That would help.
I lean against the wall. The bricks are cool on my cheek.
Six minutes left.
Not a long time. But enough for a good time?
Let’s have some fun, Munro.
Weird smoke is gathering around my feet. The walls creak and groan. Someone screams. I flinch, look around. The gang is still going about its frantic business.
Didn’t they hear that?
No, they can’t hear it. Only you can hear it.
And see it.
You have four minutes.
There’s a body on the floor. On its side. Tucked in next to the machine with the wires and the electrodes.
It’s the suicide girl from the story, Vera. She’ll have a clue for me. She’ll get me out of here.
It’s Vera.
I know it’s Vera.
You know it’s not Vera.
You have three minutes.
She’s not dead.
She’s dying.
She needs to be turned over, put flat on her back. She needs compressions.
I look at the others, hoping they can help. They’re busy. They’ve found something. A box. The box. Opening it gets you out of here.
Where’s the key?
Two minutes left! Time is running out!
It’s up to you!
Every second counts!
I kneel down beside the body. Before I can turn her over, I need to get rid of this disc in my hand.
On the other side of the room, one of the gang shouts. I think it’s Renee.
“Munro! He’s got the key!”
Under a minute!
Get to work, Munro!
My hand.
It’s in agony, but I can’t open it. It’s locked.
“Munro! You’ve got the key! Give it to me, mate! Before it’s too late!”
Twenty seconds!
SAVE ME!
“MUNRO, GIVE ME THE KEY!”
TEN SECONDS!
SAVE ME, MUNRO!
“LET IT GO, MUNRO!”
SAVE ME!
“LET GO!”
“JUST LEAVE ME…THE FUCK…ALONE!”
A loud buzzer sounds. The lights—flickering and dim before—turn up to full brightness.
I blink. The floor is bare. Vera is gone. My right hand slowly opens and spreads. The disc falls to the floor. There’s an imprint of its wavelike lines in my palm. I press it against my aching chest and stand, surveying the scene. Renee is a few feet away, pale, breathing hard, fingers probing the point of her shoulder. Hair is thrown across her face, as if a gust of wind caught her unaware. Maeve stands to the left of Renee, biting her lip. Digger stands to the right, covering his O mouth. The two of them look like deer in the headlights. Rowan, arms folded, is holding the box we failed to unlock and leaning against the door we failed to open.
Caro.
Her bright features are blurred at the edges. She’s got questions. Concerns.
Lobe Guy appears, seemingly out of thin air. He wanders into the middle of our silent movie and plants his hands on his hips. He has a toothpick in the corner of his lopsided grin.
“Whaddaya reckon?” he asks. “Did ya have fun or what?”
Louis goes offscreen for a few seconds. When he reappears, he scratches at his nest of red hair. “So let me get this straight. The clock’s counting down to zero, and this Renee, she grabs your hand, trying to get the ‘key’ you’re holding, and you yell at her. And as you’re yelling, you…shove her?”
I shake my head. “I pulled my hand away from.”
“But she got hurt, right?”
“I kind of yanked her shoulder.”
“You pulled pretty hard then, Mun.”
“I guess. It was just a reflex.”
“A reflex?”
“Yeah. You know, like when somebody taps on your knee with a little hammer.”
“Uh-huh.” Louis sucks air through his teeth. “What happened after your reflex?”
“Nothing much. I said sorry, asked if she was okay. She said she was fine. She apologized for grabbing my hand. She said she got too caught up in the moment. We all went to Snag Stand after that to get something to eat. It was awkward. No one wanted to do much or talk much. So we just went home.”
Lou sighs and leans to one side. “James lost his shit completely when we did the Egyptian room in Richmond. Those escapes, dude. They can bring out the worst in people.”
Or they can just show people as they really are.
“Something went glitchy in there, didn’t it?” asks Lou. “Did you have, like, a flashback or something?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure!” I hold my hand against my ear and press the buttons on a pretend phone. “Hello, Teen Helpline? Yes, I’d like to speak to Louis Erasmus, please? What’s that? He’s too busy being a jerkface?”
“Quit it, bro. I know you had episodes and stuff at home.”
“This isn’t home.”
“What happened there, what you’ve just been talking about…sure sounds like home to me.”
Smart boy, that Louis. Very smart boy.
Lou leans in to the camera. “Don’t be mad at me, bro. How about we switch gears, eh? What was that place you said you were going to be volunteering at? The residence for disabled people?”
“Fair Go.”
“That’ll be pretty rewarding, I reckon.”
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
“You sound just like the guidance counselor at Sussex. You going to guarantee Fair Go will make me better too?”
“I think it’ll stop you yanking the shoulders of those Aussie honeys.” Lou throws his hands up. “Ah, crap. you’re still mad.” He makes his own pretend phone and puts it down on the table in front of him. “Lookit, the jerkface is hanging up. He’s off shift. He’s gonna call up a sex hotline instead.”
I laugh. “I’m hanging up for real.”
“I’m here for you, Munro.”
“Worst sex hotline ever.”
“I’m here for you. Don’t forget it.”
Lou starts licking his lips and rubbing his nipples. I flip him off and kill the call.
The role of Living Partner is a wonderful opportunity for you as a young person with energy and compassion. You are the sort of individual who views time spent with with our special-needs residents as a privilege…
We look forward to meeting you!
I switch off the lamp and turn onto my side. In the darkness, my left arm splays sideways, holding the printout off the edge of my bed. Sometime between awake and asleep, the paper slips out of my fingers and falls to the floor.
A wonderful opportunity, it says. It will help you get better, they say. You know what I say? A place like that will make you worse.
Is that even possible after what happened this week? The fire drill and the freeze-up in English class? The near-fight with the Nike D-Bag? What I did to Renee in the escape room?
Of course it’s possible. Anything could happen at Fair Go. So many reminders. So many bad associations. Someone could collapse there. Someone could die. Fair Go could be the last straw, Munro. One visit—just one—could mean the end. Of school. Of the exchange.
Of you?
Evie? Are you there? I don’t know what to do, Evie. Tell me what to do. Talk to me.
Why can’t you answer? Why are you the only one that’s off limits? I’m supposed to hear you. I read that it happens a lot. I read that it helps the people left behind to cope. But you haven’t spoken to me. Not once. Why? Do I have to die too? Is that the deal? I have to die before I can hear your voice again? That hardly seems fair.
I looked after you, Evie. I taught you stuff. I protected you. You know how a clown fish takes care of the coral reef it lives in and vice versa? You were my coral reef. You were my world. You were my bud.
All I hear now is the fucking Coyote. I can’t stand it, for everything it’s done and everything it’s doing. The day it goes away will be the greatest day of my life.
I hate it.
I don’t hate you, Munro. I’m here for you.
Unlike Evie.
AN INTERVIEW
Wow, Munro! It’s Sunday, and you’re on the train. You’ll be at Fair Go in ten minutes! Why the change of heart, amigo?
Lou and Ms. Mac felt I should give it a go. They think it could be good for me. I trust them more than I trust you, Coyote.
More than you trust yourself, you mean.
Whatever.
They’ll be very proud of you.
I’m sure.
I’m very proud of you.
Fuck off.
Fifty hours though…that’s a long time to be in a bad place. Maybe you should quit now, before things, you know…end.
Fuck. Off.
Don’t swear! I’m trying to help you.
I’m not listening to you.
The interviewer enters the office. I stand and button my jacket.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, extending a hand. “Table-tennis match went into extra time…I lost. Couldn’t find the table with my last lob. I’m Kelvin Yow, residential manager of Fair Go.”
“Munro Maddux.”
“Take a seat, Munro.”
“Thank you.”
“So. You’re from Vancouver, Canada?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Love the tie.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I pinch the knot under my chin. The fabric is printed with squirrels in sunglasses throwing up the horns. It was Evie’s last birthday gift to me. She wanted me to wear it to grad.
“Call me Kelvin,” he says, lifting a small tube of candy labeled Fruit Tingles from a drawer in his desk. He tears the silver wrapping and pops a piece in his mouth. “You’re on an exchange?”
“Yes, sir…Kelvin.”
“Sir Kelvin—I like that. You’ve been here…what, two and a bit weeks?”
“That’s right.”
“How you finding the heat?”
“Not too bad.”
“Good-o. And how’s the new school?”
“Up and down.”
“Oh. Bit of an adjustment period, I imagine.”
“Something like that.”
For the first time since sitting, Kelvin Yow registers as more than just the guy in charge of my potential last straw. His face shines, like he uses wax instead of face wash. He wears a wolf ’s-head ring on his right index finger. I look around his office. No motivational clichés or roller-derby merch here. A Star Wars poster has pride of place on the main wall, only the writing is in a different language, maybe Italian: Il ritorno dello Jedi. A Walking Dead coffee cup stands guard beside his open laptop. Framed photos are everywhere; each one features two people in the shot. Kelvin is the constant, smiling, arm over the shoulder of his companion. The others? I’m guessing they’re the residents.
“Let’s get to it,” he says, levering a second Fruit Tingle out of the tube with his thumbnail. “Do you have any experience with the disabled?”
It flashes through my mind to say no, but I don’t want to feed the Coyote, not this early in the proceedings. I sit up straighter in my chair. Shrug. “I grew up in a special-needs home—my little sister had Down syndrome.”
“Had?”
“She died last March. Heart failure.”
“Ah, geez.” Kelvin brings his hands together under his chin and closes his eyes. He murmurs words I don’t recognize, maybe a Buddhist prayer or something. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Munro.”
I assume my brutal, superficial honesty will force Kelvin to drop the subject. He doesn’t.
“That’s hard on a big brother, no doubt.”
“Um, yeah. It is.”
“Especially if it’s sudden.”
“Yeah.”
“Was it sudden?”
“It was…yeah.”
He shakes his head. “That link between Down’s and heart issues…”
If there’s a second half to the sentence, it’s jammed in his throat. He resumes eye contact, and for a brief moment I see the same expression Mom and Dad have exhibited for close to a year: unwavering acceptance.
“You okay, Munro?”
I blink, swallow. Aside from a tense grip on the chair’s armrest, I find I am okay.
“I apologize if I upset you.”
I loosen my tie. “It’s okay.”
Kelvin puffs his cheeks. “Not sure about that. How about I stick to the script for this next bit?” He pushes his chair back and stands. “Let’s head across to the Rec Refuge.”
When I first arrived, Fair Go took me by surprise. It was bigger than I thought it would be. A couple of buildings and a bunch of cabins—that’s what I’d expected. A souped-up version of summer camp. Now, accompanying Kelvin through the heart of the community, I realize the full scale of the place. It’s a tiny town. A tiny hometown, in fact. Several of the sights are like snippets of my hood back home. The vegetable gardens and the barn and the field stretching toward the horizon could belong to Westham Island. The arts-and-crafts store wouldn’t look out of place in Ladner Village, next to Stir
Coffee House or Angela’s Boutique. The small skateboard space next to the library is a mini-version of the park by Delta Gymnastics Society.
There’s also plenty that tells me I’m a long way from home. Palm trees. Patches of dry grass out of sprinkler range. The Aussie flag fluttering above the admin building. Metal roofs on the townhouses. Laundry on a rotary clothesline. The signs on the swimming pool fence: NO SHARKS IN THE WATER and BEWARE OF ATTACK TURTLE. The overall vibe of Fair Go, though, is familiarity. Comfort. I recall the Coyote’s warning from last night: so many reminders. My hateful sidekick got that much right. So far, none of the nasty variety.
I suspect the residents like living here.
Where would you have lived, Evie? After grade twelve, would you have stayed home with Mom and Dad? Would you have gone out on your own? Maybe someplace in between? Somewhere like here?
I often wonder where you are now. And who you are. Maybe you have superpowers. Can you run like the wind, or fly, or turn invisible? I hope you’re still you though. Two legs. Two arms. Brown hair. Blue eyes. ‘Celebrity’ chromosome 21, as Mom and Dad used to say.
Mom and Dad believe you’re in Heaven, Evie. I’m not so sure there is such a place. Right now, I still believe in Hell more than I believe in Heaven.
Kelvin gives me the Fair Go facts as we walk.
“The residence was the brainchild of my father, James Yow. He was the youngest of four children. His eldest brother, Wally, was diagnosed as ‘mentally retarded’ at the age of five. After his schooling was finished at seventeen, he was placed in an institution. Dad loved Wally very much, and he always felt sad that his brother had to move away. He didn’t blame his parents—Grandpa died of polio before Wally was in his teens, and Grandma kept Wally at home until her own health concerns made it impossible to continue without serious help. Responsibility, Dad felt, lay more with society. He decided he would do something about it. So he built a place for young disabled people coming out of school, one that struck a balance between independence and support.”
We pass by an obstacle course—WOOT CAMP, according to the hand-painted sign, the B crossed out and replaced with a W—threading through a crowd of thick trees. In the center is a spiderweb of ropes suspended between two poles. Half a dozen people have a girl held high on their hands and are attempting to crowd-surf her through the top gap in the web. For a second I think she’s scared, curled up and shouting louder than a substitute teacher in detention. Then I put two and two together—the wheelchair off to the side, her jerky movement. She’s not shrinking in fear; she has cerebral palsy. And she’s having a blast. On cue, she raises her bent arms and starts singing Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive” in a loud, tone-deaf voice.