by Bob Krech
“Can I walk home with Margaret?” I ask.
“Sure,” my dad says. He pats me on the back.
They walk off to the parking lot and Margaret and I head up Union Street. I feel like walking. I just want to get away from here. Just keep on walking as far away as possible. The street is pretty quiet. Some buses and cars, but not so many people.
“Tough one, sure,” Margaret says.
I nod.
“You’ll get ’em next time, all right.”
“Yeah.”
All of a sudden I get pushed hard from behind. I turn around and a blast of beer breath hits me in the face. “Are you the eejit what scored the own goal?”
There’s a girl with orange hair in a leather jacket and skin-tight black jeans wobbling on her feet. She’s older than us and a lot bigger. She takes a wobbly step toward us. Two punk girls behind her laugh. I don’t need this and I don’t care how big or old or drunk she is. I’m going to tear her up. I feel the adrenaline rush up my arms and I step forward.
Margaret jumps in. “Sports fan, are ye?”
“Shut yer face, tubby.” She reaches around Margaret and grabs my jacket arm pulling me toward her. “Yer the ’merican kid arn’ ye?”
I smack her hand down and pull my arm back. Margaret gets in front of me again. She says, “Surely not.”
Punk Girl snarls at her, “I sid shet up, you.” Then she peers at me. “She sounds ’merican.”
One of her punk friends says, “She is ’merican.”
Margaret stays between us. “Now, now.” Margaret points at her head while giving me a nudge with her elbow. She whispers to the punk girl. “She’s a bit off the beam, if ye know what ah mean.”
Punk Girl looks at Margaret. “What?”
Margaret continues, “She’s out on a weekend pass from the home. They let her play. Part of her rehab program.”
Punk Girl points at me. “She sounds ’merican.” She’s so drunk she forgot she said this already.
One of her punk friends says again, “She is ’merican.”
Margaret laughs, then whispers loudly to them. “Ah, no, no. Tha’s part o’ her craziness. She likes to imitate different languages, don’t ye, Andrea? Do yer French then, Andrea.”
“Huh?”
“Ye know how ye like to do the different accents and such. Do yer French. Come on.”
A bit of calm settles on my brain. I can get into a nice big fight right now and who knows what with three big punk girls, or I can follow Margaret’s lead, and use my words. Breathe. Slow. “Bonjour.”
Punk Girl has big black boots on and she’s moving them toward me. “I don’t like no ’mericans. Me boyfriend, Alex, lit out with a ’merican.” She makes two fists.
Margaret sighs and steps aside. “All right. All right. Go ahead. Do yer best, then, amigo.”
“Teacher her, Fiona!” shouts one of the drunk friends.
I am in shock. Margaret is leaving us to it. Punk Girl grins. She’s missing an eyetooth. She steps forward and raises a fist so I can get a better look at her spiked bracelet before she smashes it into my face.
24
RABID
To be sick with rabies, an acute, infectious, often fatal viral disease.
“OH. One thing.” Margaret darts forward again and puts a hand on Punk Girl’s shoulder. In a low voice she says, “Now, she did bite me mam just yesterday. She could be rabid, we’re not sure yet. Just make sure she doesn’t break yer skin.”
Punk girl looks blankly at Margaret. “What do ye mean, ra-bid?”
Margaret shrugs. “Nothing. Just like sick, like with a dog-type infection. Only it rots yer brain. But they cure ye fairly rapid-like. I think it’s only two weeks o’ needles in the stomach these days. People don’t die like they used ta.”
I bare my teeth and try to work up a little drool. Punk Girl squints at me and steps back. “She should be locked up, then.”
Margaret says, “Ah, she’s harmless. Long as she’s not provoked, o’ course.”
Punk Girl stands there unsure, straining her small brain to decide whether to kill me or run. Finally she lowers her fists. “Well, tell her to watch her mouth.”
“Nay problem. C’mon, Andrea.”
Margaret grabs me by the arm and pulls me up the street. We go a block then Margaret slows down and looks back. She busts out laughing. “Hah, hah! What an eejit!”
I laugh, too, with relief. “That was unreal! You saved me!”
“Ah well, yer droolin’ was very timely. And ye have rather sharp-lookin’ teeth as well.”
“Thanks. I mean, Ta.”
And then we both start to laugh. I laugh so hard, but then somehow I start to cry, not laughing tears, but real tears. I have just lost the most important game of the year. That is not going to go away.
Margaret says, “Wha’s wrong? Are ye okay?”
I sniff and try to stop, but I can’t. And it pours out in a rush. “I, I lost that g-g-game.”
“What? No way! It was a ricochet.”
I am blubbering and crying, but once again, because it’s all emotion and no thinking, it’s easy to talk. “I’m supposed to win it for them. Not lose it. This is my game.” I gulp and sniffle. Margaret just looks on, surprised. “You don’t understand.”
Margaret throws an arm around my shoulder. “All I understand is that it certainly wasn’t your fault. You almost scored a bunch a times. No one else was doin’ that.”
I cry more as we start to walk, Margaret guiding me along. We walk past The Royal, Dunnotar’s one movie theater. Seagulls and pigeons are fighting over the popcorn on the steps. Margaret hops away and waves her scarf around as she dances up and down the steps, sending the birds flying. For a heavy girl she moves pretty good. She spins around on the balls of her feet and moves into another dance step. “That Stewart. He’s a good guy. Y’know?”
This is a very suspicious turn to the conversation. I don’t say anything. We walk along the sidewalk near some really nice granite houses. I pick up a stick and let it rap against the iron fence next to us. I think about Stewart cheering against me. Why not though? He already showed he hates me. “Margaret, do you know why Stewart plays for Thistle?”
“Ye mean, why not for Tristen Green?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard it’s because o’ his sister, Eileen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Eileen played for Tristen Green when she was in sixth form. She was starting fullback. Then the next year Lynne came up on the team and her da became coach. Even though Lynne was younger, she was very good. Took Eileen’s spot after only one match.”
I’ve seen this happen at home with The Blast. It’s an absolute crap situation for the older girl.
Margaret continues talking and walking. “Lynne’s da wasn’t playing Eileen anymore. So after half a year o’ sittin’ out, she switched clubs to Thistle. As soon as she did, Stewart quit Tristen Green and moved, too. And Thistle Boys were happy to have him, let me tell ye.”
I nod. “Yeah. They would be.”
Margaret kicks at some leaves. “I guess he followed her over out of loyalty or somethin’. Said it was unfair. This was all last year o’ course. Eileen still plays for Thistle’s U-15 team. And Stewart’s on the U-14.”
I nod.
“I mean maybe Lynne’s dad coaching TGFC had somethin’ to do with her gettin’ the starting job, but Lynne may be the better player as well. I don’t know.”
“It happens,” I say. I wonder how hard it was for Stewart to switch. It’s never easy to leave a club, particularly your home-town club for another one.
“So you’ve an interest in Stewart have ye?”
I feel myself take a sharp breath in. Stay calm. Breathe. “No. Not really.”
Margaret comes closer. “Ye sure ye wouldn’t be likin’ him a wee bit?”
I feel the heat come up in my face. I say, “He’s okay.”
Margaret tilts her head in. “Maybe I should be sayin’
love, then?”
I keep walking, but I’m warm all over now. “I’m n-n-not in love with anybody.”
Margaret puts her hands up like she’s surrendering. “No, ’course not. Okay. Okay. Let’s see. Then, yer in, um, like with him? Maybe yer deeply in like with him?”
“I . . .” And then a giggle sneaks out of me. Then a sigh. I give up. If I can’t talk to Margaret, who am I ever going to talk to? “A wee bit, yeah.”
She laughs. Then she says in a real serious voice, “That’s very good, Andrea. Admittin’ ye have a problem. Tha’s always the first step.”
I have to laugh. Margaret can get you laughing. “But I don’t even know what to say to him. He’s really m-m-m-mad because I stopped talking to him because . . .”
She seems to consider this as she swats at a moth. “You and Stewart were gettin’ to be friends, right?”
We pass some little kids kicking a can and passing it up the street like a soccer ball. “I guess.”
“Then just keep on bein’ friends. And tell him ye don’t care what anybody else has to say about it. You’ll marry him and have five kids with him the next day if ye feel like it.”
I stop and sweep the sidewalk with my foot. “You really think he’d be friends with me?”
“Yah, sure.”
We’re almost to Margaret’s house. I feel a little better having talked about it. “Do-do-do you like anyone?”
She steps back and points at her chest. “Moi?” Then she leans in like it’s a big conspiracy. “Well, to be honest, I sort of fancy Joseph.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised now.”
“No. I mean, I’m not.”
“Well, maybe we can work on this together. Y’know, the both o’ us gettin’ somewhere with those two.”
“I don’t even know where to start with Stewart now.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “Just tell him ye made a wee mistake and ye wanta be friends agin. Boys love that stuff. He’ll melt.”
We walk in silence for a while. Then I figure I might as well let it all hang out. “It’s not that easy. I’ve got a problem. I don’t . . . I mean . . .”
“What? Yer wee stutter?”
I stop. “Oh my God! You know?”
“Yeh. So?”
If Margaret knows, probably everybody knows. Maybe even Stewart knows.
She reads my mind. “I don’t think he cares, actually. If he noticed at all. Think about it. It’s not like he was flyin’ away from ye.”
It’s true. I am feeling good again. I am even forgetting the own goal. Maybe I can get Stewart as a boyfriend. She makes it all seem so simple. Maybe it is. It’s always so much easier in my head than in person though. “I’m gonna try it.”
“Hey—No reason—” she starts.
“Yeah, I know—” And we say it together, shrugging with our hands out and palms up, “NO REASON WHY NOT!”
“Margaret, thanks. For everything. You’re a genius.”
“Andrea, ye obviously have yet to see any of me term reports.”
25
DISCONSOLATE
Hopelessly unhappy.
IT’S May, but there’s only three weeks of school left. School ends way early here. I have to implement the “being friends again with Stewart” plan really fast or forget about it. I get in the coat closet early and hang there waiting. I tie and untie my right Samba. I do the left one. Kids come in and out. This is too risky. “I can’t do this,” I say, and start to walk out.
Margaret grabs the tail of my skirt and holds me there. “Yes, ye can do this.” She’s come along for moral support.
I begin to redo my laces again. Then Stewart walks in.
“Ta, ta,” Margaret says and scoots out. The negative part of my brain sneers, He’s going to walk right by you.
I take a deep breath. Courage! I smile my best cute smile. I have to force my lips to move. “Hi, um, Stewart.”
He hangs up his jacket, then starts to walk right by me and out again. Negative brain yells at me, What did I tell you?!And suddenly I am embarrassed and mad and ready to really talk. I tell his back in a nice clear voice, “You didn’t have to cheer against me last night, you jerk.”
Stewart stops and turns. “What are ye talkin’ aboot?” He looks annoyed. “I wasn’t cheerin’ against ye.”
“Oh, no?”
“I was cheerin’ for our club, that’s all.” There is silence and he suddenly rushes to fill it. “That’s what we do, all right?”
I have no reply. So, I just walk right by him now. Better than him walking away from me again. I don’t even look back. I just keep going till I’m in my seat. My small triumph. I made him talk to me. And I got mad. It feels really good. For about a minute.
The rest of the day we walk by each other like we’re both invisible. How am I going to get to the “I’m sorry” part? It’s hard to find the exact right moment to say you’re sorry when the person refuses to even look at you and you’ve just called him a jerk. I’m not sure I particularly want to anymore anyway.
Meanwhile, Becky and Lynne and I play soccer at lunch, but there is very little talk. We don’t even really look at each other. We have lost a big game. Our season is over. There’s not much to say about it, and none of us is a big chatterbox, anyway. Just the feeling around them is different. It feels like now that the season is over, so is our friendship. Or whatever it is. Was. I wonder if it was because of the game or maybe we are just done. I could have sworn I heard Becky mutter “own goal” though.
Today Stewart and I have to work together on a social studies project in a group with Joseph and Bernadette. My hopeful, simpleminded, optimistic side has made me wear lip gloss. And perfume. This part of my brain was saying, Hey, you are not a quitter. He was not cheering against you. Remember. He said so. He is nice, right? You messed up. You need to go after him.I am getting like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde! Go after him! Ignore him! I’m a mess!
During the meeting we’re all talking about who’s going to do the poster, who’ll do the oral part of the report, and all that. Stewart’s talking and I’m talking, just not directly to each other.
Mrs. Watkinson says, “Time to put things away. You’ll have more time tomorrow.”
I pick up the markers. Stewart is putting his papers away in a folder. Okay. I’ll give this one more shot. I swallow hard, then speak. “Hi.”
He keeps messing with the papers. I’m not sure if he heard me. So I try again. “How’s it g-g-going?”
He doesn’t even look up. Just jams the rest of the papers in the folder and strides to his desk.
At lunch I don’t even bother to take out my lunch bag. I’m no longer interested in food. I’m not even interested in breathing. Like Word Power would say, I’m completely and utterly disconsolate. I am done trying. In fact, I am done not only with Stewart but with all boys. Being a nun might be a good career for me. Some of them even have a vow of silence, which would be easy for me. I could be the first soccer star nun.
I’m just sitting there staring out the window, contemplating my new life, when the back door cracks opens. Roddy’s head pops in. He whispers, “Psssst,” and then he’s gone. Like in a split second.
I look over at Lynne. She quick throws her trash away and heads out the back door. Then Becky gets up and follows Lynne. Without the soccer ball! Something is definitely up.
I wait a minute or two and get my jacket and head out with Margaret right behind me. As we go out the door, Lynne is right there. She looks pale. She whispers to us. “Meet at the bridge.”
I want to ask why, but I just flow out the door with the crowd. The bridge is a little wooden thing over the small creek at the far back of the playground. When I get there, half of our class is standing around looking nervous. Roddy’s sitting on a rock lighting matches. He pulls one from the pack, lights it, watches it burn down, and then throws it in the creek. He slowly does one after the other. No one is saying anything. Stewart is next to Joseph. He lo
oks away as soon as he sees me. Kids from our class keep drifting over till finally Lynne comes up. Roddy asks without looking at her, “Is that it?”
“Yeah,” Lynne says.
He stands up. “Right, you lot. You’ll be leavin’ this preschool inna coupla weeks. An’ if ye want ta make it properly in upper school here, ye have to show ye have a bit o’ guts. You’ve got to perform the ancient rite o’ passage. Everyone.” He flicks a last burned out match into the water. “And I’m here to help yis.”
“Sure, sure,” Becky scoffs.
Roddy’s eyes narrow. “Becky.” He tilts his head. “I’m thinkin’ that holdin’ yer melon of a head under the creek water is goin’ ta be a special part o’ yer personal rite o’ passage, unless you close yer piehole, okay?”
Becky looks down. She is fuming. Roddy says, “Tha’s fine, then. Since Ah’m yer class’s rites master, I have to select a leader for yis and give him the words of the ancient ritual. Only that person sees ’em till the ritual begins. The leader will also report to me about everythin’.” He casually looks us over. Then he points at Christian. “You. Tall boy. You’ll do.”
Christian turns whiter than his shirt and starts babbling, “Oh! Ah’m unable to participate.” He flaps his hands around like a pair of bats. “Ah’m only here for the general understandin’. Ah’ll be away and—”
Roddy clamps his hands over his ears. “All right!”
Lynne says, “Ye should pick a girl. It’s mostly girls in our year.”
Roddy takes his time, apparently thinking. Then he smiles. “Yer right, o’course.” He tilts his chin toward Jasmine. “Yer Iggy’s sister, ay?”
Jasmine gasps, then smiles real big like she won a prize. “Yes. I’m Jazzy.”
Roddy recoils at the name but says, “Right. Yer it, then. Yer the leader.”
Lynne jabs a finger at Jasmine and says, “Not her! I meant a normal girl. Like me or Becky.”