“That Sally you were talking to. She the one on the wrestling team?”
The pressure of Pete’s shoe increased. “Ha-ha,” he said. “That’s about as funny as a fart in a space suit.” Fex made earmuffs of his hands and concentrated harder. He knew he should go upstairs to the room he and Jerry shared, but he couldn’t fight the violin tonight.
Take a gander, Ms. Arnow. Just a little gander at me, Fex O’Toole, concentrating my butt off.
Bending down so Fex could smell the peanut butter on his breath, Pete whispered, “When you gonna do what I say, kid?”
The blood pounding in his head, Fex told himself, I won’t. He can’t make me.
“Go get ’em yourself,” he said.
“Hate to do this to you, kid,” Pete said, “but I don’t have a choice. I double-dare you.”
Jerry straggled through the living room on his way to the kitchen for a snack. They ate more snacks when their parents were out than when they were home. Jerry watched them, waiting.
“Go soak your head,” Fex said.
Pete laughed and lay back on the couch. He took off his shoes and socks and picked his toenails, watching Fex out of the corner of his eye.
“A double-dare is a double-dare, baby. You can’t escape a first-class double-dare, and you know it.”
“Dad would be mad if he heard you,” Jerry said.
Fex went on reading. Pete picked a nail off his big toe and threw it at him.
“I double-dare you to sit over here, I double-dare you to lend me your ear,” Pete sang, his favorite golden oldie. He’d been delighted to find the record in a secondhand junk shop. Had learned all the words, in fact, and relished every chance he had to break into song for Fex’s benefit.
“Don’t do it, Fex,” Jerry said, his face stern, his eyes glistening. “Hang on and don’t give in.” He went back upstairs.
I won’t, he can’t make me, Fex told himself again. Then, as if someone had pulled some strings, as if he were a robot and had no control over his actions, Fex got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of cookies, kept three for himself as a gesture of independence, and threw the rest in Pete’s direction. Pete grinned, picked up the cookies, and didn’t even say, “Thanks.”
The telephone rang again. Pete arranged his face in what he thought of as his sexy look, letting his lids stall at half mast, curving his hand around the receiver as if he owned it.
“Hello,” he said in his deep, mysterious voice. Then, “Who?” he snapped.
“It’s for you, creep.” He held out the telephone to Fex. “Hurry up. You got work to do.”
Not too many people called Fex. Maybe it was Audrey.
“Hello,” Fex said.
“I’m taking a survey. I’d like to know if your refrigerator is running.” It was Barney’s voice. Fex couldn’t believe Barney was working that old routine.
“Why, are you trying to catch it?” he replied.
Silence from the other end. Barney breathed into the telephone, trying to think of what to say next.
“Listen. Don’t bug me,” Fex said. “I know it’s you, Barney. I’ve had a bellyful of you today.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Barney said.
“I can smell you,” Fex said.
“Ha-ha-ha,” Barney answered.
“Listen, my old man’s on the warpath. He says no phone calls until my marks improve,” Fex said. “I’ve gotta go. If he catches me, he’ll let me have it. He’ll probably let you have it too.”
“He better not!” Barney hollered. “He just better not.”
“Gotta go, Barney,” Fex said and hung up.
Upstairs all was quiet. Fex sneaked into his room. Maybe Jerry had gone to sleep with the light on. He pulled on the striped T-shirt he slept in and turned back his blanket.
“Hey!” Jerry hung upside down, like a bat, from his upper bunk.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was thinking,” Jerry said.
“What about?”
“I was thinking you’re a jerk to let him get away with that junk.”
“What junk?”
“That cookie junk. You oughta punch him out when he tries that stuff.”
Fex shrugged. He was a master shrugger. “It doesn’t matter.”
Jerry scowled. Even scowling he looked angelic. “Sure it matters, and you know it.” His upside-down face disappeared. “Listen to this,” he commanded as he began a new melody.
Fex listened, wincing.
“Has it got a name?” he asked when the music ended.
Jerry’s face dipped over the side at him. “Isn’t it neat? That’s ‘Turkey in the Straw.’ That’s for square dancing. Do-si-do and all that rot. Maybe they’ll ask me to play if they have another square dance at school. I might have to do a solo.” The strains of “Turkey in the Straw” fought their way from the violin. Kicking and screaming, Fex thought.
“Some turkey,” he said, but Jerry didn’t hear him above the sounds of his music.
4
“Fex,” Mrs. Timmons said nervously, “Mr. Palinkas would like to see you.” She’d been waiting in the hall for him. “Right away. In his office.” Mrs. Timmons spoke in short sentences when she was agitated.
“O.K.” He knew what was coming. His stomach churned, formed several hard little knots. He whistled as he went down the hall. What else could he do?
He knocked and heard Mr. Palinkas say, “Come in, come in,” in an impatient voice.
Oh, man. Fex felt a sudden need to go to the bathroom.
I didn’t do anything so terrible, he told himself. They can’t send me to jail for what I did.
Once he was inside, Mr. Palinkas kept him waiting. Then, when he was good and ready, he tossed the drawing of the pig at Fex.
“This your work?” he said.
Fex looked at the pig, scowling, as if he’d never seen it before.
“You responsible for this?”
“Responsible?” That was a word he’d noticed grown-ups threw around a lot.
“Yeah, responsible.” Mr. Palinkas picked up his walking stick from the chair. He pointed it at Fex. “You have heard the word? You know what it means?” As he spoke he drummed rhythmically against his leg with the stick. Thwack, thwack, it went. That stick was a barometer of Mr. Palinkas’ emotions, Fex thought. He’d never seen the principal without it, although he wasn’t lame and had no need to carry a walking stick. Fex had heard that when old Palinkas picked up his stick, you better watch out. He had never touched anyone with it, but there had to be a first time, Fex figured.
“You put it there, did you not?” Mr. Palinkas turned his chair sideways, crossed his legs, and looked at his shoes.
Fex nodded. He felt it would be unfair, cowardly even, to defend himself. He had put the drawing on the desk. That couldn’t be denied.
“Was there any particular reason for doing such a thing?”
“No, sir.” How to explain to this man that Fex O’Toole would do anything and everything he was double-dared to do? How to tell him that without sounding like a first-class wimpy fool?
“I’m sorry,” Fex said.
Mr. Palinkas laced his fingers together.
“Do you think that makes it all right? To say you’re sorry?”
“No, sir.”
“You have something against me?”
Fex shook his head. For no reason, he suddenly remembered the time he’d seen Mr. Palinkas in the supermarket, gazing down into the frozen food, probably deciding what he’d have for dinner. Fex had been in the store buying a box of noodles for his mother. He’d been so startled, so unnerved by seeing the principal in such an unlikely place, performing such a commonplace task, by seeing him someplace other than behind his desk or walking around the halls, thwacking his stick as he went, that he’d turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen Mr. Palinkas. What would he say if they should meet face to face in Aisle 2, bending over boxes of sugar, checking the prices?
So he’
d skulked around the aisles, waiting for Mr. Palinkas to leave before he did.
Then, when he’d thought the coast was clear, he’d brought the noodles to the checkout counter, and there was Mr. Palinkas, paying for a package of frozen stuffed peppers.
Frozen stuffed peppers. Imagine Mr. Palinkas buying such a thing. Fex had been amazed. Then, just as the girl handed over the change and threw the peppers into a brown paper bag, Mr. Palinkas had turned, looked Fex in the face, raised his cane in salute, and walked out of the store.
He knew I was there all along, Fex had thought then. He knew.
Now he said, “No, sir, I don’t have anything against you.”
Mr. Palinkas came around to the front of his desk, carrying his stick. If he hits me, Fex thought, I won’t holler. I’ve got it coming. Even if he raises welts on me, I won’t holler. He waited for the blows to fall. Nothing happened.
“Then why?” Mr. Palinkas poked the stick at Fex as he paced back and forth. “You know something? I pride myself on my judgment. I hate to be wrong, especially about kids. I had you pegged for a good one. I figured you had your head on straight, as they say these days. I guess I was wrong.” He raised the stick. Here it comes, Fex thought. Mr. Palinkas traced a circle in the air with the stick.
“You have any problems?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Fex answered, startled. He hadn’t expected that.
“Parents divorced? Stepmother or father you don’t get on with? Nothing like that?”
I can’t just keep on saying, “No, sir,” Fex thought. I sound like a jerk.
“No, sir,” he said.
“Your marks all right?”
“They’re O.K., I guess.”
“Well, then.” Mr. Palinkas walked back and sat down at his desk. “If everything’s all right at home, no trouble there, no trouble with the marks, what’s the answer?” He and Fex looked at each other.
“In this business,” Mr. Palinkas said, leaning back in his chair, “you look for problems. You try to find out what’s bothering a kid, what makes him do things he shouldn’t. You figure maybe a kid’s trying to tell you something. Maybe you can do something to help. But everything’s all right, is it?”
Fex said, “Yes, sir.”
“You know …” Mr. Palinkas ran his fingers through his thick gray hair, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, taking his time.
My gosh, Fex thought, I’m never going to get out of here.
“When I was your age,” the principal continued, “the country was in a terrible depression. My father lost his job at the tile factory and had to pick up us kids and my mother and take us clear across the country to stay with his parents. He not only lost his job, he lost his pride as well.” He cleared his throat.
“Maybe you kids have it too soft. Nobody to think about but yourselves. Maybe life’s too easy. Not enough travail. Not enough challenge.”
Mr. Palinkas sighed. He reached over, took the three withered daffodils out of the glass, and threw them into the wastebasket.
“Mrs. Timmons,” he called, “would you mind coming in here for a minute?”
Mrs. Timmons came to the door of the little room where she worked. She had fitted her face with a faint smile of encouragement for Fex. She wore a pale green blouse that matched her eyes. A long yellow pencil was tucked into her hair, over her ear.
“Mrs. Timmons,” Mr. Palinkas said, “this young man is available for after-school jobs. For a week, starting tomorrow so he can let his mother know he’ll be late. If there’s anything that needs doing—mimeographing, supplies to be brought up from the storeroom, wastebaskets to be emptied, Fex will oblige. Perhaps you’d better make a list of things you think he might be able to help you with.”
“Yes, Mr. Palinkas,” Mrs. Timmons said.
She went back into her little room and shut the door. Fex felt as if he were nailed to the floor.
“Can I …” he started to say.
“You’re not a mean kid,” Mr. Palinkas said. “I’m pretty sure of that. I know all the mean kids. Meanness is hard to hide. But that was a mean thing you did.” He gave a long sigh and ran his finger around inside his shirt collar, as if it were too tight for him.
Fex backed toward the door. If he didn’t get to the bathroom soon, something terrible might happen.
Mr. Palinkas swiveled his chair around so he faced the dirty windows.
“You can go now,” he said.
5
After school Audrey was waiting. Fex had half hoped she would be, half hoped she wouldn’t.
“What’d he say?” she asked. Up ahead, Barney Barnes took potshots at a squirrel with his slingshot.
“Who?”
“I can’t stand it.” Audrey stuffed her hands in her pockets and stalked beside him, her legs as stiff as an angry dog’s.
“If you don’t want to tell me, say so. But don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. That really gets me when you do that. You figure if you don’t talk about it, it never happened. Sweet little Francis Xavier O’Toole. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.” When Audrey was mad, she didn’t fool around.
“We had a talk,” Fex said in a monotone. “He wanted to know if I had problems at home. I said no. He said I wasn’t mean. He told me to work after school helping Mrs. Timmons for a week, starting tomorrow. That’s about it.”
Audrey jerked her chin at him as if she were illustrating a point on the blackboard.
“So you didn’t tell him about the double-dare bit, huh? You didn’t tell him about that moron.” She jerked her chin in Barney’s direction. “If Mr. Palinkas knew you let that moron egg you into doing some of the things you do, he’d think you were a lunatic.”
“How do you know I’m not?” Fex said angrily.
Barney bounced toward them on the balls of his feet. He seemed to know he was being talked about.
“Hey, Fexy,” he called. Barney chose to ignore girls. His eyes slid over them as if they weren’t there. One thing about Audrey. She was pretty tough to ignore.
“Hey, Fexy,” Barney repeated, “got any plans for anything bizarre today?”
“What’s ‘bizarre’ mean?” Audrey asked.
Barney forgot himself and looked at her. “How do I know?” he said.
Girls made Barney nervous. When he was nervous, he bit his fingernails. With his forefinger he began to explore the back of his mouth.
“You better be careful,” Audrey said. “You might chew that down to the knuckle if you don’t watch out.”
Barney snatched his finger from his mouth.
“If you don’t know what ‘bizarre’ means,” she went on, “then how do you know what you’re talking about?”
“Let’s split,” Barney growled to Fex. “Let’s you and me split.
“Can’t,” Fex said. “I’ve got to go home and tell my mother I’m staying after school for a week. Palinkas found out I put the pig on his desk.”
“How’d he find out?” Barney’s voice was surly.
“What difference does it make how? He did. That’s what counts. What’d he ever do to you anyway? That’s what I can’t figure.”
“You like him!” Barney hooted. “You like him! Hey, he’s the boss, man. You can’t like the boss.”
“Who says?”
“You can’t, that’s all.”
“That’s dumb,” Audrey said.
“Tell her to shut up,” Barney said to Fex.
“Tell me yourself.”
Barney aimed his empty slingshot at Audrey’s feet.
“What’d he do, Barney?” Fex asked.
“He left me back,” Barney mumbled. “Twice.”
“That’s wasn’t his fault. He’s fair. He listens to your side of the story,” said Fex, who hadn’t told his side.
“You tell him anything?” Barney asked.
“No. He asked me if I had anything against him and I said no. I said I was sorry and he asked me if I thought that made it all right. So I said no
again.”
The three of them stood swinging their arms, avoiding each other’s eyes.
“Let’s go,” Audrey said.
“I’m getting a Moped,” Barney told Fex.
“Yeah?”
“My mother’s boyfriend’s in the business. He can get me one at half price. So I’m getting the most expensive kind,” Barney bragged.
“Wow.” Audrey’s eyes went round as quarters. “You’re sure you’re up for the most expensive kind? I understand there’s a big black market in Mopeds these days. Especially the expensive ones.” Audrey looked at Barney, smiled at him for the first time. “You’ll have to pick the thing up and carry it around with you when you’re not on it, Barney. Carry it on your back if you want to make sure nobody rips it off.” She went on smiling.
“Why doesn’t she shut up?” Barney asked Fex. Fists clenched, he began to bounce around in a circle, taking punches at the air. With each punch, he came closer to Audrey.
Audrey stood her ground, watching him, a faint smile on her lips. Finally she said, “I’ve got stuff to do, Fex. See you,” and she tucked in her elbows and jogged off down the street.
Fex watched her go. “Why do you hang out with her?” Barney asked angrily. “Stuck-up, la-di-da girl like her. I don’t get it.”
“We’re friends.”
Barney’s face turned crafty, his eyes slits. “She putting out?” he asked, chewing on his finger, smiling at Fex around it. “You getting any?”
Fex backed off. “Don’t be a jerk,” he said. “I have to split.”
“If you want, I can ask my mother’s boyfriend if he can get you a Moped half price too!” Barney called. Fex broke into a run, pretending he hadn’t heard. As he ran, he thought, I’ll go by the store, see if Angie’s there. Angie had a way with words. She made him laugh. He felt in need of a few laughs.
6
“Another day, another dollar,” Angie said, peering out from behind a rickety rack laden with small sacks of potato chips. Behind her hung a picture of her son dressed in his army uniform. Under the enormous hat his dark eyes stared out accusingly, his little sloping chin almost swallowed up by his uniform. A small, limp American flag adorned one side of the picture. On the other a pair of gilded baby booties kept watch.
Double-Dare O’Toole Page 2