The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records

by Colleen Sydor

  It felt kind of good sitting there in the sun, watching his dog chase butterflies and dandelion fluff. Lee made a frame with his thumbs and index fingers, looked through the imaginary movie lens, and panned the length of the field, ending with a close up of Santi—who by now was licking her butt, of all things. Typical.

  Lee let his shoulders relax. The sun felt like a soothing hand against his back. “Buck up, kid,” he could almost hear it saying. “Things could always be worse.” Lee sighed when he noticed the fresh deposit Santiago had thoughtfully left in the middle of the soccer field. Great. Not a pooper-scooper or a plastic bag in sight. Lee fished a potato-chip bag from a nearby trashcan and started toward the healthy-sized heap.

  He was just about to bend down and take care of the problem when he heard a voice from behind. “Hey, Einstein!”

  Double great. Lee closed his eyes. He recognized the voice: Martin Bassinger—Martin Pain-In-The-Neck Bassinger from his math class.

  “What’re you doing in my neck of the woods?” asked Martin, tossing a baseball and catching it neatly in his glove.

  “You live around here?” said Lee.

  “’Cross the street,” said Martin. “Just killing time till Charlotte shows up.” He gave a sly smile. “Homework, know what I mean?”

  Triple great, thought Lee. Charlotte was all he needed now. Was there a full moon, or what?

  “I’m just giving my dog a run,” said Lee. He had no intention of saying anything about the soccer game. With any luck, Martin would wander back home to wait for Charlotte and he’d be left to watch the game in peace.

  Martin stood there, tossing the ball for a second, as if making up his mind whether or not to say something. Lee was relieved when he saw him start a slow saunter away. He waited for it, though—yep, here it comes, thought Lee, as he watched Martin slow down and turn to say something.“Nice performance this afternoon, Einstein. It was worth the look on old Wood-tic’s nerdy-turdy face.”

  Lee had no idea if that was meant as a compliment or a jab, and really, he could have cared less. It took him a while to maneuver the dog poo into the potato-chip bag. There was no way he could turn the greasy little thing inside out, so he had to use a stick to coax the poop into the bag. Argh. He was nearly at the garbage can at the other end of the field when he heard the last voice on earth he wanted to hear.

  “Do you share?”

  “Huh?” He looked at gorgeous Charlotte Bailey, eyeing his potato-chip bag.

  “Come on, just one,” she said. “Salt ’n’ vinegar’s my favorite.”

  The way she said it almost gave Lee the dizzying feeling that gorgeous Charlotte Bailey was flirting with him, but of course, that was about as likely as Iron Man magazine phoning him up for a photo shoot. Yeah, Lee, we’ll pay you a thousand bucks for just one picture of you and those amazing pecs …

  Lee suddenly gave his head a shake and realized what Charlotte was asking for. Oh, no. He quickly hid the poo-filled salt ’n’ vinegar bag behind his back, all too aware of what he looked like: a two-year-old, too spoiled to share his potato chips. But what was he supposed to do? He stared at her and swallowed hard. No words came. Big surprise.

  Gorgeous Charlotte Bailey looked at Lee as if there was something seriously wrong with him and walked away, shaking her head. Lee’s shoulders drooped nearly to his knees. He watched for a while as Charlotte left the park and headed for Martin’s house. “Santi?” he said, still looking at Charlotte’s beautiful backside. “You wanna know what Charlie Chaplin once said?” He glanced at Santiago’s uncomprehending eyes. “Give me a break,” he said. “You know … Chaplin? The little dude with the mustache and bowler hat? Used to twirl a stick? Whatever. The guy said, ‘Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.’” Lee squatted, held Santiago’s sloppy jowls in his hands, and looked into her eyes. “You think I’ll ever look back on this and laugh?”

  Santiago gave a woof.

  “Nope,” said Lee, “neither do I.”

  Lee thought about the beginning of this day that seemed so full of possibility. “I’m fine,” he said to himself, wishing he could believe it. “I’m totally freakin’ fine.”

  It was then he saw the ribbon that had fallen from Charlotte’s ponytail and slipped to the grass like a silky secret. He raced over, picked it up, raised his hand in the air. He opened his mouth, but her name got caught in his throat. Lee looked at the purple ribbon in his hand, lifted it to his nose (oh gosh, no, the smell of wildflower shampoo), and stuffed the ribbon in his pocket without saying a word.

  Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling in love.

  – Albert Einstein

  You don’t get to choose, you just fall.

  – Unknown

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score?

  Vincent Lombardi

  Soon, members from both teams started arriving in twos and threes. When Slang showed up on the other side of the field, Lee saw him shade his eyes and search the stands. When he spotted Lee, he whistled with his fingers and waved. That cheered Lee a little. He watched the team go through their drills. It was a thing of beauty, really. Slang controlled that ball as if he were the master and it the loyal servant, ready to do anything he wished. His moves seemed so effortless, but of course they weren’t. Lee wasn’t stupid enough to believe that skill like that came without years of hard practice. Still, Slang seemed born to connect with that ball.

  Santiago just about went bonkers when the game finally began. Lee had to hold tight to the leash or she would have been on that field racing after the ball with the best of them. And she wasn’t the only one who was swept away. When Slang got a breakaway in the first ten minutes of the game and scored a wicked-beautiful goal, Lee leapt to his feet with the rest of the crowd, and the contagious rush of excitement was enough to make him forget all about Charlotte Bailey and the salt ’n’ vinegar poop incident. It even made him dare to think that maybe this day didn’t have to be a write-off after all. That, maybe, just maybe, it could end as spectacularly as it had begun.

  Lee watched as Slang’s teammates mobbed him after the goal and bombarded him with a storm of back-whacks and high-fives. Those who were too far away raised fists of victory in his direction—“Way t’be, Kischuck!” The ball was brought back to the center line and the ref started the new play with his whistle. Bing-bang, back and forth, a tackle here, a tricky deke there, oooof!—a body-check, a whistle for rough play. The speed! Lee found his jaw hanging open half the time.

  It took the other team twelve minutes and a few dirty plays to finally break through the Eagles defense and score a goal of their own. At the time, Slang was taking his turn on the bench, but Lee could see that he was just about busting out of his skin to get back out onto the field. When he finally did, he was like a dynamo possessed. He quickly got possession of the ball, faked out his opponent with some fancy footwork, and passed to a forward who took a shot on goal. The goalie dove toward the ball, deflecting it with the tips of his fingers. Slang took the rebound on his forehead and sent the ball sailing smoothly over the downed goalie.

  Man, oh man! When that happened, the old guy beside Lee jumped up so fast his popcorn went flying through the air like confetti. Then he turned and hugged Lee, just about lifting his feet from the ground. “Oh Lord, look at me,” he apologized when he realized he’d just hugged a complete stranger. “Sorry, kid,”—he straightened the cap on Lee’s head—“it’s just, well, that’s my son out there. He’s something, isn’t he?” The man didn’t wait for a reply. His attention was back on the field and his son, and for a while, Lee watched his beaming profile instead of the action.

  Slang’s dad, eh? Hmm, pretty nice that some people get to grow up with one of those. He noticed another player’s father filming the game with a video camera—not an imaginary one, either. Thank goodness we’re not all nutballs, thought Lee. Maybe it was the sight of those proud fathers, or maybe just the
crappy day catching up with him, but it was about then that Lee began to notice something wrong with his mouth. Not his mouth, exactly, but his smile. It felt like it was pasted on his face, like he had to concentrate on keeping it there, or it would just slide right off.

  Lee squatted down and pressed his forehead to Santiago’s. “What’s up with me?” he whispered. Then he spoke to her telepathically, like he often did. We’re here at a soccer game, Santi, and we’re winning, and Slang is flying, and I’m thinking about my mouth? Santiago barked and broke away to sniff at another chained dog, who was far more interesting than Lee at that moment. Lee sighed, straightened up, and tried to concentrate on the play.

  As the game continued, the Eagles held onto their win, the fans roared, Mr. Kischuck spilled more popcorn, and Lee should have been flying higher than a kite in a windstorm. He tried telling himself he was: I am. I’m fine. I’m higher ’n a kite. To prove it, he attacked Santiago the way he always did when he was in an extra good mood. He scruffed her behind the ears, let her lick his face, and talked to her out loud this time. “This is the best, eh, Santi?! Are those guys unbelievable, or what?” But as the words slipped from Lee’s mouth, they made him feel like a big fat phony. Not that he didn’t mean what he said; he did. He just didn’t have the fire inside to back it up. He got the feeling that if someone had opened his mouth wide enough just then and yelled inside: “Hey, anybody home?” the resounding echoes would have gone on forever … Anybody home … body home … body home … body home? Hollow as a dead fly on a December windowsill, that’s how he felt. That’s what this day had reduced him to. For the rest of the game, Lee went through the motions—clapping, smiling, enduring Mr. Kischuk’s big bear hugs. But he couldn’t fool Santi. She pushed her snout under Lee’s hand and nudged his butt and gave the kind of half-yip, half-whine that usually got her some attention and a few reassuring pats on the belly. But Lee hardly noticed her. The more he watched the unbelievable talent of the players on the field, the more his own little “Technicolor marathon high” of this morning seemed like some kind of idiotic joke.

  After the game, Lee summoned every last bit of energy he had to look happy when Slang came striding toward him.

  “Hey, that was amazing, Slang! You’re the best!”

  “Yeah? You think so?” said Slang faking a punch to Lee’s shoulder. “Well, let me tell you something, little bro: I think you must be my good luck charm. You’d better be here for the next game, you hear?”

  Lee just smiled.

  “You okay?” said Slang. “You look kind of …”

  “I’m f …” Lee stopped. He couldn’t say the word “fine” one more time today. “I’m f … eeling kind of tired,” said Lee. “You know, the marathon and everything.”

  “Know what you mean, man. Do you need a ride?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve got my bike. See ya, Slang.”

  “Hey,” called Slang, “you’ve got my phone number, right? Next game’s a week today!”

  Lee just gave a backward wave and headed for his bike.

  I’m not always depressed: only when I think and feel.

  – Ashleigh Brilliant

  When the morning’s freshness has been replaced by the weariness of midday, when the leg muscles give under the strain, the climb seems endless, and suddenly nothing will go quite as you wish—it is then you must not hesitate.

  – Dag Hammarskjöld

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lee didn’t think about much of anything on his way home. For the first time today, it felt good to be empty inside. Just like that dead fly carcass. Blow on it, and poof … gone like dust.

  He just wanted to be at home in his room, lying on his bed, mindlessly tossing a ball to the ceiling and catching it over and over and over again. That’s why he surprised himself when he spotted Rhonda walking down the street and decided to follow her at a distance. He leaned his bike against a tree, made sure Santiago’s leash was tight on the handlebar, and told her to stay. “I’ll be back in a minute, girl.” Santiago didn’t mind. The smell of a dozen dogs that had visited this tree before had her intrigued.

  Rhonda was clomping down the sidewalk in her goofy huge running shoes, carrying a backpack in one hand, and her guitar case in the other. She was humming some crazy tune, off key, of course. Lee knew she was on her way to guitar lessons. She took guitar at St. Ignatius, the same school he’d taken saxophone lessons (yeah, saxophone) two years ago. The school opened its doors once a week in the evenings for private music lessons. He watched her go in, then sat on the front steps to give her time to get to her lesson. What goes on inside that girl’s brain? he wondered. Lee wished he could sneak a video camera inside her head and take a good look around.

  INTERIOR OF A GIRL’S HEAD: TAKE ONE

  CAMERA THREE, START WITH A CLOSE-UP OF THE BUBBLEGUM STUCK IN RON’S HAIR

  The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, through the eyeballs and out the snout …” Rhonda could never quite remember the correct tune to that song. Bummer, ’cause she liked it. As she got closer to the school, she stopped humming and sighed. She pushed through the front doors and headed straight for the girls washroom. Rhonda laid her guitar case across the sinks and threw her backpack on the floor. Of all the music teachers in the world, why did she have to end up with a goon who insisted that “a young lady should always wear clothing worthy of the instrument she plays?” In other words, put on a dress and comb your hair before you step into my classroom, missy, or you’re out the door.

  Rhonda rifled through her backpack and pulled out a stupid, idiotic dress and tried putting the stupid, idiotic, stupid, stupid, idiotic … (at this point, her arms and head were good and stuck inside, since she hadn’t bothered to undo the zipper) stupid, stupid, idiotic, ugly-hideous thing on over her T-shirt and shorts. The struggle left her with a red face and flyaway hair that nearly touched the ceiling. She looked at herself in the mirror. If only she could keep her high-tops on, it might not be so bad. But she’d tried that a dozen times and been sent back for her shoes— “Those runners are a disgrace, and an insult, Ms. Ronaldson. Out you go.” Rhonda had begged her mother over and over again to find a new music teacher, but in the end, even she had to admit that she learned more from Miss Edwards than any other teacher she’d ever had. Rhonda yanked her shoes from the backpack and grudgingly put them on. Then she tried to rake a comb through her tangles.

  FADE TO: INTERIOR OF A BOY’S HEAD

  ROLL CAMERA

  Lee picked at the crumbling cement of the St. Ignatius school steps and finally stood up. The whole saxophone-lesson fiasco of two years ago was not one of Lee’s favorite memories. So passing through the school doors that evening didn’t exactly bring back a case of the warm fuzzies. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, his conscience didn’t feel too good, either. He’d never heard Rhonda play before; she refused to entertain anyone but herself. But he had a feeling she’d suck at it—big time—and something in him needed to witness someone else’s life suck for a second or two and then just walk away.

  CUT TO RHONDA

  Rhonda looked both ways down the hall before stepping out of the washroom. All clear. She shot down the hall like a fugitive on the run. No way was she going to take the chance of being seen looking like a Barbie doll. Miss Edwards sighed as Rhonda entered. “Miss Ronaldson, have you ever heard of that amazing little invention called the ‘iron’?”

  “As in, ironing-board and all that? Yeah, I heard of it.”

  “You might consider using one on your dress before you leave the house next time.”

  In your dreams, thought Rhonda. The day she’d come out of her house and walk all the way to the school in broad daylight in that dress was the day they’d have to drag her yelling and screaming to the loony bin. She put her guitar case on the nearest desk and opened it.

  CUT TO LEE

  With rounded shoulders and hands stuffed deep in his pockets, Lee dragged his feet all the way to the music room and put his ear to the door.
Nope. Piano music. Maybe she was in the next room. He popped his head into the grade three class but only saw a little kid in there with a flute. Lee walked down the hall, looking into open doors and listening at closed ones. He had thought he’d have no problem tracking Rhonda down; he’d always imagined that she played an electric guitar—an irritatingly loud electric guitar—but maybe not. Maybe she had one of those cheap old twangy things that most kids start on.

  FADE IN TO RHONDA

  “Did you bother practicing this week?”

  “Of course,” fibbed Rhonda.

  “Let’s hear it, then,” said Miss Edwards, skeptically. “Play the song you were having such trouble with last week.”

  CUT

  ZOOM IN ON LEE

  Finally, thought Lee, coming to a stop, the sound of a guitar. But what he heard outside the door of the grade-eight classroom made him break out into a sweat. Someone in there was playing classical guitar like they knew what they were doing. Like some kind of genius. Lee touched his forehead to the door. No way. No way. That can’t be Rhonda. Tell me that’s not Rhonda. I don’t think I could take it if that was R … He opened the door a crack and peeked inside. His body instantly relaxed. Whew. It was just some pizza-face kid in there—a dude who had obviously been born with a guitar in his hands. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies, thought Lee—at least I don’t have pimples.