Fouling Out

by Gregory Walters

  “You did well, Craig,” she quietly tells me at recess a few days later.

  “Really?” I ask. What kind of joke is she trying to play? I look in her eyes, trying to get to the truth.

  “You worked hard for this. I’m very proud of you.” Wow! She’s one hundred percent sincere.

  As Miss Chang shows me the retest, I see another percentage. I got a B. Not a high B, but still a B. I’ve never done so well on a math test in my life. I’m stunned.

  “Go enjoy the rest of your recess,” she whispers, pulling me out of my stupor. I shoot Miss Chang a big goofy grin. It goes against the code of never letting anyone see I care about anything in school—other than PE and maybe Computers. I must look positively dorky, but Miss Chang politely holds back any urge to laugh. She flashes me a satisfied smile. I want to walk nonchalantly out the door, but my feet overpower my mind, and I dance away in an awkward skip-jig. If she wasn’t laughing before, she probably is now.

  Tom is already involved in an intense game of basketball by the time I arrive at the court. He doesn’t know I took the retest or that I’ve been going in early for extra help. I’d told him to walk to school with Erin in the mornings to try to get to know her better. He liked that idea. Without a doubt, he’ll make fun of me if he finds out what I’m doing. I still want to tell him about my grade. I want to tell someone—anyone.

  Maybe when I get home, my parents will take me out to celebrate the same way we do for Dad’s promotions. Then I remember that Dad’s in Seattle on business. It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t be happier.

  Four

  There’s nothing worse than rain on Saturday. Except for rain on Saturday and Sunday. Unfortunately, it rains a lot in Richmond. A little drizzle isn’t a big deal, but this is one of those times when each cloud seems like a sponge that will never wring dry. I was stuck grocery shopping, plant shopping, card shopping and just plain aimless shopping with my mom all day Saturday. The promise of a Big Mac didn’t help.

  I have to make sure that Sunday won’t be a repeat performance. Mom and Dad have a big day planned, choosing paint for the living room. Sample strips cover the coffee table, and their current favorites—named after tasty desserts and exotic vacation spots— are taped to the wall above the sofa. This will be one of those tedious, month-long projects that my parents bond over.

  Thankfully, Tom answers the phone when I make my getaway call. He whispers, so I know his dad is still asleep. Sometimes on weekends Mr. Hanrahan sleeps until three or four in the afternoon. Tom once told me that it was because his father liked to play pool and get drunk most nights. Actually, Tom didn’t need to say a thing because I’d figured it out. You’ve never seen such a scary sight as Mr. Hanrahan when he wakes up. Foulmouthed, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke, his hair—what’s left of it—shooting out every which way.

  Anyway, we agree that I should go to his place to hang out even though we can’t figure out what to do. Tom refuses to come to my house because my mom is around; she and Tom barely tolerate each other. She says he’s a bad influence and she blames him for all my visits to the school office. Dad, on the other hand, pins the blame fully on me. No excuses, no justifications.

  When I get to Tom’s, we try our best to talk in whispers, knowing it’ll be bad news if Mr. Hanrahan gets an early awakening. No one else is around, which is pretty typical. Mrs. Hanrahan practically lives at her church. According to Tom, she doesn’t go there to volunteer. She goes to pray. I’m sure she has a long list of things to talk to God about. Tom’s older brother, Jerry, is working at an office supply store. He’s the shining star of the family because he made it halfway through eleventh grade before quitting school. (One time when Mr. Hanrahan was in a good mood, he bragged, “We Hanrahans are smart. We all finish school early.” Tom said it was his dad’s idea of a joke.) Tom never knows if his sister is home or not. She’s taken over the basement, which is where we used to hang out. Now the door is always locked. As far as I know, she doesn’t work. Mostly, she stays downstairs and smokes pot. No one seems to care.

  For the first little while, things go fine at Tom’s. With nothing to do, we raid the kitchen. Pickings are slim, but we create some really bizarre sandwiches. I have to eat what Tom makes and he has to eat what I make. (After a lot of arguing, we agree that dog food can’t be included.) His sandwich has mustard, beets, fruit cocktail and tuna. I make one stuffed with horseradish, yogurt, oatmeal and lima beans. I gag a little on the tuna sandwich but manage to get a mouthful down. Tom spits out his first bite of the lima bean special, and it sprays all over the counter. I don’t let him off that easy, so he has to take another stab at it. We take the leftovers outside, and his dog, Archie, finishes them off. Except for the beets.

  We’re in the living room flipping channels on the TV when Mr. Hanrahan comes barrelling in, swearing up a storm. As he approaches Tom, he throws an ashtray at him. It misses Tom and takes a small chunk out of the wall. Mr. Hanrahan yells some stuff about “shuttin’ up, cleanin’ up, and learnin’ manners” as he yanks Tom off the sofa and starts kicking him.

  I don’t even know what I shout out, but I just want Mr. Hanrahan to stop. For a moment, he lunges toward me, but then he turns back to his son as Tom tries to roll away. Tom yells at me to get out of the house, which is exactly what I do.

  I’ve never been more ashamed of myself after I walk— or run—home. I keep thinking about what I should’ve done, what I could’ve said. Why had I gone over there? I knew Mr. Hanrahan was sleeping. Would Mr. Hanrahan have punched me? Maybe I should’ve run to a neighbor’s to ask for help or call 911. Now that I’m gone, what will Mr Hanrahan do to Tom?

  I nervously wait for my parents to come home. As I wait, I think back on all the times I’ve seen Tom’s dad go berserk. Lots of yelling and swearing about how useless Tom and the rest of the family are. Once he even started to yell at me—something about my red T-shirt set him off—but Tom quickly grabbed me and we took off to play basketball. He broke a beer bottle on the floor once. Mostly he threw things at walls. But I’d never seen him get physical with Tom before. Maybe he’s been trying to be on his best behavior with a guest in the house.

  I go over and over in my head how to tell my parents what happened. I don’t have any idea how they will react. Sure, Mom will forbid me to go over there again, but I don’t know what my father will do. I grow more anxious as I sit in the living room, jumping up every time I catch a glimpse of a car in the street.

  I want to call Tom to make sure he’s okay, but I’m afraid of what he’ll say and of what might happen if Mr. Hanrahan is the one who picks up the phone. Maybe just the sound of the phone will set him off again.

  When my parents get home, I don’t have the guts to say anything. Mom is busy holding up swatches against the living room furniture, and Dad is back to reading his business magazines. I want to throw up, and it has nothing to do with fruit cocktail and tuna. I feel like the worst friend and the biggest coward who ever lived.

  On Monday, Tom is at school at the regular time. He looks no different than usual, aside from the fact he’s wearing jeans instead of his regular basketball shorts. He doesn’t mention anything about the day before, and neither do I. There are certain things about Tom that aren’t up for discussion. I don’t recall how or when I figured that out, but it was clearly understood.

  Five

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’m staring at a bowl of soggy Shreddies. My mother still insists on pouring the milk the moment she hollers for me to come down for breakfast. It’s cereal! What’s the rush? The mushy mess puts me in a foul mood, so I start complaining about how I have to spend the weekend reading a whole novel and then writing a paper on how the story would change if I added a famous person as a character.

  Totally unreasonable assignment, right? Good parents are supposed to say something like, “Oh, you poor thing” and tell you they’re going to talk to the teacher. My mom cuts me off with, “Oh, it’ll be fun!” And Dad just tries to out-whine me
. “You’ve got it good, Craig. Just wait till you get a job. It’s Saturday, and I’m off to a meeting.” Yeah, I think, as he grabs his briefcase and heads for the door. He’s off to a buffet breakfast at a fancy hotel in Vancouver. Life’s rough when you’ve got to talk a little business while you gorge yourself with waffles, omelettes and a separate plate loaded with bacon. Besides, he picked his job. Nobody gave me a choice about school.

  I go up to my room to mope. The moping gets interrupted when I fall asleep. I wake up and it’s afternoon. Study time is over. I decide to spend the rest of the day playing the new Space Explorers computer game in my dad’s office, but the doorbell rings before I’m even halfway to Jupiter. Dad’s off running an errand before flying to Calgary on business, Mom’s out setting up for an evening benefit for one of her causes—kids with leukemia or an endangered owl habitat—and my sister is working on a school project at a friend’s house. That leaves me to get up and get rid of whoever’s interrupting my space mission.

  Tom. We haven’t been hanging out as much since I saw his dad beat him up. The time apart hasn’t been such a bad thing. I get in an extra run during the week and I’ve been messing around on the computer whenever I put off or finish the heaps of homework Miss Chang assigns. Really, there hasn’t been much time for friends.

  “Hurry up and close the door,” Tom says as he lets himself in. “Look what I got.” He fishes around in his backpack and pulls out a gun and points it straight at me, his eyes bugged out and his mouth twisted into a demonic grin.

  “What the hell? Don’t point that at me.”

  “Scared ya, eh?” Tom laughs and shoves the gun back in his pack. “I ain’t gonna waste a bullet on you, so relax, man. We’re goin’ huntin’!”

  I’d feel safer going with Elmer Fudd. “Forget it. You’re crazy. I’m busy.”

  “Ah, come on. I just want to kill a squirrel and cut it open. Check out its guts. See if I can cut fast enough to catch the last couple heartbeats. It’ll be fun!”

  “I’m playing a computer game,” I say. “I’m in the middle of a mission that’ll get me beyond our galaxy if I’m successful.” I head back upstairs, but Tom follows me. I wish there was a way of transporting myself for real.

  “Don’t be such a geek. Computer game? Space? Are you nuts? It’s Saturday, man. Let’s shoot some squirrels.”

  Are you nuts? He actually asked if I was nuts. Wow. I may enjoy pretending I’m an astronaut, but he’s the one who needs the reality check. I stare at the computer screen and hope he’ll get bored really fast and take off. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him toss the backpack on the floor by my Dad’s bookcase. He flings himself sideways into the leather armchair.

  “How long’s your stupid mission gonna take? It gets dark at, like, four nowadays.”

  “Could take all afternoon. It’s a pretty sophisticated program.” As I try to focus on the screen, Tom lets out heavy sighs at a steady rate of three per minute. At one point he burps and then spends a couple of minutes laughing.

  “You could play too,” I say, figuring his fascination with his own belches will wane and he’ll want to talk about hunting season again.

  “It’s Saturday. I don’t do computers on weekends. Quit being a nerd.”

  “It’s really pretty cool. Just give it a try.”

  “Do you get to kill anything?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the scariest monster in it?”

  “It doesn’t have monsters. It teaches you about—”

  Shows, explains, demonstrates. There had to be fifty words I could have used other than teaches. He pounces all over it and won’t let up. “Teaches?! Nobody’s teaching me nothing on my time off.” Half an hour later, we’re heading to the park on a hunting expedition.

  “Let’s just play some basketball. Nobody’ll be at the court at school.”

  “Gotta be honest with you, Craig. I’m kinda bored shooting hoops with you. Even your layup is lame. You got no skills. For a while, it was amusing, but now it’s not even worth making fun of.”

  Sure, he could be more tactful, but I couldn’t argue. Basketball is okay, but it’s not my thing. Back when it was Bump and 21, I could play along all right. My dribbling was fine, my passing competent, but I just never managed to put everything together. I only brought up the sport to distract him from the hunt, but Tom wasn’t taking the bait. Pretty amazing since his brain is at least ninety-five percent basketball. In his own mind, he’s been in training to go pro since midway through grade two. On top of that, the guy can name every player in the NBA, spout off up-to-date stats for the season and give a solid analysis to explain any team’s loss or win. Over the years, I’ve grown skilled at avoiding any buzz words—swish, Magic, foul—that might trigger a longwinded b-ball lecture. If Tom could dribble the ball in class, he might absorb a bit of school stuff too. The rest of us wouldn’t learn, but that’s the thing. There’s Tom and then there’s everybody else.

  “Look, I can tell you’re freaked out over this gun thing. We’ll kill one squirrel and that’ll be it. We don’t have much time before my dad’s shift is done anyway.” Tom tosses the backpack on the ground just as we get to the woods. Not much of a woods really. Just a clump of trees between a bunch of houses and the high school field.

  “You know,” I say, “we could look on the Internet and find a demo of a pig dissection or something.” Tom is examining the gun close up, turning it from side to side, waving the firing end every which way. I don’t know where to stand.

  “Nice try,” Tom mutters after a few seconds. “You’re not getting me back in front of a computer. We already did your thing. It’s my turn now.” Tom gets up and walks farther into the trees. “Let’s go. Keep quiet and let me know when you see one. This place is loaded with ’em.”

  Loaded.

  “What are you doing back there?” Tom asks as he looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you doing some Run away, little squirrel dance?”

  “That’s an idea—”

  “Quiet. There’s one up in that tree on the left. Don’t move.” Tom holds the gun in the air and points it at the squirrel, which is now motionless on a branch, willing us away. Poor thing has a patch of fur missing near its rear. For some reason, that gets to me.

  Before Tom pulls the trigger, I jump on his shoulders and knock him down. In mid-tackle the gun goes off. The distinct sound of broken glass follows.

  We both swear at the same time, out of pure shock. Where was the glass? What broke? Did someone scream? Is anyone hurt?

  Tom spits a couple times as he shoves me off and gets to his feet. “What the hell’d you do that for? Are you stupid?” Okay, tackling Tom as he was about to fire a gun was stupid, but I’m not about to admit that to Tom. He started the stupidity—by bringing along a gun and wanting to shoot it; I just expanded it. Tom scans the dirt in search of the gun, which he must’ve dropped during the scuffle.

  “What’d you hit? Did you hear glass breaking?” I ask.

  “What did I hit? Obviously not a freakin’ squirrel. You messed it up.” He spots the gun a few feet away and hurriedly puts it in his backpack as he looks around to see if anyone has shown up to investigate the noise. His crazed hunting smile has vanished, and I can tell he’s as close to total panic as I am. We both crouch down and hide behind a couple of trees and peek at the closest house, which is just beyond the nearby fence.

  The bullet has cracked an upper window. I swear under my breath as I slide against the tree and sit down hard on the ground. Tom keeps staring at the point of impact. I keep swearing as cold sweat floods my forehead and underarms.

  “Hey!” Tom whispers. Is that excitement in his voice? Is he a psychopath? A psychopath with a gun? “Isn’t that Robert Montgomery’s house? Yeah, I’m sure it is!”

  I get up and take another peek, still keeping my body hidden by the tree. Tom’s right. I’d been to Robert’s a couple of times. The dormers and the orange trim are pretty distinctive.

  “Don’
t you get it? We’re cool! The house is empty. Robert moved months ago,” Tom says.

  “There was a moving van there a week ago. They were moving a bunch of stuff in,” I reply. My voice shakes as I start to comprehend what has happened. “Oh, God! What if you killed someone?!”

  “Me? You did it. You knocked me down. I only wanted a squirrel. It’s all your fault.”

  “I told you all along to forget about the gun, but you—”

  “Never mind. Let’s get out of here and get the gun back in my dad’s closet.” He shoves his face about three inches from mine. “No one’s gonna find out about this,” he hisses. “Right?”

  Six

  As I’m waiting in Tom’s backyard for him to ditch the gun, every scene from every cop show I’ve ever watched flashes before my eyes: slamming the criminal against the side of the squad car and handcuffing him, shining bright lights in the guy’s face down at the police station, screaming at him until he confesses, tossing him into solitary, escorting him down the corridor in Death Row to the electric chair…Clearly, we’re toast.

  Where’s Tom? How long can it take? What if he’s taken off out the front door and left me to face the swarm of cop cars all alone?

  Finally, he comes back out and sits on the back steps. I walk over to join him. For once, he looks scared. Archie sits beside Tom and licks his face. Tom seems to be hugging the dog more than petting him.

  I wait for Tom to speak. “You don’t think we killed someone, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” What else can I say? We’d run from the scene—a crushing piece of evidence when the jury decides between life imprisonment and The Chair.

  “Even if the bullet hit somebody, it probably wouldn’t kill them. A shot to the arm isn’t too serious.”

  “No,” I agree, not wanting to argue the point.