Fouling Out

by Gregory Walters

  As she finishes her question, I notice Tom running past me with a big smirk on his face. “No,” I say, surprising myself. I had an out and I let it go.

  “Well, do the stretches and then rest if you need to,” Miss Chang says as she briskly walks away to cheer on the slower runners.

  Within a couple of minutes, Miss Chang calls everyone over to divide us into four teams for volleyball. She hasn’t even numbered off four people when Tom blurts out, “I’m not playing on Craig’s team or against him. Put me in the other game.”

  “I try to create fair teams,” Miss Chang says. “I don’t take requests.”

  As she continues, Tom interrupts again. “I’m not playing anywhere near Craig, and you can’t make me. He’s in love with me.”

  Great. First all the guys, now the girls and Miss Chang. If she sends him to the office, he’ll find a way to humiliate me over the school’s PA system—on the only afternoon my mom is in the building.

  Thankfully, Miss Chang directs Tom to sit on a bench while she finishes making the teams. “Do you want to talk about it, Craig?” she asks quietly as I head to my assigned court. I shake my head emphatically. I don’t want anyone to see a teacher bailing me out.

  We rally for serve and play a couple of points when a girl on my team hits an errant bump which flies sideways and out of bounds. Tom leaps up from the bench, retrieves it and intentionally drills it at my head. I duck in time. Miss Chang doesn’t see it, since she is on the other court patiently helping Mindy Chu figure out how to get a serve over the net.

  I do my best to ignore Tom and focus on game play. In the middle of the next point, Tom pounces on me and knocks me down. The punches are flying so fast all I can do is get my hands up to block my face.

  In less than a minute, Miss Chang and a couple of the guys pull Tom off me.

  At least a dozen eyes peer down at me. Could someone please pull the fire alarm and get them away from me? I am lying on the floor, too stunned to do anything other than lift my head ever so slightly. One of the girls screams about blood on the gym floor—apparently from the back of my head. I rest my head again and surrender to being the main attraction of the day’s freak show. At least I have the sense to close my eyes. The principal rushes in, and I tilt my head to see her escorting Tom away.

  Miss Chang applies a cold wet paper towel to my face as my mother fusses over me. Wonderful. Rescued by my teacher and my mom. When I start to sit up, I throw up.

  After fifteen minutes in the nurse’s room, my mother takes me to the doctor to have things checked out. I’ve got some bruises and I have a small gash somewhere at the back of my head. A big bump too. If you’re gonna have a wound, it’s always best for it to be in a place where you don’t have to look at it.

  As we drive home from the doctor’s office, my mom’s too upset to talk. She focuses really hard on traffic. I try to figure out what brought on Tom’s latest outburst. What was he thinking? Was something going on at home? And, if so, is that any excuse? We’ve been friends for ages, and he suddenly goes delusional and gets it in his head I’m gay? I can’t explain it. That’s the thing. I’m not sure even Tom can.

  At home, my mother informs me that Tom has been suspended for two days. That means he’ll have a four-day weekend. Harsh. I just want to know how I can transfer.

  Twelve

  At 7:15 the next morning, the phone rings. I’m eating my standard fare of soggy Shreddies when my mom answers it.

  “Hello? Yes. What do you want?” Wow! Mom sounds terse. Obviously, the coffee hasn’t kicked in. If she asks me to take out the garbage, I’ll do it without the routine complaining. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to you,” she says. Something bad must’ve happened with Dad at work yesterday. Even so, he wouldn’t want Mom talking to his clients like that. This isn’t the day for him to be trying for the perfect shave. “No, I’m sure—No—” Bang! Wow. I’ve never seen Mom hang up on anyone. Dad does it every so often when business talks get too intense, and now Mom’s acting like Dad’s agent.

  “Who was it, Mom?”

  “Tom.”

  As she answers me, I see the bags under her puffy eyes. Worse, her eyes are all red. She looks like she hasn’t slept, and I bet she’s had a good cry before breakfast.

  “I don’t want you hanging out with him anymore.” Her voice is strong and her words firm. This is not the time to protest. I don’t want to anyway.

  The phone rings again. I bow my head to watch the slimy cereal bits fracture in my bowl. I’ve lost my appetite, so I just maneuver my spoon here and there between the wheat particles. For a moment, I regress and the spoon becomes a shiny racing boat. The phone continues to ring. Mom pours another cup of coffee, ignoring my lapse in maturity and the persistent ringing of the phone. After nine or ten rings, Dad yells from upstairs for someone to get the phone.

  Mom finally picks up. I know immediately that Tom has had the nerve to call back. Mom’s voice and stance remind me of a mama grizzly, determined to protect her cub. Or maybe a female wrestler, ready to toss her foe overhead and out of the ring. (Okay, so I flip channels on Saturdays! It’s not like I’ve ever watched a whole bout.)

  “I have told you quite clearly that he does not want to speak to you.” Every syllable is delivered like a strong punch.

  “I’ll take it, Mom,” I say. I don’t want to talk to him, but I want to hear what he has to say. How pathetic and desperate will his apology be? In disgust, Mom drops the phone on the counter, walks to the sink and lets the garbage disposal be her substitute screamer.

  “Craig, you gotta come by my house on the way to school.”

  “You’re suspended.”

  “But my dad doesn’t know. I have to act like I’m going to school.”

  “You’re out of luck.”

  “C’mon, man! He’ll kill me. I mean, really kill me.”

  “I can’t help you. Bye.”

  Incredible. Twenty-four hours earlier this guy was my best friend, like it or not. Now I’m feeding him to the wolves—or one drunken werewolf anyway. I didn’t know I could be so cold. I guess that’s what a blow to the head’ll do. I stir the mess in my bowl a couple more times before deciding breakfast is over. As I get up and leave the kitchen, I feel Mom’s stare following me. I know she wants to unload some motherly advice, but she wisely resists. It would be too awkward trying to discuss what Tom did yesterday and, worse, why he’d done it. I’m sure that the principal filled her in on all the details, but I prefer to pretend she knows nothing.

  I take a different route to school just to avoid going anywhere near Tom’s house. Why does he need me to pretend to walk to school with him? It’s not as if we walk to school together every day. Most times, yes, but not always. Besides, just yesterday he was all psychotic about being seen with me. What’s changed? Maybe it’s a trick to get me over there so he can finish what he started.

  Tom hadn’t said anything close to “I’m sorry” on the phone. He was just trying to save his neck. I have my own neck to worry about. I have to walk back into class after my best friend went berserk and declared that I’m gay. I decide to walk really slowly so I won’t get to class until the moment the bell rings. No point in subjecting myself to any more torment than absolutely necessary.

  How bad can it be if Tom’s dad finds out what happened yesterday? Would he beat Tom? As far as I know, his older sister and brothers were worse than Tom in school and they’re still alive—well, at least two of them are. I still don’t know a thing about where the oldest brother is. Tom refuses to talk about what happened to Andy.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the school bell. I’m still a block away. How did I mistime it so badly? Being late will attract even more attention than arriving early. This is great—just great.

  When I walk in, Miss Chang is already going over the integer homework in math. That woman doesn’t waste a single second of school time. Work, work, work. Come to think of it, that’s a good thing today.

  “Good morni
ng, Craig,” Miss Chang chirps, just as I’d hoped she wouldn’t. Why is it that teachers have no clue what it’s like to be a student?

  Miss Chang immediately resumes demonstrating math problems, leaving me to face the stares and glares of my peers. Strangely though, most people don’t turn my way at all. Mark gives me a half wave before focusing again on the lesson. Todd Allbright smiles briefly from across the room as do one or two others. Mindy Chu stares for a few moments, but I glare at her like always and she goes back to looking at the blackboard.

  “You okay?” Jenny Tai whispers from the desk behind me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll show you the homework question you missed.”

  That’s nice of her. To my surprise, everyone is perfectly normal all morning. Then, it hits me. Of course! Miss Chang. With my early departure yesterday and Tom being booted from school, she’d pounced on the opportunity to give the class one of her famous pep talks. I can almost hear her: “How would it feel if it had been you?” “What do you think Craig’s feeling right now?” “This is a remarkably mature class that knows how to show respect to each of its members. I expect nothing less.”

  Maybe in her trademark fashion, Miss Chang had nipped things in the bud and saved me. She’s that rare breed: a do-gooder who actually does good. Even if I’d wanted to thank her, she wouldn’t have let me—not when we have algebraic equations with negative integers to learn.

  Thirteen

  I’m always tired on Mondays. Just when I get into the swing of sleeping in on Saturday and Sunday, along comes Monday to spoil it all. Why can’t school start at eleven in the morning? Of course, I wouldn’t want it to run longer either. Maybe they could stop teaching math, science and French. Later start, shorter day. Works for me.

  This particular Monday morning is worse than most. My mother barges into my room, screaming at me to turn the alarm off. I never knew it was on. With vocal cords like hers, who needs the alarm anyway?

  Over breakfast, my mother is reciting all the things I need to do at home after school. I fall asleep on the table shortly after she mentions shovelling some manure. Boy, does that make her mad. I get my second awakening of the day from those lungs. No amount of fatigue is worth hearing Megaphone Mom again.

  At school, I realize I’ve left my backpack at home. Here I’d spent hours (well, maybe twenty minutes) on my homework, and I’m not going to get credit for it. The math work wouldn’t have mattered since I haven’t understood a thing about negative integers in equations over the past week. I’m just waiting for the unit to end. Why would anybody want to subtract (12) from (-9x) in the first place? Who thought that up? Four-year-olds are freaked by monsters; for seventh graders, it’s mathematicians.

  I’m so tired that it’s not until the math homework is assigned that I realize Tom isn’t there and remember why.

  I have no regrets about this latest Tom Break. When a guy yells at you and beats you up in front of the whole class, it’s pretty easy to enjoy the downtime. A suspension might make Tom think about his actions. Maybe it’ll give him time to come up with a sincere way to apologize and explain himself. That’s why, when I see Tom rolling his basketball like a bowling ball along the curb and trying to knock over empty trash cans, I don’t look for an alternate route home. He stops his odd little game as I approach. He looks right at me. He’s probably giving his apology one last run-through in his head. I stop right in front of him and wait to hear what he has to say.

  He punches me.

  Ah, yes. The suspension has clearly had the desired effect.

  “Lay off,” I say. “We’re not friends anymore. And just to set the record straight, I’m not gay! Where’d that come from? Don’t know what kind of short circuit happened in your brain, but you really lost it.” I should keep walking, but I don’t.

  Tom stands there, smirking. “Shut up.”

  “Get out of my sight. I mean it.” I make a move to the left to pass him, but he shifts to block.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do too. Why’d you have to say those things?” Okay, mouth, stop extending the conversation. I shift right; he blocks again. For a guy who accused me of being gay, he seems desperate to be my dance partner.

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, why’d you have to not mean it in front of absolutely everyone?”

  “Get over it, all right?” He continues to lateral left and right, thankfully dribbling the basketball so it doesn’t feel so stupid. “We’re friends.”

  “Yeah, right. Why’d you hit me just now?”

  “Because you deserved it.”

  “You’re totally whacked. I oughta be hitting you.”

  I head to the other side of the street and walk on. Tom doesn’t follow.

  Walking home, I am more mad at myself than at Tom. What is wrong with me? Did I really think Tom would apologize? The only times I’ve ever heard him say sorry are when a teacher or Mr. Skye makes him. He doesn’t ever mean it. He just does it so he can get back to playing basketball at lunch. Even the teachers must know that. They don’t want to spend all their lunches babysitting the guy.

  He doesn’t even pretend to apologize to me. He punches me. Sure, it wasn’t hard or anything, but after what happened in the gym, how can he think that’s the way to fix things?

  Why do I keep giving Tom a chance? Yeah, he’s funny. Yeah, he makes life interesting. But come on! All my office visits were one thing, but now it’s guns and fights with adults and gay taunts and fights with me. We’ve got history. Lots of it. But friendships change, right? Things would be so much easier if there was some other place where I really fit in.

  Fourteen

  Tom’s return to school comes without balloons or welcome banners.

  “I’M BAAAACK!” he bellows, causing our classmates to glance his way, grimace and then resume whatever they’d been doing. Fours days of reflection have not helped Tom discover how to win friends.

  Surprisingly, nobody looks to see my reaction when Tom walks in. I guess there’s no reason to do so. There isn’t a person in the room who hasn’t at one time or another been subjected to Tom’s intimidation tactics. Last week I was the victim and that gave everyone else a break. If he had put me into a coma and been suspended for a whole week, the class would have been a little more grateful. I have no doubt that, if the school held a fundraiser to ship Tom off to Guatemala instead of carrying on with its Adopt-A-Child program, we’d be cheering “Bon Voyage” (or whatever you’d say in Spanish) in a matter of days.

  I have no contact with Tom the whole day. Miss Chang has created a new seating arrangement: Tom’s desk is right beside hers and mine is way over on the opposite side of the room. It’s a nice gesture, but a little subtlety would have been appreciated. She could’ve put me in the second row from the right instead of the farthest. Having a tiny female teacher protect me is just plain embarrassing.

  As long as I am away from Tom, it doesn’t really matter where I sit. I really don’t have any other friends in the class. I haven’t done anything with Mark since we went to the movies. He’s always in the computer lab during lunch and recess. I like computers, but not at school. The lab has too many bad memories—lots of typing drills and lame assignments by teachers who don’t know much about technology. The times I do go in the lab, Mark and Lewis Tsai are too consumed by whatever website they’re on to notice. Keith is starting to hang out pretty much exclusively with a group of Chinese ESL students, and there’s no use trying to mix with them because they always speak Chinese. If I stand near them, nothing changes. I guess if my family moved to Hong Kong and I found a group of students who spoke English, I’d act the same way.

  For the past couple of days, I’ve been eating at my desk by myself with a book open. I’m not really reading. I’m kind of spying on everyone else, listening in on their conversations and watching what they do. It’s time I figured out how normal people my age interact. Each group seems totally oblivious to everyone and everyth
ing else in the room, making my eavesdropping not much of a challenge.

  I’m not the only one eating alone. Mindy is always by herself. If you ask me, she’s someone who doesn’t know how to have fun. She always has her head buried in a textbook, diligently trying to do a bonus assignment or reading ahead in Social Studies.

  Roger Battersby also eats solo. There’s nothing really wrong with him, but then again there’s nothing really right. He’s just flat-out boring. He never has any ideas of his own. I hate having him in my group for any projects because he never contributes anything. He just listens and shrugs his shoulders a lot. His face goes beet red whenever he has to speak in class, and he makes talking look utterly painful. He’s been a favorite target of Tom’s because it’s so easy to see when you’ve gotten under his skin.

  The big surprise is that Taryn is eating alone. That one I can’t figure out at all. She is one of the popular girls—along with Tracey, Erin and Tammi. But now she looks completely miserable. She isn’t used to it the way Mindy and Roger are. Tracey, Erin and Tammi sit close to her and act as if she doesn’t exist. They laugh louder than ever and make every effort to look as if they are having the best time ever. Taryn silently finishes her lunch and then aimlessly walks the halls until the afternoon bell rings. The other three always calm down once Taryn makes her exit.

  It might be the perfect opportunity to befriend Taryn, but I know there is no point in trying. Even as a loner, she is still way too popular for someone like me.

  With Tom back in school, I could go back to eating with him, but I’d rather eat by myself. Tom has big problems. He needs help. Even I have figured that out. Shock treatments might not do any good, but I’m at the point where I wouldn’t mind watching. Maybe he’ll eventually get sent off to military school and get ordered around by tough, battle-scarred men. Why do they put problem guys in the military anyway? Does it really make sense to teach them how to use weapons?