Fouling Out
Page 6
In truth I don’t have to try to ignore Tom, because he is apparently doing the same to me. At the sound of the recess and lunch bells, he vanishes faster than teachers do when there’s a problem on the playground. I have no idea what he is doing, and I’m glad to have it that way.
Fifteen
Tom’s return to school doesn’t last long. Mrs. Brewer pulls him out of class, and then he is gone. I figure he’d mouthed off to Vice-Principal Skye one too many times and the school decided to take a stand.
Nobody in class voices any concern or curiosity. Life goes on. I don’t bother to call him to get his side of things, because I am pretty tired of hearing his side: The whole world is against him, and there is no way he is responsible for anything. Still, after he’s been gone for five days, I start to think of phoning. I wonder if they’ve forced him to transfer to another school in the district or if they’ve kicked him out completely.
I’m in my room finishing up an essay on the value of tombs and pyramids in ancient Egypt when my mother calls out, “Craig! Your friend’s on the news!” At first I think she’s referring to Mark—maybe he’s receiving some award for Smartest Student Ever—but as I run down the stairs, she yells, “Come quickly!”
I’ve missed the whole story by the time I get to the den. My mother’s face looks pale as she stands there, looking back and forth from the TV to me. The phone rings before I can get anything out of her.
“Get that, will you?” she asks absentmindedly.
I grab the phone in the den and can’t get a “Hello” out before the voice from the other end says, “Craig? Is Craig there, please?”
I recognize the voice despite the total absence of a giggle. It’s Tracey. I play it cool. “This is Craig. Who’s this?”
“Hi, Craig. It’s Tracey from school. Did you see the news? Tom’s missing.” I don’t say a thing. I know she isn’t kidding. The expression on my mother’s face provides confirmation.
Tracey goes on and on, talking faster than I can follow at times. This is grade seven drama of the highest kind, and I know that she will have a lot more calls to make tonight.
“Can you believe Tom had a gun? Tom! Miss Chang moved him into the row near me. Do you think he ever had the gun at school? You know, in his desk or his backpack? Everyone says he liked me, you know. Isn’t that creepy? The guy had a gun! And where is he now? He could be in the bushes out back right now! Freaky! I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep tonight! Maybe he’s run off to the States. Or he could’ve snuck on a ferry to Victoria. God, the farther the better!”
Presumably, she’s called me first because I might have the inside scoop, but as she rambles on with all sorts of wild possibilities, I realize I could leave the phone on the counter and she’d never know the difference. She closes with an abrupt, “Oh, wait till Erin hears! Gotta go!” I let the phone hum a little in my ear before sitting down with Mom. She fills in the missing pieces.
Tom has run away. The reporter called him the “accidental” Richmond Racist—a wannabe squirrel killer but not a racist maniac. Tom confessed to the shooting, and the police had no reason to believe he was connected to any of the other incidents. Since the gun was his father’s, Tom’s homelife had to be investigated; the investigation revealed evidence of abuse, and Tom was headed for foster care. But Tom escaped through his bedroom window while he was supposed to be grabbing a few items to take to the foster home. All this happened four days ago. The press had finally been alerted because the police were now genuinely concerned about Tom. The reporter obligingly stated that the boy did not have his father’s gun since it had already been seized, and that he was not considered a threat to the public. The reporter had obviously never set foot in Miss Chang’s classroom.
My mom starts crying. “To think he was one of your friends!” she says. “He could’ve shot you by accident with that gun. Oh, what if he’d had that thing in the gym that day? Why in the world did they have a gun lying around the house? That boy’s father should be in jail. You haven’t heard from Tom, have you?”
“No.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope nothing bad has happened to him. Heaven knows what that boy will get into, living on the streets. A foster home would’ve been the best thing for him.”
At night, I sleep a little, but I’m awake to see every hour go by on the clock. I am totally confused about what I’ve been told, what I haven’t been told and what I know. What had made Tom confess about the gun incident? It had to have happened when Mrs. Brewer pulled him out of class. Why hadn’t I been called down to the office too? Had Tom taken full blame and protected me? Why was he slated for foster care? Had his dad beaten him again? Where had he run off to? Why hadn’t he told me any of this? Why didn’t he ask me for help?
I feel sick to my stomach, worrying about Tom and feeling guilty about how I hadn’t even bothered to call to check up on him. Even though I am sure Tom can face any situation on his own, that doesn’t mean he deserves to. I was equally responsible for the whole squirrel fiasco, and now his life is in chaos while I continue my safe existence.
I decide to set the record straight first thing in the morning.
Sixteen
I stop by the office as soon as I arrive at school. The secretary blocks my path to Mrs. Brewer’s office. Perhaps she is under strict orders to keep all seventh-grade hoodlums away. To most adults, all seventh graders are potential hoodlums.
“Mrs. Brewer is in a meeting right now, Craig.”
Whoa. She knows my name. I guess I’ve earned my share of Frequent Office Points. “This is urgent. I have to talk to her.”
“Why don’t you talk to Mr. Skye? I think he just headed down the hall.”
Yeah, right. He’d double my suspension and send me off to a foster family too. He’d call an assembly, have me sit in the front facing the audience and lead everyone in a repeated chant of “Shame!” I stand my ground and insist on seeing Mrs. Brewer.
“Try checking back at recess.” What she really means is, Go on. Get out of my office. She grabs a file and turns her back to me as she opens it and straightens the papers inside.
“Could you please have me called out of class as soon as she’s available?”
The gatekeeper is losing her patience. “What is this about? We can’t have you missing classes because of a lost basketball or a bad grade—”
“It’s about Tom Hanrahan.”
Her eyes widen. She hesitates; then she nods soberly and says, “I’ll give her the message as soon as she’s free.” The phone rings and she answers it while continuing to watch me in case I make an attempt to burst into Mrs. Brewer’s office. I really want to get it over with. What could be more important? I’m ready to confess, and I don’t want to have to sit in class pretending everything is fine.
It had occurred to me at exactly 3:17 in the morning that if I took my fair share of the blame for the squirrel scare maybe Tom wouldn’t be in such hot water. Maybe his dad would cool down. Maybe the foster family thing would be abandoned. Maybe Tom would come back. At 3:17 in the morning, that sounded like a perfectly reasonable series of maybes. In the light of day, it all seems too ridiculous, too much like the last five minutes of a television movie of the week. Perhaps Tom had snuck across the border—there was no wall or fence, after all—and hitchhiked to Seattle. He could pass for sixteen and get a job at McDonald’s. Was I needlessly setting myself up for trouble?
The one thing that seems clear is that Tom has unfairly taken the heat for our part in the Richmond Racist ordeal. I have to do what I can to help him.
Even though the five-minute-warning bell has already gone, most of my classmates are still crowded around the outside steps as I approach the portable. I stop and wait, wanting them to go in before I get any closer. I know why they are there. This is the best gossip of the year, and no one wants to miss out on giving his or her own take on “the real Tom Hanrahan.”
Then I spot Vice-Principal Skye talking to a woman with a notebook and a man with an elaborate camera. Tracey is trying her best to talk over Skye and the woman, who are in a heated discussion. With a broad sweep of his right arm, Skye causes half the crowd to back up a few inches. His face is redder than a sunburnt lobster as he forces the woman backward down the stairs and away from the students.
“Get in the classroom…now!” He orders my classmates without looking back to address them. The photographer snaps wildly as he retreats with his colleague.
“My name has an e in it. I hate when it’s misspelled. T-R-A-C-E-Y,” shouts the gossip queen as she disappears into the portable.
I take a wide loop on the field to avoid Skye and his foes, but I am close enough to hear him fiercely spouting something about “school policy” and “respecting the personal space of minors.” Every syllable resonates with authority.
In the classroom, it’s total madness. Only three or four people are in their seats. Many are gathered around Miss Chang, talking all at once. Others huddle in small packs around the room. I check the clock to see if it’s me or everyone else who is out of whack. Class should’ve started two minutes ago. I can picture Tom smiling with satisfaction at the thought that he has taken a chunk out of a regular day’s education.
Finally, Miss Chang tells everyone to take their seats. It takes three commands over the course of a couple of minutes before things settle down. Only then do I notice the woman standing quietly at the front of the room. She looks vaguely familiar, and I assume she is a parent or a substitute something. Miss Chang writes Mrs. Nakashima on the board as she introduces the woman as a school counselor. Mrs. Nakashima smiles faintly and attempts to make eye contact with the people on the right side of the room. Still, her gaze seems to fly a few centimeters over everyone’s head. I can’t imagine how such an obviously timid person could possibly assist anyone with a serious problem, but I guess she is the best the school can come up with.
Miss Chang explains that, due to Tom being missing, we will talk as much as we need to about any worries or concerns we have. Mrs. Nakashima nods her head a few times but adds nothing. We are invited to share our thoughts.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Marvin Ho blurts out with more excitement than concern. Apparently, with Tom gone, the position of class jackass is up for grabs.
“How can you even say that?” a horrified Mindy Chu chimes in, taking the bait.
“What?” Marvin continues, defensively. “I’ve never known anyone my age to die. It would just be kinda weird.”
Miss Chang tries to move things along as the counselor stares silently at the bulletin boards in the room. No matter what Miss Chang says or does, Marvin has set the mood. Half the class says things like, “His dad coulda hunted him down, shot him and buried him,” and, “Maybe he used the gun other times.” The others make the whole thing about them. Tracey repeats how freaked she is to have sat near a guy with a gun, and Tammi carries on with, “I just can’t believe it! I’ve never known anyone who had a gun! This is the first time I’ve known someone who made the news in, like, a bad way.” Tom would have put them all in their places with one glare, one stinging comment, one loud guffaw. I keep my mouth shut and glance toward the door, waiting for Mrs. Brewer to come and take me away from this sad circus. Confessing is starting to seem a little less scary.
“I bet Craig knows where he’s hiding.” Erin’s accusation jolts me to alertness. Everyone is looking at me. I say nothing. No one else does either, but they continue to stare.
Couldn’t we please do some math? Or look words up in the dictionary or start a massive research project? Why is nothing happening? Why is everyone still looking at me? Why can’t I just tune them all out and be like Mrs. Nakashima, staring into space over everyone’s heads?
“If anyone knows anything about Tom, they should speak privately to their parents, myself, Miss Chang, Mr. Skye or Mrs. Brewer as soon as possible.” She speaks! Suddenly all eyes swivel toward Mrs. Nakashima. I finally find a spot on the board—the comma between the day and the year for today’s date—and tune everything else out. Mrs. Brewer…why hasn’t she called me down yet?
Jenny Tai’s bizarre suggestion about selling chocolate bars to start a reward fund brings me back from my comma coma. A couple of people start debating whether M & M’s or Twix bars will sell more.
A voice at the back of my row breaks in, “I don’t want him to come back.” Everyone, including me, turns and looks at Roger Battersby. It’s the first time he’s volunteered anything all year. He stares blankly ahead, breathing heavily and adding nothing more. There is no reason to be all that surprised by his simple statement. Tom had taken pleasure in taunting Roger for the last two years. Roger was such an easy target. Suddenly, he gets up and walks out of the room. Mrs. Nakashima follows.
Keith adds to Roger’s comment, saying in perfect English, “I don’t want him to come back either. My mom says he hates Chinese people.” Another remarkable comment. It is the first time Keith has spoken in class except during math lessons.
Stephanie tries to temper things. “I’m not saying he’s not a jerk. I didn’t like him either, but he’s gotta have some nice qualities. He’s just had a hard life. My mom said his older brother killed someone and is in prison. She also said she knows one of their neighbors, and they hear screaming coming from the house all the time. Cops are there once or twice a month, but they never do anything.”
“I heard his brother killed three people. And my mom says everyone knows his dad’s a drunk,” Tracey pipes up. I wonder if she shared her insights with the reporter earlier. Clearly, she is relishing every opportunity to inform the public.
Miss Chang tries to tame the talk, but the discussion speeds recklessly along.
“Just because you have a hard life doesn’t mean you have to take it out on others,” Mark chimes in. “And why would you take it out on animals? Why would he kill squirrels?”
“He didn’t!” Uh-oh. Did I say that out loud? Yep. Everyone is looking at me again. I can’t wait any longer to talk to Mrs. Brewer. “I stopped him.” As people start whispering I stand up and say, “Miss Chang, may I go see Mrs. Brewer?” I’m pushing the door open before she gives her consent.
Seventeen
That night, I realize there is a dead bug squished on the ceiling of my room. It’s a bit of a mystery. I can’t recall killing it. My sister and my mother both scream at the sight of a bug. My dad…well, he hasn’t stepped foot in my room since the day we moved in. The bug left a fairly big smudge mark. I’m guessing it was a spider, but it could have been something more exotic, like a blue-winged African horsefly that arrived inside a crate from Mozambique. Poor bug. It probably never even wanted to come to North America. And look at the welcome it received. Squished by a shoe or a newspaper, unrecognizable even to its family.
Up until now, I haven’t spent much time staring at my ceiling. Now I’ve got plenty of time for that. I’m grounded. Big time! With my dad out of town, Mom imposed the punishment. Dad is typically the severe one, but when she set the term at two months I realized that somewhere way back in her family tree there must have been a hanging judge. It’s not just the length of the sentence: The conditions are harsher than anything in prison. No phone calls. It’s not like I call a lot of people, but being told I can’t call makes me want to start up a conversation with Mark or Keith…or even Mindy Chu. It won’t happen. My phone has been yanked from the wall and taken who knows where. No TV. Ouch. No music…well, not on my stereo at least. I watched in shock as she pulled each plug and carried the whole system away in two trips. She reached for my pathetic little clock radio and then reconsidered. If it hadn’t had an alarm, I’m sure she would have taken it too. She won’t even let me eat dinner downstairs! The first meal in my room was undercooked macaroni and cheese and a hot dog with mustard and ketchup, but I’m sure she gave some thought to bread and water. I’m locked up; just me and a dead bug.
Do you think he’s dea
d? What I had dismissed as a callous remark starts to haunt me in the middle of my second consecutive sleepless night. The past few nights have been cold enough for the furnace to be working overtime. Can a person freeze to death? I’ve seen homeless people in cold weather, but they usually have blankets or big furry dogs. I can’t picture Tom packing a blanket before making his great escape. Is his dog, Archie, still at home? How can a person keep warm on a night like this without shelter?
The sleep deprivation brings a more gruesome scene to mind. Mr. Hanrahan, so angry at having his prized gun seized, finds Tom hiding in Archie’s doghouse, drags him out and beats him to death. I curl up really tight, trying to make the awful thought go away, but I can almost hear Tom crying out over Archie’s puzzled yelps. I’m shocked by how easy it is to imagine the whole thing. If Tom’s brother killed someone, isn’t it possible that his dad would do the same? Who would ever know? To the rest of the world, Tom has simply run away.
I force myself to think about happy things, good memories of Tom. Last summer he told some jerks at The Zone that we were in grade nine, and then they challenged us to a game of bowling, winners to take twenty bucks. I spent the whole game throwing nothing better than a few spares, too worried about how we were going to pay up if we lost and wondering if the bet was for twenty bucks total or each. Tom’s three strikes and a spare were enough to pull out a win, and we spent the prize playing video games for the next three hours. I asked Tom how he got so good at bowling, and he said it was the only place his dad could take the family on weekends and down a couple of pitchers of beer at the same time.
Which brings me right back to Mr. Hanrahan: heavy drinker, possible killer?
I remember how we biked to Steveston with Archie running beside us. That crazy lab started chasing sea gulls at Garry Point and plunged in the water after one. With the bird long out of sight, Archie continued swimming, despite our frantic calls. Tom tossed off his shoes and shirt and went in after the dog. Knowing I was a better swimmer, I followed in the chilly water. Eventually, Archie started swimming in circles and, once he saw me, started making his way back. We sat on the shore, trying to dry off in a suddenly cool wind and then walked our bikes back, too tired to pedal. Archie kept running ahead and leaping at anything and everything that moved.