How To Be a Boy

by Tony Bradman

  “Anyway, there he is, you know? Laid out on some mini-mart floor ’cause a shot hit the spot, didn’t hit the spot, and here we was studying the human body. So we outside jumping rope, testing how fast our heart goes. Now what do you think I’m thinkin’ about when we’re testin’ how fast our heart goes? Marteen, yeah. Can’t get it out of my mind. Mr. Forest is like, Why ain’t you writin’ your jack down, boy? I’m like, He have no idea what I’m thinkin’ about. Anyway, didn’t write down that day, or the next three days. All I was thinkin’ about was the body, how it’s made and how if a bullet goes in the right spot, you dead. And if you miss that spot, you ain’t.

  “‘Mr. Forest,’ I says, ‘we gonna be studyin’ the heart?’

  “‘No,’ he says. ‘Just looking at other muscles and bones.’

  “‘Well, I wanna know about the heart. Started out the whole unit with the heart, didn’t we? Had us outside jumping rope.’

  “‘That’s because it’s a muscle,’ he says.

  “‘Well, I wanna know more about it,’ I says.

  “‘Why don’t you talk to me after class?’

  “So I do.”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18—MERCY HOSPITAL, ROOM 362

  “You know the underpass on Dale under University for bikes and pedestrians, just the good side of Frogtown? Took that route pretty much every day. Spent the last three years riding my bike nearly every day. So I’m heading home from work, just about dusk; it’s getting dark 4:30–5:00 now. I go under the underpass, and I know now what it was that hit me, but then, it was just a clunk. I wear a helmet, didn’t do much for what hit my head.

  “I’m on the ground, next thing I know. Chunk of concrete lying next to me, looks like it came out of a sidewalk. My bike is there, too. Kids. Kids, I’m saying, are rifling through the bags. They’ve got the computer bag out from where it was lashed into my kid’s seat on the back. Then a kid I know. It’s weird seeing a kid you know. A kid, you know. A kid, a kid, standing above you with a gun. Changes your perspective on things.”

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 17—FROGTOWN POLICE STATION 157

  “It’s kind of weird seeing a guy you know, a teacher, just lying on the ground. Just lying there, you know? Blood pouring out of his shoulder, head kind of turned sideways, looking up at you. Like he know, you know, shit, now. Naw, I din’t feel like I knew jack. You get memories, you know? You get memories; you see. Goddamn. I remember standing in class. Before him I felt like a goddamn idiot in school, but after him, I was smart, like I knew shit.”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18—MERCY HOSPITAL, ROOM 362

  “When you’re looking up, it certainly isn’t the same kid from your class. He is and he isn’t. As a teacher you’re always on the lookout for that spark, that click when the light bulb goes off in their head. Well, I saw something in his eyes, that’s for sure. Wasn’t anything I wanted to be seeing. It’s funny because I’m lying there, looking up at Ricky, his gun turned sideways in his hand. This is a thirteen-year-old kid—he’s looking down at you, and you see the kid! You see him in class, see his pencil eraser on his tongue, see his brain clicking away. The others I didn’t recognize. Didn’t know. Just Ricky. Then his eyes changed, a light bulb.”

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 17—FROGTOWN POLICE STATION 157

  “So OK, he cared. Yeah, I actually got that impression. More than any other teacher before. So what am I gonna do, pop him? Course with my boys yelling in my ear, Take him! Pop him! what else can I do?”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18—MERCY HOSPITAL, ROOM 362

  “He touched the gun to my chest, right on my heart. His lips were tight. Behind him the blur of boys were screaming. I saw leaves in the trees above his head swaying golden and red in the breeze. He moves the gun about two inches up my chest. I prepare myself for the jolt I know will come. He’s on that fence, you know? Balanced there, fighting between two rights. And his decision I know is the right one. The only one he can make.”

  PAWN

  Tim Wynne-Jones

  “STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR.”

  I jump back, turn, expecting to see a copper. But it’s some suit striding towards me across the car park, holding his key out like it’s a Taser or something. His eyes flicker from me to the Merc and back again and then to my hand as if maybe I have a key of my own and was just about to take his wheels for a joy ride. I hold up my hands like, “Don’t shoot!” The car’s lights flash as he unlocks the door from ten paces. It’s as if the car is saying, “Yes, master. I live to serve.”

  The suit glares at me as he climbs into the driver’s seat. Once he’s locked in and revving his motor, he shakes his head at me as if I’m this big loser. Then he drives off. Nice vehicle. I’d been looking in the window, thinking how cool it would be to own a car like that one day. But not if I have to become a wanker to get one.

  * * *

  “He probably thought you were going to key it,” says Crawley the next day.

  “Key it?”

  “You know – lay a big scratch along the side.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Crawley shrugs. “People do it.”

  I slap my forehead. “Oh, right. I’d forgotten I was a people.”

  “People like us,” says Crawly, darkly.

  “You mean dangerous people.”

  “Youth gone wild,” says Crawley, like he’s a newsreader.

  I nudge him and point at a little old lady waiting at the zebra crossing up ahead.

  “Let’s push her into the traffic,” I say.

  “Excellent. But not before we grab her bag.”

  She glares at us, cringing, as we pass by, laughing our heads off.

  How scary is that?

  The thing is, it happens again, later that afternoon, at the Village Arts and Crafts Centre. The whole step-back-from-the-car routine. See, I’m supposed to meet Mum to go shopping for a new blazer, but she has to buy a wedding present first. So we’re in the shop and she’s looking at pottery and ornaments, and I’m just cruising around, not thinking of much, when I see this chess set on a pedestal in a little alcove.

  The king looks like a puffed-up lord mayor with his chains of office on, and the queen looks like maybe she runs a pub or something – lots of make-up – maybe a brothel. The figures are only about seven centimetres high, but they’re amazing. It’s the pawns that really grab my eye. They’re kids. One bloke’s carrying a skateboard; one girl’s tuning her iPod. Another kid is balancing a football on his knee.

  “May I help you?”

  I jump back. The shop manager looms. It was a question, right? Wrong. In shop-managerese, “May I help you?” means “Step away from the chessboard!” Or maybe, “What are you doing here?” Or, “Is there a reason you exist?” He glances at my hands, just like the suit did earlier. I hold them out in front of him, open wide, like I’m saying, See? Nothing. What’s your problem?

  “Gordon, what are you up to now?” says Mum from across the room.

  Jesus!

  It’s only later – much later, lying on my bed with my hands behind my head – that I can even begin to think of what I would have wanted to say. Things like: “How much is this chess set? I’d like to buy it, but – oh, wait a minute – you’re a dickhead, so forget it.” Or maybe, “I was thinking of taking this but I nicked one just like it last week.”

  But what I really want to say isn’t to the arsehole manager. I find Mum in the kitchen making dinner.

  “What’d you mean when you said, ‘What are you up to now’?”

  Mum nudges me out of the way. “What are you going on about?”

  “At the craft shop, when the manager was getting at me.”

  She pours water from the spuds into the sink. “Oh, it’s just a line, Gordon,” she says. “Something to defuse the situation.”

  “It made it sound like I’m some sort of criminal.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s a good idea.”

  “We should write CRIMINAL on our
foreheads,” says Crawley the next day at school.

  Carla reaches into her bag and pulls out a lipstick. She opens it. It’s mauve with silver sparkles in it.

  “Who’s first?” she says.

  I don’t even hesitate. I pull the hair back off my face and try to keep my forehead smooth, which is hard when a pretty girl is standing that close and you more or less have to stare at her breasts and the smell of her watermelon gum is filling your nostrils and you’re getting ideas—

  “Stop thinking,” she says.

  The lipstick feels smooth and cool. She pauses.

  “How many Ms are there in criminal?” she says.

  In registration, Mr Hicks is not amused. “We all know you are a juvenile delinquent in training, Gordon,” he says, looking down at me. “But contrary to popular opinion, it does not pay to advertise.”

  He makes me go and wash it off, but I catch up to Carla after school and ask her to do it again. She gives me this look like I’m being kinky or something.

  “Just do it,” I say. “There’s somebody I want to annoy.”

  So she writes CRIMINAL on my forehead again, grinning like I just jumped up a notch in her good books. This time the lipstick is aubergine. She steps back to examine her handiwork.

  “It goes better with your eyes,” she says.

  As I walk down to the Village Arts and Crafts Centre, I wonder if Carla likes my eyes. Whether she could see herself there looking at me looking at her looking at me.

  Want to check someone out, really up close and personal? Get them to write stuff on your face.

  The bell over the door of the craft shop jingles as I enter but the manager doesn’t appear. There’s a staircase near the door up to a loft where there are paintings and etchings and stuff. He’s not there, either, as far as I can tell. I sniff the air, smile: the dickhead’s got a little secret. I make my way to the back, to the chessboard on its pedestal. Mobiles and wind chimes dangle from the ceiling all around the alcove. They tinkle as I pass through them, like I’m entering some sacred glade or something.

  Somebody’s moved some of the chess pieces. This one pawn in an electric-orange hoodie, silver shades and red beanpole denims has dipped out of the way so one of the bishops can make his move. Except, this bishop looks more like a parish priest with a RIGHT TO LIFE picket sign resting on his skinny shoulder. There’s action at the other end of the board, as well. This black kid pawn in a white tee and camo fatigues has slouched out of the way to let a knight move up the board. Except the knight is a copper on the beat.

  I used to play chess with my dad but I’ve never seen anything like this. Every piece seems to have its own personality. That fox there, with the mobile phone and the low-slung trousers, she’s obviously talking with the black girl who’s on her mobile, too, over by the rook – or where the rook should be – but in this case it’s a stubby Securicor van. Excellent.

  The door jingles. I glance back towards the front of the shop. A woman stands in the doorway in jeans and a denim jacket, with a yellow bandana around her head. She looks around – doesn’t see me in my sacred glade. She closes the door.

  Still no manager. Weird.

  I turn back to the chessboard. I notice the price tag: eight hundred quid! If I did want it, I’d have to nick it! One piece at a time.

  I crouch a bit so I can see the faces. And here’s the first piece I’d take: this black girl standing with a fist on one hip and a super-sized Slush Puppie in the other – must be orange because her lips are orange. She’s in flip-flops, a short yellow summer skirt and a blue halter-top, her midriff bare. She’s all attitude. All “Watch me. See if I don’t!” Her chocolate hair is in neat cornrows. I’m in love.

  I hear a noise from the front of the shop. The woman in the bandana has opened a glass case on the wall and she’s taking stuff out: jewellery – necklaces and bracelets. I watch her put each item into a cardboard box.

  Where the hell is the manager?

  Now she closes the case, lifts up her box of swag in two hands and heads for the door.

  “Hey!”

  It’s out of my mouth before I know it.

  She stops and looks back into the shop, weaving her head around to try to make out who’s there.

  “Oh, hello,” she says and then turns and heads towards the door.

  I run and get there just as she’s balancing the box on her knee to grab the door handle.

  “Thanks,” she says, as I reach for the handle, but I slip in front of her, blocking the door.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  She frowns and then her eyes light up like she gets it.

  “Oh!” she says. “You think I’m stealing this stuff?”

  “Looks like.”

  She laughs. “I’m Jenny Moore,” she says.

  I’m like, So what?

  She nods with her head towards the jewellery case she just emptied. The sign in the case says JENNY MOORE.

  “That’s you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So this is your stuff?”

  “Yes, I made this ‘stuff,’ as you call it.” She smiles. “I’ve got a big craft fair this weekend. So I’m taking some of the stock from the centre. Anyway, looks like you’re the main suspect round here.”

  She’s grinning at my forehead. I’d forgotten all about Carla’s handiwork. In aubergine. Christ!

  I look in the cardboard box at all these little royal-blue jewellery cases. I guess I’d never thought of someone actually making jewellery.

  There’s a noise from the loft and there’s the manager heading for the stairs.

  “You again?”

  He’s glaring right at me.

  “Was he giving you any trouble?” he says to Jenny.

  “Hi Roger,” says Jenny. “On the contrary, he was trying to stop me from robbing the joint.”

  He’s reached us now. I step back.

  “Sorry, Jenny,” he says. “I was in the toilet – a call of nature.”

  I smirk.

  “Yes, well, you would find it funny,” he says. Glare, glare, glare, his eyes flicking to my forehead. Then he turns his attention back to Jenny and he’s all nice and polite. “I would have locked the door, normally, of course, but it was a quiet-enough afternoon and you’d said you’d be here at four. I just couldn’t wait, sad to say.”

  “Are you OK?” she says.

  “I’m right as rain,” he says, but he doesn’t sound very convincing.

  I cough into my hand. I guess neither of them hears the word the cough was only partially meant to disguise.

  Roger opens the door for her and she heads out.

  I decide to leave after her. The manager looks me over as I walk by him. Looking for bulges in my pocket. I feel I should turn them all inside out, maybe strip or something – right there in the doorway. Maybe do a little naked dance – youth gone wild! But I’m in a hurry now.

  I see Jenny trying to open the door of a Smart car. I offer to hold the box for her while she finds her keys.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “He was smoking pot,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Weed. The manager. I smelt it as soon as I walked in.”

  She frowns, shakes her head, sighs. “Poor man,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  Then she reads my forehead. “What’s with the logo?” she says.

  I’d forgotten about it. I shrug. What’s the use of explaining?

  “Well, it should say SECURITY not CRIMINAL,” says Jenny. “Thanks again…”

  “Gordon.”

  “Thanks again, Gordon.”

  She puts the box down on the back seat and closes the door. She looks back towards the shop. Roger is standing inside, his hand on the doorknob. He waves then disappears back into the shadows.

  “He’s not well,” she says.

  I give her a look like, That much I’d worked out.

  But she shakes her head. “No, what I mean is that the pot –
the marijuana – is medicinal.”

  I’m confused.

  “Self medication,” she says. “He’s got cancer.”

  “Oh.” It’s like someone gave me a smack.

  Jenny pats me on the arm. “It’s OK,” she says. “How would you know? And besides, he’s always been grumpy.”

  I shrug. Watch her climb into her Smart car and drive off.

  Woo hoo. Gordon saves the day.

  That night I think about the chess set, the girl with the cornrows – Alicia, I name her. It’d make this great little one-act play: all those characters stuck in their routines on a stage painted up like a chessboard. Somehow Gordon the alien wanders out into the lights.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” says Alicia. “Thought I knew everybody around here.”

  “I’m new,” I say.

  She nods, squints to read the word on my forehead, laughs. “Yeah, right,” she says.

  That’s when the copper arrives. “You two can’t stand on the same square,” he says.

  I jump back. Shit. That’s all I do any more.

  He frowns, shakes his head. “You can’t go backwards, either.”

  “Bloody hell,” I say. “How about I just keel over and die?”

  But Alicia gives me a love punch on the shoulder.

  “It’s cool,” she says. “All he means is you have to go forward. One square at a time. It’s a game, right?”

  I stare down the board towards the other players waiting at their end. It all seems so pointless. I mean, what are the chances of getting anywhere? Some copper will probably arrest me for picking my nose. Or I’ll get run over by a lorry, lectured by some holier-than-thou priest. Or one of those other kids down there’ll sideswipe me on his skateboard and I’ll be done for.