Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  When Nan’s applause trailed off, I bowed, because the number one rule in the entertainment biz is never let them see you sweat. On the outside I was as cool as a cucumber, but on the inside I felt a growling, deep inside my belly. I gave a final wink and a wave before stepping into the house, where I immediately swung for Pius. He caught my arm. “Calm down, Fin-bear.”

  “You ruined my performance,” I growled.

  “You dulled my blades,” he said.

  “I was trying to making my dream a reality.”

  He let go of my arm with a shove. “How is dressing like a pirate and dancing on hockey skates a dream?”

  “I was practicing,” I said. “Success doesn’t come overnight, you know.”

  “You’ll never be a dancer, Barry,” he said. “You’ve got terrible rhythm and no pizzazz.”

  “How dare you?” I yelled.

  “Baaaaa-daaaaa!” yelled Gord.

  “Shhh,” said Nan, bouncing Gord in her arms. “Your mother’s resting.”

  Shelagh walked in with an armful of books. “Are those my leggings?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She looked closer. “They are. I can’t believe you’re wearing my leggings.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  She gestured to my crotch. “Ew. Gross. Your thing is stretching the material.”

  I looked down. My crotchticular region was looking rather pronounced. I smiled. “Thanks, Shelagh.”

  “You should see the back of them,” said Pius. “He’s torn the arse right out of them.”

  “Mom! Barry wrecked my leggings!”

  “Shhh,” said Nan.

  “And he’s wearing Nan’s shirt!” Pius called.

  “For the love of God,” said Nan. “Keep it down.”

  But we didn’t want to keep it down.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” I shouted.

  We looked to the ceiling. A moment later, a bed squeak. We waited for a “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, will ye give it a rest,” but all we heard was silence.

  Shelagh and Pius looked to the floor.

  I cleared my throat and hooked my thumbs into my waistband.

  Shelagh looked up. “What are you doing?”

  “You wanted your pants back, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Nan.

  I wiggled my hips from side to side. Shelagh covered her eyes. “Please don’t.”

  I slid the leggings down to my ankles.

  Pius grinned. “You’re cracked, Barry.”

  I slipped one foot out, then the other.

  “Here you go,” I said, holding them out for Shelagh. “You wanted them. Take them.”

  When she uncovered her eyes, I swung them through the air like a lasso. I gyrated my hips with each spin.

  “Ew, Barry,” she screamed. “Stop that!”

  “Oh my God,” said Pius. “He’s got a hole in his undies.”

  They were laughing but that was the point. If making them smile involved a sneak peek at my genitalia, then so be it.

  I spun the leggings two, three, four more times and then let them go. They flew through the air and landed on Shelagh’s head. We laughed loudly; Gord too. I wondered if Mom was listening upstairs. I hoped she was. I hoped she knew what she was missing.

  Takeout meant Mom didn’t feel like cooking, and when Mom didn’t feel like cooking, Nan and Dad usually didn’t bother either—they just threw their hands up in the air as if to say, “What’s the point?” As for the rest of us, well, we wouldn’t know how to cook if our lives depended on it—which they kind of did, really. I mean, if you didn’t eat, you’d die. Maybe that was what Mom wanted. To die. After all, she barely ate. All she’d had for breakfast that morning was three single Cheerios. She’d picked them off Gord’s chin when I brought him to her for a cuddle. I was thrilled when I saw how he made her smile but on reflection it was no big deal. I mean, you’d have to be the Wicked Witch of the West not to smile at Gord.

  I sat in the front window watching neighbors coming and going. There was condensation on the glass. I drew a penis. There was a doily on a side table next to me. I put it on my head. Our car puttered up and pulled over. I let the window sheers drop and waited. A moment later Dad came in. He had six cold plates from Caines. “What do you have on your head, you fool?” I pulled off the doily and he ruffled my hair. We sat at the table, all six of us. Mom’s supper was in the fridge. When I was done eating, I brought it up to her. I sat at the foot of her bed and watched her nibble the turkey, pick at the potato salad, and lick a beet. She seemed interested in my description of Mrs. Muckle’s fantabulous shoes, and when I told her the rumor about old Judes having an affair with Roger Graham from Graham’s Groceries, her eyebrows went up. I hadn’t seen Mom’s eyebrows go up in a long time, so I told her that Mrs. Muckle and Roger Graham were caught having an intimate moment in the walk-in freezer at Graham’s Groceries. It wasn’t true but Mom smiled in disgust, so I kept going. “Mrs. Graham caught them,” I said. “Mrs. Muckle claimed that Mr. Graham was just warming her up, but Mrs. Graham said she wasn’t born yesterday and slammed the door on them. The next morning a cashier found them and called 911. It took them three days to thaw out.” Mom’s eyebrows went up again, this time in doubt. I’d gone too far. “How about these cold plates?” I said. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “They’re okay,” she said, pushing aside the savory dressing.

  “Boo makes that himself, you know,” I said. “He calls it stuffing, for the Americans who come off the cruise ships. Even they think it’s the best part of the cold plate.”

  “It’s delicious,” said Mom. “I’m just not that hungry right now.”

  “Guess what?” I said, thinking up another lie. “At school we went on a field trip to Mount Scio Farm, where savory is made.”

  “Is that right?” said Mom.

  “Yep. The owner said savory has many health benefits. It helps with sore muscles, concentration, energy, and mood.”

  I raised my eyebrows when I said mood.

  Mom stared at her dinner with wet eyes.

  I reached for the plate. “I’ll take this downstairs.”

  “Leave it,” she said.

  I looked at the flowers on her nightgown. They were forget-me-nots, the kind Dad wore on his lapel on Memorial Day. I chewed the skin around my thumbnail. Mom reached out, lowered my hand.

  “Tell me more about Mrs. Muckle and Roger Graham,” she said.

  I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  “Well,” I said, “apparently Mrs. Muckle had frostbite on her nipples.”

  Mom scooped up some dressing and smiled.

  Later that evening, I sat on Gord’s floor and sang him a bedtime song. I made a different one up each night. Tonight’s was called “The Lovely Lass with the Gar­gantuan Ass.” It was about a girl who let her siblings use her butt as a pillow. My favorite line was “The sea of children suddenly parted when the lovely lass unexpectedly farted.”

  Coincidentally, later in bed, Pius let one rip.

  I said, “Remind me to never use your butt as a pillow.”

  He stuck his nose further into his book. “Shut up, weirdo.”

  I closed my eyes, then opened them again.

  “Pius? Do you think Mom—”

  “I said shut up.”

  He put his book down and turned off the light.

  I closed my eyes once again and drifted off to dreamland, where Saibal and I shared a birch beer in India.

  The next morning, I had a few minutes to spare, so I plunked down on Uneven Steven’s piece of cardboard and told him every detail of my performance on York Street the day before.

  “You wore a frilly top and your sister’s leggings?” he said.

  “Yep. But, to
be honest, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this dancing malarkey. My brother says I have no pizzazz. Maybe I should just drop the whole thing.”

  “Don’t be daft,” said Steven. “Do you think I would have played with the Beatles in ’64 if I had given up on my dream?”

  I smiled. “You played with the Beatles? Wow. That’s impressive.”

  “Don’t listen to the naysayers, Squire. I believe in you.”

  I gathered my things and stood up. “So you’ll come to the performance at the nursing home?”

  Steven grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  I went straight to the office and pointed at the clock.

  “Look! It’s 9:05.”

  Mrs. Muckle reached under her desk and pulled out a bag.

  “For you.”

  I looked inside. “An alarm clock?”

  She nodded. “Mr. McGraw got it down at the Sally Ann.”

  I was both touched and horrified.

  I gestured to the chair across from her. “May I?”

  She poured herself a cup of tea. “Two minutes.”

  I took a seat. “I have a new friend,” I said. “He’s a refugee. From India.”

  Mrs. Muckle looked intrigued. “Really?”

  “I met him downtown. I bought him some birch beer because his lips were dry. I don’t think he’d had a drop to drink in days.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Come to think of it,” I said, smacking my lips together, “I’m feeling a tad parched myself.”

  She poured some tea into a second mug. “You’re only getting half a cup.”

  I shook my head. “If we all had your attitude, Judes, refugees would be dying of thirst all over the place.”

  She set the pot down. “Don’t call me Judes.”

  I took a slurp of my tea. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “If I fail eighth grade, we’ll get to spend another year together.”

  “You’re not going to fail eighth grade, Barry.”

  “I might.”

  “You won’t. Your grades are just about good enough. Thanks be to Jesus.”

  “But if I did, it’d be okay, right? I mean, another year might do me good.”

  “Barry, I know going to a new school is scary—”

  “I’m not scared.”

  I took another slurp of my tea.

  “Guess what else?” I said, changing the subject.

  Mrs. Muckle sighed. “What?”

  “Gord can sit up for six seconds without falling on his face.”

  Her face lit up. “Is that right?”

  I beamed with pride. “He’s pretty advanced for his age.”

  “And how’s your mother?” she asked.

  Dad had been in to talk to Mrs. Muckle about “the situation” and now she was nosier than ever. Caring, almost.

  “She’s like a yo-yo,” I said.

  “Up and down?” said Mrs. Muckle.

  I nodded. “She didn’t even eat the dressing on her cold plate last night. I mean, where would we be if we all refused savory when we felt a little down? It’s our duty as Newfoundlanders to eat it. I mean, if Mount Scio Farm goes out of business, we’re doomed. We might as well kiss goodbye all that makes us stand out as a unique culture.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” said Mrs. Muckle. “Mount Scio Farm will never go out of business. Savory is like crack around here.”

  “If it was like crack,” I said, “Mom would have wolfed down her supper like there was no tomorrow. But maybe she doesn’t care about tomorrows—maybe she just cares about herself, and that’s why she stays in her room all day and leaves the rest of us wandering around wondering if she’ll ever come out.”

  Mrs. Muckle reached for me. “Barry—”

  I pulled my hand away. “Thanks a bunch, Judes. Your prying has made me late for class. And on the one day I show up early too.”

  She looked at the clock. “I suppose 9:05 is early by your standards.”

  I drained my tea and made a face. “Where did ya get your teabags? The bottom of St. John’s Harbour? You’d think on a principal’s salary you could get some bags made with quality leaves. What are ya? From the mainland or something? Geez.”

  She sighed. “That’s enough, Barry.”

  “Is it?” I said. “I’m not so sure. I could go on about this for days. Because that tea tastes like crap. Like actual crap. Like a cup of warmed-up shit.”

  Mrs. Muckle stood up. “Get out, Barry.”

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  I wasn’t lying. It was a pleasure. Things were back to normal. I was the annoyer and she was the annoyee. Anything more than that involved feelings, and the last thing I wanted to feel was feelings.

  I stood in front of Mr. McGraw’s door and took a deep breath. A moment later I waltzed in like I owned the place.

  “Top o’ the morning, Mr. McGraw. How’s it hanging?”

  “You’re late, Finbar. You need to get a late slip from Mrs. Muckle.”

  “Mrs. Muckle?” I said. “That old windbag is the reason I’m late. She invited me for tea in her office and spent a good twenty minutes talking about the quality of her bags.”

  Mr. McGraw looked skeptical. I nodded to the phone on the wall. “Call her if you want.”

  He shook his head. “Just sit down and get to work.”

  I paused before heading to my desk. “Might I ask, sir, does our little ‘incentive’ deal still apply even though I’m a tad late?”

  He looked at the clock and nodded. There was still forty minutes left and I was in the mood for saltwater taffy. If I made it to the end of class, I’d pick a blue one.

  I took my seat. We’d been working on our persuasive essays. Mine was blank except for the stick man I’d drawn in the margins. His name was Twig.

  I gave Twig a hat.

  Everyone around me was writing furiously.

  I wondered what I could write about.

  I gave a Twig a penis and laughed out loud. Mr. McGraw gave me a warning look.

  I gave Twig a pair of tartan pants.

  And a vest.

  Good old Twig. He was an inspiration.

  I wrote my title: Why I Should Be Given One Hundred and Twenty-Five Dollars for a Tartan Outfit and Tap Shoes.

  I looked to the ceiling and thought about what being a Full Tilt Dancer would mean to me. I started with “Dancing is my life” and thought some more.

  I stared at the back of Karen Crocker’s head. Her braids were uneven. I tapped her on the shoulder. “Who did your hair this morning? Your one-eyed nan or your drunk mother?”

  Her hand shot up in the air. “Sir, Barry thinks he’s funny but he’s not.”

  Mr. McGraw’s warning look got warn-ier.

  Damian Clarke was in the desk across from me. He leaned over. “Guess what? My essay is almost done. It’s called ‘Why Everyone in St. John’s Should Chip In and Get Barry Squires Some Plastic Surgery for That Thing on His Face.’ ”

  Normally I’d have punched him in the nose but there was the saltwater taffy to think of—not to mention Mr. McGraw’s undying faith in me.

  I raised my hand. “Sir? Would you happen to have a thesaurus? I’m writing my essay on ‘Why I Hate Damian Clarke,’ but I’m overusing the word arsehole.”

  Mr. McGraw frowned. “Mind your mouth, Finbar.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m running out of descripatory words. I mean, I’ve used dickhead ten times already, and I’ve positively exhausted the word fuckface.”

  Mr. McGraw walked toward me in a rage.

  I put my hands up. “Whoa there, Trigger—”

  He grabbed me by the elbow. “Out.”

  “Geez,” I said. “You really don’t want me to have that saltwater taffy, do yo
u?”

  He pulled me out of the classroom and into the hallway. He put his face in mine and said, “Don’t act like I’m the one breaking the deal here. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

  Something inside me shook. It felt like my heart but it was probably my soul.

  “Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for? You’ve got what you wanted. You’re free to go. Have fun hiding in Mrs. Muckle’s office all day.”

  I tried to think of something to say that would make his face go from red to its normal pasty white.

  “Tomorrow will be different,” I said. “I’m going to write the best, most heartfelt essay you’ve ever read. It’ll be enough to bring a tear to a glass eye.”

  His rolled his eyes.

  “Watch yourself,” I said. “Remember what I said about Thomas Budgell’s father’s sister’s daughter.”

  He didn’t laugh.

  “Just go, Barry,” he said. “I’ve got a class full of students waiting to learn. I’ve spent enough time on you.”

  For some reason my feet wouldn’t move.

  McGraw waved me away. “Go.”

  “Sir, I…”

  What I wanted to say was stuck in my throat. “Damian, he…” I put my hand to my cheek. It was such a small part of me—why was it the whole to everyone else?

  “Finbar,” said Mr. McGraw. “You can’t control what other people say, but you can control how you react to them.”

  Billy Walsh appeared in the hallway. When he saw us, he step danced his way to the bathroom. Mr. McGraw applauded. It didn’t surprise me. The Full Tilt Dancers were gods in this school.

  “Maybe,” I said, “step dancing could be the whole of me.”

  Mr. McGraw looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I walked away.

  As I turned the corner, I saw him fiddling with something in his pocket.

  I wasn’t too fond of saltwater taffy anyway.

  Damian passed me in the hallway. “Look who it is! Chardonnay!”

  I could’ve just told him that chardonnay was actually a white wine. That would’ve been enough to shut him up. But I punched him in the nose instead. The gym teacher heard the ruckus and dragged us to the office by the scruff of our necks.