by David Skuy
Jaime read his story next. It was about a boy who liked basketball. He was being bullied by the other guys on the team because he was the new kid at school and the best player.
“Pass the ball. Basketball’s a team game.”
“Why don’t you go back to where you came from?”
Lionel tuned out again. He knew how Jaime’s story would end. There would be a bully, the new kid would stand up to him, and the surprise ending might be the two kids became buddies because deep down they had something in common, like singing or something lame like that. Schools were obsessed with bullying, not that teachers or principals had a clue how to deal with it. He’d heard a hundred talks on it. The same stupid message: Stand up to bullies because they’re really cowards and insecure, which is why they bully in the first place, to feel good about themselves.
In stories, the bully always backed down.
It was pure garbage — all of it. Bullies never got bullied. They did what they wanted. They had it made. His strategy was way better — don’t let them notice you. Bullies don’t bully what they don’t see.
“I thought the imagery Jaime used, the storm and the dark skies, was a smart way to make us feel scared and worried.”
“That’s an interesting point, Stephane,” Whellan said.
Lionel didn’t get Stephane. He got bullied all the time because he was inviting it. He was always putting his hand up and answering questions in class, and he did the lighting for the school play, and he belonged to the photography club. He might as well wear a t-shirt that reads, “I’m a Geek — Please Beat Me Up.” Nick and his crew made Stephane’s life miserable. Lionel couldn’t imagine how he got through each day, waking up knowing Nick was waiting, everyone was waiting to make him feel bad, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Thanks, Stephane. I agree,” Whellan said. “You did a nice job, Jaime. Good effort. I can only imagine how tough it was for Roger to deal with those bullies, and having Roger and the toughest bully in school become best friends was a clever twist. Now, I think we have time for one more. Who hasn’t read theirs …” His voice trailed off. He opened a folder on his desk and ran his finger down the page. “Lionel. What do you have for us?”
Lionel’s face grew hot and his underarms got wet. He stared intensely at his desk. He couldn’t believe Whellan was being such a jerk. He never did this to him.
Whellan drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “Maybe you need another couple of days? Would that help?”
Lionel dug the tip of his pencil into the palm of his right hand. The tip was broken so it didn’t hurt that much. He nodded.
“Okay. We’ll do that. Please make an effort, okay Lionel?”
He nodded again.
“Bryan, how about you give it a go? I think you’re the last one,” Whellan said.
Bryan’s face flushed deeply. He gripped the pages of his story tightly and cleared his throat a few times. “The sky was black ’cause it was stormy. The rain fell hard on the ground and it was cold,” he began.
Lionel ran his hand over the zipper of his backpack. He’d finished his story two weeks ago. Once he’d started, he couldn’t stop: the words poured out of him and his fingers flew over the keyboard. It didn’t even feel like homework.
Still five minutes left. Science next, which was okay because his teacher never called on him. Deadly boring, though. Then he had geography, then lunch, then math and art, and then he could go home. It would be cool to go to a restaurant tonight. Hopefully, they’d get burgers.
“You think you’re so tough, but you’re just a stupid bully,” Bryan read. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Thursday: 3:35 p.m.
Lionel slipped around a small group of kids huddled in the stairwell. He stopped in his tracks. Nick was outside, leaning against the door. To get through he’d have to ask him to move. Better to walk the long way and go out the north door. But someone bumped into him.
“Excuse me, Lionel,” Stephane said. “You stopped all of a sudden.”
“I was … Sorry.”
“No big deal. See you tomorrow.”
Stephane slung his backpack over one shoulder and pushed gently against the door. Nick jerked away and peered in. Lionel turned to look in the other direction. Stephane pushed the door again.
“What’s your problem, goof?” Nick said, stepping away. “Trying to break my back?”
“I was just trying to get out,” Stephane said. “You were against the door and …”
“Bang the door into my head next time, why don’t you?” Nick said.
“I didn’t bang your head. I just tried to push it open a bit so you’d feel it.”
Lionel slipped back up the stairs, his hands shaking and his chest pounding heavily. Sometimes he thought Stephane liked to be picked on. He had zero awareness. Lionel went out the north door and turned to the right. He’d have to cross the entire field to get to the gate at the top of the hill. This day was dragging on forever. There was no way he was coming tomorrow. He’d fake a stomach ache, or better yet, a fever. All he had to do was take a hot shower and then let his mom feel his forehead. It usually worked, especially if he waited until just before she had to leave.
He kicked at a clump of grass and watched the dirt spray about. He was tired. The stupid bus better not be late. He gave another clump a kick and headed up the hill.
His stomach tightened painfully.
Five kids were standing by the gate, kids he knew. If he turned around now he’d have to walk all the way to the other side of the school. He could hop the fence, but they’d love to see a fatso like him do that. He took a deep breath. He could pull this off. He lowered his eyes, slowed his breathing, slumped his shoulders, and walked in small, quiet steps. He put his hand on the gate to pull it open.
“I’m looking forward to your story,” Kiana said to him.
Lionel felt a sharp pinch in his throat. He noticed Rashmi put her hand to her mouth. She was laughing and didn’t want him to see. Lionel kept his head down and walked through the gate.
“See ya tomorrow,” Rashmi said.
“C’mon, Lionel, at least say goodbye,” Kiana said.
“Goodbye,” he said, and kept going.
They weren’t mean girls, just messing with him. He counted his steps — five, ten, fifteen. At twenty he relaxed his shoulders and loosened his fists. His “Goodbye” had been a bit pathetic, for sure. He slowed down, content to shuffle along, more irritated by hunger than what had happened. He turned the corner and continued until he caught a glimpse of his bus. A car had blocked the intersection to make a left, and his bus had to stop.
He was hungry and he wanted those leftover pizza slices; if he missed this bus he’d have to wait forever. He began to run. He figured he had a chance if the car took a little longer to make the turn. Each step hurt because the bottom corners of his backpack dug into his sides and his gut was bouncing around. Suddenly, the traffic cleared and the car turned. The bus jerked forward. Lionel tried to run faster, and he would have if there wasn’t a choking sensation in his throat and a pain in his knees. Sweat broke out behind his neck and in the small of his back.
The bus had come to the stop and the passengers were boarding.
His head was pounding and his backpack felt like it weighed a ton. He needed to walk, just to catch his breath. The puff of the bus’s hydraulics gushed out. He’d missed it! Damn it. Sweated up for nothing.
The bus let out another puff, and he heard the sound of the doors opening.
Someone was getting off at the last second. He could make it. He ran across the street and staggered to the closing door.
The bus pulled away.
Stupid, stupid, stupid bus, he thundered to himself. A few more seconds — the stupid, stupid, stupid bus couldn’t wait for a few more seconds!
A surge of heat scorched his body
, starting in his chest and spreading to his fingertips and all the way to his toes. The next stop was only three blocks, and traffic was brutal in this stretch. He ran back to the sidewalk and began to weave in and out of the pedestrians, more like fast walking than actual running. His left heel stung where the top of his shoe rubbed against his Achilles tendon, and his stomach jiggled so bad it was embarrassing — but he was gonna get on that bus. He was too hungry to wait.
He caught up fifty yards from the next stop, only to have his hopes dashed when a car turned and the bus sped on. It pulled in front of the stop — and then the light turned red. But he knew this intersection: the red light here took forever — it wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t run anymore with his stupid backpack slicing his back open, though. He took it off and carried it in his hand, half shuffling, half walking. It was all he could do to gasp some air every few steps.
He never caught a break. He was a Do-Nothing who couldn’t even run fast enough to catch the slowest bus in the world. A picture of Kiana and Rashmi popped into his head, and he imagined them laughing hysterically at his running.
He staggered ten more yards and stopped, but the light was still red so he went another ten. Still red — a flicker of hope, so he kept going. Twenty yards away the light changed to green. The bus didn’t move. He crossed the street, and in a final, desperate lunge reached the door and pounded on it with his fist.
The bus shot forward. He slapped its side. The driver stared straight ahead and drove off. Lionel dropped his backpack and rested his hands on his knees.
He began to cough violently, his belly shaking with each eruption. He tried to stand, but that made him cough harder and he had to lean back down. Two girls crossing the street gave him an odd look. Lionel knew them from school. They both began laughing. He turned away and the laughter died off.
Thursday: 4:45 p.m.
Lionel stepped out of the elevator and shook his shoulders to chase off the chill. The air had cooled and he’d gotten all sweaty running for that bus. Of course, the next bus was late and he’d waited about thirty minutes. The pain in his chest had gotten way worse — naturally — just to make the day perfect. He was tempted to take one of his pills.
The smell of Indian food from the neighbors down the hall made his stomach growl. He opened the door to his apartment and walked in. The television was on. His mom pointed at him with a pizza crust.
“Hey, Lionel, how was school today?” She tossed the crust into the open pizza box on the table.
She’d eaten all the leftover pizza!
“I thought you were working extra today,” he said.
He went to the fridge.
“I had a terrible headache and had to leave,” she said. “Sheila was such a hard-ass about it, as usual, and wouldn’t let me go. I swear my head was gonna explode and she thought it was funny. Likes to see me suffer, and I tell you, I almost wanted to die just to get back at her. Thank God Maria took my afternoon shift. I came home and crashed.”
Lionel closed the fridge door. “You ate all the leftover pizza?”
“Sorry, hon. My sugars were crashing and I had to eat something. Brent called and said he can’t go out for dinner tonight, which is totally fine because guess what?”
She looked so happy.
He remembered. “I guess he got the job?”
She clapped her hands and came over and hugged him. “He did. He’s a pain in the butt most of the time, and he’s cost me nothing but money the last few months, eating my food and not paying rent, but with his salary we can do a million things we couldn’t before. He probably has to meet with Fergus. They’ll have a lot to discuss, I imagine. But for now, you and I can order pizza again. How about the Sicilian?”
“I guess.”
So much for burgers. The sound of the tv began to irritate him and he wasn’t going to listen to Brent bragging about his awesome job. He cast a longing look at the empty pizza box and went to his room.
Typical Brent, the cheapskate. He got a new job and wouldn’t even take them out to eat. Lionel hadn’t eaten at a real sit-down restaurant in ages. Some kids went all the time. Nick, Bryan, and Mohamed went out to eat at Pearl’s every Friday. Kiana and Rashmi sometimes went with them.
He needed to scream. The sound of the tv was like someone digging needles into his brain. He kicked at a pile of clothes on his floor. They hit the wall and slid down. He scooped up a towel next to his bed. It was still damp. He threw it at his closet, and it pulled off the underwear hanging from the door handle.
The towel caused the door to pop open. He noticed some boxes stacked inside. He’d forgotten about them. Weird how that surprised him. They’d been there practically since he’d moved in. Lionel pulled the closet door completely open and looked inside the top box — his Pokémon cards from when he was a kid. Unbelievable that he still had them. He looked in the next box. On top was a light blue booklet — a journal from school, grade three. He opened the first page.
Hi, I am Lionel. I liv with my mum and dad in our aparttement. I play basseball a lot with my dad. He is big. I like Pokeman. I play with freinds Pokeman a lot. I love my mum.
Lionel let the booklet slip out of his hands. In the bottom corner of the closet he spotted some red stitching — his dad’s old baseball. There was too much junk in the way to pull it out, and he couldn’t be bothered. Seeing the baseball had brought a lump to his throat. His dad sure loved baseball. They used to throw the ball around in the basketball court in the back of the apartment building for hours. Sometimes they’d go to the park to practice hitting. For a long time after his dad left, Lionel dreamed about them playing ball together. He wondered if his dad taught his new kids to play.
Lionel was useless at baseball. His dad had always been mad at him for not throwing straight or not playing hard enough. After he was gone, his mom never had enough money to get him into a league, or the time to take him to games, so he stopped. Maybe with Brent’s new job?
Stupid idea. He sucked at sports.
He pressed his hands against his temples. This headache was ridiculous — almost as ridiculous as the television volume. His mom was flipping through channels. Pick something! He slammed the closet door closed and went back to the living room.
“Have you called Big Ray’s?” he said.
He needed to get out of here.
“Give me a break, Lionel,” his mom said. “I’m trying to relax for one second. I’m just watching this.”
“If you call, I’ll go pick it up and we won’t have to pay for delivery.”
“Delivery’s a dollar.”
He couldn’t listen to that tv for one more second. “I feel like walking.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “Fine, already. Give me the phone.”
Lionel gave it to her. “Can I have some money?”
“Take some cash from my purse.”
Lionel opened her purse. He took two twenty-dollar bills and left.
This headache could do him a big fat favour and go away, and so could the pain in his chest. He probably just needed to eat, but it was irritating. He punched the elevator button.
Waiting again — as usual.
Thursday: 5:10 p.m.
Lionel crossed the street and went into the Market. Big Ray’s wasn’t far, two more blocks, and he hated being cold, so almost without thinking he began to jog slowly to keep warm. His shoe was still rubbing on his Achilles tendon, but the warmth beat the pain. It wasn’t that bad, anyway, and in a weird way the hurt felt good. It took his mind off that tv, and Nick, and Brent, and his English story, and school — and everything.
Most of the stores in the Market were either closed or closing. Manuel’s Garage was still open. There were two people inside. Binny’s Café had its lights on too, but the sandwich board wasn’t out front. He shuffled along, huffing and puffing and limping. The door to Binny’s swung open.
&n
bsp; “That’s what I need to do,” the man said to him. He held his big belly with both hands. He was the same guy who sat outside in the chair with his dog.
Lionel slowed down. Was he talking to him?
“How far you going tonight?” the man said.
Lionel had no idea what he was talking about.
“On your run,” the man said. “How far you jogging tonight?”
The man thought he was jogging? Like a runner? Like he was actually going for a run?
That was kinda funny.
“Not too far — just up a ways — bit cold tonight.”
“You’re a better man than me, I’ll grant you that.” The man laughed and rubbed his belly again. “My daughter jogs. She tells me she loves to run when it’s cold. Says once you get going you don’t even notice.”
Lionel ducked his head slightly. “I guess I’m the same.”
They looked at each other.
“Have a good one,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
He had to run now. He started off. His foot was hurting, but he couldn’t turn around to check if the man was watching or he’d look like a liar. He just needed to get to Big Ray’s. He clenched his teeth, closed his fists, and grunted with each step.
As Lionel walked in, Big Ray looked up from the pizza he was slicing and smiled. Lionel smiled back. Big Ray was friendly and always joking.
“Li – o – nel,” Big Ray sang out.
He always greeted him like that.