Blue Vengeance (5 page)

 

Danny had to delay his plan until fall. He had been watching for over a month, but he needed more time to fine-tune the details.

Miss Hartley drove a Volkswagen that she parked on the street in front of the school. Danny often forced himself out of bed in time to watch her arrive. Classes didn't begin till five to nine, but she was always there by seven-thirty because of her coaching duties. The sporty girls got there before eight, carrying their gym bags.

She left at four most afternoons, unless there was a game. The tournaments had wound down now that school was almost over.

On the last Monday of the school year, Danny decided to go through a trial run. For the execution of the actual deed, he'd decided the days needed to be shorter. He wanted a slight cover of dusk, only slight, not enough to affect his sight line: straight to the temple.

The trial run got away on him. In his place inside the shrubbery by the house next to the school, he lost control of his intention.

He watched Miss Hartley walk briskly from the front doors of the school to her dark blue Beetle. She opened the door and threw her purse inside. He took aim — a trial run aim. She surprised him by partially closing the door and reaching over her windshield to retrieve a flapping piece of paper. It gave him more time. The angle wasn't good, but that was okay. He was a master of difficult angles.

A dog barked from behind him somewhere, a high-pitched sound that pierced his ear at the moment that he took his shot. He missed.

He stunned himself with his inaccuracy. The only thing he accomplished was a thunk to her windshield, satisfying in itself — Paul would have liked the thunk — but it was off the mark. He was too far away to see, but he could tell from the sound that he hadn't even made a star on the glass. Maybe, though, a nick that could grow into one. That had happened to the DeSoto once, when they had driven up to Rock Lake a million years ago. He wished for a star now. It could be a reminder to Miss Hartley that there would be a next time.

The dog's bark had both caused the shot and wrecked his aim. Danny was grateful for the wrecking part. It was too soon. There wasn't supposed to be a shot this day. He didn't have a hold on himself.

Miss Hartley looked around her, unhinged. Sounds escaped her throat, but no words.

Danny enjoyed the look on her face. It seemed to be a mixture of terror and guilt. Under the unexpected circumstances he couldn't have hoped for more. She knew how close she had come and she may not have known exactly why, but she knew she deserved it.

Clutching the stone in her fist, she ran back inside the school. She wasn't wearing running shoes, as usual, but ladies' shoes with a small heel. She went over on one ankle.

“Shit.” She shouted it.

Danny laughed. It was the sort of laugh kids use when they make fun of others, but quieter. He didn't like the sound of it coming from his own throat.

He figured
shit
was probably the type of word Miss Hartley used all the time after school hours. She probably even said
fuc
k sometimes, and women weren't supposed to say either of those words. She was a foul-mouthed pig when she was away from her job, even worse of a person than when she was at school.

Danny wondered if she was running to protect herself from another shot or just to report the misdeed to anyone who would listen. He suspected a little of each.

Almost immediately she emerged from the school with the vice-principal, Mr. Calder, in tow. Danny knew him from an errand he had run for his teacher on the day he had first seen Miss Hartley in action.

He was pleased with himself for not taking off when she went inside for those few moments. He wouldn't have had time to make a clean getaway.

Mr. Calder was not wearing a suit jacket, and his pants were pulled up impossibly high. Danny wondered if they had a longer zipper than standard pants. He vowed to himself that if he lived to be a hundred he would never wear his pants pulled up to his shoulders.

Miss Hartley waved her arms over the windshield and then faced Mr. Calder with her hands on her hips. Danny could hear some of her words.

“…could have been killed,” she said.

The vice-principal looked nothing but tired. He stepped back from her noise and put his hands over his ears.

Her screeching stopped. Even she seemed to know that if a fellow grownup had his hands over his ears at the sound of her voice, it was time to shut up. They looked around them vaguely, never in Danny's direction. He was home free. They must have assumed that the culprit wasn't the type of person who would stick around.

Miss Hartley got in her car and wormed away down Birchdale, hunched forward, hands squeezing the steering wheel.

Mr. Calder took a handkerchief from his pants pocket, wiped his forehead, and went back inside the school.

Danny sat still inside the bush till the only car remaining was an old Hudson. A stooped man dressed in workman's clothes came out of the school, locked the doors behind him, got in the car, and drove away. Mr. Potter, Danny supposed: the janitor. Cookie had told him that she'd heard Miss Hartley yell at him more than once about the state of the gymnasium floor, so he was sure the old guy would be one person, at least, who wouldn't object to a fast-moving projectile aimed at her nasty head.

A warning shot had been fired. Miss Hartley could sweat a little. He toyed with the idea of another warning shot on the last day of school, but decided against it. He didn't want to take stupid chances.

When he emerged from the honeysuckle bush he backtracked till he came to Highfield. Birchdale Betty was in her yard squirting dandelions with a rod-like instrument. She fixed her loony eyes on him, but he was convinced that her only thoughts in life were about her yard, and protecting it from marauders. He crossed over and sauntered home down the back lane between Birchdale and Lawndale.

He thought about adding surprise sounds to his practice, like those of a barking dog, but he couldn't do that without another person. Also, he had to consider Russell, who could easily mess things up just by being there. She would need to be secured at home.

For the first time, he worried that he might be famous for his slingshot skills. Maybe it had gotten around…or maybe he wasn't famous at all. He hadn't heard his name shouted out during Miss Hartley's rant. And lots of boys had slingshots.

He liked the idea of being admired for his sharpshooting, especially when he was riding no hands on his bike, but he made the decision now to tone it down, appear average, maybe stop altogether for a while till his fame, if there was any, died down. He would feel Paul out on the subject. That wouldn't be easy; they hadn't seen much of each other these past weeks.

When Dot was in town the last time she had accused him of becoming a lone wolf. She said that was dangerous, but didn't say why. He didn't like being a lone wolf, if that's what he was, but these days he didn't know any other way to be.

When he talked to Paul he'd need to word the fame business in such a way that he didn't sound like a moron.

 

It was a little early for supper when Danny got home, but he boiled up three wieners and made hotdogs. He wanted to get it over with. He ate two, with mustard and Cheez Whiz. His mother ate none.

“I couldn't possibly face a hotdog,” she said from her nest on the couch.

So starve then
. Out loud he said nothing, just removed her plate from the coffee table.

The phone rang. He answered it and called her. She made getting up look like a gargantuan effort, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. How could she not get that if Dot didn't think things were normal, she'd come back? He had gotten quite used to not having her around.

His mother at least tried to sound breezy today.

Sometimes she told a lie — said she had caught some sun by the pool, baked some muffins, spoken to someone on the phone. Danny couldn't look at her when she lied, but at the same time, he didn't mind.

Dot made Edwin call sometimes. There was no way he would have done it without being forced. Those calls were shorter. His mum didn't work as hard for him, but still, everything was fine, just fine.

Danny waited till he was sure Paul's supper would be over and then knocked on his door to see if he'd like to come out. Russell accompanied him.

Paul seemed happier to see the dog than to see Danny.

“I'm meeting Stu and Stubby later,” he said, “but I guess I could, for a while.”

A well of loneliness swelled up inside him. Paul didn't really want to come out; he was just being polite, in his way.

They walked along in the tall grass by the river.

“Let's go down to the monkey speedway,” said Danny, “where the blueberries are.”

“They're not ready yet.”

In summers gone by they had eaten the ripened fruit till their tongues and lips turned blue, and the thought of just one more made them sick. But it was too early in the season now, of course. And Paul had made this discovery without him.

He and Paul might find nothing to do, in an uncomfortable way.

Russell romped along beside them; Danny threw a stick. She snatched it up and kept running.

Danny hoped Paul would suggest that he join him and Stubby and Stu for whatever it was they had planned, which was probably just hanging around, but in a good easy way. It was something he had never had to hope for before. He had always just drifted along inside his friendships without questioning whether he was wanted or liked, whether his company mattered in a good way or bad.

He thought about inviting all three of them over for a swim in his neglected pool, but he didn't want to feel the way he'd feel if they said no.

Well, first things first.

“If you wanted to be famous for something,” he said, “what would it be?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, say you wanted to be known the world over for something, what would the something be?”

Paul kicked at a clump of dry dirt.

“I don't wanna be known the world over for anything.”

Danny watched Russell disappear into the bushes.

“Say you were forced to pick something.”

“Well…I guess I'd like to hit like Mickey Mantle.”

“Good one.”

“Or play drums like Ringo.”

“Another good one.”

“Or maybe be a ventriloquist.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was time for Paul to stop reeling off things he wanted to be famous for. He hadn't even liked the idea at first.

They walked in silence, kicking dirt, kicking stones. Paul hit a stone that was too big and said, “Ow.”

Russell bounded back, wet from the river, expecting praise. None came.

“Guess what I'd like to be famous for?” said Danny.

“Why do I have to guess?”

“I don't know. Just guess.”

Paul looked at him as though he were someone he didn't know — had never known — and wouldn't like if he did get to know him. His oldest friend didn't like him anymore.

Danny slowed down, and Paul slowed too.

“Your slingshot,” said Paul. “You'd wanna be famous for your jeesly shithead slingshot.”

A train went by on the other side of the river, chugging its way slowly towards the CN station.

“I have to go.” Paul quickened his step. “You're seriously certifiable.”

He headed up towards Lyndale Drive.

Danny didn't follow. “Later, alligator,” he called.

The train drowned him out.

Paul reached the top of the dike and was soon out of sight.

It hadn't gone well on any front. Danny still didn't know if he was famous because he hadn't asked the right questions, and his best friend was no longer his friend at all.

All this was Miss Hartley's fault. If he didn't hate her so much, he wouldn't have come up with the slingshot idea and he wouldn't have pissed Paul off this much. That didn't seem quite true to him, but as he moped along, he couldn't figure out what the real truth was. His thoughts rattled inside his head.

Russell shook herself down and leapt up in the air with all four feet off the ground.

“Good girl, Russ,” Danny said.

It sure didn't take much to lose a friend. Maybe it had to do with more than his slingshot and how mean he had been to Paul after the Sydney I. Robinson thing. He regretted that now, even though Paul had deserved it. He wondered if maybe Paul had finally seen that he came from a creepy place. A standard family didn't have a fifteen-year-old girl in it who threw up everything she ate. A girl who died. And no dad, and an old mum who lived on a chesterfield. As far as he knew, no one but him and Dot and Edwin knew about the chesterfield part, but it wasn't impossible. People got to know stuff.

This total disconnection from Paul's world was worse than anything except Cookie's death. It practically equalled it.

To an extent he had always felt an apartness from the people in his life, even from Cookie. His mother no longer counted, and he couldn't remember meeting his father. There was Aunt Dot and Uncle Edwin and, till recently, friends that he had horsed around with: Paul and, to a lesser extent, Stubby and Stu. Paul had been the hub, friend-wise.

But he had always felt there was a missing piece, as if his own shadow had gone astray. When he'd had that thought he checked for his shadow a few days in a row, and there it was: long in the morning, short at lunchtime, and long again in the late afternoon on his way home from school, following him or preceding him wherever he went.

He had never felt the apartness like now. He was adrift like a balloon that had slipped through the fingers of a kid at a birthday party. The kid would cry, and the balloon would be forgotten and replaced soon enough with another one. Danny didn't want to be a balloon.

When he got home he went up to his room to assess his gear. There was a useless piece of crap cap gun that made a half-hearted sound. Often the rolls of caps didn't even work. The smell it gave off was good; it hinted at fire and destruction. But it couldn't put a dent in Miss Hartley or even in her windshield. Danny and Paul had sometimes used rocks to bang the strips of caps on the pavement to set them off, but there was only marginally more satisfaction in that than in hitting the pavement with rocks independently of the caps.

He picked up some spurs from his old cowboy outfit. They looked sharp, and actually were, kind of, but a piece of one fell off in his hand, and then another. He hefted a broken piece, took its measure as a weapon, and found that it easily snapped in two. Piece of shit spurs. No wonder he had never worn them.

There was a pea shooter. You could bother people with that, but nothing more. A yo-yo and a kaleidoscope — two items that had amazed him in his younger years, especially the kaleidoscope. Uncle Edwin had tried to explain it to him, but Danny hadn't wanted to believe there was a practical explanation. It was sheer magic, still was, but he didn't care about it anymore.

He put the yo-yo in his pocket and took the spurs downstairs to the kitchen garbage. Maybe he could still master '
round-the-world
and
walking the dog
. Other kids could do tricks with their yo-yos — even Cookie had been able to make it sleep, but Danny couldn't get the hang of anything but the most basic move.

A kid at school had one of those knives that opened in an instant when you pressed a button. It was confiscated almost immediately, before Danny could get close to it. The kid couldn't keep himself from showing it off. Switchblade. That's what it was called. Danny wished he had a switchblade.

He took his jackknife out of his pocket and opened it. It was difficult to picture his small knife causing any real damage. And even if he had a dagger or a sword, like Zorro, it would be messy and loud. Miss Hartley would scream like a banshee when he got going on her.

There was no choice, nothing to weigh. It had to be his slingshot. If he got caught he could run, like Billy the Kid. He could flee to the furthest tip of South America. Patagonia! They had learned about it in geography class. No one would find him there — not the cops, not Uncle Edwin and Aunt Dot. His mum wouldn't even search.

He could get a job washing dishes in Patagonia. There would always be dishes to wash; he could make a career of it.