Duck Boy (3 page)

He smiled pleasantly, to suggest that nothing was wrong.

The Frown, dumbfounded, joined him where he sat, inspecting him from head to
toe. “Mr. Best. You are leaking in my classroom,” he said slowly. Drip, drip,
drip.

Steve, not quite himself, wasn’t really listening. He was staring at his
hands, which were an interesting shade of blue. He would have smiled, but his
face felt numb.

The Frown followed Steve’s stare. His scowl burst into confusion for a few
moments. Then alarm. “Go see the nurse, Mr. Best,” he ordered. “Now.”

Though Steve couldn’t remember quite how he got there, he ended up in the
nurse’s office, where he was given dry clothes pilfered from the lost and
found. The ball-shaped nurse wrapped him in blankets and made him sit bundled
until he warmed up.

The clothes. They didn’t fit. They didn’t match. Like his life. The shoes
were size 12 at least. He wandered through the day looking homeless, which made
for easy jokes. Even worse, one of the four boys videoed him stomping into the
pond, and posted it to YouTube. He was the joke of the school. But the joke
wasn’t funny. As he thought back, he couldn’t even remember if the duck was OK
or not. By lunchtime, the sun had melted the ice from the pond anyhow.

The duck would probably have survived.

And it was true. The newspaper had reported that there were too many ducks
in the area. Everything added up to one big disaster. To top it off, the school
called his dad, who had to leave work early to pick him up.

Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

The nickname somehow stuck. Steve had only two friends at school who called
him by his real name. Everyone else called him Duck Boy. And he hated it. The
name echoed in his thoughts whenever he felt like a twit, whenever he felt
fear.

Steve’s mind resurfaced in the principal’s office where he waited.

Dad’s here to pick me up again. I’m in trouble again. Not
much has changed.

As the secretary breezed back into the office, the main door closed behind
her, popping the principal’s door open a couple of inches. The two muddled
voices inside the office became clear.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.” Steve recognized his
dad’s tone immediately. “He was never like this. I’m not…I’ve given up. I don’t
know what to do. I’m having my own difficulties at work.”

“I know you’ve had some difficult times recently, since your wife, um…er,
disappeared, but whatever the reason, Steve is not functioning in the
classroom. His work is sloppy, when he does it.” That drawl belonged to the
principal, Mrs. Wilcox. “He has no ability to focus on his work.” The drawl
paused. “If we cannot help turn him around in the month after Christmas, he’ll
have to repeat the grade. I’m sorry. I have no choice.”

Steve felt a knot clamp around his stomach.

I won’t be going to high school next year. I’ll be
fifteen in September and still in middle school
.

“He’s just having a rough time,” Mr. Best pleaded. “He needs a break.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Best. I’m not in the business of giving breaks. The Board expects
me to make sure each student meets the standards. It’s my job. I don’t like it
any more than you do, but I can’t bend the rules to help you or your son. It’s
hard to take now, but in the long run it’s always best.”

Doug Best jerked the door open and noticed Steve waiting. “Let’s go,” he
sputtered.

They walked through the now-empty school corridors. A janitor was loading
the last looseleaf from the floor into a recycling bin. A few straggling
teachers chatted.

But Steve and his dad weren’t talking. Mr. Best’s pale, clamped features
seemed to have scared his hair into confusion.

This disheveled man unlocked the car doors and slumped into the driver’s
seat. Once settled inside he heaved a sigh, reached up to his throat and
loosened the knotted tie around his neck.

“Dad? Are you OK?” Steve asked.

Mr. Best folded his hands and rested them on top of the steering wheel and
rested his forehead on them. His eyes closed.

“I don’t know if I’m going to make it, Son.” His voice was quiet, almost a
whisper. “I just don’t know.” He dropped his hands from the steering wheel and
sat up. Key into the ignition. The car choked to life in the winter air, and he
wrestled it into drive.

The car’s heater whirred weakly against the frosted windshield, struggling
to keep a small oval of the windshield clear. Steve watched the frost for a few
minutes as Dad prepared a fatherly chat. A chat always followed one of Steve’s
bad days.

The pattern was as predictable as peanut butter, and as tired. It wasn’t as
though Dad were a bad man. Just lost. Lost, like Steve. He took his wife’s
disappearance so personally he could barely function any more. He wanted to do
something, to make everything better, but there was nothing to be done, no words
to say, no handy heroics or caped cartoon conquerors to save the day. A lecture
was as good as it got.

“Listen, Steve,” he began, spouting clouds of steam. “I know things haven’t
been easy since your mother left.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I meant
disappeared. Your life and mine…both of us haven’t done so well. But I really
need you to try…you know…to get it back together.”

“Dad, I heard.” Steve said, cutting in. He’d heard this speech hundreds of
times over the past year and a half since his mom disappeared. “If I don’t improve in January, no high school.”

Steve’s words seemed to anger his dad. “I don’t know what good talking
does,” he muttered. “You know what’s going on better than I do.” He tried to
continue to talk, but his mouth fumbled and hissed steam as he began another
sentence. “I… It’s…you….” He shook his head in obvious frustration. “I can’t
deal with this any more, Steve.” His voice suddenly became a yell. “If you know
what’s happening, why can’t you do something about it? I’m trying to hold
things together here, Steve. I need you to pull your end. All you have to do is
your schoolwork. That’s not so much, is it?” Dad’s yell rang and faded in the
winter air.

“That’s not too much to ask, is it?” his dad repeated in a quiet, desperate
voice.

Steve didn’t answer. When you’re drowning it’s best to save your breath.

Steve watched his father strain as black waves of emotion washed over his
face. Slowly his face returned to its exhausted, frantic look. “I’m sorry, Son.
I didn’t mean what I just said. I had a very rough day at work. I’m taking it
out on you.” The hum of the car tires on the road filled the car for a few
minutes. “I have another piece of news.” His muscles strained and streaked like
lightning bolts from his jaw down his neck. “I’m being forced to work this
holiday. A bigger firm bought our company. And if I want to keep my job, I have
to work this Christmas holiday.”

Doug Best was a salesman. He sold fire detection and control equipment to
industrial clients. A few years ago, he had loved his job. All he talked about
were the things he sold—fire alarm systems, sprinkler systems, and all the
related equipment. Steve loved to listen to him discuss and demonstrate the
equipment. In fact, Steve felt like he knew as much as Dad did. But, something
had changed. Dad didn’t enjoy his job as much, especially since his wife
disappeared.

“My new boss booked me for a trip to Indonesia over Christmas. I’ll be
selling to some companies in Indonesia that don’t celebrate Christmas. I won’t
be in my hotel room. I’ll be working every day. So, you’ll have to go to your
great aunt’s house for the Christmas break.”

It took a minute for Steve to make the connections and realize whose house
he would decorate for the holiday. “What?” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe
you’re going to do this to me. It so completely sucks. Can’t I go with you on
your trip?”

“I wish you could, Son.” Dad shook his head and frowned.

“Did you check with Brian’s family?” Steve asked desperately. Dad nodded.
“They can’t take me?”

“They’re heading to Kicking Horse to ski for the holiday,” he replied.

“They could take me.”

“Steve,” Dad said in a serious tone. “Do you know how broke we are?”

“No.”

“There’s no way around it. We’ll celebrate our Christmas early, at home
tonight. Then I’ll drive you over to your aunt’s later. I have to catch a plane
to Denver about 10:30 tonight. And Steve…” Steve looked up at his dad’s worn
face. “I’m sorry.”

It was the second Christmas since she’d disappeared. The first had been
horrible. This one looked like it was only going to be awful. Only slightly
better than going to school. Or the dentist.

The evening was uneventful. “I wish I could be home for Christmas Day, but
this is all I can do,” Dad said through a mouthful of fried rice and ginger
beef. Steve and his dad exchanged their presents while picking away at boxes of
cold Chinese food. There weren’t any Christmas feelings to make this moment
feel festive. The smiles were forced and painful, and no one attempted a “ho,
ho, ho.” There was nothing there worthy enough to call Christmas—just presents,
tinsel, and tension.

The only Christmas sounds that played that night were the silver bells of the
genuine, imitation antique telephone, which rang merrily as a call came in.
Looking for any distraction he could find, Steve sprang off the couch to
answer.

“Hello, Steve. This is your Great Aunt Shannon,” said a warbled old voice.
To Steve, her voice even smelled old. “Did your dad tell you to bring your
mom’s research notebook? The police returned it to you a while ago, didn’t
they? I think they gave it back to your father. He probably put it where it
belongs—on your mom’s nightstand.”

“Um, I’m not sure,” Steve answered, knowing exactly what she meant.

“I’ll bet he forgot, the poor fellow,” Aunt Shannon said. “You do remember
her notebook? The one she used for research.”

“Yes, I remember, Aunt Shannon,” he replied.

“I’m sure you have it back by now. It’s on her nightstand. Please remember
that notebook for me. It’s very important for my research. You forgot it the
last few times you came, you know.”

“What research?” Steve asked, ignoring her last remark.

“I’m going to find your mother, Deary,” Aunt Shannon said. “She hasn’t left
you, you know. It’s just an experiment gone haywire.” She seemed to have no
idea how much Steve didn’t want to talk about it. Any time Steve remembered his
mom, her disappearance, or anything related to either, it felt as though
someone had taken a sharp stick and poked him in the eye.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

“You’ll bring some soap and some clean underwear, too, won’t you? And I hope
your dad asked you to behave yourself. You really should, you know.”

“I’m planning on it.” Steve rolled his eyes as his dad looked on.

“You know I don’t like to say goodbye,” said Aunt Shannon.

“Right,” Steve said, as the line went dead at the other end. Goodbye, Steve
thought, that’s the first thing I’d like to say.

Chapter 2

The suitcase slid around in the trunk and Steve swayed wildly from side to
side as Mr. Best drove their rusty blue station wagon.

“You’re kinda driving like a madman, Dad,” Steve commented, body-checking
the door as the car rounded a corner too quickly.

“I have to be there two hours before the flight leaves,” Dad complained. The
car jounced to a stop at the front walk.

He looked glumly at Steve, and then at his watch. Steve slammed the car door
open with a crunch into a snowbank. Dad popped the trunk. Steve got out and
closed the door. The frosted passenger window whined as it opened enough so Mr.
Best could speak. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” he said, leaning over the
passenger seat. “I’d come in, but I’m late.”

Steve grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, and thumped the lid closed.

“Oh my god!” he exclaimed. He returned to the open passenger window. “I
forgot my backpack.” The backpack held the socks and underwear he needed for
his Christmas stay. Dad sighed heavily, making Steve hasten to add, “But I know
where the key is and I can get it myself. See you in two weeks, Dad. Have a
good trip.” He tried to sound sincere as the closing passenger window moaned
again. He turned to walk up the steps to the unwelcoming house.

“Steve?” Mr. Best had opened his door and was standing outside of the car.
He twisted his frown into a forced smile. “Merry Christmas.”

Steve nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too,
Dad.”

His dad ducked into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed, and was gone
before the steam from his words was eaten by the darkness.

The night was suddenly silent as Steve trudged up the walkway to the house.
On the front door of the house hung a fluorescent orange “BOO!” In the
flowerbed, a white ghost rose out of an old unkempt grave. Through the door he
could hear the sounds of someone playing something like “Jingle Bells” on an
organ. The organist hit several wrong keys at a time, but the music didn’t slow
down or stop. Steve rang the doorbell.