Everyday Hero (5 page)

She leaned against the bus stop, her hoodie pulled over her head.

“Why?” I asked.

“Duh. Because I was—I wanted to see how you were feeling.”

“I do not have a headache, a stomach ache or a temperature,” I said.

“Your dad didn’t get too mad?”

I shook my head.

Across from us, the parking lot was a parking lot again. The vans, trailers and rides
were gone, and the tarmac shone slickly wet.

The bus came and we got in. I sat in the corner where I could feel the vibration
of the engine through my back.

I glanced at Megan. Her face looked different than it had the night before. Her left
eye was swollen shut and ringed with reddish purple bruises.

I was glad that even though I have Asperger’s, I do not have bad hand-eye coordination.

“What happened to your eye?” a guy on the bus asked Megan.

He stood in the aisle, holding on to the metal pole and looking down at us.

“What’s it to you?” she said, her lips hardly moving.

“Got into a fight at the fair, I bet,” the guy said.

Darren—I remembered his name from English class. He always sat in the back row and
had a miniature skateboard that he would flip on his desktop.

“Maybe the carnies were fighting over her,” a girl said, standing beside Darren and
swaying as the bus started. She was also in English class. “She looks their type—rough
and greasy.”

“She didn’t fight,” I said.

“Shuddup,” Megan muttered.

“How would you know?” the girl asked. Her blue eyes were outlined with thick streaks
of black eyeliner.

“I was with her,” I said.

“That’s right. I heard you liked the carousel,” Darren said and laughed, so I guessed
he must have made a joke. I laughed too.

Then Darren and the girl with the black eyeliner laughed even more.

Megan did not laugh. “Shuddup!” she said really loudly. She stood, even though the
bus was moving. Her hands had tightened into fists.

“Isn’t that sweet—one freaky weirdo standing up for the other freaky weirdo,” Darren
said.

It happened fast. One second Darren stood laughing in the aisle, and the next he
was lying on the floor, and everyone, even the bus driver, was screaming.

Darren swore and sat up. His nose was bloody, and I saw tears in his eyes. He rubbed
his arm across his face, smearing the blood. “I’m gonna get you for this!” he said.

The girl with the black eyeliner had started to cry, and her eyeliner ran down her
cheeks in inky rivers.

The bus jerked to a stop. Fortunately we were at the school. The doors swung open
and the bus driver yelled, “Everyone get off!” He shouted that
fighting on the bus
wasn’t allowed and that he would tell the principal and the police. He said that
kids today were totally out of control, particularly after the fair had been to
town.

But nobody got off right away except Megan.

Megan stood and walked past Darren without even looking at him. She stomped down
the aisle, her boots clumping in the eerie silence.

Even though the bus was crowded, everyone made room for her. Even the bus driver
stopped shouting, saying only, “I’ll report this, you know.”

“Whatever,” she said.

And Megan strode across the field with her backpack swinging and her chains clanking.

Six

I didn’t see Megan until lunch. Actually, I hadn’t expected to see her because I
thought she might be suspended.

But at lunch I went to my favorite stairwell—the one that used to go up to the second
floor in the old wing but doesn’t now that the upper floor has been closed and boarded
up.

Megan was leaning against the wall, eating a slice of bread without butter or peanut
butter. Her hair hung forward, half covering her face.

Megan often ate bread without anything on it. I liked this, because that way it had
no smell.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I come here every lunch,” I said.

“You do?”

I nodded. Then I sat and took out my sandwich and started to eat it. It was quiet
except for the noise of chewing and the sounds from the hallway.

“You know,” she said after I had finished my sandwich, “I don’t know whether to be
mad because you haven’t even asked if I’ve been suspended or glad that you’re not
nosy like everyone else.”

I didn’t say anything because this was confusing. I counted the ceiling tiles.

“I am suspended, by the way.”

I knew that, in school,
suspended
meant a student was not allowed to attend school
because he or she was in trouble.

“For the fight?”

“Duh.”

“Why did you hit Darren?”

“I was mad.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Are you for real? He was calling you names.”

“People often call me names,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t let people call my friends names.”

Friend—a person one knows well and is fond of.

I pictured the word in the dictionary. I saw it in tiny bold print with the letter
n
, which stands for
noun
, in brackets.

I counted ten ceiling tiles.

There are things I know are impossible for me. For example, I can’t be a garbage
collector.

Or a cook.

Or a lunch lady.

At my old school, Hayley MacLeod had said that I’d never have a friend.

That was two years ago on March 19.

But I do
, I’d told her.
Cameron, Ellie and Shannon play with me every Wednesday at
recess
.

She’d laughed.
You have a “social” group. The teacher bribes them with gold stars
.

“Do the teachers give you gold stars?” I asked Megan.

“Huh?”

“Do the teachers give you gold stars to sit with me on the bus? And now?”

“No,” she said. “They’d freak if they knew I was here. I’m suspended.”

“So no gold stars?”

“Like I’d do something for a gold star!”

Then I felt…I felt like I had on the carousel and like I do when I watch my ballerinas.
My lips curved upward.

“I like that you don’t do things for gold stars,” I said.

***

Megan was on the bus later, even though she hadn’t been in class. It was a different
bus driver than this morning’s.

The bus was crowded, so we stayed silent until we’d gotten off and were walking across
the parking lot.

That’s when Megan asked if she could stay overnight at my house on Friday.

I was surprised that she would want to do this. I hate staying the night in a strange
place. I hate hotels. I hate strange beds. I hate the way the blankets crackle with
static. I hate finding the windows in the wrong place and the lights on the clock
radio red instead of green.

I asked Megan why she wanted to stay overnight.

She laughed. I wondered why, because I hadn’t made a joke. “Your dad’s quiet,” she
said.

But Dad is not quiet. He shouts, particularly when the Canucks score. And he swears
when they lose, although he tries not to. Plus he likes music and has a drum from
Africa made of animal skin with tufts of yak hair. Actually, this
is
quiet, because
we use it as a plant stand.

“I don’t think he’s quiet,” I said.

“You should hear my stepfather.”

“Is he noisy?” I asked.

“He drinks too much.”

Too much root beer makes me burp. “Does he burp?”

Megan smiled again, so I knew she was happy. “Yes,” she said.

“I’ll have to ask my dad,” I said, because I remembered my dad had said that I shouldn’t
spend too much time with Megan because she was tough.

“Yeah, I don’t think he likes me much,” she said.

“He thinks you’re tough.”

Megan laughed. “That’s why I like you. You don’t pretend. You’re honest.”

This is called a compliment. My special-ed teacher told me I should return compliments.

“I like that you don’t smell,” I said.

***

I told Megan I’d tell her the next day if Dad said yes. Megan said again that if
I had a data plan I could text.

Megan likes to text. She also likes Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. She has 201
friends on Facebook. She says it is easier to make friends on the computer. This
must be true, because Megan doesn’t have 201 friends at school. She doesn’t talk
much to people at school.

I don’t have a data plan, so I said I would email. Megan looked up at the sky.

While Dad was making dinner, I asked him if kids who were average in type, appearance,
achievement, function and development had sleepovers.

He stood at the stove, making chicken noodle soup. I do not mind the smell of chicken
soup. He put the spoon down and then picked it up again.

“I guess,” he said.

Then I asked if someone could stay overnight on Friday. Spirals of steam rose, fogging
the kitchen windows. The water bubbled with a
plop… plop…plop
. The air was warm and
damp.

“Megan?”

I nodded.

He threw dry Chinese noodles into the soup. They hissed and fizzled.

“You’re sure she’s not just using you?”

I said nothing because I didn’t know what he meant by
using
, as I am not a tool like
a shovel or a knife or hammer.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

He continued to chop carrots with quick repetitive motions. Then he threw them into
the pot so that they plopped and splashed.

“This Megan—what do you like about her?” he asked after a moment.

I tried to find the words, but too many swamped my brain. Instead I counted the tiles
of the back-splash behind the sink.

There were six rows of eight.

Forty-eight.

“I like that she doesn’t smell,” I said at last.

My father inhaled. “She doesn’t smell? A lot of girls don’t smell!”

“Some use smelly shampoos and perfume.”

“And Megan doesn’t?”

“No.”

He cut the celery and threw it in…
plop, plop, plop
…

“Why?” he muttered, grabbing another celery stick and cutting again with quick, sure
strokes. “I’ve always wanted you to have friends and now—now you choose the local
thug, and all you can say is she doesn’t smell. She might murder us in our beds,
but she doesn’t smell.”

“And,” I said loudly, the words I needed to say suddenly clear in my mind, “she doesn’t
do things for gold stars.”

***

After dinner, Dad said Megan could come over on Friday. “She can come here,” he said,
“but I don’t want you going over there.”

“I don’t want to go there,” I said. “I will tell her tomorrow. Although I wish I
had a texting plan. Then I could text her.”

Dad was washing dishes. The smell of chicken soup still lingered. “Are you getting
into this high-tech stuff?”

Getting into
is slang. It means
getting involved in
.

“Yes, it is easier to make friends,” I said. “Megan has 201 friends.”

“She would.” He looked at me and pushed a damp strand of hair from his face. He opened
his mouth and then closed it.

After that he turned off the tap and poured a second cup of coffee from the pot.
A drop of coffee fizzled on the hot plate. He took the cup to the table and sat down
heavily, so that the seat wheezed. “I guess I’d best go over the rules.”

“Yes,” I said. I like rules. They make me feel safe, like seat belts in cars and
railings around high balconies.

“I’m not sure about Facebook, but I guess we could set you up with texting and your
own email on your phone.”

“And the rules?” I asked.

“Never give out your real name online. Never give out your address. Never give out
your age or other identifying information.”

He stirred his coffee. I watched the wisps of steam rise. I didn’t know what
identifying
information
meant. Dental records? That is how they identify people after a plane
crash.

Or
DNA
and fingerprints.

I said this to Dad, and he laughed, so I guess I made another joke. He said it meant
that I must not give out any information that might allow someone to find me, like
my real name or my address.

“But why wouldn’t I want them to find me?” I asked.

He went to the fridge for cream. “Sometimes bad people go on the Internet and pretend
to be kids when they’re really adults. You know, they pretend to be something they’re
not.”

“Like my preschool teacher being a witch at Halloween?” I said.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Not exactly. Just remember—don’t give out your
personal information on the Internet. It’s not safe. And never agree to meet someone
that you’ve only met online.”

“Is that a rule?” I asked.

“Yes. Actually, there was a pamphlet at the library about this stuff. I thought it
might be useful.” He got up and started to rummage through the
drawer where we keep
papers like warranties and manuals. “Here.”

He gave me a pamphlet with the heading
Keep your child safe online
and a picture
of two kids hunched over a laptop.

“Thanks. I’ll read it later,” I said.

Dad nodded, sitting. “I guess it’s—um—Megan who told you about this stuff?”

I nodded.

“I mean, I guess it’s good. All the kids are doing it,” he said.

“Good?”

“Well, um—normal.”

“You mean average in type, appearance, achievement, function and development?” I
asked.

Dad was silent for a second. He stirred his coffee and then laid the wet spoon on
a napkin. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he said.

Seven

The next time I saw Megan was at recess two days later. She was sitting at her locker.
Her bruise was no longer a reddish purple but now looked a yellowish-greenish purple.

“Was it closed?” I asked, sitting beside her.

“Huh?”

“The door you walked into?” I asked, because on the bus she’d said she walked into
a door.

“Sure,” she said.

“But your nose isn’t bruised?”

“So?”