Fouling Out (2 page)

“No. She just laughs at you. It's nothing personal. She laughs at everyone and everything. Like I said, too giggly.”

Tom throws the rock into empty sky. Thank God for short attention spans. He looks straight at me again. I can see he hasn't given up the stupid girl thing. “Tracey Lin's got a nice giggle.”

“Whatever. Go after her then.”

“I can't. You picked Erin.”

“Yep, I did. Too bad. Decision's final.” I get up and start walking across the park. Sometimes no one's gonna save you. Sometimes you have to save yourself.

“What about Taryn McCloskey?” Tom calls out, rushing up behind me, smacking his basketball from hand to hand. “Should I go for Erin or Taryn?”

At this moment, I feel like even the flying worms are luckier than me.

Three

A
couple of minutes before dismissal, everyone scrambles to gather all their homework materials while Miss Chang talks above the din, instructing us to fill out our planners, and recapping her advice about tonight's assignments. There's no time to groan about her unreasonable expectations or to interrupt her and attempt to renegotiate the load. The countdown to freedom is on.

It is always a race out the door, and Tom always wins. I have to be at least Top Five or he greets me outside with a punch to the shoulder and some griping about how I'm blowing his whole afternoon.

Where is my writing notebook? How can something I'd been using only an hour ago sink to the bottom of my desk? I pull out a dozen things before it surfaces. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense Tom glaring at me. As I stuff everything else back in my desk, the bell rings.

“Tom, Craig…I need to see you.” Miss Chang's voice is loud enough that there's no way to pretend we haven't heard. Tom lets out a huge sigh and drops his backpack so everyone else has to dodge the unexpected addition to the obstacle course.

“Let's get this over with,” he mutters, passing me and approaching her desk. As I follow, my brain replays the day's events and tries to figure out where I committed a noticeable offence.

“It's your math tests,” she begins. “Your scores are rather low.”

Tom laughs. “Well, duh. Check your files. We're not real brains.”

Miss Chang doesn't snap at Tom about showing some respect. Instead she says, “I know you can both do better. I think if we go over the concepts for a few days after school, you'll—”

Tom yelps. “You gotta be kidding! You want me to do
more
math? On my own time? Why don't you just cut off a couple of my fingers?”

Miss Chang's forehead creases, but she doesn't flinch. “I really think—”

“Do we hafta stay?”

“No, but—”

“We're outta here. C'mon, Craig.”

For the first time in my life, I think about how a teacher feels. I guess I always knew teachers had feelings, but the only ones I ever notice are pretty basic. “Mr. Osmond's mad.” “Miss Ogilvy was really nice today.” “Wow! Is Skye ever grumpy!”

Miss Chang had offered to give me a second chance. She thinks I'm capable of doing better. She's even willing to give up a chunk of her after-school time to help me.

And I walked out.

I can't blame Tom. Sure, he did all the talking and he decided to walk out, but I didn't have to follow. Why did Miss Chang talk to us together? If it had been just me, I'd have stayed.

Does she really believe I can do better? Or was it just a con job to get me to do more work? I've
never
done well in math—not even on a single math test. Maybe I should tell her. Why should she beat her head against a wall? I've taken dozens of math tests in my life. She's only graded one of mine so far.

Still, if Miss Chang thinks I can do better, maybe I can.

The world looks different at six in the morning. Quiet and still. Had I really set my alarm that early? I always get these wild ideas late at night about what I'm going to do the next day. Come morning, I dismiss my plans with a quick, “Ha! Who are you kidding?!”

Getting up an hour earlier than usual is crazy. I somehow manage to turn off the alarm and then drift in and out of a not very restful doze.

As I toss and turn, I smash my elbow against the headboard. If there's a funny bone in there, it doesn't have an early morning sense of humor.

The pain requires me to sit up in bed and gingerly hold my wounded arm. Stupid headboard. Who was the idiot who invented such a ridiculous piece of furniture? If it hadn't been there…Okay, the wall would've been just as bad.

There's nothing more annoying than losing an argument with yourself.

Still in pain and thoroughly disgusted, I get out of bed and head for the shower. 6:23
AM
. I must be crazy!

I arrive at school at
7
:
58
, an hour before the start of classes. The halls are empty except for a couple of teachers casually chatting about some
TV
show. They almost sound like normal people. It's absolutely creepy.

I startle Miss Chang when I walk into the classroom. She's already writing directions on the board.

“Craig! Have you checked your watch today?” Miss Chang asks. She sounds far too cheery.

“I was wondering if you could help me in math.”

Without hesitation, she moves to a clean part of the board and begins writing a fraction problem. Oh, God. No! What was I thinking?!

“You did well, Craig,” she quietly tells me at recess a few days later.

“Really?” I ask. What kind of joke is she trying to play? I look in her eyes, trying to get to the truth.

“You worked hard for this. I'm very proud of you.” Wow! She's one hundred percent sincere.

As Miss Chang shows me the retest, I see another percentage. I got a B. Not a high B, but still a B. I've never done so well on a math test in my life. I'm stunned.

“Go enjoy the rest of your recess,” she whispers, pulling me out of my stupor. I shoot Miss Chang a big goofy grin. It goes against the code of never letting anyone see I care about anything in school—other than
PE
and maybe Computers. I must look positively dorky, but Miss Chang politely holds back any urge to laugh. She flashes me a satisfied smile. I want to walk nonchalantly out the door, but my feet overpower my mind, and I dance away in an awkward skip-jig. If she wasn't laughing before, she probably is now.

Tom is already involved in an intense game of basketball by the time I arrive at the court. He doesn't know I took the retest or that I've been going in early for extra help. I'd told him to walk to school with Erin in the mornings to try to get to know her better. He liked that idea. Without a doubt, he'll make fun of me if he finds out what I'm doing. I still want to tell him about my grade. I want to tell someone—anyone.

Maybe when I get home, my parents will take me out to celebrate the same way we do for Dad's promotions. Then I remember that Dad's in Seattle on business. It doesn't matter. I couldn't be happier.

Four

T
here's nothing worse than rain on Saturday. Except for rain on Saturday and Sunday. Unfortunately, it rains a lot in Richmond. A little drizzle isn't a big deal, but this is one of those times when each cloud seems like a sponge that will never wring dry. I was stuck grocery shopping, plant shopping, card shopping and just plain aimless shopping with my mom all day Saturday. The promise of a Big Mac didn't help.

I have to make sure that Sunday won't be a repeat performance. Mom and Dad have a big day planned, choosing paint for the living room. Sample strips cover the coffee table, and their current favorites—named after tasty desserts and exotic vacation spots— are taped to the wall above the sofa. This will be one of those tedious, month-long projects that my parents bond over.

Thankfully, Tom answers the phone when I make my getaway call. He whispers, so I know his dad is still asleep. Sometimes on weekends Mr. Hanrahan sleeps until three or four in the afternoon. Tom once told me that it was because his father liked to play pool and get drunk most nights. Actually, Tom didn't need to say a thing because I'd figured it out. You've never seen such a scary sight as Mr. Hanrahan when he wakes up. Foulmouthed, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke, his hair—what's left of it—shooting out every which way.

Anyway, we agree that I should go to his place to hang out even though we can't figure out what to do. Tom refuses to come to my house because my mom is around; she and Tom barely tolerate each other. She says he's a bad influence and she blames him for all my visits to the school office. Dad, on the other hand, pins the blame fully on me. No excuses, no justifications.

When I get to Tom's, we try our best to talk in whispers, knowing it'll be bad news if Mr. Hanrahan gets an early awakening. No one else is around, which is pretty typical. Mrs. Hanrahan practically lives at her church. According to Tom, she doesn't go there to volunteer. She goes to pray. I'm sure she has a long list of things to talk to God about. Tom's older brother, Jerry, is working at an office supply store. He's the shining star of the family because he made it halfway through eleventh grade before quitting school. (One time when Mr. Hanrahan was in a good mood, he bragged, “We Hanrahans are smart. We all finish school early.” Tom said it was his dad's idea of a joke.) Tom never knows if his sister is home or not. She's taken over the basement, which is where we used to hang out. Now the door is always locked. As far as I know, she doesn't work. Mostly, she stays downstairs and smokes pot. No one seems to care.

For the first little while, things go fine at Tom's. With nothing to do, we raid the kitchen. Pickings are slim, but we create some really bizarre sandwiches. I have to eat what Tom makes and he has to eat what I make. (After a lot of arguing, we agree that dog food can't be included.) His sandwich has mustard, beets, fruit cocktail and tuna. I make one stuffed with horseradish, yogurt, oatmeal and lima beans. I gag a little on the tuna sandwich but manage to get a mouthful down. Tom spits out his first bite of the lima bean special, and it sprays all over the counter. I don't let him off that easy, so he has to take another stab at it. We take the leftovers outside, and his dog, Archie, finishes them off. Except for the beets.

We're in the living room flipping channels on the
TV
when Mr. Hanrahan comes barrelling in, swearing up a storm. As he approaches Tom, he throws an ashtray at him. It misses Tom and takes a small chunk out of the wall. Mr. Hanrahan yells some stuff about “shuttin' up, cleanin' up, and learnin' manners” as he yanks Tom off the sofa and starts kicking him.

I don't even know what I shout out, but I just want Mr. Hanrahan to stop. For a moment, he lunges toward me, but then he turns back to his son as Tom tries to roll away. Tom yells at me to get out of the house, which is exactly what I do.

I've never been more ashamed of myself after I walk— or run—home. I keep thinking about what I should've done, what I could've said. Why had I gone over there? I knew Mr. Hanrahan was sleeping. Would Mr. Hanrahan have punched me? Maybe I should've run to a neighbor's to ask for help or call
911
. Now that I'm gone, what will Mr Hanrahan do to Tom?

I nervously wait for my parents to come home. As I wait, I think back on all the times I've seen Tom's dad go berserk. Lots of yelling and swearing about how useless Tom and the rest of the family are. Once he even started to yell at me—something about my red T-shirt set him off—but Tom quickly grabbed me and we took off to play basketball. He broke a beer bottle on the floor once. Mostly he threw things at walls. But I'd never seen him get physical with Tom before. Maybe he's been trying to be on his best behavior with a guest in the house.

I go over and over in my head how to tell my parents what happened. I don't have any idea how they will react. Sure, Mom will forbid me to go over there again, but I don't know what my father will do. I grow more anxious as I sit in the living room, jumping up every time I catch a glimpse of a car in the street.

I want to call Tom to make sure he's okay, but I'm afraid of what he'll say and of what might happen if Mr. Hanrahan is the one who picks up the phone. Maybe just the sound of the phone will set him off again.

When my parents get home, I don't have the guts to say anything. Mom is busy holding up swatches against the living room furniture, and Dad is back to reading his business magazines. I want to throw up, and it has nothing to do with fruit cocktail and tuna. I feel like the worst friend and the biggest coward who ever lived.

On Monday, Tom is at school at the regular time. He looks no different than usual, aside from the fact he's wearing jeans instead of his regular basketball shorts. He doesn't mention anything about the day before, and neither do I. There are certain things about Tom that aren't up for discussion. I don't recall how or when I figured that out, but it was clearly understood.

Five

I
t's Saturday morning, and I'm staring at a bowl of soggy Shreddies. My mother still insists on pouring the milk the moment she hollers for me to come down for breakfast. It's cereal! What's the rush? The mushy mess puts me in a foul mood, so I start complaining about how I have to spend the weekend reading a whole novel and then writing a paper on how the story would change if I added a famous person as a character.

Totally unreasonable assignment, right? Good parents are supposed to say something like, “Oh, you poor thing” and tell you they're going to talk to the teacher. My mom cuts me off with, “Oh, it'll be fun!” And Dad just tries to out-whine me. “You've got it good, Craig. Just wait till you get a job. It's Saturday, and I'm off to a meeting.” Yeah, I think, as he grabs his briefcase and heads for the door. He's off to a buffet breakfast at a fancy hotel in Vancouver. Life's rough when you've got to talk a little business while you gorge yourself with waffles, omelettes and a separate plate loaded with bacon. Besides, he picked his job. Nobody gave me a choice about school.