Fouling Out (6 page)

Mr. Patterson then turns his gaze on us. “You two are in my daughter's class, aren't you?” he asks sternly, not bothering to see if Tom is all right.

“Yes, sir,” I answer.

“You stay away from her. I don't want her mixing with the likes of you. In time, you'll both grow up to be the spitting image of the sad character that just left.” With that, Mr. Patterson walks back to his yard and resumes mowing the lawn.

“You all right?” I ask Tom.

“No thanks to you,” Tom fumes. He gets up and walks on. I don't bother catching up. I should have thanked him, I guess, but I don't really feel thankful.

Trying to be his friend is exhausting. The guy is totally unpredictable. Maybe Mr. Patterson is right. Maybe Tom will become that hothead in the car. Maybe his prediction is true for me too.

Eleven

T
he next morning at school, Tom is his usual annoying, loud, chatty self. I go home for lunch because I've forgotten my gym shorts. When I return, he is in a totally foul mood.

As soon as he sees me, he swears and calls me gay.

“Why do you always wanna be near me anyway?” he demands. Funny, because I've been trying to stay away from him. Swinging by the basketball court two minutes before the afternoon bell is obviously my mistake.

“Why don't you like any girls at school?” he persists. I could tell him it's because they spend their lunches looking through celebrity magazines, putting on fingernail polish, planning to go to the mall or talking about last night's phone conversations in play-by-play detail. Why would anyone want to give up running or a computer game for that?

But I don't argue with him. He's back to looking dumb and dangerous: mouth open (tongue thankfully in), eyes bugging out, ball bouncing the whole time. Something is up. Guys call each other gay to piss each other off, but Tom has never done that to me. It seems to be more than a casual taunt.

I turn and walk away. I've got a couple of French questions I forgot to do for homework anyway.

“That's it,” he calls. “Stay away from me, you queer.” The nearby conversations shut down now that Tom's big mouth has everyone's attention. I can feel my body shaking. I sense that everyone is looking at me, but I keep my eye on the portable and head inside.

Things are okay in science and French, because I have no contact with Tom. I make sure not to look over at him. Then comes
PE
.

I wish I'd left my gym shorts at home so I could just sit on the bench. In the change room in front of all the guys, Tom announces, “Better watch it. Craig's looking for a boyfriend.” Everyone laughs. I have no idea what to say or do. Should I swear? Punch him? Storm out? Should I knock down everyone who is laughing? Why are they laughing anyway? Are they just relieved that they aren't today's target?

“Shut up!” I reply. Wow. Not very original, but it seems to get everyone's attention. The guys stop laughing. They probably thought I'd laugh it off or take a swing at him. Now maybe they're wondering if Tom is telling the truth.

Tom exits early, throwing out, “Guess I hit a hot spot” as a parting shot. The change room clears quickly. I stay there, dreading the class I usually like best.

By the time I go out, they've finished stretches and are running laps.

“Where've you been, Craig?” Miss Chang asks. Though she tries to look calm, I detect an undercurrent of exasperation. “You missed warm-up.”

“I'm not feeling too well,” I answer, holding my arms crossed over my stomach.

“Do you need to sit out or go to the nurse's room?”

As she finishes her question, I notice Tom running past me with a big smirk on his face. “No,” I say, surprising myself. I had an out and I let it go.

“Well, do the stretches and then rest if you need to,” Miss Chang says as she briskly walks away to cheer on the slower runners.

Within a couple of minutes, Miss Chang calls everyone over to divide us into four teams for volleyball. She hasn't even numbered off four people when Tom blurts out, “I'm not playing on Craig's team or against him. Put me in the other game.”

“I try to create fair teams,” Miss Chang says. “I don't take requests.”

As she continues, Tom interrupts again. “I'm not playing anywhere near Craig, and you can't make me. He's in love with me.”

Great. First all the guys, now the girls and Miss Chang. If she sends him to the office, he'll find a way to humiliate me over the school's
PA
system—on the only afternoon my mom is in the building.

Thankfully, Miss Chang directs Tom to sit on a bench while she finishes making the teams. “Do you want to talk about it, Craig?” she asks quietly as I head to my assigned court. I shake my head emphatically. I don't want anyone to see a teacher bailing me out.

We rally for serve and play a couple of points when a girl on my team hits an errant bump which flies sideways and out of bounds. Tom leaps up from the bench, retrieves it and intentionally drills it at my head. I duck in time. Miss Chang doesn't see it, since she is on the other court patiently helping Mindy Chu figure out how to get a serve over the net.

I do my best to ignore Tom and focus on game play. In the middle of the next point, Tom pounces on me and knocks me down. The punches are flying so fast all I can do is get my hands up to block my face.

In less than a minute, Miss Chang and a couple of the guys pull Tom off me.

At least a dozen eyes peer down at me. Could someone please pull the fire alarm and get them away from me? I am lying on the floor, too stunned to do anything other than lift my head ever so slightly. One of the girls screams about blood on the gym floor—apparently from the back of my head. I rest my head again and surrender to being the main attraction of the day's freak show. At least I have the sense to close my eyes. The principal rushes in, and I tilt my head to see her escorting Tom away.

Miss Chang applies a cold wet paper towel to my face as my mother fusses over me. Wonderful. Rescued by my teacher and my mom. When I start to sit up, I throw up.

After fifteen minutes in the nurse's room, my mother takes me to the doctor to have things checked out. I've got some bruises and I have a small gash somewhere at the back of my head. A big bump too. If you're gonna have a wound, it's always best for it to be in a place where you don't have to look at it.

As we drive home from the doctor's office, my mom's too upset to talk. She focuses really hard on traffic. I try to figure out what brought on Tom's latest outburst. What was he thinking? Was something going on at home? And, if so, is that any excuse? We've been friends for ages, and he suddenly goes delusional and gets it in his head I'm gay? I can't explain it. That's the thing. I'm not sure even Tom can.

At home, my mother informs me that Tom has been suspended for two days. That means he'll have a four-day weekend. Harsh. I just want to know how I can transfer.

Twelve

A
t
7
:
15
the next morning, the phone rings. I'm eating my standard fare of soggy Shreddies when my mom answers it.

“Hello? Yes. What do you want?” Wow! Mom sounds terse. Obviously, the coffee hasn't kicked in. If she asks me to take out the garbage, I'll do it without the routine complaining. “I'm sure he doesn't want to talk to you,” she says. Something bad must've happened with Dad at work yesterday. Even so, he wouldn't want Mom talking to his clients like that. This isn't the day for him to be trying for the perfect shave. “No, I'm sure—No—” Bang! Wow. I've never seen Mom hang up on anyone. Dad does it every so often when business talks get too intense, and now Mom's acting like Dad's agent.

“Who was it, Mom?”

“Tom.”

As she answers me, I see the bags under her puffy eyes. Worse, her eyes are all red. She looks like she hasn't slept, and I bet she's had a good cry before breakfast.

“I don't want you hanging out with him anymore.” Her voice is strong and her words firm. This is not the time to protest. I don't want to anyway.

The phone rings again. I bow my head to watch the slimy cereal bits fracture in my bowl. I've lost my appetite, so I just maneuver my spoon here and there between the wheat particles. For a moment, I regress and the spoon becomes a shiny racing boat. The phone continues to ring. Mom pours another cup of coffee, ignoring my lapse in maturity and the persistent ringing of the phone. After nine or ten rings, Dad yells from upstairs for someone to get the phone.

Mom finally picks up. I know immediately that Tom has had the nerve to call back. Mom's voice and stance remind me of a mama grizzly, determined to protect her cub. Or maybe a female wrestler, ready to toss her foe overhead and out of the ring. (Okay, so I flip channels on Saturdays! It's not like I've ever watched a whole bout.)

“I have told you quite clearly that he does not want to speak to you.” Every syllable is delivered like a strong punch.

“I'll take it, Mom,” I say. I don't want to talk to him, but I want to hear what he has to say. How pathetic and desperate will his apology be? In disgust, Mom drops the phone on the counter, walks to the sink and lets the garbage disposal be her substitute screamer.

“Craig, you gotta come by my house on the way to school.”

“You're suspended.”

“But my dad doesn't know. I have to act like I'm going to school.”

“You're out of luck.”

“C'mon, man! He'll kill me. I mean, really kill me.”

“I can't help you. Bye.”

Incredible. Twenty-four hours earlier this guy was my best friend, like it or not. Now I'm feeding him to the wolves—or one drunken werewolf anyway. I didn't know I could be so cold. I guess that's what a blow to the head'll do. I stir the mess in my bowl a couple more times before deciding breakfast is over. As I get up and leave the kitchen, I feel Mom's stare following me. I know she wants to unload some motherly advice, but she wisely resists. It would be too awkward trying to discuss what Tom did yesterday and, worse, why he'd done it. I'm sure that the principal filled her in on all the details, but I prefer to pretend she knows nothing.

I take a different route to school just to avoid going anywhere near Tom's house. Why does he need me to pretend to walk to school with him? It's not as if we walk to school together every day. Most times, yes, but not always. Besides, just yesterday he was all psychotic about being seen with me. What's changed? Maybe it's a trick to get me over there so he can finish what he started.

Tom hadn't said anything close to “I'm sorry” on the phone. He was just trying to save his neck. I have my own neck to worry about. I have to walk back into class after my best friend went berserk and declared that I'm gay. I decide to walk really slowly so I won't get to class until the moment the bell rings. No point in subjecting myself to any more torment than absolutely necessary.

How bad can it be if Tom's dad finds out what happened yesterday? Would he beat Tom? As far as I know, his older sister and brothers were worse than Tom in school and they're still alive—well, at least two of them are. I still don't know a thing about where the oldest brother is. Tom refuses to talk about what happened to Andy.

My thoughts are interrupted by the school bell. I'm still a block away. How did I mistime it so badly? Being late will attract even more attention than arriving early. This is great—just great.

When I walk in, Miss Chang is already going over the integer homework in math. That woman doesn't waste a single second of school time. Work, work, work. Come to think of it, that's a good thing today.

“Good morning, Craig,” Miss Chang chirps, just as I'd hoped she wouldn't. Why is it that teachers have no clue what it's like to be a student?

Miss Chang immediately resumes demonstrating math problems, leaving me to face the stares and glares of my peers. Strangely though, most people don't turn my way at all. Mark gives me a half wave before focusing again on the lesson. Todd Allbright smiles briefly from across the room as do one or two others. Mindy Chu stares for a few moments, but I glare at her like always and she goes back to looking at the blackboard.

“You okay?” Jenny Tai whispers from the desk behind me.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'll show you the homework question you missed.”

That's nice of her. To my surprise, everyone is perfectly normal all morning. Then, it hits me. Of course! Miss Chang. With my early departure yesterday and Tom being booted from school, she'd pounced on the opportunity to give the class one of her famous pep talks. I can almost hear her: “How would it feel if it had been you?” “What do you think Craig's feeling right now?” “This is a remarkably mature class that knows how to show respect to each of its members. I expect nothing less.”

Maybe in her trademark fashion, Miss Chang had nipped things in the bud and saved me. She's that rare breed: a do-gooder who actually does good. Even if I'd wanted to thank her, she wouldn't have let me—not when we have algebraic equations with negative integers to learn.

Thirteen

I
'm always tired on Mondays. Just when I get into the swing of sleeping in on Saturday and Sunday, along comes Monday to spoil it all. Why can't school start at eleven in the morning? Of course, I wouldn't want it to run longer either. Maybe they could stop teaching math, science and French. Later start, shorter day. Works for me.

This particular Monday morning is worse than most. My mother barges into my room, screaming at me to turn the alarm off. I never knew it was on. With vocal cords like hers, who needs the alarm anyway?

Over breakfast, my mother is reciting all the things I need to do at home after school. I fall asleep on the table shortly after she mentions shovelling some manure. Boy, does that make her mad. I get my second awakening of the day from those lungs. No amount of fatigue is worth hearing Megaphone Mom again.