Fouling Out (8 page)

“Try checking back at recess.” What she really means is, Go on. Get out of my office. She grabs a file and turns her back to me as she opens it and straightens the papers inside.

“Could you please have me called out of class as soon as she's available?”

The gatekeeper is losing her patience. “What is this about? We can't have you missing classes because of a lost basketball or a bad grade—”

“It's about Tom Hanrahan.”

Her eyes widen. She hesitates; then she nods soberly and says, “I'll give her the message as soon as she's free.” The phone rings and she answers it while continuing to watch me in case I make an attempt to burst into Mrs. Brewer's office. I really want to get it over with. What could be more important? I'm ready to confess, and I don't want to have to sit in class pretending everything is fine.

It had occurred to me at exactly
3
:
17
in the morning that if I took my fair share of the blame for the squirrel scare maybe Tom wouldn't be in such hot water. Maybe his dad would cool down. Maybe the foster family thing would be abandoned. Maybe Tom would come back. At
3
:
17
in the morning, that sounded like a perfectly reasonable series of maybes. In the light of day, it all seems too ridiculous, too much like the last five minutes of a television movie of the week. Perhaps Tom had snuck across the border—there was no wall or fence, after all—and hitchhiked to Seattle. He could pass for sixteen and get a job at McDonald's. Was I needlessly setting myself up for trouble?

The one thing that seems clear is that Tom has unfairly taken the heat for our part in the Richmond Racist ordeal. I have to do what I can to help him.

Even though the five-minute-warning bell has already gone, most of my classmates are still crowded around the outside steps as I approach the portable. I stop and wait, wanting them to go in before I get any closer. I know why they are there. This is the best gossip of the year, and no one wants to miss out on giving his or her own take on “the real Tom Hanrahan.”

Then I spot Vice-Principal Skye talking to a woman with a notebook and a man with an elaborate camera. Tracey is trying her best to talk over Skye and the woman, who are in a heated discussion. With a broad sweep of his right arm, Skye causes half the crowd to back up a few inches. His face is redder than a sunburnt lobster as he forces the woman backward down the stairs and away from the students.

“Get in the classroom…now!” He orders my classmates without looking back to address them. The photographer snaps wildly as he retreats with his colleague.

“My name has an
e
in it. I hate when it's misspelled. T-R-A-C-E-Y,” shouts the gossip queen as she disappears into the portable.

I take a wide loop on the field to avoid Skye and his foes, but I am close enough to hear him fiercely spouting something about “school policy” and “respecting the personal space of minors.” Every syllable resonates with authority.

In the classroom, it's total madness. Only three or four people are in their seats. Many are gathered around Miss Chang, talking all at once. Others huddle in small packs around the room. I check the clock to see if it's me or everyone else who is out of whack. Class should've started two minutes ago. I can picture Tom smiling with satisfaction at the thought that he has taken a chunk out of a regular day's education.

Finally, Miss Chang tells everyone to take their seats. It takes three commands over the course of a couple of minutes before things settle down. Only then do I notice the woman standing quietly at the front of the room. She looks vaguely familiar, and I assume she is a parent or a substitute something. Miss Chang writes
Mrs. Nakashima
on the board as she introduces the woman as a school counselor. Mrs. Nakashima smiles faintly and attempts to make eye contact with the people on the right side of the room. Still, her gaze seems to fly a few centimeters over everyone's head. I can't imagine how such an obviously timid person could possibly assist anyone with a serious problem, but I guess she is the best the school can come up with.

Miss Chang explains that, due to Tom being missing, we will talk as much as we need to about any worries or concerns we have. Mrs. Nakashima nods her head a few times but adds nothing. We are invited to share our thoughts.

“Do you think he's dead?” Marvin Ho blurts out with more excitement than concern. Apparently, with Tom gone, the position of class jackass is up for grabs.

“How can you even say that?” a horrified Mindy Chu chimes in, taking the bait.

“What?” Marvin continues, defensively. “I've never known anyone my age to die. It would just be kinda weird.”

Miss Chang tries to move things along as the counselor stares silently at the bulletin boards in the room. No matter what Miss Chang says or does, Marvin has set the mood. Half the class says things like, “His dad coulda hunted him down, shot him and buried him,” and, “Maybe he used the gun other times.” The others make the whole thing about them. Tracey repeats how freaked she is to have sat near a guy with a gun, and Tammi carries on with, “I just can't believe it! I've never known anyone who had a gun! This is the first time I've known someone who made the news in, like, a bad way.” Tom would have put them all in their places with one glare, one stinging comment, one loud guffaw. I keep my mouth shut and glance toward the door, waiting for Mrs. Brewer to come and take me away from this sad circus. Confessing is starting to seem a little less scary.

“I bet Craig knows where he's hiding.” Erin's accusation jolts me to alertness. Everyone is looking at me. I say nothing. No one else does either, but they continue to stare.

Couldn't we please do some math? Or look words up in the dictionary or start a massive research project? Why is nothing happening? Why is everyone still looking at me? Why can't I just tune them all out and be like Mrs. Nakashima, staring into space over everyone's heads?

“If anyone knows anything about Tom, they should speak privately to their parents, myself, Miss Chang, Mr. Skye or Mrs. Brewer as soon as possible.” She speaks! Suddenly all eyes swivel toward Mrs. Nakashima. I finally find a spot on the board—the comma between the day and the year for today's date—and tune everything else out. Mrs. Brewer…why hasn't she called me down yet?

Jenny Tai's bizarre suggestion about selling chocolate bars to start a reward fund brings me back from my comma coma. A couple of people start debating whether M & M's or Twix bars will sell more.

A voice at the back of my row breaks in, “I don't want him to come back.” Everyone, including me, turns and looks at Roger Battersby. It's the first time he's volunteered anything all year. He stares blankly ahead, breathing heavily and adding nothing more. There is no reason to be all that surprised by his simple statement. Tom had taken pleasure in taunting Roger for the last two years. Roger was such an easy target. Suddenly, he gets up and walks out of the room. Mrs. Nakashima follows.

Keith adds to Roger's comment, saying in perfect English, “I don't want him to come back either. My mom says he hates Chinese people.” Another remarkable comment. It is the first time Keith has spoken in class except during math lessons.

Stephanie tries to temper things. “I'm not saying he's not a jerk. I didn't like him either, but he's gotta have some nice qualities. He's just had a hard life. My mom said his older brother killed someone and is in prison. She also said she knows one of their neighbors, and they hear screaming coming from the house all the time. Cops are there once or twice a month, but they never do anything.”

“I heard his brother killed
three
people. And my mom says everyone knows his dad's a drunk,” Tracey pipes up. I wonder if she shared her insights with the reporter earlier. Clearly, she is relishing every opportunity to inform the public.

Miss Chang tries to tame the talk, but the discussion speeds recklessly along.

“Just because you have a hard life doesn't mean you have to take it out on others,” Mark chimes in. “And why would you take it out on animals? Why would he kill squirrels?”

“He didn't!” Uh-oh. Did I say that out loud? Yep. Everyone is looking at me again. I can't wait any longer to talk to Mrs. Brewer. “I stopped him.” As people start whispering I stand up and say, “Miss Chang, may I go see Mrs. Brewer?” I'm pushing the door open before she gives her consent.

Seventeen

T
hat night, I realize there is a dead bug squished on the ceiling of my room. It's a bit of a mystery. I can't recall killing it. My sister and my mother both scream at the sight of a bug. My dad…well, he hasn't stepped foot in my room since the day we moved in. The bug left a fairly big smudge mark. I'm guessing it was a spider, but it could have been something more exotic, like a blue-winged African horsefly that arrived inside a crate from Mozambique. Poor bug. It probably never even wanted to come to North America. And look at the welcome it received. Squished by a shoe or a newspaper, unrecognizable even to its family.

Up until now, I haven't spent much time staring at my ceiling. Now I've got plenty of time for that. I'm grounded. Big time! With my dad out of town, Mom imposed the punishment. Dad is typically the severe one, but when she set the term at two months I realized that somewhere way back in her family tree there must have been a hanging judge. It's not just the length of the sentence: The conditions are harsher than anything in prison. No phone calls. It's not like I call a lot of people, but being told I
can't
call makes me want to start up a conversation with Mark or Keith…or even Mindy Chu. It won't happen. My phone has been yanked from the wall and taken who knows where. No
TV
. Ouch. No music…well, not on my stereo at least. I watched in shock as she pulled each plug and carried the whole system away in two trips. She reached for my pathetic little clock radio and then reconsidered. If it hadn't had an alarm, I'm sure she would have taken it too. She won't even let me eat dinner downstairs! The first meal in my room was undercooked macaroni and cheese and a hot dog with mustard and ketchup, but I'm sure she gave some thought to bread and water. I'm locked up; just me and a dead bug.

Do you think he's dead?
What I had dismissed as a callous remark starts to haunt me in the middle of my second consecutive sleepless night. The past few nights have been cold enough for the furnace to be working overtime. Can a person freeze to death? I've seen homeless people in cold weather, but they usually have blankets or big furry dogs. I can't picture Tom packing a blanket before making his great escape. Is his dog, Archie, still at home? How can a person keep warm on a night like this without shelter?

The sleep deprivation brings a more gruesome scene to mind. Mr. Hanrahan, so angry at having his prized gun seized, finds Tom hiding in Archie's doghouse, drags him out and beats him to death. I curl up really tight, trying to make the awful thought go away, but I can almost hear Tom crying out over Archie's puzzled yelps. I'm shocked by how easy it is to imagine the whole thing. If Tom's brother killed someone, isn't it possible that his dad would do the same? Who would ever know? To the rest of the world, Tom has simply run away.

I force myself to think about happy things, good memories of Tom. Last summer he told some jerks at The Zone that we were in grade nine, and then they challenged us to a game of bowling, winners to take twenty bucks. I spent the whole game throwing nothing better than a few spares, too worried about how we were going to pay up if we lost and wondering if the bet was for twenty bucks
total
or
each
. Tom's three strikes and a spare were enough to pull out a win, and we spent the prize playing video games for the next three hours. I asked Tom how he got so good at bowling, and he said it was the only place his dad could take the family on weekends and down a couple of pitchers of beer at the same time.

Which brings me right back to Mr. Hanrahan: heavy drinker, possible killer?

I remember how we biked to Steveston with Archie running beside us. That crazy lab started chasing sea gulls at Garry Point and plunged in the water after one. With the bird long out of sight, Archie continued swimming, despite our frantic calls. Tom tossed off his shoes and shirt and went in after the dog. Knowing I was a better swimmer, I followed in the chilly water. Eventually, Archie started swimming in circles and, once he saw me, started making his way back. We sat on the shore, trying to dry off in a suddenly cool wind and then walked our bikes back, too tired to pedal. Archie kept running ahead and leaping at anything and everything that moved.

Thinking of Archie reminds me of my imaginary murder scene. I can't make the horrible possibility go away. In my mind, Mr. Hanrahan is a serial killer who is responsible for the death of every milk carton kid in the last thirty years. Exhausted and scared witless, I flick the lights on and doodle aimlessly on a pad of Post-its, being careful to make sure none of the scribbles can possibly resemble anything whatsoever. A couple of hours later, my alarm blares, and I am relieved to have to get up, go to school and forget about trying to sleep.

At school, I suddenly know what it's like to be popular. Everyone wants to talk to me, but I don't for a minute kid myself that they have taken a genuine interest in me. They don't care about my running or my thoughts on music any more than they ever have. They always start out with some lame personal questions, but it is all just a lead-up to the inevitable inquisition. Do you know where he is? Did you ever see his dad beat him? What does squirrel meat taste like?

At recess, I am wanted in every clique in seventh grade. I would take Tom over any of them. He'd be dissing my double dribbling. Or maybe he'd be making fun of the cartoon decals on some poor kid's backpack. Maybe we'd be laughing over a fart joke—so much so that he'd spit half his mouthful of Oreos all over his T-shirt. For all his faults, at least Tom isn't fake. Whether he's punching me out or begging me to watch a Raptors game on
TV
, I always know where I stand.