Fouling Out (9 page)

I slip back in with Mark and Keith, who hang out with kids from the other grade seven class: Cindy Tan, Lewis Tsai and a new kid named Doris Lee. Being in solitary confinement at home, I stick it out with this group even though it takes a lot of effort to feel included. Keith spouts off in Cantonese the second he's out of class, as if suddenly relieved of the pressure to think in a new language. Doris's English is even worse than Keith's, so the others never even attempt to say anything in English to her. Mark and Cindy, when they aren't consumed by their own private conversations, automatically speak in Cantonese for the benefit of Keith and Doris. Ten minutes can go by without any apparent acknowledgment that I am there. I have no idea why Keith and Mark wait for me at the beginning of each lunch and recess. Maybe it's because I'm pretty approachable when Tom's out of the picture. Maybe it's my sense of humor. Maybe they feel sorry for me.

Miraculously, my mom caves ever-so-slightly on her harsh sentencing. Pleas for
TV
and the stereo are still premature, but I regain the right to go running after giving several impassioned speeches on the importance of fresh air, fitness and success in sports. Dad wouldn't have budged. Thankfully, a “critical” meeting in Prince George has extended his absence a few more days.

Eighteen

I
go running without my sister one Saturday. It's not like I have to run with Margo. It has just become a habit. It isn't any sort of bonding experience. She's seventeen and I'm twelve. She still thinks I'm an immature pest and I think she's—well, just plain strange. Margo's a prisoner of the cosmetics industry. When not getting facials at department store counters, she's inviting friends over to try on one of the thirty or forty shades of red lipstick she has. Back in kindergarten, red was red. She'd save a lot of money if she remembered that.

When we run, we just grunt or move along in silence. I guess there's a purpose though. Knowing that someone else expects you to run kind of makes it difficult to skip. The hardest part about running is getting started.

Anyway, my sister isn't exactly devastated when I say I want to run on my own in the morning instead of waiting until the afternoon. She continues to stare at a music video while smearing her fingernails with fresh nail polish—Tokyo Sunset, I think.

Mom has gone to pick up Dad at the airport and, since they usually go out for a coffee afterward, that gives me extra time out of the house. Seventeen-year-olds have no concept of time, especially when they're parked in front of a television set, so I'm not worried about my sister ratting me out. I run my normal course for a few blocks and then go off in the direction of the Richmond dikes. I'm off to find Tom.

If he's still in Richmond, I figure he's in one of four places. The most obvious is an old shack off Blundell Road just past Railway. We'd hung out there in the summer when he was in his smoking phase, swiping a few cigarettes each day from his sister.

I'm not surprised the building is still there, despite not having seen it in months. Even though it looks like one good gust could blow it away, the shack is a survivor. Stepping through the doorless entrance, I see no trace of Tom or anything that shows the place has been recently occupied. Spray-painted messages cover the walls, but there don't seem to be any new contributions. Most of it makes no sense. Tom says they are gang tags, but I've never seen any gang types hanging around. My favorite graffiti is in dark green paint in the top corner to the right of the doorway:
Anne Murray Rules!
Tom had never heard of her, but my parents forced me to listen to her when we drove to see my aunt and uncle in Vernon. Either a gang member had a really odd sense of humor or my dad was taking a crack at life in the underworld. Not cool. At any rate, the place is littered with broken beer bottles with faded labels, but that is it.

I move on to an old cottage only a few feet from the dike. It is lived in by an elderly couple who both have poor vision and hearing. There is a crawlspace under the back of the house that Tom and I used to climb into. We only went there a couple of times last summer, but it had been a spot to take refuge on the rare day when it was too hot. We were never caught, although a fat cat once gave us a scare. The place is darker and mustier than I remember. With no sign of Tom, I quickly crawl back out.

The other possible places are over by McDonald Beach and the Iona Island sewage plant. There is no way I can run there. Tom and I always biked, and I'll have to wait for another day when I can escape from the Trilosky penitentiary.

I don't know what I was thinking when I went off on a solo search party. He's been gone more than two weeks. He's bound to be far from Richmond by now. Even though he only got one shot on the news and a front-page picture in the community paper, someone would have spotted him if he'd stayed too close to home. Still, it's incredibly frustrating not knowing for certain if he's okay. As much as I try to convince myself he's fine, there are enough what-ifs to drive me crazy.

No one at school mentions him now that the media hype has died down. I don't get how everyone can just go back to obsessing over their latest crushes and talking about new postings on YouTube. It's like it's up to me to remember Tom. If I let up, no one's going to pick up the slack. I can't imagine the whole world forgetting that a person exists.

On the way home, I let my sleuthing get the better of me. Every rustling leaf makes me stop to see if I can catch a glimpse of Tom's jacket. My eyes dart everywhere.

I even dare to swing by the Hanrahan house. Luckily, the truck isn't there and that gives me the courage to sneak into the backyard. Archie bolts toward me, tail wagging and tongue dangling as he reaches the end of his chain. Thankfully, he's not much of a barker. When I get within reach, he jumps up and bowls me over. Tom would've laughed hysterically and mocked me for being such a pushover. Archie frantically licks my face like I'm a soft-serve ice cream cone that's reached the critical dripping stage.

Call me morbid, but I have to check inside the doghouse for clothing fibers or traces of blood. I am relieved to find nothing more than clumps of dog hair and an old tennis ball. Noticing that Archie's water dish is empty, I refill it with the hose and set it back down beside the doghouse. Archie follows my every move—at least as far as his chain allows. I pat him and scratch his favorite spot behind his ears. Immediately, he drops, rolls over and awaits a tummy rub. As I oblige, I almost start to cry. Archie has never let me rub his belly, always scrambling up the minute I put my hand there when Tom had grown tired of the task. Clearly, Arch is longing for attention, and he isn't the least bit picky. After a couple of minutes, I get up, give the dog a hug, receive a final tongue bath and start for home.

I'm dejected by the time I head up our driveway and so consumed by trying to spot Tom, I forget to even act like I've been running. I'd walked the whole way home, not wanting to pass by anything too quickly. Seeing the Pathfinder in the driveway jerks me back to reality. It's time to face my dad for the first time since I'd confessed to my part in the affair that had whipped all of Richmond into a frenzy. I brace myself for another lecture, another proclamation of deep disappointment and, most likely, a few more conditions tacked onto my sentence.

Nineteen

T
wo days later, it's back to the school routine; another search mission will have to wait until next weekend. On the way to school, I'm stewing over the list of chores my father has posted on the fridge for me to do after school: mop the basement, scrub the mildew from the basement bathroom, do the laundry. Contrary to his speech about making my punishment meaningful, I figure it's all just a way for dear old Dad to get out of spring-cleaning and add an extra golf day to his week.

I am a couple of blocks from my house when Taryn McCloskey strolls out of her yard a few houses ahead. She stops at the sidewalk, looks my way and waits. Naturally, I peer back over my shoulder to see if someone else is behind me. There isn't anyone except for Patty Jervis's annoying, booger-eating little brother, Franklin, already enjoying an extra breakfast course. Taryn's still standing there, still looking toward me. Has being shut out of the “in” crowd made her stoop so low as to talk to me?

“Hi, Craig.” Apparently it has. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Yeah.” Not really, but “yeah” comes out. How many people actually admit their weekend sucked? As I walk, she walks too. Walking to school with Taryn McCloskey? I glance upward to see if Porky Pig is flying overhead. I know without a doubt that my face matches one of the reds in my sister's lipstick collection. “How was yours?”

“My what?” Taryn asks. Apparently, the weekend topic faded away during my thirty-second stupor. I don't bother to explain. I figure she will realize this is a big mistake and abruptly turn back with a lame excuse about forgetting something at home.

“Have you thought of an idea for your persuasive essay yet?” she asks. Okay. She is going to let this drag on.

“Not really.” Of course I had. When you're stuck shining your father's stinky shoes all Sunday afternoon, you welcome the chance to think about schoolwork. “I thought of writing about why we shouldn't have to pay for field trips since we're supposed to get a free education.”

“Wow. That sounds pretty serious.” She is looking right at me without a bit of shyness or awkwardness. How come seventh-grade self-consciousness skips some people?

“I don't think I'll do it. I don't really know enough about it. Besides, I wouldn't want Miss Chang to cut out a day at Playland because of me.”

“No. Everybody'd hate you.”

How would I know the difference? “Have you picked a topic?”

“I'm going to write about ostracism. That's when people consciously decide to shut you out.”

“Is that why you're walking with me?”

“Huh?”

Oops. I'd actually said that out loud. Now I have to explain. “Did you want to interview me or something? It's pretty obvious that I'm not exactly the most popular kid in class.”

“Actually, I hadn't really thought about it. I never really thought you cared. Besides, it's not so much you as Tom. No offence, but he was ultra-obnoxious. Anyway, if you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly with the ‘in' crowd these days.”

By now, it's clear that Taryn isn't going to bolt. Suddenly, I am comfortable around her. I guess when you say too much and the other person keeps talking to you, it kinda makes things safe. I plunge ahead. “I've noticed. Tracey and Erin have made it obvious that you're on the outs.”

“Isn't it just so stupid?” Her voice gets a little higher. “They're being so immature. That's what I'm gonna write—ostracism is a cowardly way to deal with conflict.”

“So, what happened?” I try to glance around discreetly. I am chatting with Taryn McCloskey. I want witnesses, but there is no one around but Franklin, and he is too focused on something on his finger.

“You mean between me and them?”

“Yeah. Why aren't they talking to you?”

“Oh, it's too stupid to go into.” She stares straight ahead. I know it is time to pick something else to talk about—weather, hating tests,
TV
shows.

“It's about Kevin Conners, isn't it?”

Taryn stops in her tracks. For a moment, she even stops chewing her gum. “How'd you know?”

Please! Kevin Conners is in Mrs. Chappelle's class, and every girl acts as though he's the
only
guy that matters. All because of two dumb dimples. If you ask me, he is a total bore, but when did personality ever matter? “Just a guess,” I answer.

The walk continues. “Wow. You're really observant. I never thought you paid any attention to anything.”

“You think I'm stupid.” Oops. Another keep-to-yourself comment. Maybe I'm just going for broke. It's not like Taryn and I are going to be BFFs so I don't need to be too careful.

“I don't know. To be honest, I guess last year I thought you were pretty dumb. Everyone thought so. I mean, you didn't ever do anything in Osmond's class. Now, though, you seem to know stuff.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Sort of. I mean, it's hard to change an opinion you have of someone.”

“Except when Kevin Conners is involved.”

“Yeah. It's really stupid, eh? I can't wait to read my essay in class. I haven't started, but I've got a lot to say.”

“Do you think it'll fix things?”

“Oh, who cares?” She spits the words out.

I can't wait to hear her essay too.

We finish the final block to school in silence, but for the first time I feel that someone else in grade seven matters. Someone else is actually above all the crap.

The morning walk was interesting, but things get truly bizarre after school. I can't say that I've ever had a twenty-year-old, muffler-challenged Chevy van with a Playboy bunny painted on the side waiting for me at school (or anywhere else) before. I know in an instant who the driver is, and I know there's a ninety-seven percent—make that ninety-nine percent—chance he's waiting for me.

I almost make a run for the back path, but I know I've been spotted, and I don't want to make matters worse. I take two more steps toward the road, and the driver gets out of the van, waves at me and leans on the side of the vehicle, watching my every move. No sense creating more of a scene than necessary.

He had waved, hadn't he? Waves aren't bad. I've never seen a gangster movie where the villain waves before shooting the unfortunate target between the eyes. Tom's brother is smiling—not a sinister smile, but more the kind you tentatively make in case corn is stuck between your front teeth.

“C'mere, Craig.” Not like I have a choice.