No Small Thing (8 page)

“Look,” she says, holding up the cast. “He cut it off with a giant pair of snips.”

We admire the cast and inspect her shoulder.

“Looks as good as ever,” I say.

After the hospital, Ma walks us over to the fairgrounds. She gives us 2 dollars each for rides and ice cream. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s 3 dollars just to get through the gate. I tell her not to worry about us if we’re late because we’ll probably go to the barn after the fair. Ma just nods. Like I said, she doesn’t really mind what we do. It’s not that she doesn’t care. She’s just busy and would rather leave us to our own devices, which is fine by me.

We wait until Ma is out of sight before running along the length of the fence and hopping over behind the horse barns. I help Queenie over the fence, just in case. I don’t want her hurting her shoulder so soon after getting her cast removed. We brush ourselves off, then stroll through one of the barns, admiring the horses. There are giant Percherons and Clydesdales calmly eating haywhile their owners brush them. There are tiny miniature horses decorated with ribbons and braid. There are quarter horses and pintos and paints, perfectly groomed and waiting to compete in the games.

“Let’s go see the lady who makes the plaques,” I say.

We weave through the fair, the whirling rides and the loud barkers calling out to us. There are kids running all over, carrying big stuffed toys their fathers won for them. Disco blasts over the loudspeakers. Posters of Farrah Fawcett hang in every booth. I can’t help noticing there are pretty girls with tight shirts and short shorts everywhere. I feel kind of hopped-up and crazy. My hands are tingling and the hair is standing up on the back of my neck. The smell of french fries and cotton candy makes my mouth water. I wish we had more money.

We walk along, past freak-show booths with everything from bearded ladies to a headless nurse, from a girl with the body of a snake to a wild man, and even a cow with eight legs—four regular and four on its back. The sign shows the cow running normally, then flipping on its back and running with its other set of legs.

“I’d like to see that,” Cid says.

“It’s just a fake,” I tell her. Dad would have said the same thing. He knew all about these things because he used to work for a carnival when he was young. He told us there are tricks to winning, and if you know them, you can beat the carnies at their own game. He was especially good at shooting the red out of the star. He won us all kinds of huge stuffed animals that way, which made the carnies furious.

After about half an hour of searching we finally find the booth with the signs. It’s sandwiched among a bunch of other stalls selling horse tack, brushes, hoof picks and treatments of every kind. A woman with a face as hard as a fist is hunched over a table, carefully burning someone’s name into a thick strip of dark wood.

“How much for a sign?” I ask.

The woman doesn’t look up from her work. “For what name?”

“Smokey. It’s our pony.”

“Ten dollars.”

We look at each other in dismay. We only have six dollars, all told. “I have six.”

The woman finally looks up at me. “It’s 10 dollars.”

I push Queenie forward and give her a pinch.

“But it’s for my little sister. She broke her arm and just got her cast off today. She’s been waiting for months to buy a sign from you.”

I nudge Queenie and she looks at the woman with her most mournful face. The woman stares at us, then holds up a smallish sign. “You can have something like this for six.”

We look at each other, then tell the woman okay. I spell “Smokey” for her two times so she won’t make a mistake.

“Come back in an hour. I’ll have it ready.”

We wander through the fair. Even though we don’t have any more money, we enjoy looking at all the people and games and rides. Despite what I told her before, Cid still wants to see the cow with eight legs. I search my pockets for change and find just enough to get one ticket. Queenie and I wait for ages at the bottom of the stairs. Cid finally comes out.

“It’s not a fake. It’s real. It has eight legs. Four regular and four more out its back. The man said it was born that way. I guess the mother was supposed to have twins and somehow they grew together. It’s really creepy looking.”

“Did it flip over and run on its back like in the picture?” Queenie asks.

Cid shakes her head. “Nah. That’s just somebody’s stupid idea to get people to come in to see it. The legs just flop around. They’re useless.”

We discuss the cow as we walk back to the booth for our sign. The woman has it ready and waiting for us. It’s a small wooden plaque with “Smokey” written in neat letters. We let Queenie carry it, seeing as it was her idea all those weeks ago when she got hurt. We wander around the fair until we’ve seen all the animals and displays.

“Let’s go to the barn and put the sign up,” I say.

Cid groans. “I want to stay a bit longer.”

“Well, you can stay. But Queenie and I want to go put the sign up.”

Cid folds her arms across her chest. “Fine!”

That’s when I notice a girl from my school looking at the horse tack. It’s Cheryl Hanson, the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. She lives in one of the big houses over in the rich neighbourhood. She doesn’t even know I exist.

“Okay, we can stay a bit longer,” I say.

Cid gives me a strange look. She opens her mouth to start in on me.

“We can stay a bit longer,” I say again. “Why don’t you two go look around. I’m going to look at some stuff by myself.”

“But Ma said to stick together,” Cid says.

“It’s for Christmas,” I lie. “I want to look at things for you and Queenie for Christmas.”

This seems to work. Cid grabs Queenie by the hand and walks over to one of the rides. I move over to the booth where Cheryl is standing and pretend to look at the bridles. She is wearing a tiedyed halter top, cut-off jean shorts and clogs. I can smell her perfume and the scent of her long blonde hair. My mind is spinning, trying to think of something to say. I imagine all sorts of things, like asking her out for a soda, or telling her we have a horse, or something. While I’m thinking like this, this big jock named Tyler Long appears and puts his arm around her. He kisses her on the lips and drags her off to one of the rides, and I’m left standing there like a stupid jerk, looking at bridles I can’t even afford. I know I can’t compete with Tyler Long. He’s rich and good-looking like John Travolta. He wears Levi’s and puka beads. All the girls are crazy for him. He’s in high school. He even drives.

I work my way over to where Cid and Queenie are standing. “Okay, let’s go.”

“But we’ve only been here a minute,” Cid protests.

“Well, I’m ready to go!” I snap.

Cid snarls back at me. “Okay! You don’t have to be so angry about it!”

She’s right. But I can’t help it. If only Cheryl had noticed me standing there, maybe things would be different. If only she had a chance to talk to me, maybe she would like me. If only …

The walk to the barn takes twice as long as usual because the fairgrounds are clear across town in the opposite direction. When we get there, Smokey is waiting. Cid and Queenie groom him while I attach the sign to his stall with a piece of old wire.

“It looks great,” Queenie says, when I’ve finished.

I have to admit, it does look good. We all stand admiring the sign, and somehow I forget about Cheryl Hanson and how mad I was.

“Come on. Let’s go for a ride.”

* * *

Summer is really over now and I’m stuck behind a desk again. I’m in grade eight though I’m supposed to be in grade seven. Ma said it would give me a challenge to skip a grade. But the only challenge I’m facing is being the youngest kid in the class. I may get good marks but I don’t like school, no matter what grade they put me in. I decided years ago that school isn’t about learning, it’s more like crowd control. They can’t teachyou anything really interesting because they’re too busy making sure the kids don’t freak out and wreck stuff. I would hate school entirely, except for the fact that Cheryl Hanson is in two of my classes. And then I remember the fair and my blown attempt at meeting her. I’ve never had any luck talking to girls. For me, talking to girls is like trying to catch a knife by the handle. It’s dangerous and kind of stupid. Mostly you just cut yourself to pieces and wonder why you try to do it at all. But sometimes, when things are just right, you can make it work, and when you do, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

As I’m sitting there, I realize I’ll never have the guts to talk to Cheryl. It’s not just because I’m younger, either. It’s because my family is poor and everyone knows it. What girl wants to go out with a poor kid whose socks never match and who wears Toughskins from Sears instead of Levi’s? Probably not too many. Ma tries, but she can’t afford to buy us new clothes all the time, if at all. Not that I’d want to wear bell-bottoms anyway, because they look so stupid. But I would like a pair of painter-pants, or even a pair of tan cords….

The teacher drones on and on. I watch the kid next to me tracing around the Adidas logo on hissneakers with a pen. Around and around and around. I swear the clock is ticking backwards. I’m about ready to scream when the bell finally rings.

Outside the kids are running and hollering, thankful to be set free. Orange and red leaves swirl everywhere and the schoolyard glows with a honey-coloured light. I see Cid talking with some friends on the steps of the high school, so I leave her alone and go to look for Queenie at her school. I’m just about across the street when I notice a group of guys around Queenie. I can’t tell what they’re doing at first, but then it dawns on me that they’re making fun of her for the way she goes off dancing sometimes.

The first kid doesn’t even see me as my fist hits him in the side of the head and sends him flying. I manage to get in some good punches before the other guys jump on me. They punch and kick me and I punch and kick back, but there are just too many of them. Someone hits me in the back with something—maybe a piece of wood—and I fall to the ground. They’re kicking and kicking me and I’m just trying to protect my face and ears. Through all the punching and yelling I can hear a girl screaming, and suddenly I realize it’s Cid. She’s hollering and swinging her bookbag like a medieval knight swinging a mace.

“Get away from him! Get away from him!”

I’m thankful that she wants to help, but all I can think about now is how this is going to look to the rest of the kids. Cid manages to scatter the fighters because even the worst guy in the world hesitates before hitting a girl. One guy spits at her as he’s running away and Cid spits right back, then helps me to my feet. Queenie stands there, her hands covering her eyes, until the punks are gone. I can taste my own blood on my lips and my head is splitting. Cid frets over me but I brush her hands away.

“I’m okay.”

“They would have killed you.”

“You should have stayed out of it.”

“Look at your eye….”

“I said I’m okay!”

Cid turns her back on me, and I know she’s furious. That’s when I notice Cheryl Hanson looking at me from the sidewalk. She stands there hugging her books to her chest and staring at me with those huge blue eyes. I turn away because she’s the last person I want to see after getting my ass kicked.

“Come on, let’s just go to the barn and see Smokey,” I say, trying to forget the whole deal. I put my hand on Queenie’s shoulder and shelooks up at me with admiration—and a little bit of worry, I think.

We walk to the barn in silence. Cid is fuming. I don’t blame her, but I just can’t be grateful right now. A boy shouldn’t need his sister to fight his fights. It should be the other way around, which was my intention when I started this mess in the first place. Now my head feels like a cracked egg and my ribs hurt something terrible, not to mention my bruised ego. I think my lip is split, because I can still taste blood. It’s going to take a long time to heal.

When we get to the barn, I let Cid and Queenie groom Smokey. This time I’m the one sitting on the concrete feed trough. I inspect my eye in the reflection from an old silver pail. The eye is purple like an eggplant and swollen half shut. Ma’s going to go crazy when she sees this. I walk over to the hose and run cold water over my face. The water stings my eye but I know the cold will help.

“How did you get tangled up with those guys anyway?” I finally ask, turning my good eye towards Queenie.

Queenie looks at me over Smokey’s back. She shrugs and continues to brush him. I walk back and sit down on the trough again. Cid glances at me and our eyes meet.

“Thanks,” I say.

Cid nods, her face sober.

“I mean it. You saved my life.”

“Wasn’t she cool?” Queenie pipes up. “Swinging her books like that!” She mimics Cid, swinging the brush in wild circles over her head by the end of its leather strap.

“She thinks she’s Obi-Wan Kenobi,” I scoff.

Cid bursts out laughing and then we all start to laugh. It
was
kind of funny.

* * *

But Ma doesn’t think so. She starts yelling the second I walk through the door.

“Oh my God, what happened to you? Who did this? They won’t be so brave if I go to see them!”

Great. That’s the last thing I need. My sister
and
my mom fighting battles for me. As if I’m not embarrassed enough as it is. I just stand there and let Ma yell for a while. I don’t even try to explain anything at this point because I know I won’t get a word in edgewise. This may sound like an awful situation, but Ma yells when she’s scared or when something doesn’t make sense, which happens all the time around our house. She isn’t really mad at me. She’s just worried, I guess. I just wish she wouldn’t worry so much.

After a long stretch of worrying, Ma fusses and clucks over my eye, pressing a bag of frozen peas covered in a tea towel against my face. I’m just glad that we agreed we wouldn’t tell Ma the truth about Queenie being picked on, because that would worry her even more. She is already threatening to go down to the schoolyard as it is. I tell her a whopper about fighting over some girl. I know she will respect that. I console myself with the fact that it’s not a total lie. Queenie’s a girl, isn’t she?