Payback (2 page)

“Charley Callaghan? You're next.” His bushy black eyebrows disappeared under his bushy black fringe.

I knew the other kids might take the mickey when they heard my accent, which could be a bit embarrassing, so I spoke real quiet, making it sound as Canadian as I could.

His eyebrows now in full view again, Mr. Korda said, “Could you jack the volume up a notch, Charley?”

I could feel everyone's eyes on me, so I cleared my throat with a cough and started reading, loud and bold, like I didn't give a monkey's what anyone thought.

It was a long speech by a character named Prospero.

I heard a bunch of kids sniggering.

Finally, I got to the end:

                  “We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”

Mr. Korda said, “Thanks, Charley. Well done.” Then he looked around the room. “What do you think Prospero, or Shakespeare, is saying about our lives?”

There was silence in the room. After a while, when nobody volunteered an answer, Mr. Korda said, “Anyone?”

Danny Whelan sits on my left, in the middle of his row. Usually a quiet kid who keeps to himself, he cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him.

“Danny?” said Mr. Korda.

Danny blushed. “He's saying life seems like a dream. Like, I try to remember what I did yesterday and it's...gone. Like a dream? Especially school stuff. I don't remember anything we did yesterday in class.”

Everyone laughed, including Mr. Korda.

He looked around to see if anyone wanted to chip
in. Some of the others spoke up after that and it got real interesting listening to what they said.

So now in the schoolyard, Sammy and Rebar, having heard me read aloud, are in my face.

Sammy starts. “Hey, Red! That was a great job you did today on — what was it we did, Rebar?”

Rebar grins a ferrety grin. “English dead guy, Shakespeare.”

“That's it,” says Sammy. “Shakespeare with an Irish accent.”

“Well, you've got it wrong,” I tell them. “Shakespeare wasn't English. He was born in County Mayo. He was Irish. Everyone knows that. Shakespeare wrote all his plays in an Irish accent.”

I wait a few beats but they don't know what to say. I give them the hard stare again, doing my best to look tough, sneering and curling my lip like Humphrey Bogart in a gangster movie.

“Get lost, creeps!” I turn my back on them and slouch away, real slow so they don't think I'm running.

They laugh. Sammy yells after me, “See you later, Irish!”

The next day is Thursday and there's a storm and
it rains frogs, toads and alligators. Everyone's happy to see the rain because it hasn't rained in ages, not since the end of June.

It's too wet to eat outside on the grass in the lunch hour, so I traipse down to the school cafeteria. Sammy and Rebar come over while I'm chewing on one of Aunt Maeve's soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches, which I like.

“Hi,
Red
,” says Rebar.

I say nothing, my gob being full of food.

“Red, my man!” Sammy yells, deliberately slapping me hard on the back with one plate-sized hand. I almost choke to death. They stand one on each side of me and toss their lunch bags onto the table, meaning I'm about to have their company for lunch.

“So what brings you to Canada, Red?” asks Rebar. “You running away from all them murders over there or what?”

I don't answer. Instead, I stand and move closer to Rebar till we're practically nose to nose, staring him down. Then I turn and glare at Sammy with my meanest expression, the one I've practiced in the mirror at home.

I can tell from their faces that they don't know
what to make of me for sure. Then I slowly rewrap what's left of my lunch.

“I didn't mean nothin',” says Rebar when he sees I'm about to leave, his tiny eyes mocking.

“Yeah, Rebar didn't mean nothin', Red,” says Sammy, grinning at me. “We're only wondering if all the kids in Ireland talk funny like you...”

I can still hear them laughing as I leave the cafeteria.

I don't think I scared them very much.

Thursday afternoon and the storm continues.

There's a new kid in my English, Socials and PE classes. He has missed nine or ten days of school. In English, Mr. Korda asks him if he will be comfortable sitting at the back of the room, in the empty seat behind me, and the kid smiles and nods.

He's got a real sweet smile. Also he's got long wavy brown hair worn over his collar, brown eyes and long thick eyelashes like a girl's. He's good-looking like a girl, too, and dresses real neat. No scuffed runners, baggy jeans and T-shirts like most of the boys, but brown suede shoes, fancy green cords, white shirt with a collar, brown wool sweater.

His name is Benny Mason.

The four of us — me, Benny Mason, Sammy and Rebar — form a tight little square in the back left corner of the room.

Right away Sammy and Rebar start calling the new kid names, leaning over and whispering across the aisle at him.

“Hello, girly-girl!” murmurs Sammy.

Me and Rebar and the new kid are the only ones who hear it.

Then Rebar starts. “Welcome to our world, fruit fly,” he whispers.

“I just love your shoes,” says Sammy quietly in a girlish voice.

Rebar wiggles his eyebrows. “How ya like to go out sometime, Queenie?”

“Faggot!” says Sammy.

I say nothing. It's none of my business. Nobody else seems to have heard the slagging.

I would like to see the new kid's face, to see how he's taking it, but I don't want to turn round. I didn't twig that the new kid might be gay.

There was a gay kid named Martin Dolan in my class back home in Dublin, and some of the boys slagged him something fierce. But not for long. They stopped after Dolan bloodied the schnoz of his chief tormentor, a bullyboy named Bramwell, with a Dublin kiss — a fast beano butt, a sucker punch
delivered with the forehead. Bramwell didn't even see it coming.

Everyone left Martin Dolan alone after that.

That's often what it takes, a surprise attack against the bullies, and then they usually leave you alone. Usually. They say bullies are cowards but I've never seen that.

But back to Benny Mason. Is he capable of exploding like Martin Dolan and lashing out at Sammy or Rebar — just one of them would be enough — with a good sucker punch or a fast kick to the crotch, hard enough to make them stop?

Who knows? I will just have to wait and see.

To tell the truth, maybe it's a good thing the new kid is gay — if he really is. Maybe Sammy and Rebar will be so busy slagging the new kid that they will leave me alone.

Benny Mason coming into my English class might just turn out to be a brilliant piece of luck.

••••

The storm gets worse. The rain comes down so hard that Aunt Maeve drives over and picks me and Annie
up after school. Da is away, working the BC ferries in the Georgia Strait.

My da is Tim Callaghan. He's an electrician. When we first arrived in Vancouver, Crazy Uncle Rufus tried to get him a job with BC Hydro. My crazy uncle is a lineman there. My da filled out a job application but nothing came of it. Da eventually got a job with O'Hara's Vending Company in Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, but not as an electrician. Instead he wears a white shirt with a small shamrock logo on the pocket.

He loves it — the job, I mean. His job is restocking the snack machines on the BC ferries. He drives this truck full of Coke and chips and chocolate bars onto the
Spirit of British Columbia
, or one of — what, a dozen? — ferries sailing between Vancouver, the Gulf Islands and Vancouver Island. And then he opens up the giant vending machines and stacks them full of junk food. This means he stays over on the island — in Nanaimo or Victoria — a few nights every week.

Whenever this happens, Aunt Maeve takes care of us at her house. We stay over maybe three or four times a week, sometimes five, depending on what run Da's on that particular week.

Aunt Maeve and Crazy Uncle Rufus have become our second parents. When I was little, before Crazy Uncle Rufus left Dublin for Canada, he used to read me stories standing on his head. He's got red hair same as me and my ma.

Anyway, Crazy Uncle Rufus gets home from work and right away starts acting crazy.

“Stop your nonsense and come inside!” Aunt Maeve yells at him out the kitchen window. Crazy Uncle Rufus is standing in the back yard in his underpants in the lashing rain. “You'll catch pneumonia out there!” Aunt Maeve yells.

Me and Annie, we've seen it all before. We know as well as Aunt Maeve that she's wasting her time, that Crazy Uncle Rufus won't come inside till he's good and ready.

He's enjoying himself in the rain. He stands with the toes of his bare size-twelve feet twisted into the grass, arms raised, head back looking up at the black sky, and long red hair no longer red but the color of rain, plastered to his scalp. And there's only the stormy sky and the pounding rain hissing and gurgling in the downspouts and Crazy Uncle Rufus out there alone with his happiness.

Even though Crazy Uncle Rufus has got red hair like me, we're not related by blood, only by marriage. I love his craziness just the same.

But I can never see myself doing anything like that.

The weather is still stormy. Lots of rain and wind.

Benny Mason has been at school almost a week already, but he's doing nothing. He's like me, I guess, doesn't like fighting, except his problem is that he doesn't even say anything. He needs to talk back at them and hold his ground.

In English, Sammy and Rebar whisper taunts across the aisle, trying to outdo each other in nastiness. Benny turns his back on them, pretending he can't hear, but I can see out of the corner of my eye that it upsets him.

The other thing that happened is that me and Benny Mason became partners yesterday in English. I didn't want it to happen but I had no choice. Mr. Korda said for everyone to choose a partner for an assignment on
The Tempest
. The idea was to draw the assignment out of Mr. Korda's job jar.

Kids paired up quickly. The kid I wanted to be with was Danny Whelan, because of his Irish name and because he seems to be pretty smart, but a girl named Birgit Neilsen got to him first.

Me and Benny were the only ones left without partners. Seeing that I sit right in front of him and we were the only ones left, I turned my chair around so we could face each other.

“I'm Charley.”

“Benny.”

Seeing him close up, looking right into his brown eyes, I really got to see what a good-looking kid he is: perfect features, perfect skin — no zits or pimples — fine brown hair, no gunk in it, white even teeth. He's got the makings of a movie star. Best of all though is his smile. I called it sweet, a word I don't normally use, but it's the only word I can think of that fits.

I suddenly realized I was staring so I said, “I'll go get our project if you like.” I got up and grabbed the last folded square of paper out of the job jar.

As I unfolded the paper I said to Benny, “You missed the first week of school. You sick or something?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You new in the neighborhood?”

He didn't answer.

“I'm Irish. Sorry. We never stop with the questions. It's none of my business.”

He smiled. “That's okay. I can tell by your accent you're Irish. My mother's dad was Irish. Died about four years ago.”

“That's too bad.” I thought of Ma. “I've been here almost six months,” I said. “I'm trying to speak like a Canadian so I'll fit in better, but it's hard. I keep forgetting. My sister, Annie, she's eight, but she's picking it up real well.”

Benny nodded. “Fitting in is...”

I waited. Beside us, Sammy and Rebar were arguing loudly over their assignment.

“...hard,” Benny finished.

I nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“So what have we got?”

I handed him the paper. “We've got to do a character analysis of Prospero, then present it and lead a class discussion.”

Benny smiled.

••••

The next morning, as I'm hanging rain gear in my locker, Sammy and Rebar start needling me, asking how I like working with a fairy and stuff like that. They do it quietly so none of the other kids can hear.

I tell them to grow up. Then I notice the word “faggot” painted on Benny's locker.

I shrug. Benny will just have to deal with it. None of my business.

Benny Mason arrives and sees the writing on the door. He says nothing as he opens his locker. Sammy and Rebar immediately start slagging Benny, right there in the hallway, quietly, so no one else hears except a jerk named Tony Marusyk, who just laughs, slams his locker door shut with a loud clatter and takes off for his homeroom.

I watch an expression of misery ruin Benny Mason's face as Sammy and Rebar start in on him, talking in little-girl voices.

Rebar: “Say, that's a cute umbrella you got there, Bennykins.”

Sammy: “It's lovely. Such pretty colors.”

Rebar: “Pink and blue. They're my favorite, Sammy. I'd just
love
a pink and blue umbrella.”

Sammy: “Really, Rebar? I thought your favorite colors were lemon and aqua.”

Rebar: “Oh, look, Sammy! Rubber overshoes!”

Sammy: “Very smart, I must say.”

They laugh and start prancing about like ballet dancers, waving limp-wristed hands in the air, enjoying themselves.

I wait for Benny to do something, but he just stands there, fumbling about in his locker.

Yell at them, Benny!
I'm thinking.
Or walk away! Anything! Don't just stand there! Get mad!

But he doesn't do any of these things. Instead, he blushes a deep red from eyebrows to neck. Then his eyes start to grow damp.