Creeps (5 page)

The volleyball team's suddenly on their feet, patting each other's bottoms and pumping their fists into the air in anticipation of this evening's game, while the crowd at the alternative table compare tattoos and body piercings. The overachievers are cramming the last bit of work into what time there is left, glued to their computer screens like porn addicts.

Marjorie says, “You ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of being Wayne Pumphrey?”

“I don't know. You ever get tired of being Marjorie Pope?”

Marjorie looks away, then at her fingers again. “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” says Wayne. He breathes in and lets it out and says, “But I can't not be me, right? And you can't not be you.”

She shrugs.

A bell rings.

“I'm sorry about last week,” Wayne says. “I shouldn't have brought up your dad.”

For a second Marjorie looks about ready to pull another disappearing act, but instead she stays put and says, “The answer is yes, I do. Wouldn't you miss yours?”

Wayne imagines life without his father: no smell of tobacco and aftershave and no empty lunch box on the counter and no coughing or used tea bags in the sink and no hands messing his hair and no knocked-over garbage cans when his father goes to park the car. He looks up at Marjorie and nods.

Thighs as sturdy as light poles beside him now and the smell of skin cream strong enough to disintegrate nose hairs. Mrs. Gambol, hands on her hips and a slight bend in one knee, says, “You two planning on staying all afternoon?”

Wayne looks around the room and wonders when it was that the place had cleared out. He stares back at Mrs. Gambol. “We're just leaving, Miss.”

Mrs. Gambol scrutinizes Wayne's still-full tray. “Perhaps if you ate more you wouldn't be so small.”

Wayne gets to his feet and notices that Marjorie is already near the double doors. He goes to catch up, but the teacher's voice stops him.

“Your tray.”

Wayne grabs it and throws out the food and
stacks the tray with the others. Makes his way across the floor.

“Pick up the pace,” Mrs. Gambol says. “The world's not going to wait, you know.”

EIGHT

Here's the rest of Wayne's day: en route to geography from biology, an unknown assailant knocks his books from his hand. Then, while sitting in chemistry, Jeff Hibbs lets one go and blames him. Everyone, including Julie, covers their noses while Mr. Bolan asks if anyone can name the primary gas released in Wayne's fart and Jeffsays: gay gas and Mr. Bolan says: no, nitrogen. In English, a drawing is passed to Wayne depicting a dwarfish stick man being decapitated by a muscular man (Pete). The caption, grammatically incorrect and in bold letters, reads:
YOUR DEAD PUMPHREY!!!
And finally, standing in front of his locker at the end of the day, Bobby comes and pins him up against it and warns him to watch out for Pete The Meat and then threatens to yank out one of Wayne's teeth to make up for the one Bobby
lost. Then Bobby walks down the corridor towards the double doors and, before pushing them open, gives Wayne the finger.

For the longest time Wayne just stands there while the rest of the students turn combination locks and put on coats and throw books into knapsacks and tear off into what's left of the day like finally freed prisoners. That's when he notices Corey Parrot, six lockers down, fiddling with his lock that never wants to open.

Wayne watches for a while, then says, “Want me to try?”

Without so much as a glance, Corey shakes his head. Tries the combination again. Nothing.

“It's twice around clockwise then—”

“Buzz off,” Corey says. He tries again. Still won't open.

The hall's deserted now, so Wayne walks down to where Corey is, but Corey sticks out his palm as if to say,
Stay where you are,
so Wayne does.

“Suppose I know how to open my own lock.” Corey turns the dial slowly, pauses, then yanks. Nothing. He curses.

“Let me,” Wayne says.

“No!”
Corey looks up and down the corridor, then back at Wayne. “Didn't I tell you to buzz off?”

Wayne doesn't say anything.

Again Corey scans the hallway, then takes a step
in Wayne's direction. “And stop calling my house.” He's whispering now. “Can't you take a hint?”

Wayne stays quiet.

“I don't want to be a jerk, but you leave me no choice— What? Stop staring at me like that—like you don't know what's what. Pete said if I hung out with you he'd rip out my braces,
okay
? Make
me
hump the snow too, and my dad's foreman so what do you think he'd say?”

Silence.

“You'd do the same thing, Wayne … if you were me.” Corey pauses, then points at his own mouth. “Plus I'm getting these off soon and Monica said I might not be too bad looking and she'd consider being my girlfriend, so you see the position I'm in. Why should we
both
suffer?”

Somewhere a phone rings.

Corey's finally able to open his lock. “See, told you I knew how.”

Wayne walks back to his own locker and gathers his things and Corey says,

“I'm sorry but I can't change it, can I?”

Wayne gets into his jacket. Grabs his toque and is about to put it on but remembers what Marjorie said, so he stuffs it in his pocket instead.

“If he ever lets up on you,” Corey says, “we can be friends again. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Corey's receding footsteps and the doors being pushed open and then slamming shut and the silence afterwards like spreading pain.

Wayne closes his locker and walks down the hall and is just about to leave when suddenly he hears clicking shoes and a voice that's Mr. Rollie's saying, “One moment, Mr. Pumphrey! One moment!”

Wayne turns around and waits for his drama teacher to catch up.

“So glad I caught you,” Mr. Rollie says, putting his hands on his hips like he's out of breath. He takes a moment and then says, “Guess you saw the cast list, huh?”

Wayne nods.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.
You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
was a bad choice.”

“No, it wasn't. It's more that you look so young. And you're quite a bit smaller than everyone else. I needed blocky actors who could look like miners.”

“Like Paul Stool?”

“Mm-hm. And Shane Brody and Jason Buckle.”

“What about Les? He's not blocky.”

“No, but he
is
the best actor in the school. Although Miss Pope might give him a run for it. I don't think I've ever seen an audition so authentic.” Then, “Do you know her?”

“She lives up the street from me, but not really.”

“Well, with her and Les I think we have a real shot at making the provincials in St. John's.”

“That's great.”

Quiet for a moment.

Wayne zips up his jacket. “Well, I better get home.”

“Hang on, Mr. Pumphrey.”

Wayne stays where he is.

Mr. Rollie lays a hand on Wayne's shoulder. “I was thinking maybe you could help me direct.”

Wayne doesn't say anything.

“That means you and I will discuss the scenes and then tell the cast how to go about making them work. It'll be up to us where they stand and where they walk and what lighting will work best. We'll have a say about the set, too, and the music. Will we have the school band play live or have everything pre-recorded, for instance? The whole production will be you and me, Mr. Pumphrey.” He pauses. “How does that sound?”

Wayne looks down at Mr. Rollie's pointy shoes, then back up. “Does anyone see the director?”

Mr. Rollie uses his pinky to push up his glasses. “Well, no, but the whole thing is the product of the director's imagination. Name your favourite movie.”

Wayne thinks for a moment. “I don't know,
Avatar—
no,
The Lord of the Rings.
No, wait,
The Hangover
.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay. Well Wayne, behind that film was a director who made it all happen. They're the leaders, the train conductors, pilots of the 747s, sergeants of the battalions, Bill and Melinda Gates, Steve Jobs, Sidney Crosby. That's why I chose you: because you're a leader. You have that creative mind, Mr. Pumphrey. That imagination. If you're brave, one day you'll discover it's your greatest gift.”

Wayne breathes in. Sees himself sitting behind that long table with Mr. Rollie telling Julie where best to stand; Marjorie how best to deliver that line; the drummer, Jim Butt, the best time at which to strike the cymbal.

“Well, Mr. Pumphrey?”

Wayne looks up and nods. “All right.”

Mr. Rollie claps his hands. “Wonderful. We'll make a fine team, you and I.” He holds out his hand.

Wayne shakes it.

“Tomorrow we'll begin.”

“Okay.”

“We'll have twelve weeks of rehearsal, so there'll be no time to waste if we want to make the provincials.”

“Okay.”

They let go hands.

Wayne turns to leave.

“Mr. Pumphrey?”

Wayne stops. “Yes, sir?”

The drama teacher reaches into his pocket and takes out a piece of paper and unfolds it and hands it to Wayne and Wayne looks at it for ages.

“Well?” Mr. Rollie says at last.

“Well what?”

“Does it look like me?”

Wayne shrugs. “A little. Around the eyes.”

“You think so? Hmm. I'd never wear a sequined dress, though, or get my nose pierced. And I certainly wouldn't say that awful thing they have me saying.”

Wayne pauses. “Who did it?”

“I was hoping
you
could tell me.”

Silence.

“I don't know.”

Mr. Rollie takes the drawing back. “Flattering though, isn't it? Someone going to all that trouble to draw a likeness of me.” He puts the picture back in his pocket. “High school won't last forever, Mr. Pumphrey.”

Wayne nods. Walks out into the cold dark.

Dear Mr. Rollie,

Are you sure you meant to call ME a leader?

Only 'cause I don't much feel like one. I mean, Barack Obama is a leader and Bill and Hillary Clinton and Jean Chrétien and Stephen Harper and Nelson Mandela and Oprah Winfrey and Sidney Crosby and Georges St-Pierre, but ME? How can someone who eats alone and walks alone and writes these letters alone be a leader? Leaders ought to be fearless and charming and good-looking (Okay, scratch Stephen Harper) and snappy dressers, but me … I'm fearful and awkward and far from a catch and my style won't be in any magazine.

Shouldn't leaders have a look in their eye and be able to sway a crowd and get people talking and erase the
deficeit deficient deficiet
deficit and pin their opponents and score the winning goals and take good pictures? Have you ever seen my grade nine photo? Not pretty.

Leaders can talk to anyone and they shake thousands of hands (I've hardly shaken any) and they have their own production companies and magazines and they run the White House and Parliament and what have I run other than away?

I'm sorry, Mr. Rollie, but I think you made a mistake. I'm no leader. And I think the only reason you made me co-director was because you felt bad, but I'll take the job anyway because it's good to have somewhere to go and something to do and someone other than the wall to look at and say stuff to.

Thanks for showing me the drawing someone did of you. It never occurred to me to look at it as flattering, so thanks for helping me see things in a different light.

You're gay, aren't you? My sister says you are because you wear pointy shoes and have a pinky ring, but what odds if you are? Sure there's this big lesbo chick in Wanda's grade twelve class who has a girlfriend and they hold hands and kiss in public and everything.

Is that man who sometimes waits for you in the parking lot after school your boyfriend? Will you get married? Are you considering adopting? If there were a parade in Canning would you guys march in it?

Your co-director who's far from a leader,

Wayne Pumphrey

NINE

It's almost suppertime. Wayne's supposed to be shovelling the driveway like his father asked, but instead he's leaning on the shovel, staring up the road at the police car and the ambulance parked in Marjorie's driveway. Swirling lights, running engines, clouds of exhaust like doughboys. Across the street, he notices the Galbraiths gawking through their living room window. Mr. Galbraith is shirtless, his gut hanging over the waist of his track pants as he holds a tub of what looks to be ice cream, which his wife and youngest daughter are digging into with long spoons. Their oldest, Natalie, is talking into a cell phone, giving the play-by-play to some girlfriend she'll probably meet tomorrow by the water fountain, Wayne thinks, just before spreading the news to the whole school. Two houses down on Wayne's side of the street stands
Miss Flynn, twice divorced, and not long back from St. John's with her new teeth and flatter tummy and less pointy chin. A parka over her flannel pyjamas and a cigarette jammed between Botoxed lips. She shakes her head at Wayne and, without taking out her smoke, says, “What in God's name is goin' on up there?”