Finton Moon (38 page)

He considered how different Alicia's life must be from his own. As a teenage girl in a houseful of boys, she was smarter and better looking than any of her brothers, with the ability to do something with her life, go anywhere and become anything. She could be a great artist or doctor, a beloved teacher or an astronaut. But no matter where she went, she would always be a Dredge. Just as he would always be a Moon. But then there was her brother, Kieran, the cop. Finton could only imagine the hope that her brother's lofty achievement must offer Alicia. It must have driven Kieran to distraction seeing his little sister taking after a Crowley, and his relief must have been palpable after they'd split up.

Oblivious to the rain, Alicia just stared at nothing. She looked like an unassuming prisoner, plotting an escape from purgatory. For some people, high school was an unpleasant stopover on the way to something even more unpleasant. That's likely how it was for Alicia. Hardship was her birthright, struggle her fate.

“What's so fascinating about her?”

The voice had the ring of one he knew. The face was startling—and ghostly familiar. He could barely believe she was standing there. “When did you get here?”

“I came in early.” Her brown eyes sparkled. Her grin was strong and bright, baring only a hint of the suffering she'd endured. “Which homeroom are you in?”

“Snow,” he said. “The new one.”

“What's she like?”

“Seems nice. Who you got?”

“McGrath—just like I wanted.”

“You're so lucky.”

“Good to see ya.” Her grin softened her face and eased the tension between them.

“Yeah. Long time.” Her body still needed a hug. Her saucy smile would still make everyone adore her. He wanted to ask her what it had been like, being that sick and so far away. For sure, it had been a long, hard road. She probably had bedsores, and no doubt there'd been nights of lying awake, coughing, throwing up, racked with chills, and wishing she could either get better or die. He could almost envy her.

“Are you—?”

“Fine.” She held forth her palms for him to see. “The fever broke in early August, and I've been walking a bit, building strength. I can forget the Montreal Olympics, but I can at least come to school.”

He laughed the obligatory laugh, but then the silence crept in and choked the moment of its vitality. The profound quiet, with only the shouts of the playground, reminded him of another moment several weeks ago, when they'd last talked.

“I understand if you hate me,” she said.

“I don't hate you,” he said. But she looked at him doubtfully. “Honest.”

“Really?”

He took a deep breath, drawing courage from deep inside. “Really.” He knew it was what she needed to hear.

“There's a dance coming up this weekend,” she said. “You going?”

“I've never been to one.”

“Oh, come on—you should. Everyone's going.”

Something about her earnestness, her joyfulness, and her genuine desire for him to do something sociable made him reconsider. “We'll see. I'm just not sure.”

“I mean, first dance of Grade Ten. Who'd miss that?”

Elsie wasn't thrilled with Finton's decision to attend the Friday night dance. She washed dishes and piled them in the rack, constantly tuttutting as she dragged dripping plates and utensils from the hot, soapy water and stacked them in the tray. “Father not working and you're off chasing girls. Nice to be like ya. Sure, go and dance your little feet off.”

Then it was Nanny Moon's turn to tut-tut. “God's sakes, Elsie. The poor child hardly goes outside the house. Good for 'im to get out and blow the stink off.”

“Hmph.” The last fork dropped onto the lid of a pot as Elsie turned around, clutching the dishtowel to her hip. “All right for you, Nanny Moon.”

Clancy leaned against the doorway. “It'll be good for 'im to meet some girls.”

“He might get his skin,” said Homer, who was also going to the dance. “Then he'd really have something to confess.”

“Shut up!” Finton punched him in the chest, but Homer didn't flinch.

“Boys! When your father gets home, he'll straighten ya out.”

“I'm just jokin' with ya, b'y.” The mere mention of Tom was enough to put a damper on their argument. He was over at Francis Minnow's having a yarn, but nobody wanted to give him another reason to be in a bad temper.

“Boys, stop it.” Elsie closed the cupboard door, shutting the dishes away. “Finton, I can't stop you from goin' to a dance, God knows. But make sure you gets home early—and stay away from the drugs and liquor.”

Finton was relieved, but his mother's warnings always made him feel like he'd already done something wrong before he'd even left the house.

Entering the gymnasium, he felt like an alien who'd forgotten the purpose of his visit to a strange, glittery planet. To think he was missing
The Rockford Files
for this. He felt wholly inadequate in his oversized, hand-me-down clothes—the milk-chocolate brown shirt, matching brown shoes, and checkered plaid pants all had been claimed from Homer, who'd inherited them from Clancy, who'd worn the same outfit five years earlier. He even had on one of his father's belts. In essence, Finton wore nothing of his own except his white socks and underwear. Nervously, reverently, he entered the gymnasium and looked all around at the high-flung ceilings and dangling fluorescent light fixtures, the burgundy and gold “Go Huntsmen!” banners hung above the stage and stapled to the far wall to remind everyone of the boys' basketball team. At three of the corners stood a black-clad Christian Brother, who chaperoned all high school dances because, the perception was, they had nothing better to do on a Friday night. Sister Angela Murphy stood at the fourth corner, beside the double doors that led to the washrooms. There were so many familiar faces—but how many he could truly call his friend? And yet here he was again, traversing that fine line between bravery and foolishness.

As she came towards him, she parted the crowd simply by walking among them. His mouth went dry at the sight of Mary in her blue jeans and pink t-shirt, hair tied back in a ponytail. The DJ played “Smokin' in the Boys Room.” He wiped his perspiring hands in the legs of his pants.

As she passed Bernard Crowley—in his usual blue denim—Bernard laid a hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She nodded, and they sauntered onto the dance floor, boogying their hips and shaking their limbs. Finton wished a sniper would appear on the stage and shoot him in the heart so that he could justify crumbling to the parquet floor in a quivering heap.

Song after song, Mary danced with someone new, while Finton stood on the sidelines, hands in pockets, tapping his foot and bobbing his head to the music to stave off the humiliation of immobility. He was loathe to glance in her direction and yet unable to restrain himself from doing so. Out on the dance floor, mingling with her people, she looked so beautiful and happy. Not so long ago, she was closer to death than any of them knew, and now here she was, the princess at the ball.

His face burned. Skeet and Dolly had arrived together, Skeet in a white suit with an oversized lapel, grooving to “Jungle Boogie” beside Mary and her latest partner. Standing on the fringes, a plastic Coke cup in her right hand, Alicia Dredge was wearing red lipstick and looking cute in a navy, flower-print dress, her hair hanging loose at her shoulders.

He felt a pang of envy towards those on the dance floor who were caught up in the moment and oblivious to his anguish. Alicia wasn't even looking in his direction, a lack of mindfulness he took as his cue. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, Finton stepped to his left and cut a line straight for her.

“Would you like to dance?” His voice was breathy.

“Finton—hi!” Alicia smiled sweetly. “I didn't see you there.”

A tall rival—Jack Hannigan Jr.—appeared at her left side in black slacks and white shirt with a black, bolo tie. “Alicia, would you, ah…”

Her eyes flickered towards Finton. Tenderly, she placed her hand on Jack's chest. Defeated, he hung his head and started to move away.

“Maybe later,” she told him. “Finton asked first.”

Finton nodded graciously to Jack and led his damsel towards the dance floor where everyone was dancing to “No More Mr. Nice Guy.” He flounced with Alicia on the crowded floor and sang louder than Alice Cooper. Alicia bopped her head and swayed her hips, arms outspread like an awkward bird just learning to fly.

They continued to dance through a KISS song and then another by Carly Simon. He managed not to step on, hip-check, or smack anyone—until he spun around on the chorus of “Mockingbird” and his right arm clouted someone. Turning, he saw his older brother clutching his nose and checking for blood, his eyes brimming with anger.

Mary leaned in to shift Homer's hand from the injured area so she could assess the damage. She cast Finton a killing glance, and he realized that she and Homer had been dancing together. Leading Homer by the shoulder, she guided him past Sister Angela, who checked him over, then opened one of the doors. One of the Christian Brothers quickly followed, probably to ensure that Mary didn't enter the boys' bathroom.

Alicia laid a concerned hand on Finton's arm. “Are you okay?” she asked. He shook his head. Didn't want to explain. He could think of nothing but Homer's offhand remark one time that Mary was childish. His first impulse was to have it out with his brother when he returned to the dance, but his overriding instinct was to run away.

“Finton?” Alicia stared at him, looking worried. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” He grasped her wrist and pulled her close. “The Way We Were” played just for him. She lowered her head to his shoulder and clasped her arms around his waist. He grasped her hips and felt every slow movement. He forgot she wasn't Morgan and let his right hand slip to her backside. When she gently moved his hand to a less offensive body part, he felt chastised but grateful that she hadn't made a scene.

When the song was over, and “Loco Motion” spilled from the speakers, one of the double doors opened at the far corner of the gym. Homer had returned, appearing fine, with hardly a scratch. Mary, beside him, was watching his nose. From across the dance floor, he and Homer exchanged nods. Then Mary pulled Finton's brother onto the dance floor, and Finton resigned himself to the anger and hurt that burned in his gut.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and swiveled around to see Bernard Crowley glaring down on him, imaginary smoke billowing from nostrils and flanked by his usual cronies, the King twins and Cocky Munro.

“Movin' in on my girl, faggot?”

Finton looped his thumbs in his belt. “She's not your girl.”

Bernard thrust his face close enough to Finton's that he could smell the sweat from Bernard's underarms. Alicia stepped between the two and placed a firm hand on Bernard's chest. “That's enough,” she said. “I'm not your girlfriend.”

“We were just dancin',” Finton added. “No law against it.”

“Well, see, that's where you're wrong. I got a law against it—me 'n the b'ys here. So maybe you'd be better skedaddle on home.”

Finton's heart beat savagely. He blinked slowly, barely able to think. But with each word his enemy spoke, Finton's mind grew more lucid. He saw the spittle on Bernard's bottom lip, the whitehead pimples on his cheeks, the wart on one knuckle of his left hand, the oily hair matted to his forehead, the frayed edges at the cuffs of his jean jacket. These degrading details made Bernard familiar and human, but mostly pathetic. He was a frightened animal that feared extinction, whose only defense was aggression—an unrelenting desire to destroy any threat or perceived weak link that reminded him that weakness existed and, therefore, was threatening in itself.

Although slightly unnerved by these insights, suddenly Finton felt calm. Grounded. Strong.

“I don't need this,” he said and turned towards the door. Then he stopped and said to Alicia, “Great night for a walk.”

Bernard scowled, and his eyebrows knit together like a mustache. “That's it, coward. Run and hide. But I'll still find you.”

Finton shook his head, smiling virtuously. “I'm not hiding from you. I'm just going for a walk.”

Bernard rushed towards him, and Finton stood still, ready to knee him in the balls when the moment arrived. But it never did. At the last possible second, Bernard was pulled aside by Homer and Skeet, one on each arm. “By the Jesus, Crowley,” Homer said, “you pick on one Moon brother, you take on all of us.” He looked at Finton. “Go wherever you goin' to.” Skeet nodded. “We got this,” he said.

Alicia took Finton's arm and practically dragged him to the door. As they departed, he had a pang of conscience about leaving his brother and friend to fend for him. Worse, he remembered Skeet's long-ago words about dealing directly with arseholes like Bernard Crowley. Bernard wouldn't quit until he was put in his place, but Finton didn't want the torture to go on too long. “I should stay and fight him,” he said.

“And get killed?” Alicia was pushing him now, with one hand on his back and the other pulling his arm. “I don't think so. Come on, b'y. Fer God's sake.”

Logic like that was hard to ignore, especially coming from a girl in red lipstick.

They wandered home together along the two miles of road where the streetlights were few and the dark was plenty. For the first few minutes, still within range of the light provided by the school and small shopping district, they walked side by side, careful not to touch each other unless necessary. It felt, at least on Finton's part, as if they were strangers, with nothing interesting to talk about.

On the left side of the road, facing traffic—which was scarce in Darwin after dark—it was difficult to see. There was the occasional guard rail, usually in places where a car had gone over the side and someone—like Miss Bridie's boyfriend, Gordie—had gotten killed. In Darwin, guard rails, usually, were grave markers. So, in that vein, thankfully, there weren't very many of them. On the other hand, walking after nightfall in this section of town was treacherous. For much of the way, about four feet from the pavement was a sheer drop. So they stayed close together, occasionally allowing their elbows or hips to graze against each other's.