Fouling Out (7 page)

At school, I realize I've left my backpack at home. Here I'd spent hours (well, maybe twenty minutes) on my homework, and I'm not going to get credit for it. The math work wouldn't have mattered since I haven't understood a thing about negative integers in equations over the past week. I'm just waiting for the unit to end. Why would anybody want to subtract (
12
) from (-
9
x
) in the first place? Who thought that up? Four-year-olds are freaked by monsters; for seventh graders, it's mathematicians.

I'm so tired that it's not until the math homework is assigned that I realize Tom isn't there and remember why.

I have no regrets about this latest Tom Break. When a guy yells at you and beats you up in front of the whole class, it's pretty easy to enjoy the downtime. A suspension might make Tom think about his actions. Maybe it'll give him time to come up with a sincere way to apologize and explain himself. That's why, when I see Tom rolling his basketball like a bowling ball along the curb and trying to knock over empty trash cans, I don't look for an alternate route home. He stops his odd little game as I approach. He looks right at me. He's probably giving his apology one last run-through in his head. I stop right in front of him and wait to hear what he has to say.

He punches me.

Ah, yes. The suspension has clearly had the desired effect.

“Lay off,” I say. “We're not friends anymore. And just to set the record straight, I'm not gay! Where'd that come from? Don't know what kind of short circuit happened in your brain, but you really lost it.” I should keep walking, but I don't.

Tom stands there, smirking. “Shut up.”

“Get out of my sight. I mean it.” I make a move to the left to pass him, but he shifts to block.

“No, you don't.”

“I do too. Why'd you have to say those things?” Okay, mouth, stop extending the conversation. I shift right; he blocks again. For a guy who accused me of being gay, he seems desperate to be my dance partner.

“I didn't mean it.”

“Well, why'd you have to not mean it in front of absolutely everyone?”

“Get over it, all right?” He continues to lateral left and right, thankfully dribbling the basketball so it doesn't feel so stupid. “We're friends.”

“Yeah, right. Why'd you hit me just now?”

“Because you deserved it.”

“You're totally whacked. I oughta be hitting you.”

I head to the other side of the street and walk on. Tom doesn't follow.

Walking home, I am more mad at myself than at Tom. What is wrong with me? Did I really think Tom would apologize? The only times I've ever heard him say sorry are when a teacher or Mr. Skye makes him. He doesn't ever mean it. He just does it so he can get back to playing basketball at lunch. Even the teachers must know that. They don't want to spend all their lunches babysitting the guy.

He doesn't even pretend to apologize to me. He punches me. Sure, it wasn't hard or anything, but after what happened in the gym, how can he think that's the way to fix things?

Why do I keep giving Tom a chance? Yeah, he's funny. Yeah, he makes life interesting. But come on! All my office visits were one thing, but now it's guns and fights with adults and gay taunts and fights with me. We've got history. Lots of it. But friendships change, right? Things would be so much easier if there was some other place where I really fit in.

Fourteen

T
om's return to school comes without balloons or welcome banners.

“I'M BAAAACK!” he bellows, causing our classmates to glance his way, grimace and then resume whatever they'd been doing. Fours days of reflection have not helped Tom discover how to win friends.

Surprisingly, nobody looks to see my reaction when Tom walks in. I guess there's no reason to do so. There isn't a person in the room who hasn't at one time or another been subjected to Tom's intimidation tactics. Last week I was the victim and that gave everyone else a break. If he had put me into a coma and been suspended for a whole week, the class would have been a little more grateful. I have no doubt that, if the school held a fundraiser to ship Tom off to Guatemala instead of carrying on with its Adopt-A-Child program, we'd be cheering “Bon Voyage” (or whatever you'd say in Spanish) in a matter of days.

I have no contact with Tom the whole day. Miss Chang has created a new seating arrangement: Tom's desk is right beside hers and mine is way over on the opposite side of the room. It's a nice gesture, but a little subtlety would have been appreciated. She could've put me in the second row from the right instead of the farthest. Having a tiny female teacher protect me is just plain embarrassing.

As long as I am away from Tom, it doesn't really matter where I sit. I really don't have any other friends in the class. I haven't done anything with Mark since we went to the movies. He's always in the computer lab during lunch and recess. I like computers, but not at school. The lab has too many bad memories—lots of typing drills and lame assignments by teachers who don't know much about technology. The times I do go in the lab, Mark and Lewis Tsai are too consumed by whatever website they're on to notice. Keith is starting to hang out pretty much exclusively with a group of Chinese
ESL
students, and there's no use trying to mix with them because they always speak Chinese. If I stand near them, nothing changes. I guess if my family moved to Hong Kong and I found a group of students who spoke English, I'd act the same way.

For the past couple of days, I've been eating at my desk by myself with a book open. I'm not really reading. I'm kind of spying on everyone else, listening in on their conversations and watching what they do. It's time I figured out how normal people my age interact. Each group seems totally oblivious to everyone and everything else in the room, making my eavesdropping not much of a challenge.

I'm not the only one eating alone. Mindy is always by herself. If you ask me, she's someone who doesn't know how to have fun. She always has her head buried in a textbook, diligently trying to do a bonus assignment or reading ahead in Social Studies.

Roger Battersby also eats solo. There's nothing really wrong with him, but then again there's nothing really right. He's just flat-out boring. He never has any ideas of his own. I hate having him in my group for any projects because he never contributes anything. He just listens and shrugs his shoulders a lot. His face goes beet red whenever he has to speak in class, and he makes talking look utterly painful. He's been a favorite target of Tom's because it's so easy to see when you've gotten under his skin.

The big surprise is that Taryn is eating alone. That one I can't figure out at all. She is one of the popular girls—along with Tracey, Erin and Tammi. But now she looks completely miserable. She isn't used to it the way Mindy and Roger are. Tracey, Erin and Tammi sit close to her and act as if she doesn't exist. They laugh louder than ever and make every effort to look as if they are having the best time ever. Taryn silently finishes her lunch and then aimlessly walks the halls until the afternoon bell rings. The other three always calm down once Taryn makes her exit.

It might be the perfect opportunity to befriend Taryn, but I know there is no point in trying. Even as a loner, she is still way too popular for someone like me.

With Tom back in school, I could go back to eating with him, but I'd rather eat by myself. Tom has big problems. He needs help. Even I have figured that out. Shock treatments might not do any good, but I'm at the point where I wouldn't mind watching. Maybe he'll eventually get sent off to military school and get ordered around by tough, battle-scarred men. Why do they put problem guys in the military anyway? Does it really make sense to teach them how to use weapons?

In truth I don't have to try to ignore Tom, because he is apparently doing the same to me. At the sound of the recess and lunch bells, he vanishes faster than teachers do when there's a problem on the playground. I have no idea what he is doing, and I'm glad to have it that way.

Fifteen

T
om's return to school doesn't last long. Mrs. Brewer pulls him out of class, and then he is gone. I figure he'd mouthed off to Vice-Principal Skye one too many times and the school decided to take a stand.

Nobody in class voices any concern or curiosity. Life goes on. I don't bother to call him to get his side of things, because I am pretty tired of hearing his side: The whole world is against him, and there is no way he is responsible for anything. Still, after he's been gone for five days, I start to think of phoning. I wonder if they've forced him to transfer to another school in the district or if they've kicked him out completely.

I'm in my room finishing up an essay on the value of tombs and pyramids in ancient Egypt when my mother calls out, “Craig! Your friend's on the news!” At first I think she's referring to Mark—maybe he's receiving some award for Smartest Student Ever—but as I run down the stairs, she yells, “Come quickly!”

I've missed the whole story by the time I get to the den. My mother's face looks pale as she stands there, looking back and forth from the
TV
to me. The phone rings before I can get anything out of her.

“Get that, will you?” she asks absentmindedly.

I grab the phone in the den and can't get a “Hello” out before the voice from the other end says, “Craig? Is Craig there, please?”

I recognize the voice despite the total absence of a giggle. It's Tracey. I play it cool. “This is Craig. Who's this?”

“Hi, Craig. It's Tracey from school. Did you see the news? Tom's missing.” I don't say a thing. I know she isn't kidding. The expression on my mother's face provides confirmation.

Tracey goes on and on, talking faster than I can follow at times. This is grade seven drama of the highest kind, and I know that she will have a lot more calls to make tonight.

“Can you believe Tom had a gun? Tom! Miss Chang moved him into the row near me. Do you think he ever had the gun at school? You know, in his desk or his backpack? Everyone says he liked me, you know. Isn't that creepy? The guy had a gun! And where is he now? He could be in the bushes out back right now! Freaky! I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep tonight! Maybe he's run off to the States. Or he could've snuck on a ferry to Victoria. God, the farther the better!”

Presumably, she's called me first because I might have the inside scoop, but as she rambles on with all sorts of wild possibilities, I realize I could leave the phone on the counter and she'd never know the difference. She closes with an abrupt, “Oh, wait till Erin hears! Gotta go!” I let the phone hum a little in my ear before sitting down with Mom. She fills in the missing pieces.

Tom has run away. The reporter called him the “accidental” Richmond Racist—a wannabe squirrel killer but not a racist maniac. Tom confessed to the shooting, and the police had no reason to believe he was connected to any of the other incidents. Since the gun was his father's, Tom's homelife had to be investigated; the investigation revealed evidence of abuse, and Tom was headed for foster care. But Tom escaped through his bedroom window while he was supposed to be grabbing a few items to take to the foster home. All this happened four days ago. The press had finally been alerted because the police were now genuinely concerned about Tom. The reporter obligingly stated that the boy did not have his father's gun since it had already been seized, and that he was not considered a threat to the public. The reporter had obviously never set foot in Miss Chang's classroom.

My mom starts crying. “To think he was one of your friends!” she says. “He could've shot you by accident with that gun. Oh, what if he'd had that thing in the gym that day? Why in the world did they have a gun lying around the house? That boy's father should be in jail. You haven't heard from Tom, have you?”

“No.”

“You don't know where he is?”

“No.”

“Well, I hope nothing bad has happened to him. Heaven knows what that boy will get into, living on the streets. A foster home would've been the best thing for him.”

At night, I sleep a little, but I'm awake to see every hour go by on the clock. I am totally confused about what I've been told, what I haven't been told and what I know. What had made Tom confess about the gun incident? It had to have happened when Mrs. Brewer pulled him out of class. Why hadn't I been called down to the office too? Had Tom taken full blame and protected me? Why was he slated for foster care? Had his dad beaten him again? Where had he run off to? Why hadn't he told me any of this? Why didn't he ask me for help?

I feel sick to my stomach, worrying about Tom and feeling guilty about how I hadn't even bothered to call to check up on him. Even though I am sure Tom can face any situation on his own, that doesn't mean he deserves to. I was equally responsible for the whole squirrel fiasco, and now his life is in chaos while I continue my safe existence.

I decide to set the record straight first thing in the morning.

Sixteen

I
stop by the office as soon as I arrive at school. The secretary blocks my path to Mrs. Brewer's office. Perhaps she is under strict orders to keep all seventh-grade hoodlums away. To most adults, all seventh graders are potential hoodlums.

“Mrs. Brewer is in a meeting right now, Craig.”

Whoa. She knows my name. I guess I've earned my share of Frequent Office Points. “This is urgent. I have to talk to her.”

“Why don't you talk to Mr. Skye? I think he just headed down the hall.”

Yeah, right. He'd double my suspension and send me off to a foster family too. He'd call an assembly, have me sit in the front facing the audience and lead everyone in a repeated chant of “Shame!” I stand my ground and insist on seeing Mrs. Brewer.