Fruit (10 page)

“Hello?” he said again.

I was about to say, “Oh, hello. Would Andrew be available?” when someone started knocking on my door.

“Peter! Supper’s ready!” It was my mom. “You get out here right now before it gets cold!”

Then I heard John DeLouza say, “Who is this?”

And my mom yelled, “What are you doing in there?”

And John DeLouza said, “What did you say?”

And my mom said, “I mean it!”

I was almost crying, I was so confused. Should I yell at my mom to be quiet or should I pretend there wasn’t a maniac pounding down my door and just ask for Andrew?

“Is this some kind of prank?”

“Peter!”

“Who?”

“Why aren’t you answering me?”

I did the only thing I could do and slammed the receiver back down. My face was burning and I was shaking. Did John DeLouza hear my mom call my name? What if he went to Andrew and asked, “Do you know someone by the name of Peter?” and Andrew would say, “Yeah, he’s this big loser in my class. Why are you asking?” and John would say, “Well, you’re not going to believe this,
but . . .” Or even worse, what if John sent the Sarnia Mafia after me for thinking I was an obscene phone caller?

I was so angry at my mom for ruining everything, especially when she was the one who wanted me to find a boy friend in the first place.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” I screamed back at her. I must’ve scared her pretty good, because she was quiet for a couple of seconds. Then she said, “Okay, dear. No rush.”

I hardly ate any of her casserole that night.

I wanted to fake being sick the next day so I wouldn’t have to go to school and see Andrew. But that meant having to spend the whole day with my evil mom. I kept my fingers crossed the whole time I was walking to Clarkedale.

When I got to the school yard, Andrew and Sean were leaning against the side wall, looking through a magazine. I had to walk past them, so I took a deep breath and told myself I was too busy thinking about a very serious problem (like my mom dying) to notice them. It’d be like they weren’t even there.

“Wicked,” I heard Sean say as I passed them.

“How do they get the bone to look so real?” Andrew asked.

“My mom has six months left to live,” I thought as I walked by.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I made it into the school. But I knew I’d have to be vague around Andrew for the rest of the day. Otherwise, he’d catch on that I was the mystery caller.

During math and history, I made sure to keep my eyes
on my desk. At recess, I hurried off to the library before Andrew had the chance to corner me. At lunch, Andrew walked across the field to his house. I went the opposite way. My mom had sloppy joes waiting for me. During afternoon recess, I watched Andrew and Sean from the library window. They were talking and laughing. While I was walking home at the end of the day, I realized I didn’t have to be vague. I didn’t have to be anything at all. Andrew didn’t say anything to me. Andrew didn’t look at me. It was just like any other day of the week. I grabbed my bundle of papers at the corner but it seemed heavier than usual and I had to stop three times to switch arms before I made it home.

BEDTIME MOVIE #3

It’s a dark and stormy night. I’m home alone. My parents and sisters have gone away on a very long vacation. I’m a little nervous, because lightning is flashing in the sky and the thunder makes the dishes in my mom’s china cabinet shake.

“Everything is fine,” I tell myself as I look out the living room window. “You’re just on edge, that’s all.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the back door. I freeze. Who could it be at this time of the night? There’s another knock, this one louder. I grab a knife and crouch over to the door.

“Who’s there?” I call out. “I’ve got a knife.”

It’s Andrew Sinclair. I’m shocked. What’s he doing here?

“Please let me in,” Andrew says. He sounds very upset.

I open up the door and let Andrew in. He’s soaking wet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Before I say anything, do you have any dry clothes I could change into?” he asks. I shrug and say sure but when I go to my room, the only thing I can find in my dresser drawer is a red Speedo.

“Isn’t that the strangest thing?” I whisper to myself. It’s not even mine.

“It’s the strangest thing,” I say to Andrew. “But this is all I have.”

I turn around to give Andrew some privacy while he changes. At any second, I could turn around and see Andrew naked. But I don’t. We’re friends.

After Andrew puts on the shorts, I offer him a drink. Andrew says sure, so I make him my specialty — an orange pop float with Neapolitan ice cream.

“This is really tasty,” Andrew says. “You must be the top student in your home ec class. I guess there are a lot of things I don’t know about you.”

I tell Andrew it’s nothing, really. “I’m not as complicated as you might think,” I say.

Then Andrew tells me the reason he came to see me. His stepfather came home from a Mafia meeting and shot his mom and sister. Andrew ran out of the house before his stepfather had a chance to get him, too.

“You were the first person I thought to run to,” Andrew says. Even though he’s upset, I can tell he’s happy that I was home.

I know that Andrew needs me to help him. He wants me to be the Voice of Reason.

“We have to call the police,” I tell him. “We have to report your stepfather.”

“No!” Andrew says. “You don’t know how powerful my stepfather is. He has the police force by the balls. If we call them, we’re dead men.”

“Well, what do you think we should do?”

Andrew stares at me for a good, long time. “We have to run away,” he says. “Pack your bags. We’re catching the first train to the city. We can find jobs and get an apartment and go shopping together and stay up all night, talking about our dreams.”

“I can’t up and leave,” I tell Andrew. “Too many people here depend on me. I’ve got papers to deliver tomorrow.”

Andrew nods slowly. We both know what the other must do, even though it’s tearing us apart.

“Crime doesn’t pay, Peter,” Andrew says softly. He wipes his eyes.

“Hey there,” I say, “don’t let them beat you.”

I go over to the phone. “I’ll book your ticket and pay for it,” I tell him.

“No, please don’t,” Andrew says, “you’ve already done so much.”

“It’s something I want to do,” I tell him. “We’re friends, remember?”

“Best friends,” Andrew says. Then he looks down. I can tell he’s embarrassed and wants to say something else.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“Before I go, could I have a hug? I mean, I can understand if you don’t want to, but it’s just that whenever I’m around you, I feel protected and safe.”

“Of course you can,” I smile. Andrew starts walking over to me. I can hear his heart beating loudly and I notice the tiny blond hairs on his chest. All of a sudden, there’s a big flash of lightning that cuts the power in the house. The lights go out and then Andrew and I are standing in the dark.

Although I can’t see him, Andrew is so close to me that I can smell the orange pop on his breath. I want to ask him, “Do you condition your hair?” but I can’t. The words get frozen in my mouth. The rain gets louder.

Then I fall asleep.

five

I’ll never be able to leave the house again, thanks to Uncle Ed.

Michelle Appleby’s older sister, Janice, works at the Donut Delite on Huron Street. Michelle told me that Janice told her that Uncle Ed came in there last week. He ordered two dozen donuts and a Diet Coke.

When Uncle Ed found out where Janice went to school, he pulled a picture of me out of his wallet and asked her if she recognized me. When I first heard the story, I wasn’t thinking about Uncle Ed. I was too excited by the fact that Janice recognized me. She was very popular, mainly because she let guys finger her at recess. I never said two words to her, but she must’ve thought highly of me.

“What did Janice say?” I asked Michelle. Maybe Janice had a secret crush on me.

“She said she kind of remembered you, that you were in my grade and fat, right?”

“Oh.”

“So your uncle said, ‘Yep, that’s the one all right. He’s my sister’s kid.’ Janice says he comes in there every Tuesday and orders a couple dozen donuts. She said he
always makes up some story that they’re not all for him, but everyone knows he’s full of shit.”

I was so embarrassed and angry. Now everyone in Sarnia would know that I was related to Uncle Ed.

“Why did you give him a picture?” I asked my mom. “I asked you not to. I knew he’d do this.”

“Well, he asked me for a picture and what was I supposed to say?” my mom asked. “He’s proud of you, that’s all.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “He’s just trying to embarrass me. He’s going around to everyone in Sarnia, telling them things about me. Private things.”

My mom crossed her arms against her chest. “Now what would Uncle Ed possibly know about you that would be so private?”

“Plenty,” I said, even though I couldn’t really think of anything. But that wasn’t the point. Just knowing that Uncle Ed had my stupid grade 8 picture crammed in his wallet was enough to freak me out. I told my mom to tell him to take it out.

“He’s highly sensitive at this age,” I heard her say to him on the phone. “Remember how you were at thirteen, Ed?”

I don’t think Uncle Ed could remember that far back. He told my mom he wouldn’t show my picture anymore, but didn’t understand why he had to keep me a secret. Uncle Ed doesn’t realize that
I’m
the one trying to keep
him
a secret.

As if people finding out that I’m related to Uncle Ed wasn’t bad enough, my dad told me that he’d made an appointment for me to see Dr. Luka.

“Why?” I asked. I felt my nipples twitch beneath my sweatshirt.

“Because you haven’t gone in a long time,” he said, “and it’s important for you to have a checkup.”

I don’t like Dr. Luka very much, even though he’s never been mean to me or anything. He’s just very, very old — old enough to be in the Guinness Book of World Records as the World’s Oldest Living Doctor. He has cold hands, too. I think he’s German because he can’t pronounce w’s. He says them like v’s. So does his wife, Mrs. Luka. She’s old, too. She’s the receptionist and sits at a desk in the living room. When she’s not on the phone yakking to one of her friends, she makes sock monkeys. I don’t know if she sells them or gives them away to poor kids or what. All I know is that whenever I come to an appointment, there are monkey arms and monkey legs and monkey heads all over the place. I think she’s almost blind because she holds everything really close to her face. The few times I noticed, I thought she was sniffing the monkeys, which disturbed me a bit. Then I realized she couldn’t see where she was sticking the needle. I’d be careful if I were her.

There was no way I was going to see Dr. Luka. For sure he’d discover my deformed nipples and tell my parents and he’d probably even call some photographers to take pictures to include in one of those “Freaks of the 20th Century” books.

“The nurse at Clarkedale does physical exams on all the students,” I told my dad. “She’s pretty good and even checks for lice using toothpicks. So I don’t think I need to see Dr. Luka.”

“Well that may be, but I still think it’s important for you to see a regular doctor.”

My mother walked into the living room. “A doctor? Is something the matter?”

“No, Beth,” my dad sighed. “I was just telling Peter I made an appointment for a checkup. But he doesn’t seem to want to go.”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to go?” my mother frowned.

I felt like a bug about to be squashed. Both of my parents were looking at me. I knew that if they started to get suspicious, they’d tell Dr. Luka to examine me extra carefully.

“Cover every square inch,” my dad would say.

“He’s hiding something!” my mother would whisper/scream to Mrs. Luka in the waiting room. “We’ll find out what it is soon enough!”

“No, I don’t mind going,” I said and tried to smile. “I just have a lot of tests coming up that I need to study for. Maybe I can go see Dr. Luka in a couple of months. Or next year, even.”

“I’ve made the appointment for next Tuesday,” my dad said.

“Oh.”

The next day was Sunday, which meant Uncle Ed was coming for dinner.

When he opened the back door, he yelled, “What’s in the news?” Then he threw a garbage bag full of dirty laundry down the stairs. “Look out below!”

My mom washes his towels, shirts, and pants. She never washes his underwear, though.

“He says he washes them on his own,” she said once. “But all he has is mother’s old wringer-washer and I’d be surprised if he knew how to work it. More than likely, he washes his shorts in the sink and I don’t know how hygienic that is. Of course, he never
was
the cleanest person.”

She never washes his bed sheets, either. The last time she did was in 1976. She said they went into the washing machine grey and came out white. “I haven’t seen them since and that was eight years ago. Lord only knows what colour they are now.”

I heard my mom say, “Hello Ed,” in a voice that was between angry and tired. “Did you remember to pick up the rolls?”