Son of a Critch Page 18

  I sat in math class more confused than ever. We were covering our times tables. When I was last there, I had loved times tables. This math made sense to me. There was a pattern. One times zero equalled zero. Two times zero equalled zero. Three times zero equalled zero. Okay. One times one equalled one. Two times one equalled two. Three times one equalled three. I was down with that. Two times two was four. Three times two was six. Double the number and you have your answer. There was nothing to it. Three and four went a little rogue but nothing I couldn’t handle. The five times tables all ended in either a zero or a five. I’d missed six and seven and returned to math class in time for eight. Eight times six is forty-eight? What the hell? Shouldn’t it be eighty-six or something? Eight times eight is sixty-four? It should be eighty-eight or at the very least sixteen. This was anarchy. I needed my cello back.

  Fox’s older brother skipped school the next couple of days, so I avoided cello lessons. I also avoided math class. When my teacher told me that it was time for cello I’d put away my books and leave the room. Then I’d go down the stairs to the first floor where Sister Elizabeth’s classroom was. Instead of going in to my cello lesson, I’d hide under the staircase until there was movement in the hall above me. I didn’t have a watch, so the only way to know when forty minutes had passed was by listening for the grade sevens. Once I heard a group shuffling their way to the gym or a science lab, I decided the time was right and I went back to class.

  Now I wasn’t only missing math. I was missing cello and math. I’d taken a bad situation and doubled down, making it far worse and gaining nothing. This went on for weeks, and I started to wonder if the teachers at my school ever talked. Surely one would say, “How is Mark coming along on the cello?” Eventually Sister Elizabeth would have to say, “I noticed Mark hasn’t come for cello practice in two months. I was wondering: did he die?” But nothing ever happened. The other shoe did not drop. I’d sit alone with my thoughts under the stairwell for forty minutes, getting stupider.

  This did not cause any sleepless nights. You’d think I’d be terrified of being caught. I was not. I was perfectly happy to not have my cake and not eat it, too. But I was basically living out an After School Special, and like all such characters, there would be trouble for me after the first commercial break.

  The Mormons had some pretty good commercials when I was a kid. There’d be some life lesson told with Madison Avenue slickness and with the tagline “A message from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Mormons!” I never knew what a Latter-day Saint or a Mormon was. Nobody at school ever mentioned the other faiths. So I didn’t know what they were selling, but I liked how they sold it.

  I could imagine what a commercial for Catholicism would be like.

  Priest: Have you sinned? Swearing? Lying? Adultery? MURDER? Wish you could start over? Well, now you can! For just three easy instalments of three Hail Marys, four Our Fathers, and two Acts of Contrition, you can have your guilt history wiped clean! Offer valid until Sunday. Offer not available to Jews and the divorced. A message from the Catholics.

  The Mormons sold their religion as though prayers were hamburgers. One such ad was an anti-lying commercial. It featured a kid who was thinking about lying to his parents so that he could go see a movie. He turns a corner into a dark hallway where a gang of jazz-hands-waving song-and-dance men are waiting to ambush him with a song. They’d sing:

  When you tell one lie, it leads to another

  So you tell two lies to cover each other

  Then you tell three lies and oh brother

  You’re in trouble up to your ears

  It ended with the kid running in tears to confess a lie he hadn’t even told yet. The voiceover claimed, “There’s no such thing as a good lie.” That, I thought, was a lie. I’d had two big problems—failing math and being forced to play cello—and now both had gone away, plus I enjoyed a free period. Lying made me feel like dancing!

  When you tell one lie, you can trick your brother

  So you tell two lies, to fool your mother

  Then you tell three lies and soon you discover

  Your troubles all disappear

  I danced up the staircase, stopping to slide partway down the banister, and eventually made it to my classroom. Several kids were lined up at the blackboard. Something unusual was happening. The air was thick with tension and the smell of prepubescent perspiration.

  “Mark, you’re just in time for the Mathletics,” my teacher said, as if she’d read my mind and plucked out the worst possible scenario for me to walk into.

  “What’s that, miss?” My knees were getting weak.

  “Our class is competing against the others in our grade. The principal is going to judge. The class that knows their times tables the best will win a pizza party.”

  The other kids all howled their excitement, even though I was the only one getting the info for the first time. I felt like vomiting. Math class had been extended past cello time. The kids leaning against the blackboard looked to me as if they were facing a firing line. I wondered if I could ask the nun for a blindfold and a cigarette.

  The panic filled me with a shot of adrenalin, so I leaned over to Fox to whisper a threat. “If you don’t give me back my cello today I’ll tell the principal when she comes in,” I lied through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know where it is,” he smirked. “My brother hid it by my dad’s.”

  “Miss!” I shouted, raising my hand. I had no idea what I was going to say when she called on me, but I knew I was hitting rock bottom. If this wasn’t my come-to-Jesus moment, it was definitely my come-to-Miss moment.

  “Yes, Mark?” she answered without looking up. She was busy writing out math problems on index cards for the principal to ask the Mathletes.

  “Fine,” Fox hissed. “But you’ll have to come get it after school.”

  It would mean missing my bus, but I had no other choice.

  “Nothing, miss,” I answered my teacher. “I thought I had to go to the washroom, but then realized I didn’t.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, lost in her red-ink world of monotony. I flipped an E.T. eraser over and started to write out the seven, eight, and nine times tables in a flurry. The other class from across the hall entered our room in silence. Everyone was always on their best behaviour when a principal was on deck. Six of theirs lined up at the front of the room alongside six of ours as we prepared to let loose the dogs of war.

  The principal arrived and we all stood at our desks in salute. She took her place at our teacher’s desk and shuffled through the question cards.

  “Good afternoon, boys and girls,” she began. “Today we will see just who has been studying their times tables and who has not.” Man, she had no idea. She began with a couple of eight times right out of the gate. I respected her take-no-prisoners attitude. But it didn’t faze any of the nerds who’d volunteered to go first; they deflected her assaults like a row of Terry Sawchuks. The first round was a draw. The next crew of reinforcements lined up at the board and the principal peppered them with a blast of seven times, a couple of nine times, and few one times to keep ’em guessing.

  By now I’d almost completed my cheat sheet, with E.T. covered in numbers from his heart light to halfway up his long bony neck. I’d even managed to cross out the ones that had already been asked so I wouldn’t waste any valuable cheating time.

  “Mark, Gary, Fox, Bernadette, Tina, Bobbie Jo.” My number had been called. I clutched the eraser as securely as if I were Moses holding one of the tablets chiselled by God. As I took my place in the line I thought to myself, “If I don’t know the answer, it’s probably fifty-six. Fifty-six sounds like the answer to a math question.”

  “Mark.” The principal had picked me right away. Caught off guard, I almost blurted out “fifty-six” before she’d even asked the question. “What is eleven times eleven?”

  It struck me only then how difficult it would be to look up the answer on E.T. in front of two classes
, my teacher, and the principal without looking suspicious. I was forced to think my way out of it. “Go with what you know,” I told myself. Eleven times ten is one hundred and ten so eleven times eleven is one hundred and ten plus eleven so that would be one hundred and twenty-one. “One hundred and twenty-one, Sister,” I answered triumphantly.

  “Very good, Mark,” she said. I was beginning to see the value in going straight. I had nothing to fear. Maybe it was time to come in out of the cold. I was tired of living a double life. I’d come to math class. I’d learn my times tables. I’d find my cello, return it to Sister Elizabeth, and hand in my note. I would be a fugitive no more.

  “Mark.” The principal’s voice shook me from my retirement plans. Was it my turn again already? “What is eight times eight?”

  I remembered this one. This was one of the ones that made no sense. It wasn’t eighty-eight. And it wasn’t sixteen. For some reason I thought it might be sixty-four, but that didn’t sound right at all.

  “Fifty-six,” I said, feeling more confident than I’d ever been about anything in my entire life.

  “Incorrect,” she said. I shook it off, telling myself I’d get the next one. I didn’t. Nor did I get the one after that, or the one following. Fox and I were the two least mathletic students in our grade. The other class returned to their room for their party and we sat in our seats, pizza-less. I had embarrassed myself in front of the entire class and cost my friends a party they had no doubt earned, but at least the worst was behind me.

  “Mark and Fox, will you stand up by the blackboard, please?” the principal asked, even though we all knew that nobody was being given a chance here. “St. Teresa’s students are good students. St. Teresa’s students do their homework. St. Teresa’s students know their times tables. Are you St. Teresa’s students?”

  “Yes, Sister?”

  “Well, you’re not acting like St. Teresa’s students, are you?” She paced in front of us like a lion waiting to be fed. “All these other boys and girls spent a long time studying. They know their times tables. They deserve a pizza party. You deserve a pizza party, don’t you, boys and girls?” The children all agreed that they deserved a pizza party. She was really reading the room. Fox looked at me with big, wide eyes. Normally he’d just walk around and threaten to hit every kid in class until they shut up. Now he was powerless. But there was something more to the panicky look on his face. Bullies didn’t care about math. He was more unnerved than he should be.

  “I think the children deserve an explanation. Why don’t you know your times tables?” The nun was about an inch from Fox’s face now, and if I hadn’t seen it myself I’d never have believed it. He melted like a dropped ice cream on a playground in August. “Mom won’t help me cuz she’s asleep all the time or gone out. Dad don’t live home no more and he doesn’t want us around cuz he got a new girlfriend. I never sees him. My brothers are always hitting me and the house is never quiet. There’s too much of a racket to study. Nobody cares anyway! I hates it all.”

  Fox huffed all this out between sobs and the principal patted him on the shoulder, half to comfort him and half to shut him up. She’d gone down this road looking to humiliate a couple of grade-schoolers and maybe give them a nightmare. Now Fox had opened up to the class in a stunning behind-the-scenes look at the mind of a bully. Half the kids felt sorry for him. The other half shrugged, thinking, “So? Sounds pretty normal to me.”

  Sister turned to me. “And you, Mark? What have you got to say for yourself?” That was it? She was going to reduce Fox to tears and then leave him leaning against a blackboard with chalk dust on his back? It seemed she was, and that gave me an out.

  “Mom’s never home, Sister.” I could hear the shadowy song-and-dance men in my head. So you tell four lies to try to protect you. “And Dad is always at work, so I’m always home alone.” Then you tell five lies so folks won’t suspect you. These may have been the biggest lies I’d ever told. My mother was always home. The last time she went anywhere other than the mall or church was to the hospital to see my father. It was true that Dad was often working, but he worked nine to five, came home for lunch, and worked close enough to the house that he could see into the kitchen from his desk.

  “That surprises me to hear, Mark,” she said, looking back at Fox. He’d turned to face the blackboard now. His cheeks, wet with tears, were covered in damp chalk dust—a prepubescent Pagliacci.

  She knew my parents. Normally, she would have called me out for lying. But now that Fox’s emotional testimony had swung the jury, she was careful not to poke her next witness too hard. “If your mother is never home, then where does she go?”

  This was a tricky one. I had no idea where adults went. I thought of the time Mom crashed the car trying to go pick up my brother. “She’s always out driving around,” I blurted. Even I was disappointed in my answer.

  “Driving around?” There was something sinister about the way she said it—as though my mother were a drug dealer, or perhaps a prostitute. The principal decided to leave it there, and the prosecution rested. “Just…learn the times tables,” she said in conclusion and left the room. I happily returned to my seat and looked over at Fox. He’d buried his face in his folded arms on his desk. His chalkboard kabuki makeup was going to ruin his good school shirt, but I thought it best not to bring that up. I’d be upsetting him enough after school: I needed my cello and we were going to his father’s house whether he wanted us there or not.

  The bell rang and I grabbed my coat. I collected Fox, which was easier than I thought. His face was still covered in chalk, but the wet dust had dried on his cheeks and forehead, making him look like an albino panda. He barely spoke a word as we went looking for his brother. Silver Fox didn’t really go to our school; he went “up around” our school. The world was his classroom now. We found him by the side of the building trying to toss a balled-up skipping rope onto the top of a school bus. The two little girls who’d been using it stood by watching in tears. I felt bad interrupting him at work, but I was on a mission.

  Silver Fox told me he’d tried to sell the cello but no one would buy it, so he’d dumped it in his father’s backyard. I could have it back if I wanted, but it would cost me two weeks’ worth of Pepsis. Fair trade. I’d just tell Mom I wanted juice packs for lunch. The Fox dynasty patriarch finally managed to get the jump rope onto the bus roof and laughed maniacally as he watched it pull away. I grabbed his brother by the arm, using the distraction to make an exit without getting pantsed.

  “We can’t go to my father’s,” Fox protested. “I’m not allowed over there.” This made no sense. How could you not be allowed in your father’s house?

  “Look,” I said, “we’re just going to get my cello and go, okay?” Fox dragged his heels the whole way, but we eventually made it to the house. I’d never been this far away from school grounds on foot before. A row of houses stood before me, attached on both sides. Every two houses shared a lawn. I’d never seen so many houses packed so tightly together. To me, having grown up with a radio station for a neighbour, it looked like heaven. These were “The Blocks”: an area of public housing for low-income families. The first public housing in St. John’s was built for war widows in 1947. Seventeen buildings provided sixty-eight apartments. The original buildings were made out of cinder blocks, hence the name. They were later torn down for newer family homes, but the name remained. There was a social stigma for some of the kids who lived there, but I envied Fox for living in a real neighbourhood and I couldn’t wait to have a look around.

  “How do we get into the backyard?” The only way to the back, Fox explained, was through the house. I bounded up the stairs and he called after me to stop.

  “Wait,” he said, clearly worried. “You can’t make any noise and we have to go straight through to the kitchen and out the back. I’m serious,” he continued seriously. “You can’t say anything.” Jeez, this guy was worse than the nuns during assemblies. He went on point and I followed behind, waiting for h
is signal. The house was darker inside during the day than mine was at night. The air was heavy with a strange smell that I now know as beer. I looked to my left into the living room. The curtains were drawn and a small television was playing a wrestling match with the sound down low. The flickering blue light from the screen was the only thing illuminating the sole occupant of the room. He appeared to be sleeping. His back was to us so I couldn’t see his face. Long brown hair touched bare shoulders as he slumped to one side. An ashtray atop a magazine was brimming with butts on his left side and a few empty half-cases of Blue Star beer criss-crossed the floor to his right. He looked pretty peaceful to me. I wanted to ask Fox if we could watch a bit of the wrestling, but he was already standing by the back door motioning for me to follow.

  I snuck through the kitchen where several half-finished bowls of Chef Boyardee and takeout containers were piled high on the counter. Fox opened the door as slowly as he could, but that didn’t stop it from squealing. When he closed it carefully behind us it squeaked its thanks.

  The backyard was a junkman’s dream. Car parts were littered here and there, even though Fox’s father didn’t own a car. Maybe he intended to knit one together one day. Stacks of empty beer bottles lined the back wall; the cardboard of the cases had long given way to the Newfoundland weather, and some of the bottles had spilled out the sides and broken on the grass below. An old mattress and an upturned baby pool added a drop of colour to the landscape. There, in the corner by the fence, was my cello. An orange tabby cat lay on top of it, sunning herself and guarding the case.

  “Huss,” Fox hissed at the cat. She lazily meowed her disappointment over losing her perch. Then she wagged her tail and jumped down onto the mattress and off into the tall grass. I pointed out that her swaying tail meant she was angry, which was surprising because her matted fur didn’t look like it had been recently shampooed, but Fox was in no mood for pet pointers. “Here,” he said. “Take it. Go.” He gestured to another street behind the fence.