All Good Children (14 page)

“You have to come, Mom.”

“I know you've been working hard coaching them—”

“I told you, it's not like that!”

“My teacher says you shouldn't raise your voice to an adult,” Ally says. She sits across the table from me, eating her sandwich crusts. “The kids in my new school barely speak at all.”

“That's too bad, Ally,” Mom says. “But Max and I are having a private conversation right now.”

“My teacher says private conversations are not good,” Ally says. “We work quietly all day long.”

Mom stares at her sadly.

“It's not so bad,” Ally says. “There's coloring and building.”

I interrupt before I have to hear the lonely details. “I need you there, Mom. I need to know if I'm imagining things.”

She sighs. “How long is the game?”

“An hour and a half. You could catch the end.”

She considers the minutes of lost money and sleep.

“Please,” I beg. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”

She thinks about that. “Never,” she says in surprise.

The middle school erected bleachers for the Warriors' first game, and they're full of students, uniformed and neatly spaced in rows.

A dozen parents stand on the sidelines, gabbing about the impending rain. Fathers scowl and pace with their hands on their hips, bellies sagging over polyester trousers. Mothers push the limits of their stretch pants and stare at the field with constipated squints.

The Chiefs bus over from the southwest quadrant. They're no bigger than the Warriors but they look premium in red and orange uniforms that shimmer when the sun breaks through a cloud.

Mr. Hendricks shakes his head. “They're a bit behind in Nesting. We're never going to beat them.” Motivational leadership in action.

I shout at the Warriors as they pass by on laps. “Slow down, Frankie, save some for the game! That's right, Chicago, get those feet off the ground!”

Mr. Hendricks rolls his eyes at me.

“Where's Saffron?” I ask.

He points to the bleachers. Saffron sits at the end of the top row, watching her team jog around the field.

“Did she break a bone?”

“She quit,” he tells me. “It's just as well. Boys slamming into her like they did? There was something about it that didn't feel right.”

My mouth hangs open. I flap my hands around as if they're going to come up with a response on their own. I give up on Hendricks and run up the bleachers.

Saffron looks at me politely. “Hello. How are you?”

“Why did you quit the team?” I yell.

“Girls need their own teams to express themselves adequately. I'm tired of competing with boys.”

“But you kick their asses. Is there a girls' football team at this school?”

She shakes her head.

“Get in uniform.”

She looks at the field, looks up at me, shakes her head.

“There's no place for girls on this team.”

“Did the coach tell you that?”

She frowns. “I don't remember who told me that.”

“You're the best player on the team, Saffron. They need you.”

“I don't like this conversation anymore.” She turns to her friend, a tiny black girl with purple hair clips and a white zip-up sweater.

“No girl has to converse with a boy if it makes her uncomfortable,” the friend says.

Every student in the back row nods and waits for me to leave. They have the same eyes, same words, same minds.

I shudder and nearly stumble off the bleachers.

The coach calls in the team and the game begins.

Mr. Hendricks was right. The Warriors have no hope of winning. The Chiefs are no bigger or faster but they have the advantage of not yet being zombies. They jump and scream on the sidelines, “Go, Matty, go! Come on, come on, come on!” They dive for tackles they have no chance of making. They run the ball like they're fleeing spear-wielding cannibals. When they score, they shout and leap and slam into each other joyously.

The Warriors stand on the sideline and shout stock phrases for no particular reason. “Good try! We're the best!” They only dive for tackles they can take. They run the ball like they're jogging to school. And when they score—which they only do once—they clap politely.
Clap, clap, clap, pause,
clap, clap, clap.

Mom arrives late and stands apart from the other parents, nervous and out of place. Ally stands beside her like a mechanical doll waiting for someone to wind her up.

“Do you see what I mean?” I ask.

“Your team's not very good,” Mom says.

“Not good? Look at them, Mom. They're not right. None of them. Even the eighth graders are defective now.”

Chicago runs for the ball, but he fumbles and a Chief throws himself on top of it. Chicago smiles and brushes off his hands.

“See that?” I ask. “He lost control and he doesn't care. He's not angry. He's not embarrassed. You should have seen that kid two weeks ago. He was a mouthy little punk with an ego bigger than this field. Now he's a robot. They all are. Look at them.”

“They're like the kids at my school,” Ally says. She holds her teddy tight to her chest. “They're all slowed down.” Mom frowns. “They run almost as fast as the other team.”

“Inside,” Ally whispers. “They're all slowed down inside.”

“They are a bit quiet,” Mom says.

“Hello, Karenna!” a huge white woman shouts. She walks over, smiling and wheezing. “I thought that was you.”

“Linda MacMillan,” Mom says. “I haven't seen you for ages. Look, Max. It's Linda. She worked at Manor Heights with me and your dad.”

I don't recall ever meeting Linda, and she's not someone you could easily forget. She weighs about five hundred pounds and she doesn't wear them well.

“Isn't this the best week of your life?” she shouts. “All these good children! I'm so thankful for Nesting.”

“Nesting?” Mom repeats.

“The New Education Support Treatment.” Linda looks at Ally and says, “She must have been done the first week of school. She's in grade one, isn't she?”

Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then she closes it tight and puts a hand on Ally's shoulder.

“You notice it most with the little ones,” Linda says. “It's harder to tell in the older grades until you get their marks— then you'll see the difference.” She looks me up and down and snorts. “You're a hefty boy for eighth grade. You should be out there on the field.” She wags her finger and says to Mom, “I recall you saying this one was a bit of a troublemaker. I'm sure you're glad that's over. What's he like now?”

“Max is as good as gold,” Mom says softly.

“These clouds are getting darker by the minute,” Linda says. “I hope we're not rained out, though god knows the grass could use it. Did you see that mess of paint at the end of the field? It's not right, letting the paint wash into the grounds like that. I don't know why they didn't just paint over it. How much does a can of paint cost these days?” She shakes her head at the conservatory and mutters, “You won't see any more graffiti once they do the high schools this month. Thank god. These kids are out of hand.”

A fat black woman struts up to us. She holds out her hand to Mom. “I'm Denise Atkins. I work at the school. Thanks for coming out.” She nods toward me and Ally. “It must be so stressful with two of them. How did you manage before?”

Mom shrugs. “They're not much trouble.”

“I'm sure they're not now,” Denise says. “You wouldn't believe the calls I've had this term. A lot of families are happy at last. No more constant battles. No mouthing off. No fighting over homework. No lies.”

“No need to worry about their future,” Linda adds. “That's the main thing for me. With the new class sizes, every minute counts. I don't want my child's grades falling because some troublemaker is wasting time.”

“My Saffron is a gifted student,” Denise says. “Her talents were wasted in the old system.”

“You're Saffron's mother?” I exclaim.

Denise and Linda turn on me like I called them fat cows.

“She's an excellent football player,” I add.

“Have you noticed any side effects?” Linda asks, surveying me closely. “Some kids on other meds get confused and have outbursts like that. Just like in Manor Heights.”

“Side effects of what?” Mom asks.

Linda and Denise exchange glances. “Aren't you on the parent-teacher board?” Linda asks.

Mom shakes her head. “Not this year. I haven't even read the minutes.”

“You don't know about motivational leadership?” Denise gasps.

Mom shakes her head.

“Honey, you have to get on that,” Linda exclaims. “Parent participation is essential to program success. We can't be giving the kids mixed messages.”

“You should have read the guidelines weeks ago,” Denise sneers. “These outbursts can't be ignored.”

Linda pats her friend's shoulder. “He just got done this week, Denise. It's a lot for a boy to take in.” She turns to Mom. “Chicago had a bit of an adjustment last week when they did the grade sevens, but he's fine now. Better than fine.” She points to Chicago, who stands like a zombie in a line of zombies. “He's the best player on the team.”

I snort with laughter. It's stupid, I know. I regret it immediately. But it's impossible for me to leave that statement in the air without snorting at it.

Suspicion and hatred fly from the fat women's faces.

I scratch my nose and cough and snort some more like I'm having a respiratory attack until at last they stop staring at me.

“Nesting saved Chicago's academic career,” Linda says. “He never got anywhere on time. He always left his homework to the last minute and messed around in class. But now that's all changed.”

Denise gives me a thorough inspection, scrutinizing my face, my arms, even peeking round my backside, like I'm a slave she might purchase for field work. “You don't play football?” she asks me. “I saw you talking to the coach earlier. Why aren't you on the field? Or sitting in the stands with your classmates?”

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder, just like she did with Ally. “I like having my children near me.”

Linda smiles. “We have a lot in common, Karenna. I'm a softy, too, where my boy is concerned.” She stares across the field and nods. “I was there for his treatment and I'm glad for that. It makes a difference to know it's done right. Plus it's extra money. I was let go from the hospital this summer. We're mostly living on the one income.” She slaps a hand in the air and adds, “I'm sorry, honey. That was thoughtless. You've been on one income for a while now, haven't you?”

Mom nods.

“You should come do vaccinations with me!” Linda grins and jiggles like she's planning a garden party. “I've been telling them I need help, and they just said yes.”

“I work until three,” Mom says.

Linda shrugs. “You never know. I might be doing some after school. I'll check at work tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Mom says. She stands stiff and awkward, gripping me and Ally tight. When thunder rumbles way up in heaven, she squeezes us so hard it hurts.

“We lost the game,” I tell Dallas on my RIG. “They were useless.”

“You shouldn't have bothered.”

“You should have been there.” I describe the fat ladies and what they said to Mom and how it fits with the zombie children who yelled “You don't belong here!” at us.

He laughs. “They thought you were in grade eight?”

“That's not the point.”

“What
is
the point? You think the hepatitis vaccinations are turning kids into zombies? That's what it sounds like you're saying.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

He shakes his head. “You're crazy, Max. Why would they do that? We're their children. We are the future of this country.”