B0160A5OPY (A) (12 page)

On the way home, it all just felt too heavy to hold inside. I wanted to cry. I wanted to break something or hit someone. I did not want to have to make dinner and watch while mom didn’t eat it and listen while dad described his last game of golf.

I was still feeling really down this morning when Sloane came in the classroom, rubbing hand-sanitizer between her palms and fingers. What is
with
her? Her hair was still wet from swimming, and that reminded me irresistibly of what I’ve been trying to push out of my mind for the last few weeks. Images from that damn gym class flashed through my mind – her impossibly long legs, the feel of her body against mine in the water, how her swimsuit clung to her curves, the way her lips moved to touch mine, the way my body reacted.

Argh! It feels like a betrayal of Andrew to remember that, to think about her in that way. This is the daughter of my sworn enemy. I had her on the floor under my hands. I should have strangled her and yet I almost kissed her. What is with
me
?

Then Perkel arrived and started his usual BS again, playing favorites and acting like a total asshole. Who the hell asked him to hold me up as some kind of example to the world? Then I got hit with a bunch of flak about being the pretty boy with all the looks and talent and money (ha!) and lucky breaks. It’s ironic really, because “golden boy” was never
my
role. It would’ve been funny, except that then all hell exploded and now here I am standing in front of my frowning father, waiting for the inevitable.

Annnnnddd, here it comes. Dad looks up from the letter, gives a deep sigh and says, “This is very upsetting, Luke. I can’t think what’s got into you.” Really?
Really?
“We never had problems like this with Andrew. I’m sorry to say that I’m very disappointed in you.”

Yeah, take a number, dad.

23

Fire fighting

I am sitting in the small waiting area outside Principal Comb-Over’s office. Miss Kazinsky, his secretary, has explained that he is running late.

“Mr. Como is meeting with the parents of a student on a very urgent matter,” she says, breathy with excitement and running her hand over her bouffant, brassy-red hair. They have seriously bad hair in the admin block of the school. Como earned his nickname from the long, dark strands of hair carefully combed over and affixed to his balding skull. Opinions vary as to what he might use to hold it in place: spit, axel grease and Miss Kazinsky’s lip gloss are some of the less revolting guesses.

“You’ll just have to be patient for your appointment, I’m afraid,” she says.

I can be patient. With ease and with pleasure, I can be patient. As I sit here, staring at a copy of The Desiderata which is stuck to the wall opposite me, I am missing L.O. I consider it a lucky escape. For the past few weeks, Luke and I have been working as separately as possible on part two of our project. When we’ve had to work together, he has been business-like and impeccably polite. When we work apart, he pays me no attention. At least he has stopped glaring at me. Except for how my body registers his presence, his absence and his every move, it’s like the burning hope and horror of the Gym class never happened. Coach Quinn has declared our class “too immature” to learn responsible life-saving, so we’re back to practicing softball throws and catches in the gymnasium.

I have tried to focus on my own life, catching up on work where I am behind, reading our assigned English text (
Atonement
by Ian McEwan), spending time out with Sienna, practicing my photography and trying to make new friends. I have been making a real effort
not
to focus on Luke. It’s a bit like trying not to think of a pink elephant but, still, I was doing a reasonable job. Until yesterday.

Due to a serious lack of motivation, I’d cut my before-school swimming session short, so I was a little early for English class. The room was empty as I walked inside, except for Luke, who was busy with a folded piece of paper at the windowsill on the far side of the room. Curious, I edged over to take a look. Luke was, very gently, easing a spider onto a piece of paper. Moving slowly and carefully, he brought the paper up to an open window and gave it a little shake to release the critter.

He turned, gave me a long look, then swallowed and said, “What?”

“Rescuing a spider? Really? You couldn’t just swat it?”

“There’s too much death in the world already,” he said, which effectively put me in my place – in the naughty chair in the guilty corner.

The other students arrived in twos and threes. When L.J. shuffled in, alone, some of the kids razzed on him, which set the Jaysters to singing the lumberjack song again, sending a twitch rippling across L.J.’s shoulders.

“Shut up. Just get off his case,” I told both groups of smart mouths.

“Ooooh,” said Juliet, shaking her blonde hair, “the monster puts her foot down!”

“Oh grow up.”

L.J. took out his sketchpad and drew something in black ballpoint on the paper – a man with hollow eyes, bleeding gums, outstretched arms and intestines spilling from a vertical slash up his stomach. I think it was a zombie, though I’d be the first to admit that I am no expert on the undead. He must have been unsatisfied with the picture, because he crumpled it up and swept it to the floor. I craned my neck to read the title scrawled at the top:
Lifeless Jerk.

Everyone was in their seats or sitting on the tops of desks, chatting and checking phones, by the time Perkel arrived – ten minutes late – and called the class to order.

“Forgive my tardiness. I was meeting with Principal Como. That reminds me, Sloane, your transfer documentation is apparently still outstanding, plus Mr. Como wants a quick chat with you. You are to take your personal file and all completed transfer forms to the Principal by no later than tomorrow. He says to set up an appointment – Miss Kazinsky keeps his diary.”

We were spared the word of the day ritual; Perkel hurried straight on to the day’s assignment.

“This is an exercise in personal, private writing. You are to write down three lists of goals for yourself – short, medium and long-term goals. Where would you like to be, what would you like to have achieved at the end of the next six months, the next year, and the next five years?”

There was the usual round of questions as the class tried to delay beginning the work – if we could only blow off another twenty-five minutes, we would have wasted the whole lesson – but Perkel soon shut the queries down.

“No, Mike, it is not too difficult. I am not asking you for a doctoral thesis in post-modernism, just a list of goals. You can do this. You have only ten minutes to complete the exercise, so get cracking, please.”

Fifteen minutes later, Perkel read out L.J.’s goal. (He has only one, apparently.)

“Goal for the next six months: to become a zombie killer. A zombie, or Homo Coprophagus Somnambulus,” Perkel sneered the words, “is one of the walking undead, a person with no soul, personality or imagination, who goes through the motions of life, destroying and feeding on living humans to satisfy their unnatural appetites.”

Perkel shook his head, as if saddened by the words.

“What am I to do with you, L.J.? Do you have no real goals for your future? Failing to plan is planning to fail, my boy.”

Get off his case, already, asshat!

Let’s see someone else’s work, shall we?” said Perkel.

To no-one’s surprise, he moved to Luke’s desk and picked up Himself’s list. I sat up straight in my desk and leaned forward, eager to hear.

“That’s private, Mr. Perkel,” said Luke.

Nooooo. It was the perfect time for Perkel to be an insensitive, tactless ratfink so, of course, he came over all considerate and respectful.

“Of course, of course. But I do not think I am betraying confidences –”

(There were
confidences
in Luke’s list? I had to get my hot little hands on that paper!)

“– when I commend you for setting goals for your sporting achievements,”

(Ha! Sectional or National swim team, I bet.)

“academic achievements,”

(Yes, yes, get on with it!)

“family life –”

(He set goals for his family life? Weird. I wondered what –)

“and charitable community involvement.”

Wow. Luke did charitable community work. I resolved at once to end my slothful, boob-tube watching ways and to volunteer at the local homeless shelter or orphanage. Eileen was right – I have been over-involved in myself. If I knew where Luke volunteered, then I could offer my services there, too. No, no, no. I had to stop thinking like that.

I would have given my right arm to read Luke’s list. Okay, not literally, but I really, really,
really
wanted to see it. A lot. My own list looked a little shabby by comparison:

Get over myself.

Get over Himself.

Make some goals for my future.

Yup, one of my goals was to make some goals. Perkel was rabbiting on again. I tuned in when I heard him say Luke’s name.

“You know, you could take a leaf out of Luke’s book, L.J.”

“Yeah, yeah – he’s got the looks, he’s got the talent, he’s got the family, the big bucks, the shiny future and all the breaks.”

Luke turned to face L.J. He looked like he wanted to say something, but L.J. wasn’t finished.

“I’ve heard it all before, I don’t need to hear it again.” L.J. sounded angrier than I had ever heard him before. “Pretty boy’s got the goods, alright.”

This was unfair. Sure, Luke had looks and talent, but he had bad stuff to deal with, too. We all did.

“What did you call me?” Luke asked L.J., his voice low and flat.

L.J. ignored him and spoke to Perkel instead.

“He’s a real eligible bachelor, is pretty boy. So, have you popped the question yet? Eager for the wedding night?”

“Just what are you implying?” Perkel demanded, his face pale and livid, at the same time as Luke stood up, toppling his chair over backwards, and strode right up to L.J.

“Say what you have to say to my face, L.J.”

“How dare you? How dare you!” spluttered Perkel. “You rude, ignorant little –”

As suddenly as if a button had been pressed on a detonator, L.J. exploded. He lifted his desk into the air and tossed it to the front of the classroom. It flew over the heads of several students, who yelped and ducked, spilling paper and pens and crashed against the board. Then L.J. lumbered forwards to tower over Perkel.

“No!” he bellowed. “How dare
you
? You are rude, you are ignorant and
you
are little.”

He held his chunky thumb and forefinger about two inches apart in front of Perkel’s horrified gaze.

“And I’ve had enough of you.” L.J. poked Perkel in the chest with a finger, then gestured to the whole class with a sweep of his arm. “Of all of you! And specially of you, pretty boy.” He flicked Luke’s hair.

“Don’t touch me!” said Luke, slapping L.J.’s hand away.

L.J. stretched out a hand and shoved Luke’s shoulder. “Bring it on, pretty boy.”

“Boys!” Mr Perkel shouted, but neither of them paid any attention to him.

Luke and L.J. were circling each other now, in the small space at the front of the class. I was nervous. Luke was as tall as L.J., but L.J. was bigger, meatier, heavier – no question.

Perkel’s high-pitched protests were lost in the babble of excited voices. A group of boys chanted, “Fight, fight, fight!” while everyone formed a circle around the pair, shoving back desks to make more space. A few, including me, climbed up onto chairs to get a better view. L.J. shuffled around in a circle, as heavy and clumsy on his feet as a grizzly bear on hind legs, his huge paws held up in front of him, while Luke bounced and weaved on his toes. L.J. shot out a meaty fist directly at Luke’s face, but Luke pulled back and ducked the blow, before shooting out an up-and-under fist. It clocked L.J. square on the cheek. Around me, there were groans and gasps. I couldn’t utter a sound – I had half my hand stuffed in my mouth.

L.J. shook his head and staggered, but didn’t fall. Several students cheered and shouted bloodthirsty encouragement.

“Let me through, let me THROUGH!” Perkel yelled, pushing his way through the throng and fumbling with the big red fire extinguisher grasped in his hands. He pointed it at the two wrestling figures now locked in some kind of slowly rotating Sumo death grip, then sprayed them with the white foam, aiming most of it – or so it seemed to me – at L.J., and hitting him with a direct blast into the face.

L.J. turned, fists raised, and blundered toward the rapidly retreating Perkel. When he pulled back his arm for the punch, Luke grabbed it from the back and pinned it behind L.J.’s shoulder, then wrestled him backwards, away from Perkel. Two other boys joined in to restrain L.J., who was yelling wild threats at everyone.

Perkel, flushed and breathless, smoothed his beard and thanked Luke repeatedly for intervening, but I strongly suspected that Luke didn’t do it on the teacher’s behalf. The male of the species can be strange sometimes.

“I heard they’re calling L.J.’s parents in,” Sienna told me later in the day. “He’ll be suspended for sure, maybe even expelled. He’s lucky Luke stopped him from getting at Perkel, else he would have been charged with assault. Luke has just been given a letter of warning to take home – his parents have to sign it. But he won’t get suspended because Perkel told Comb-Over that he was provoked.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I have spies everywhere,” she said darkly.

24

Private papers

I’m jolted out of my thoughts of yesterday’s drama when the door of the principal’s office suddenly opens and L.J. comes out. His must be the parents in the urgent meeting with Como.

“Just wait out there while I have a final word with your parents, L.J.,” calls the principal from inside the office.

L.J. leaves the door open a crack and Miss Kazinsky doesn’t get up to close it – perhaps she is hoping to hear some juicy tidbits. Everyone knows that she is a flaming gossip, and Sienna says she couldn’t fill half the pages of Underground West Lake without this prized informant.