The Reluctant Journal of Henry K. Larsen (12 page)

I only wrote this entry so that I could make the following announcement: I quit.

Okay, so I didn’t quit. But I am only writing because I need to record what happened today.

First of all, I got to miss my session with Cecil (hallelujah!) because we had our seventh Reach For The Top game after school. It was at St. Patrick’s, a private school up the hill.

They crushed us.

“No worries, guys,” Mr. Jankovich said to us as we packed up our gear. “We’re still going to the Provincials in Richmond in early April.”

“We’ve qualified for the Provincials?” I said. “That’s great!”

“
Any
team can go to the Provincials,” said Koula dismissively.

“Yes, but not
any
team has won five out of seven of their games so far,” Mr. Jankovich replied.

When we left the school, I was totally surprised to see Dad in the parking lot, leaning against his truck, still in his work clothes and boots.

“You saw that?” I groaned.

But he was beaming. “That was amazing! I had no idea you knew so much,” he said. Then he ruffled my hair in front of all of my teammates, which was embarrassing
and nice at the same time. “I think you knew about the cheese-rolling contest in Gloucestershire from
Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader
, am I right?”

I smiled. “Bingo.”

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

He meant Farley and Alberta, who were hovering behind me. I was still mad at Alberta for the muffin switch, but I introduced them both anyway.

“Anyone want to grab a Blizzard at DQ?” Dad asked.

That threw me.
What if Dad starts talking about Jesse?
I thought. But I figured this was unlikely; even when it’s just the two of us, he never talks about Jesse.

Farley and Alberta both said yes, and next thing I knew, we were all piling into the truck. Farley yelled, “Shotgun!” which I thought was unfair since it was
my
dad’s truck. But I didn’t argue; I just squeezed into the cramped backseat with Alberta.

Farley talked my dad’s ear off during the fifteen-minute drive. “I hear you’re a GWF fan,” he began, and I kicked the back of his seat hard because I was afraid he was going to ruin our surprise.

But he didn’t. He just asked my dad who his favorite wrestler was (the Twister) and compared stats on the Twister (Height: five feet eleven, Weight: 265, Signature Move: Atomic Skull Crusher) to stats on Vlad the Impaler
(Height: six feet four, Weight: 302, Signature Move: Human Torture Rack).

While they talked wrestling, Alberta tried to get my attention by poking me in the ribs. I ignored her at first. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I blurted, “Stop touching me.”

So she started waving her finger millimeters from my face instead. “I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you.”

Jesse used to do that to me. It drove me mental. I’d wind up grabbing his hand and trying to bring him down with a Supersonic Arm Twist (the Exterminator’s signature move), but he’d easily break free and pull me to the ground and tickle me till I’d almost pee my pants.

It would be impossible to put Alberta into a Supersonic Arm Twist in the back of the truck (and, if I’m honest, I think she’d easily take me in a fight), so I just turned away and stared out the window.

Farley was talking at full volume in the front seat, so I didn’t hear Alberta unzip my backpack. That’s not true – I heard her unzip
a
backpack, I just assumed it was
her
backpack. A moment later, she said, “What’s the
K
stand for?”

I turned. She was holding my journal, this very book, which I’d left in my backpack since my last session with Cecil. “And why is your journal reluctant? How can a notebook be reluctant?” she asked.

I grabbed the journal from her hands. “Quit snooping! That’s private.”

“I didn’t open it. As if I care what you write about.”

I shoved it back into my bag and clutched the pack to my chest.

After a moment, she said, “Do you write about me in there?”

“Hardly,” I snorted, but I could feel my ears burn. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t care what I write about.”

“I don’t.”

Alberta and I rode the rest of the way in silence. When we pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot, I practically catapulted out of the truck.

We had a good time at DQ. Dad bought us all Blizzards. Farley got his with Smarties; Alberta and I both got cookie dough.

Farley left just before six because he’d promised Maria he’d be home for dinner. Then my dad went to the bathroom. And Alberta said, “You’re mad about the muffins.”

“Yes.”

“Kinda stupid, don’t you think?”

“I lost marks, thanks to you.”

“Big dealio. It’s Home Ec.”

“Well, if it isn’t a
big dealio
to you, then don’t do it again.”

“Whatever you say, Henry Kenneth Larsen.”

“Nice try.”

“Karl? Kerby? Kenilworth?”

“Not even close.”

“Look,” she said. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to my house this weekend and teach me how to bake? That way I’ll never have to pull the ol’ switcheroo again. Sunday, one o’clock?”

I almost choked on a chunk of cookie dough. “I guess I could maybe do that.”

She took a pen out of her backpack, grabbed my hand, and wrote her address in my palm. Then my dad came back and asked Alberta if she’d like a ride home.

“Nah, thanks anyway. I just live a few blocks east of here.” She put on her coat; it was sheepskin and smelled like rotting animal flesh. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Larsen. Thanks a lot for the Blizzard.”

On the drive home, Dad said, “Manitoba likes you.”

“Alberta. And she does not.”

But secretly I think maybe she does.

When we entered Cedar Manor, Karen and Mr. Atapattu were in the foyer, screaming at each other.

“It is common courtesy to dispose of your junk mail!” he said.

“But I’ve posted a sign on my mailbox –
NO JUNK MAIL!
And they keep delivering junk mail! I shouldn’t have to clean it up!”

“Then who
should
clean it up?”

“Whoever keeps delivering it!”

“And when do you think that will happen? When hell freezes over, perhaps?”

“Everything okay here?” my dad said.

Karen nodded. She was wearing tons of makeup, a miniskirt, and another pair of highly impractical shoes. “Just this jerk,” she said, waving her hand toward Mr. Atapattu. “Nothing I can’t handle.” A taxi pulled up out front. “There’s my cab.”

She tottered out the front door on her high heels, and as she passed me, I smelled a waft of perfume and booze.

“She is a horrible woman!” Mr. Atapattu said when she was gone.

“She’s not so bad,” said my dad.

“I’m with Mr. Atapattu,” I said. “She’s gross.”

Since the elevator was still broken, the three of us walked up the stairs to the second floor together.

“And I am
not
a jerk,” Mr. Atapattu muttered.

“Of course you aren’t,” said my dad.

We arrived outside our door. “I made a big pot of chicken curry this afternoon,” said Mr. Atapattu. “If you haven’t already
eaten, you would do me a great favor by sharing it with me.”

“I was going to order a pizza,” said my dad. “Hockey game’s about to start.” Mr. Atapattu’s face fell. Then Dad said, “If you don’t mind eating in front of the TV, you’d be welcome to join us.”

Mr. Atapattu grinned. “I would like that very much.”

And you know what? We had a pretty good evening.

And you know what else? I think his teeth
are
getting whiter.

This was the best weekend of my life. And also the worst.

On Saturday morning, at about ten o’clock, our phone rang. I was still in bed, and I didn’t try to answer it because I assumed it was a telemarketer. But then my dad hollered, “Henry, it’s for you.”

It was Farley. “Wanna come over and play video games?” he said.

So, for the first time since we moved here, I went to a friend’s house. I think Dad was pretty pleased because his eyes got all watery and he said, “Stay as long as you like. I’ll do the grocery shopping.”

I left after breakfast. Two new signs were posted in
the foyer. The first said
PLEASE KEEP COMMON AREAS TIDY AND RECYCLE YOUR JUNK MAIL
. The second said
WHAT IS THIS, A DICTATORSHIP???

I walked up to Farley’s place. He lives on 15
^th
Ave, about six blocks straight up the hill. My jaw almost dropped when I arrived outside his house. It’s
huge –
flesh-colored stucco with actual columns out front.

Farley was at the window, watching for me. He ran to the front door and flung it open. “Hi! Welcome! Enter!”

He took me on a tour of the place. This took awhile because his house is at least five times the size of our apartment. It was weird, though. Only a few of the rooms were furnished: Farley’s bedroom, one of the guest rooms (for Maria), the family room, and the kitchen. All the other rooms were empty. It felt kind of like a ghost town.

Maria was in the kitchen, putting on her coat. “You be a good boy,” she said to Farley, patting him on the cheek. Then she left.

“Saturday’s the day she visits her sister in Surrey,” Farley explained. “But she left snacks.”

We set ourselves up in the family room and played on Farley’s PS3 for hours. Then we went to the local park and threw a Frisbee around. When we came back, we played more video games. Finally, at around five, I told him I should go. Maria still wasn’t back.

“She stays out there for supper and takes the last bus home,” he told me. “It’s okay, I have money to order a pizza. And ‘Saturday Night Smash-Up’ is on later.”

I suddenly felt really sad for Farley, which was almost refreshing after so many months of only feeling sad for myself. “You could come to our place,” I said. “We’re going to order pizza, too.”

He grinned. “Really?”

So Farley came over, and the three of us ordered pizza and watched “Saturday Night Smash-Up” together. When the Great Dane gave Vlad the Impaler his signature Body Splash, I cheered and Farley booed. It was fun.

Dad and I gave Farley a ride home afterward. All the lights were off; Maria still wasn’t back.

“It’s okay,” he said. “She’ll be home by midnight.” We waited till he was safely inside. He looked dwarfed by that huge, empty house.

Later, after I’d brushed my teeth, I gave Dad a hug.

“What’s that for?” he said, hugging me back.

“Nothing.” I didn’t feel like explaining that for the first time since IT happened, I actually felt lucky to have at least
one
parent to go home to.

Sunday morning went on forever. Dad could tell I was nervous because I changed my shirt five times (I finally
settled on light gray) and my pants twice. I went with the cargo pants. They were loose; I had to borrow a belt from Dad. Maybe all the bottle-collecting and
Ten Second Abs
work is starting to pay off.

Finally, at 12:15, I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to leave.

“Have fun with Ontario,” Dad said.

“Alberta!” I shouted as I closed the door.

Alberta lives east and south of me by ten blocks, on the other side of the school. It took me only fifteen minutes to get there, so I had to walk around the block over and over again.

From the outside, her house is the opposite of Farley’s. It’s small and made of wood, and it’s painted in a color I can only describe as
neon yellow
. It looks like it might collapse at any moment.

The grass looks like it hasn’t been cut in a year. Toys, scooters, and rusted lawn furniture litter the lawn and the sagging porch.

At exactly one o’clock – after six turns around the block – I rang the bell. A girl answered it almost immediately. She was an older, taller, skinnier version of Alberta, minus the lazy eye and the unique fashion sense. She wore a soccer uniform covered in grass stains, like she’d just come home from a game.

“You must be Alberta’s little friend,” she said, and I swear she emphasized the word
little
.

“And you must be Cricket,” I replied.

“Cricket, I
said
I’d get it!” Alberta shouted, taking the stairs two at a time. She was wearing pajama bottoms, which were white with black sheep all over them, and a T-shirt that read
Does Not Play Well with Others
. She tried to shove her older sister out of the way, but Cricket just planted her arms against the door frame and wouldn’t budge.

“Was that you I saw walking past our house over and over again?” Cricket said. “Are you
stalking
us?”

I begged my face not to go red. I don’t think it listened. “I was early,” I said, and my voice cracked.

“Get lost, Cricket! Get a life!”

Cricket just shrugged. “Behave,” she said as she finally stepped out of the doorway and headed up the stairs.

Alberta pulled me inside. “I
hate
her!” she said.

I used to say that about Jesse, too. “You don’t really hate her,” I replied. “You just don’t like what she does to you sometimes.”

“No. I hate her,” she said. “C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen.”

The inside of their house was just as messy as the outside. In fact, it wasn’t just messy; it was filthy.
Food-encrusted dishes were piled high in the sink; newspapers, books, homework, bills, and at least three separate pairs of sweaty socks covered the tables, chairs, and countertops. Dust bunnies and crumbs were all over the floor. Dad and I aren’t the best housekeepers, but compared to Alberta’s, our place is spotless.

“Where are your parents?”

“Mom’s working. She’s a nurse’s aide at an old folks’ home. And Dad’s probably in the garage with Dylan. They’re building a boxcar for some big race in the spring.”

“Who’s Dylan?”

“My little brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He’s eight. Him, I like.”

I’d brought over a recipe I’d found on Epicurious for baGrams chocolate-chip muffins. We got to work. And even though Cricket kept wandering through and saying things like, “I want you kids to keep six inches between you at all times,” and even though Dylan came running into the kitchen and knocked our bowl of freshly made batter onto the filthy floor, and even though I almost hurled when Alberta bent down and
scooped it back into the bowl
, it was a great afternoon. Her mom came home just as the muffins were cooling, and everyone, even Cricket, tried one. They were delicious, in spite of the odd hair.