Escape from Year Eight Page 9

  ‘I’m sure you all remembered to do research on your current-affairs issue, and we’ll start by blah, blah, blah…’ I can’t concentrate on what Mrs Johnson is saying. This morning when Amy and I met Jazz in the schoolyard he was all excited about this cool Australian show he found on cable, Kath and Kim.

  ‘They use all these weird expressions,’ he said. ‘I wanted you to translate but it was like eleven o’clock so I thought I better not call you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I think I said, or something equally inspired.

  ‘What did you need translated?’ Amy, her brain in perfect working order, asked.

  ‘Lots of stuff. Like “little boys”. What are they?’

  ‘Jazz,’ Amy explained patiently, but with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, ‘little boys are what men are before they grow up. If they grow up.’ She chortled at her own joke.

  ‘No.’ Jazz frowned at her. ‘In Australia it’s some kind of food. The fat chick, she wanted them.’

  Amy was still laughing. ‘You eat little boys in Australia?’

  ‘They’re teeny sausages,’ I explained, ‘those red ones with the skin.’

  ‘You mean small wieners?’ Jazz asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how come you call ’em little boys?’ Amy wanted to know. Luckily, before I had to answer, she figured it out by herself. ‘Get it?’ She punched Jazz on the arm, laughing harder than ever. ‘Little boys!’ she teased, wiggling her finger at Jazz.

  By this time my face had gone beyond red to deep purple.

  ‘Leon,’ Mrs Johnson is saying now, ‘we’ll start with you. Why don’t you tell us about an issue?’ He doesn’t answer, of course. She moves over close to him. ‘I’m sure you’ve got opinions on a lot of different subjects that have been in the news.’

  He stares down at his desk. He doesn’t even have a piece of paper to draw on. At least she can’t snatch it away from him.

  ‘Come on, Leon. It won’t kill you to talk.’

  Why is she putting him on the spot like this? Does she want him to get mad at her? He stares down at his clenched fists, which are resting on the desk. The class waits with its breath held.

  I feel like I should stand up for him, like Steven did for me in grade six. But that was against the other kids at our table, not a teacher. Even worse, if I say something, Jazz will be totally convinced I’m obsessed with Leon.

  ‘Mrs Johnson? I’ve got an issue.’ It’s Simone, the super-sized student who loves to display her smart genes.

  Mrs Johnson turns away from Leon. Reluctantly, it looks like. ‘All right, Simone,’ she says. ‘At least there’s one person in the class who’s willing to share what they’ve learned.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ I whisper to Jazz. He grins at me like I made a joke worthy of Chris Rock.

  11.00 a.m.

  ‘I have to go down to the first-grade room,’ Amy announces as we head out of science for recess. ‘There’s something I need to tell Jamie.’

  A likely story. She could have talked to Jamie on the bus. This is just a ploy to leave me and Jazz alone with each other. As Amy saunters off with a jaunty wave, I feel a quarter flattered and three-quarters petrified. What am I supposed to do with a boy who likes me?

  Jazz sounds pretty nervous himself. ‘Do you want to… uh… walk around with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, thinking how we’ve walked around every recess since I got here and he never had to ask before. How does he know I decided to like him, anyway? Amy must have given him a secret signal.

  I’m glad we’re walking, so we don’t have to look at each other. We pass by some tall guys shooting hoops on the basketball court, just like back home. Then we go past a bench full of girls from grade four or so, munching on Hostess Twinkies. They’re supposed to stay in the elementary area, but the brave ones like to sneak over and spy on us big kids. They’re obviously looking at me and Jazz. Maybe they’re thinking I’m lucky to be with such a cute boy. I hope they’re not wondering why he’d want to be seen with a girl like me.

  ‘So, what is it?’ Jazz asks.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘A horn bag.’

  I could say it’s anything. A musical instrument, for example. A smaller version of the bagpipes, perhaps. But since he’s the guy I’ve decided to like, I’d better tell him the truth. ‘It’s somebody who’s like… you know… sexy.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with horn… oh.’ Now he’s embarrassed. ‘Right,’ he says.

  We keep walking, down to the very back of the schoolyard. We have to stop here because there’s a fence in our way. On the other side of the fence is a two-storey house with the usual huge amount of lawn they have here, with hardly any flowers.

  I sneak a little sideways glance to see what Jazz is doing. He’s gazing straight ahead. ‘Nice house,’ he says.

  That makes me laugh.

  ‘What?’ he sounds offended.

  ‘As if you’re interested in that house,’ I giggle. ‘Next you’ll be talking about the weather.’

  He starts laughing, too. And he’s looking at me.

  When he stops laughing the happy sparkle is still in his eyes. He reaches out and squeezes my arm for a second, then says, ‘Are you sure you can’t stay in America?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t think so.’ I can still feel the spot where he touched me. ‘Maybe you could visit me in Australia. You could be an exchange student.’ I imagine him in our home group, Billy making fun of his accent. Wouldn’t the cool girls be impressed if I brought back a hot American boyfriend!

  ‘Maybe I will.’ His freckled face is bright with possibility. ‘When I’m older, like in eleventh grade, I could try for one of those Rotary things. They send kids to Australia.’

  Year eleven? That seems too far in the future to dream about. ‘What are you gonna dress up as for Amy’s party?’ I ask.

  He’s gazing at my hair. Hope there aren’t any frizzy bits sticking up. ‘I was thinking a vampire,’ he says.

  ‘That’d be cool. You’d look great in fangs.’

  ‘Thanks. There’s this party place in Newton that sells really realistic fake blood.’

  Now that we’re finally having a good conversation, wouldn’t you know it? The bell rings. I’m tempted to suggest we just stay here till lunch, but I shouldn’t put Jazz on the spot in case he doesn’t want to. As we retrace our steps across the schoolyard he says, ‘Why don’t you go as Little Red Riding Hood? You’d look like a hot horn bag.’

  4.00 p.m.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. I’m standing in the kitchen with the phone clamped to my ear.

  ‘I guess I know who I am,’ the boy’s voice answers. It does sound like Leon, but I can’t believe he’s actually called me. My first thought was that it was somebody from our class pretending to be him.

  ‘How do I know it’s really you?’ I say.

  ‘Because I’m calling from the tree-house,’ he answers.

  I guess it must be him. ‘You got a phone installed there now? What next, a bar fridge?’

  Leon, as usual, doesn’t laugh at my joke. ‘I borrowed my aunt’s cell.’

  ‘So now she’ll know you can talk.’

  ‘No she won’t.’

  ‘Why else would you borrow her phone, if you didn’t intend to talk? Or at least text, which is nearly the same thing?’

  ‘She doesn’t know I borrowed it.’

  ‘She might find out.’ It’s kind of fun teasing him.

  ‘I want you to come meet me,’ he says urgently.

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because… I need to see you.’

  I’ve felt jumpy all day, like I wanted to be moving around instead of sitting at a school desk. I could use a walk. And I sort of want to make it up to Leon for not sticking up for him against Old Wart Nose. And for seeing him get totally humiliated by his aunt on the bus this morning. ‘I don’t think I’d be able to find your tree amongst all
those other ones,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’ll wait for you at the fence.’ I can hear the gladness in his voice. ‘Just walk around the edge of the cornfield and you’ll see me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I grab a couple of Nadine’s peanut butter cookies out of the freezer and go. On the way through the mud room the biggest kitten, Matt, totters over to me on legs he’s just learning to use. I scoop him up and plant a kiss on his soft ginger head. ‘You better go back to your mom,’ I say, lowering him into the box beside his sisters. Poppet says ‘thanks’ in cat language.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I answer as I head out the door. ‘Bye!’

  4.45 p.m.

  ‘So that’s why you needed a board,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘Yeah, that’s why.’

  He’s suspended two ropes from one of the branches of his tree. Hanging between them, about waist height off the ground, is the metre-long board he took from the machine shed.

  ‘You made a swing.’ I go over to inspect. ‘How’d you do that?’

  ‘Two holes and two knots.’ I can tell he’s proud of his construction. He sits on the board, bouncing up and down to show it’s firmly in place. He scooches over to one side and pats the board beside him. ‘Come and try it.’

  There’s plenty of room for me to sit, but I don’t want to be that close to him. ‘I’m kind of old for swinging,’ I say.

  ‘No, you’re not. It feels good.’

  I don’t know how I can get out of this without hurting his feelings, so I go over and sit with him, as far towards the other rope as possible. He pushes his feet against the ground to make the board swing gently. It does feel nice, swaying back and forth with all the green around us. The polite little prairie birds are twittering. It would feel really nice if it was Jazz instead of Leon sitting next to me.

  ‘Where’d you see them?’ Leon asks.

  ‘See who?’

  ‘The people.’ He points upwards. ‘I guess you weren’t in the tree-house since you didn’t know how to find it.’

  ‘Oh, them.’

  My head has been so full of Jazz lately that I’d forgotten about Leon’s Indians. And I’m not sure I want to think about them now. But it seems like I don’t have a choice. A cool evening breeze has started to rustle the leaves, and with it comes the horrible cry of that mother holding her baby out to me. ‘I saw them in a dream,’ I say.

  He stops the swing and stares straight ahead, silent as a rock. Guess he’s mad at me for letting him believe I saw them in real life. If you could call seeing ghosts real life.

  It’s getting cold out here. I’m about to get off the swing and find my own way back to the cornfield when he says, as if he’s comforting a scared little kid, ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That’s how I first heard them. In a dream.’

  ‘So now you hear them when you’re awake?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He reaches out to catch a seed floating by on a parachute of fluff. ‘The people tell me what to draw.’

  That’s pretty creepy. But it’s also fascinating. ‘What else do they tell you?’ I ask.

  ‘Stories. You know, about when they lived here. And… and other stuff. They told me you were coming. They said you’d listen.’

  It’s sort of flattering, the thought of Leon and his Indians discussing me. ‘I haven’t listened that good,’ I say.

  ‘Yes you have.’ His voice is warm. ‘Better than anyone else.’

  That makes me feel lonely for him. Because in less than three months I’ll be gone.

  ‘How about your mum?’ I ask. ‘She sounds like the type who’d listen.’

  ‘No,’ he shakes his head violently, ‘she doesn’t. She won’t stop my dad murdering the deer. She calls him brave. And she eats their flesh!’

  For some reason that makes me giggle. ‘You could try switching her venison for Orville Redenbacher popcorn,’ I suggest.

  He laughs at that. I can’t believe it. He actually laughed. For a second, with his face lit up under his inky black hair, he looks sort of beautiful.

  ‘You should do that more often,’ I tell him.

  I think he’s blushing.

  ‘You gonna come to school tomorrow?’ I ask.

  ‘You want me to?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘It’s more interesting when you’re there.’

  Tuesday 2 October

  10.05 a.m.

  ‘Looks like Simone needs a partner,’ Amy says, stacking her exercise book and pencil case on top of her history text. Then she adds dramatically, with a significant glance at Jazz and me, ‘I’ll leave you two alone.’

  ‘You don’t have to!’ I say as she rises from her chair.

  Amy gives me a wink. ‘Hey, I’m only thinking of myself. If I’m with Simone I’ll get an A for doing jack squat.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Jazz says to me. ‘Simone does these Power Points that are like professional quality. She told me she stays up till 2 a.m. working on stuff.’

  Since when has he been talking to Simone? I bet she gets through a few dozen Twinkies in the glow of her computer screen.

  We’re in history class, and the teacher, Mr Mason, has just told us to get into groups of two or three to research a president. Luckily the phrase ‘get into groups’ doesn’t strike fear into my heart the way it did in primary school. As people mill around and push chairs into corners to stake out their spots, I scan the room to see if there are any loners. Craig’s got a mate who looks even more like a farmer than he does. Guess it’s only Leon who’ll remain groupless. I wonder if the teacher will try to pry him out of his usual seat and make him be with somebody.

  But wait. Leon’s getting up of his own accord. He’s walking towards the middle of the room… he pulls over a chair and sits down facing me and Jazz! Everybody’s looking at us, as surprised as if they’d just seen a polar bear lumbering over to join our group. Suddenly the silence stops and the room springs into life. Everyone’s turned to their friends and they’re chattering like anything. About us, no doubt.

  ‘Class!’ Mr Mason bellows. ‘I want you all to get to work. Open your books to page seventy-two. There’s a list of presidents there, ranked from most to least effective. Chose one and start your research.’

  Leon is staring at the desk. But I’m positive that when he first sat down he gave me a little smile. I remember what I said to him, that if you want someone to be your friend, you have to at least acknowledge they exist.

  Jazz is peering at Leon with an expression that’s halfway between amazement and distaste. He says, ‘G’day, mate,’ which is a phrase I taught him how to say.

  Leon doesn’t answer. Why did he bother to join our group if he’s going to look at me once and then resume his impression of a modern sculpture? Maybe if I encourage him, he’ll participate a little. This could be the beginning of him becoming a bit normal. If I could accomplish that, I bet Nadine would buy me everything in the used-bread store and bake me six dozen peanut butter cookies.

  I flip through my history text to page seventy-two. ‘What do you think, Leon?’ I say. ‘Which president should we do?’

  He kind of flinches, as if my words are little pebbles I decided to throw at him.

  ‘Like he’d have an opinion,’ Jazz says. ‘Let’s do Herbert Hoover.’ He points to the name, way down near the bottom of the list.

  ‘I don’t want to do him,’ I say. ‘According to this, he’s the second-worst president of all time.’

  ‘But he’s the only one from Iowa,’ Jazz argues. ‘I’m sick of hearing about Abraham Lincoln. We could put all Herbie’s bad points into a presentation and it’ll be more original than Simone and Amy’s. You wait and see, they won’t go lower than second or third most effective.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I wish I’d thought of that.

  Leon makes a noise, sort of a clearing-your-throat sound.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ Jazz asks him. ‘You wanna do a different president?’

  ‘I think he’s gett
ing a cold,’ I say.

  Jazz ignores me. ‘Maybe George Washington?’ he goads Leon. ‘Remember when we learned about him in second grade? When you could still talk?’

  Leon looks to me as if he’s asking something of me. But it’s Jazz who answers. ‘You’re not interested in presidents, are you? You’re interested in Kaitlin.’

  At last Leon looks at Jazz. But it’s a look of such anger that it makes me cringe.

  ‘It’s too bad you like her so much,’ Jazz says, putting his arm around my shoulders, ‘because she’s taken.’

  Leon makes his hands into hard fists and his navy blue eyes narrow into threatening slits.

  Jeez. They’re like a couple of wild buffaloes in a David Attenborough documentary, fighting over a female.

  ‘If you really want a girlfriend,’ Jazz says to Leon, ‘you could check out the special school in Newton.’

  ‘Jazz!’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘Don’t be so mean.’

  ‘So you do like him,’ Jazz says. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t like him. But that doesn’t mean I think people should be cruel to him!’

  I must have said that pretty loud, because I’m suddenly aware that the class has gone silent again. And they’re looking at us. Especially at Leon, who has gone back to staring down at the desk. Which suddenly makes me very, very mad.

  ‘Leon!’ I yell. ‘Why can’t you stand up for yourself? You let Old Wart Nose walk all over you. You let Jazz insult you. I know you’re not a retard!’

  ‘Kaitlin,’ Mr Mason says, ‘calm down.’

  ‘I don’t wanna calm down!’ I snap. ‘I want him to say something. Say anything.’

  ‘He can’t do that, Kaitlin.’

  ‘Yes, he can. I know he can talk!’

  Leon looks at me like I just shot him through the heart. The rest of the class stare at me as if I just screamed at a person in a wheelchair to get up and walk.

  ‘He can talk,’ I insist. ‘Yesterday he called me on his aunt’s bloody mobile!’

  Leon stands up so suddenly that his chair falls over. But still he doesn’t say anything. He just turns and stomps out of the room.