CHAPTER ONE
A few nights ago, I was in my room, lying on my bed, reading. I was in the middle of chapter seven when I heard weird noises coming from my bedroom floor. I slipped my bookmark, the flap of an envelope, between pages forty-eight and forty-nine and slowly peered over the edge of my bed. There on my bedroom floor, each and every one of my Lego men was engaged in activities directly related to the severe lack of Lego women. Royal Knights and Black Knights, swords and shields set aside, could be seen tumbling about the castle grounds in a plastic melee of same-sex love. Not since the Crusaders catapulted a broken, red three-piece over the wall had the Royal Knights Castle seen so much action.
Then there was last night.
It was two or three in the morning and I couldn’t sleep. I climbed out of bed and sat on the floor beside the Royal Knights Castle. I was building a new wagon for the village when I heard a small cry within the castle walls. I looked but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The courtyard was completely deserted. The main gate was closed and two guards stood watch, silently staring across my bedroom floor. Then I remembered a room overlooking the courtyard. It was a small space set aside for introverted Lego poets to sit and watch festivals away from the crowd. When I looked into the room, I saw the thick, hairy hand of a Black Knight cupped tightly around the back of the stable boy’s neck. The knight had loosened his hose and was forcing the head of the young boy down between his legs. I jumped back from the castle scattering Lego pieces all over the floor. I paused for a moment and stared at the castle in disbelief, then leaped back into bed and pulled the covers over my eyes.
I haven’t told my parents about any of this, or any of my teachers at school or even Ms. Phillips, my psychologist. I mean, why would I tell anyone? My parents would probably think I was on drugs, my teachers would more than likely give me detention for wasting their precious time and Ms. Phillips…well, I am not sure what she would say. She would probably tell my parents with the best of intentions. But my parents would then tell my teachers and from there it would only be a matter of time before everyone at school knew. The worst thing of all would be if people at school found out.
I woke curled in a ball, buried under the covers like a hedgehog. I was pretty sure I slept, at least for a few hours. I rolled onto my back, trying hard not to look at the castle, and listened to the commotion downstairs. My mom was bustling about in the kitchen and my dad was worked up over something the newspaper had printed. I was ready to brush my teeth. I slipped from my bed, sidestepped the Royal Knights Castle and headed down the hall to the main bathroom. The first brush of the morning always requires a good tongue scrubbing. Anyway, I finished my first morning brush and returned to my bedroom. Lego was everywhere. Not only were colors and sizes mixed together, but there was space landing gear lodged in Robin Hood’s catapult and a large tractor tire had a medieval horse pinned against the floor. It was a horrible mess. I reached under my bed and pulled out the shallow, wooden container my father had built to organize my Lego. I knelt on the floor and began to toss handfuls of Lego into the box.
Now a lot of odd things have been happening to me lately, so I am a little on edge. That is why, when I heard a rustle behind me, I jumped and a girlish squeal escaped between my lips. I turned to see a well-dressed man step out of my closet. His grey, pinstriped suit was pressed and starched to angular perfection.
“Oh, it’s you again,” I said, returning to my mess.
“Is that how you greet your great benefactor?”
“My slave driver,” I corrected.
“Come now Johnny, that hurts. You know how much I do for you.”
“I know,” I hated to admit it, but he had done a lot.
“If you’re not happy with me, you can always march downstairs and tell your parents everything.” He stood there, daring me, hints of green showing through his pale skin.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to know why you are putting your lego away like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that! Haphazard, scattered, pieces everywhere with no semblance of organization or reason. Everything has its place, Johnny. Whether it’s Lego, pain, dreams, or secrets, everything belongs in its own separate compartment. Without walls, thick, black, oily emotions like shame and guilt will take over everything. You need to lock those things away in a tiny room in the back of your mind. And the lock that keeps that door closed is a tightly organized life, beginning with how you put your lego away.” I began to organize my Lego piece by piece. “That’s right,” he said, stepping back into the closet, “who else was there for you? Only me.”
I continued to organize individual pieces until I was alone. Then I got up off the floor and slid the closet door tight against the wall. I closed my eyes and peeked into that tiny room in the back of my mind. It was a green, metal, school locker guarding my emotions with a silver combination lock. I gave the lock a good tug and it held. Now, locks are good and all, but someone could guess the combination or simply cut the thing right off. I guess eventually lock, hinge and door could just rust away. What if there is another way? What if I did tell my parents? I mean, how much can you trust a man who steps out of your closet?
I dressed, then headed straight downstairs.
“Mom?”
“Just a minute Johnny I’ve got a few things on the go here.” My mom was whirling around the kitchen with a full-length apron over her bathrobe. Dad, as usual on a weekday morning, was running around the house trying desperately to leave for work on time.
“Dad?”
He turned to me. “Is that what you are wearing to school today? Jesus, you look like a goddamn girl. Next thing you know you’ll be writing poetry and from there it is only a matter of time.”
“Henry,” my mother pleaded.
“Well, can’t we buy him some high-tops and a jean jacket or something? I thought only fags wore khakis.”
“Henry, please,” my mother begged.
I turned around and headed back up the stairs.
“Brush your teeth Johnny,” my mom called after me.
“I will Mom.”
I went back to the main bathroom to brush my teeth again. I left the door open so my mom could hear the water running while I scrubbed, gurgled, rinsed and spit all over again. My mom doesn’t realize I brush regularly whether she reminds me or not. I even keep a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and floss in my locker at school. Teeth can never be too clean.
I heard the garage door open and my dad pull out of the driveway which meant he was late and the school bus was not too far away. I ran downstairs, grabbed my lunch from the counter and slipped it in my backpack.
“Did you brush your teeth?”
I had the front door half open and was on my way out.
“Yes Mom I did.”
She came to the door with a dishtowel in her hands and kissed me on the forehead. “Are you going to behave yourself today?”
I looked up at her right through her eyes into the part of her head that wished she had pursued a career instead of getting married.
“Of course Mom, trouble just brings unwanted attention.”
The last part went right over her head, but she smiled just the same and stood in the front window to watch until the yellow bus numbered one five seven three rolled to a stop in front of our house. I hopped on the bus and took a window seat near the middle so Mom could see me and wave. I don’t normally wave back, though I do sometimes because it makes her happy. I love my mom, but she is the one who makes dinner and could easily poison me. I am not saying she would, just that she could. I always get weird thoughts like that in my head – like someone is going to kill me. I have considered talking to Ms. Phillips about this, but I don’t think there is any need to. I mean, someone really could kill me, any minute even. That is why I don’t go to the mall very often. There are so many people, and you don’t even know who is who. Mom always said don’t talk to strangers, yet she would drag me through a large enclosed space full of them and stroll along as if she was in her bathrobe with a cup of tea.
The bus rolled to its next stop and on hopped Ricky Smith. Of course, he sat down right beside me. I would leave my backpack on the seat as a subtle deterrent, but Ricky would sit his smelly ass right on it and fart if he could. It is bad enough to have to sit beside him let alone have his ass near my lunch. I can’t even stand to look at the guy. His hair is greasy and his fingernails are long and unkempt. He is constantly talking about girls’ privates and who wants to talk about that? At least today he was talking about a video game. Girls’ privates and video games now there is pure intelligence. He rambled on and on about this power and that special move and some hidden level. I simply looked out the window and nodded every once and awhile. I have found you never have to say anything to anybody and they just keep on talking. If you do try and respond they don’t hear you anyway. How can they over their own voice and illustrious self-centered story? I experiment with this all the time.
Simon Funker once cornered me at recess and started talking about some new site he had discovered on the net. I kept saying ‘Then you pulled your wire’ and he didn’t even notice and kept right on talking.
“And after you click on the security icon.”
“Then you pulled your wire.”
“You can enter your own password for the site.”
“Then you pulled your wire.”
“You have to have a password you know. Without one even the best hackers can’t get in.”
“Then you pulled your wire.”
“I have my own password.”
“Then you pulled your wire.”
“No one could ever guess it.”
“Then you…”
I could go on for hours, or as long as he could talk which is probably hours anyway. Eventually I get tired, but it is a real gag for a while and I usually get a laugh about it all day.
Good old Simon Funker, he does receive a whole lot of abuse about his name. Nobody is laughing though when it is computer time and their system won’t boot. Simon is their best friend until the search engine is operational and they are online. Then Simon is out the door faster than I am whenever there is a camera around.
Funny thing about cameras – I don’t like them much. I hate to look back at a frozen moment in time and say ‘There I am’. Even though I may be younger or wearing something different or have a different haircut my eyes are always the same. They look up at me from the photo in a screaming gaze of obscene remembrance. School pictures are the absolute worst. For starters, my mother always tries to comb my hair and after a few unsuccessful attempts to pin me down and comb my scalp until it is red, she reaches out to hold a cow lick down with her own spittle. Spit for Christ’s sake! In my hair! Then of course everyone wears clothes they wouldn’t normally wear and plasters their face with a goddamn smile. When they look back the picture isn’t of themselves but of some over-smiling, well-dressed student who has nothing to do with the everyday student they were. Pictures bring fakeness out of an already plastic mold.
Somehow I always end up in a horizontally striped shirt and I don’t know why. Every year it is the same thing, forced smile and striped shirt. The only thing worse are the goddamn retakes because the first time my eyes were closed. Try as I might there is nothing I can do. I can sense the flash before it happens and my eyes simply know what is coming. At least at picnics I can hide. Every summer my mom drags me to at least one church picnic. There is always some moron who has a video camera. I spend the whole afternoon trying to get a can of juice from the food table without being goddamn videotaped. Maybe that is why I hate cameras; I am who I am and don’t feel like having myself etched onto film unable to hide from the pause button.
I actually did talk to Ms. Phillips about this. I was kinda worried I had some kind of phobia or something. She said it wasn’t. I like Ms. Phillips. She is quiet and polite and never laughs at the things I tell her. She has a way of understanding things from both sides. She may not agree, but she tries to see why I look at certain issues differently than she does. I like that about her, most people are so one-sided.
You might think I talk about Ms. Phillips a lot. I don’t mean to it is just the school bus passes her office building on Twenty-fourth Street every morning. Her office is up on the fifth floor. One time I had to see her before school because she was going away. She does this from time to time. When I saw it was eight seventeen, I jumped out of my chair mid-conversation and ran to the window to watch the yellow roof of the bus pass by. It felt so good. I don’t know why but it felt better than anything I had experienced up until that day. For a moment everything stopped except the bus. Ms. Phillips asked me what I was looking at and I said, ‘Nothing much just the bus’. She must have thought it meant something because she began to write in her little brown book. She does that when I say something that intrigues her. Anyway, today I am looking the other way – from the bus up – and it doesn’t feel as good at all.
The bus breaks squealed to a halt, stopping the bus on the dull grey, pitted pavement of the teacher’s parking lot. I sat waiting while every other student sprang from the bus like a prison break. The girls laugh and skip and hold their lunch bags just so while the boys punch each other laughing and farting and poking fun at those who don’t fit their idea of the norm. And where they get their idea of ‘normal’ from I don’t know. Somehow I fall into an in-between ground at school. I am not popular, I don’t rollerblade on my lunch hour and I don’t own a Walkman, but not an outcast like Simon Funker (God help that poor soul he had better change his name, it really doesn’t help much. Unless of course he likes it then I say ‘good on ya’). I am not disliked, but everyone knows I like being alone. I think it is on account of my incident last year with Billy Beauchamp.
Billy, the loudest, most obnoxious student in all the history of Grant Anderson Elementary, tried to steal my lunch. And it was a damn good lunch too; egg salad sandwich, cherry yogurt, cheese and crackers and a five hundred milliliter of chocolate milk, so I didn’t really feel like letting it go. Anyway, Billy was ready to wump me one when my hand slipped off my lunch bag smashing Billy right under the chin. Normally that wouldn’t have done much but Billy, who wasn’t the most graceful fella in grade seven, slipped on the janitor’s freshly polished floor. Well, the combination really sent old Billy flying and he fell backwards into an open locker splitting his head wide open. For some reason this wasn’t enough for me. I mean, he tried to steal my goddamn lunch and we are in grade seven! I kicked him in the stomach while he lay sprawled on the school floor and near broke my big toe. Anyway, people have mostly left me alone after that.
I was the last one off the bus and the first one to class. I don’t know why I went so early. I sat rifling through my backpack while the rest of my class slowly drifted in. There were still a few lollygaggers milling about the back of the classroom when my teacher, Ms. Tremel, started the day.
“Everyone to your desks please.” She stood and straightened a ream of papers against her desktop. When everyone was seated, she began to walk down each aisle placing a stapled paper face down on each desk. “This morning we are going to have a surprise quiz.” There was a communal groan across the room. Ms. Tremel walked past me letting the quiz slide from her hand and near off the far side of my desk. I stopped it with my hand and centered it back on my desk. “You will have until recess to finish so I suggest you take your time, read all the instructions and each question carefully.” She sat down again, looked at the clock then smiled at the class, “You may begin.”
I flipped my quiz over and knew I was done for. If it had been grammar or something I might have had a sporting chance, but it was math. Then again, I don’t think it would have mattered because I couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t because the moron beside me, Sean Feilding, kept tapping his pen when he didn’t know the answer nor was it the tremendous ‘Click’, ‘Click’ of the little red hand on the clock when the room is silent. It was much worse.
I was about to guess at the first question when the walls began to melt like candle wax, bubbling and dripping into a liquid pile of goo on the floor. At first I wondered why, with the walls down, my quiz wasn’t being blown around by a breeze. That was only my first thought. It took a second to realize things were amiss and I half expected an army of Lego men to storm the school. Instead, a giant bee landed in the room looking around as if quite lost and perplexed. He (I am guessing of course it could have just as easily been a she. I don’t know how to tell with bees) wore tartan knickers and a sweater vest over a collared shirt. A set of golf clubs rattled on his shoulder as he fumbled about with a map. I watched him look at the map and then do a 180. He scratched his head bumping his flat plaid hat to the side then scoured the map again. Then, as though he suddenly realized he was not alone, he looked right at me.
“I say old chap, do you know the location of the local golf club?”
“I’ve been there a few times,” I replied.
“By chance do you know the street address?”
“I could show you on the map.”
He spread his map across my desk. I ran my finger along 24th street past Ms. Phillip’s office building and stopped in front of what should have been my school. Instead, the bee’s map clearly indicated an eighteen-hole golf and country club.
“I’m not sure why, but your map is wrong. The golf course is over here.” I pointed out the appropriate spot on the map. “It’s a great course but you should probably call and make a tee time first because it is usually quite busy.”
“Bugger,” he replied, “you’re probably right.”
The walls came back and I was suddenly aware of the noisy clock. My pencil was still in my hand, but I hadn’t answered a single question. Ms. Tremel was not impressed when she came around to collect the test papers. She looked down at me very disapprovingly and told me I had to miss recess and finish the test, but the best she would give me was a ‘P’ even if I answered every question correctly. I looked at her then to the multiple-choice quiz. I picked up my pencil and circled answers randomly then left the room. I didn’t mean to be rude, but what point was there in trying if the best I could do was a bare passing grade? I was going to guess anyway. Oh well, who really needs math except mathematicians? One time I asked my dad how many times he had used math that day. He looked at me sideways and said “What?”
“Math,” I repeated, “did you use it today?”
He thought for a minute, a full minute, then said, “The Leafs have three goals and the Canadians have one, so by mathematical calculations I deduce the Canadians are behind by two goals.”
I got the point.
Since then I figured I would never need math; that’s what computers are for. And mathematicians.
Recess meant the halls were teeming with puberty, hormones and useless chatter. I wove through the throng still carrying my backpack. I needed to go to my locker and organize my books, but my locker is at the end of a dead end hallway and I don’t like being there. It is one of those little things you look back on and realize it was a fulcrum in the shaping of your life. The janitor’s room is directly opposite my locker. There is a big, yellow door with a steel plate screwed to the bottom so it can be opened with the mop bucket without causing damage. Every time I have to go to my locker I look to see if the door is propped open. If it is I never go down there. It would be different if it were a main hallway, but it is a dead end. There is nowhere to go. There is a fire escape, but the windowless, double doors will set off the fire alarm if opened. The principal told all fifteen students with lockers in the hallway they would be expelled if they opened those doors. I guess when the alarm goes off the fire department comes and it costs the school money fire or no. Though I have wanted to, I have never used those doors. My mom and dad would be so disappointed if I were expelled from school.
I was still trying to decide if I should go to my locker when the bell rang indicating the end of recess. Everyone returned to class and to learning, or at least half-hearted listening to what the teacher had to say. Ms. Tremel covered the chalkboard with notes, but I didn’t pay attention. I kept looking outside.
The lunch bell rang and Ms. Tremel wrapped up her discussion on alluvial fans and riverbed sediment. I waited while the class emptied then left without being jostled about in the rush. I walked through the school clutching my backpack and watching all things closely. School hallways are teeming with unpredictable situations. I came to the hallway housing my locker and the janitor’s room. Five other students were in the hallway busy at their lockers. The janitor’s door was closed so I started down the hall. I wasn’t halfway down when all five students simultaneously closed their locker doors and walked away. They seemed to take with them all the breathable air. Gathering my strength, I forced myself forward. The fortress of rational thought I try desperately to defend was under attack by the armies of emotion. Two steps away from my locker the handle on the janitor’s door turned. Emotion sent a hail of flaming arrows against the west wall. I stood there frozen, waiting for reinforcements to fill the gap.
The door did not open. I took the remaining steps in bottled panic. Spinning the combination into my lock I opened my locker door and with one hand tossed in my backpack and the other grabbed my lunch. I ran down the hallway without looking over my shoulder. I made it outside and took deep breaths in the fresh air. I looked through my lunch and began to feel much better. I wondered if I really had seen the door handle turn or if my mind was playing tricks. Either way, I was leaving school grounds for lunch and going to the comic shop
The comic shop is called Pennons and Pages. They carry role-playing games and figures as well as all types of dice and paraphernalia. They also have comic books and collectible toys. The part I like the best though, is the shelf in the back corner lined with books. I like to read a lot but not the crap they are feeding me in school. Karl Wilson is the only other guy at school who reads a lot, mainly Star Trek and Star Wars though. He lent me one once, but it didn’t turn my crank. ‘Borg Collective’ I think it was called. I liked the idea how it could be related to the mass faceless identity our society has adopted. I tried to talk to Karl about this but he just looked puzzled and told me the Borg were an enemy of the Federation and had once assimilated Captain Picard. I more enjoy books with castles, knights and sword fights. I really don’t know why. It is not intellectual or anything it just takes me away to a place other than here. To be honest, and Ms. Phillips wrote this down in her brown book, reading is the only time I can relax. I never realize I am relaxing but when I put the book down I think to myself ‘I may have just relaxed a little’. When I am reading I am not afraid someone is going to kill me or surprise me or embarrass me. There is also structure in the fantasy world that appeals to me. The rules are consistent and known. The gods act as they should, the good and the honest prevail and the scullion boy becomes king.
Pennons and Pages is on the same street as the school but a few blocks down. It is tucked in a small open court plaza beside a pet store and a bakery. Some kids go to the bakery for lunch. I have no idea why. Most of the pastries are ticking time bombs. Sure, we are young and thin now (there are some exceptions) but what would forty years of ‘just one’ do? Need a visual? Go to the mall and watch for a minute.
The plaza parking lot smelt of exhaust. I wove my way between parked cars working my way around to see if the store was actually open. I always like to see an open sign in the window before I go pull on the door. If I don’t see one, I get this funny but unshakable feeling the door is locked and if I pull on it someone will jump out and laugh. The flipped sign read open, thankfully, and the door was unlocked. The guy behind the counter seemed as disinterested as ever or maybe he was distracted. I don’t blame him. I bet he sees tons of kids over the lunch hour. They come in with no money, simply look at everything, ask how much it is then leave. As much as I hate people I still try to look at things from the other person’s perspective. I’m not one of those people who thinks they are the first person to say or do something.
Just for an example, every year when new students arrive at Grant Anderson there are always those who make fun of Simon Funker. They laugh like up until then no one else has made the connection between Funker and Fucker. Some people amaze me they really do.
So anyway, I know I am probably the umpteenth kid who has walked through the door of Pennons and Pages and to the guy behind the counter just another face who wants to know how much the pewter dragon is. The problem today is I do have a bit of change in my pocket and a book I am keen on doesn’t have a price. I know if I ask he will roll his eyes and either make up some price figuring I am not going to buy it or he will tell me and I will be fifty cents short.
I pulled the book from the shelf, The Sword of Shannara, by Terry Brooks. It is a used paperback so the cover is slightly creased and worn. From the summary on the back I could tell my mom would burn it, but to me it seems exciting. The bell jingled above the door, but I didn’t look up to see who had come in. I felt someone behind me as I replaced the book on the shelf with both hands being careful not to damage the cover further. As I turned around I saw a grey, pinstriped suit.
“Now what are you doing, Johnny?”
“Looking at a book I want to buy.”
“You shouldn’t be reading books like that; they are a waste of time. And look at this,” he pulled the book from the shelf and replaced it three places over, “you put it in the wrong spot. Is alphabetical so difficult, Johnny?”
“You know,” I began, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but do you have to come around so much?”
The grey, pinstriped suit bulged, and oscillating shades of green moved across his skin. He looked as though he were about to erupt then cooled. “You need me Johnny, you don’t always know it, but you do need me. My ways may seem odd or harsh or even sometimes downright obsessive but without me who do you have?”
He left the question in the air and must have taken my silence to mean I agreed with him. He left calmly, strolling out the door with a controlled demeanor. I could see him crossing the parking lot with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and whistling some tune. Then I noticed the guy behind the till taking a few sideways glances at me. I decided I had better leave. As I walked away from the shelf and towards the door, I made sure he could see I wasn’t a thief. I stretched my arms, which you couldn’t do if you were cradling a stolen book. I also turned my hands both ways so he could see I wasn’t holding anything. I stopped before leaving to glance at the pewter dragon. It was quite impressive. I mean, it looked good in the store but why have it on your dresser? Unless you really, really liked dragons. Or pewter. There was a lot of pewter in the dragon after all.
Anyway, I left Pennons and Pages without the book, saving both myself and the guy behind the counter a possible hassle. It is kind of a bummer because I really want that book. I can be that way sometimes, thinking of every detail and possibility all the way through then leave it alone because it makes it easier for someone else. I mean, when I have a twenty, I can walk up to the counter with the book and just wait for the change. I don’t even have to say a word and the guy behind the counter doesn’t have to roll his eyes at my questions. All in all it would be quite a pleasant transaction for the both of us. But I am not sure when I will have a twenty. Maybe this Sunday in church. I mean, they pass that plate around and everyone makes a big show about how much dough they are dropping in. The pastor says every time ‘If you have extra give and if you are in need take’.
Now I have never personally seen anyone take from the tithing plate. I tried once, the first time I heard the pastor say that. I reached out for a fin that was sitting on the top like a ripe apple when my dad twisted my right ear so hard I swear I am now hearing impaired. When I am older I could probably get one of those handicap signs to hang off the mirror in my car and get premium parking wherever I go.
Anyway, I gave my dad a look that said ‘But the pastor said’ and he gave me a glare that said ‘Don’t you dare’. The truth of the matter is people are too proud and find it shameful to show need. And in a church of all places! On top of that, I have heard the pastor preach that God wants them to be well off and if you are not then your faith is lacking. I say this is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard. Now I am no theologian but from what I have read Jesus and any who knew him lived in squalor then died in some horrible fashion as outcasts from society. It was the Pharisees who were wealthy and met in lavish buildings.
I hope my dad isn’t looking when the plate comes by on Sunday.