Cheeseburger Subversive Page 3

  The two youngest cousins waste no time in finding my stash of Christmas candy, and they have gobbled it all up before I can find where they’re hiding. Luckily, my real Christmas candy is hidden away, guarded by my sister’s new doll. The stuff devoured by The Cousins is old Halloween candy that I saved especially for their visit; the girls are not deterred by the fact that the candies are wrapped in black and orange paper which is adorned with ghosts and goblins. I can’t believe they have actually eaten it all without breaking any teeth. Hopefully, they will wait until they’re in their car before they decide to throw up.

  Meanwhile, Billy is standing in the living room wailing, great big tears rolling down his cheeks. I am a little suspicious of this — normally a steamroller would have to drive over Billy’s head to make his eyes water. Under normal circumstances, he is far too stunned to be this sensitive about anything. Naturally, I wonder what’s going on.

  “Oh, Auntie!” he cries to my mother, “I lost the money you gave me! Oh, no! Now I don’t have a Christmas present! Oh, no! Christmas is ruined!”

  Oh, the drama that follows! All the kids scurry about the house looking for Billy’s lost money — not really out of particular love for Billy, but because Mom has promised a reward of two dollars to whoever returns the money. I suppose she would rather part with the reward money than listen to Billy bellow all afternoon.

  The Cousins scour most of the house, but the twenty-dollar bill does not turn up.

  “Hey!” shouts Amelia, “maybe the money got loose and floated into the basement!”

  My sister and I look at each other in terror. What if they find our new toys down there! A scene of sheer destruction enters my imagination, and I begin to sweat.

  I’m going to have to think fast. I have to figure out where that twenty is before The Cousins decide to look in the basement.

  In a panic, I shout, “Hey! Maybe the money is still in your pants! Did you check all of your pockets, Billy?”

  Billy’s face suddenly flushes.

  “Are you accusing me of trying to get an extra twenty bucks out of Auntie?” He sounds more angry than hurt.

  “Uh, no, just, um, maybe it’s stuck in one of your pockets. . .”

  Billy refuses to dig into his pockets. So my uncle holds him down on the floor and does it for him. And wonder of wonders, the twenty-dollar bill has been in Billy’s pocket the entire time!

  “Nice try, Billy,” grumbles my aunt, as she retreats to the kitchen to mix yet another drink.

  Billy brushes past me.

  “Better not leave the living room, Twerp, cause I’m gonna punch ya in the head for what you just did to me.”

  He says this just quietly enough so that none of the adults can hear.

  What a swell kid. I am willing to bet a year’s allowance that Billy will be the first member of our family to spend time in a maximum-security prison. Luckily, by the time dinner is ready, I have managed to remain free of injuries.

  Aside from an unusual amount of airborne food, dinnertime passes without serious incident. Sure, there is a lot of whining and yelling, spiced with the traditional fake burping and farting that The Cousins seem to find endlessly entertaining, but unlike certain years past, nobody has to be hospitalized. My aunt has to lie down after dinner (due to a sudden bout of unexplained dizziness) and yet again, she misses out on helping with the dishes.

  Fortunately, the television is on. The Cousins, full of weighty food, sit on the floor, mesmerized, motionless, practically catatonic. It is a rare moment during which nothing is destroyed and nobody is punching or kicking anyone. Peace on Earth and Goodwill Towards All, indeed.

  When the remaining unbroken presents have been stowed away in my uncle’s station wagon, The Cousins trudge away to the car. Without making eye contact, Billy punches my shoulder on his way to the door. The way he sees it, I have cost him twenty dollars. I decide not to say anything about the punch; any interpersonal conflict might set back their departure time.

  Before the car’s engine is even started, my aunt falls asleep in the front seat. In the back, Billy and Bart have returned to their natural state of existence, which means that they are vigorously punching each other. The doors slam shut, the car careens its way along our laneway, and an eerie silence follows. We wave goodbye as the car vanishes from sight.

  Each year, as the taillights of the car full of cousins disappears down the road, we all stand in the doorway and smile, despite our ringing ears. And our smiles are real. In front of the storm door window that whistles softly from the wind, we look out across the hushed, snow-covered fields and heave a collective sigh.

  We stand, sharing the warmth and quiet. I even hug my sister. My parents put their arms around each other, with my sister and I wedged in between. It’s a family hug, the best kind there is.

  When I finish reading my story, Mrs. Mulvey smiles broadly. Everyone in the classroom applauds, except for Cliff Boswink, who lets out a big, fake yawn to express to his followers how boring he found the entire story. Who cares. How could I when for the past fifteen minutes Zoe Perry has been looking right at me with those big brown eyes, listening to every word I’ve said.

  Hell on Wheels

  (Grade seven)

  There is a feeling of tension this morning on Faireville Board of Education Bus #16. There is almost no talking in the back seats, and the snapping of gum is more focused and intense than usual. None of us is sure whether the rumours are true, that the world is going to end at exactly 8:35 this morning.

  The little kids are having a good old time up there in the front of the bus, insulated by youth, oblivious to the shadow that hangs over us. They chatter to themselves, innocent and unsuspecting, like squirrels just before being shot at by wiry Older Boys with BB guns.

  I’m an Older Boy. That’s me at the back of the bus. I am in the seventh grade. In the seventh grade, you can no longer ignore scary things by simply believing in magic kingdoms and happy endings the way little kids do.

  Grade seven does have its rewards, though. Those of us who survive this long are granted special privileges; one is a reserved seat at the back of the school bus. I don’t get to sit in an aisle seat, however; only grade eights have graduated to this esteemed position. Aisle seats are more conducive to socializing than window seats, and are thus highly coveted property (even though socializing, as we know it, consists of boys making rude noises and the girls ignoring us). When one boy moves in on another’s bus-turf, it usually results in a well-publicized after-school fist fight, or, at the very least, a good four-letter-word shouting match.

  Without actually being able to put names to the concepts, we have learned about the Right to Property, the Conflict Theory of Society, and the Survival of the Fittest; not from books but from experience. We are Adults-In-Training.

  The boys closely guard the bus seats because there are only two older girls on our route. They usually sit together, which makes it difficult for the boys to attain strategic socializing positions. The girls are Amanda Randall, who is in grade eight, and her grade seven subordinate, Zoe Perry. All of the boys desire their attention although none of us is sure exactly why.

  Usually, Zoe sits in front of me. I like Zoe a lot, but I know that to reveal this would result in social crucifixion at the hands of the other boys. So I say nothing.

  Amanda Randall usually sits with Zoe, unless Zoe has committed some Atrocity of Uncool such as skipping rope or listening to last year’s music. In such cases of social uncouth, Zoe loses her apprentice status for a couple of days and must sit with me instead of Amanda. Amanda does not see such ostracism as cruelty; she is simply trying to teach Zoe to deserve her acceptance.

  Because Amanda is in grade eight, she rarely speaks to me. Acknowledging the existence of a boy younger than herself would be in violation of the laws of grade eight femininity. I understand this; for Amanda to be accused of consorting with a grade seven boy would be like me getting caught playing with toy cars. It would mean social death.
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  Of course, Amanda is allowed to bend the rules when she needs help with her math problems. I have been “accelerated” to grade eight math classes, so Amanda figures that I qualify as an honorary grade eight as long as we are discussing math and nothing else. I am what they term “gifted” when it comes to mathematics, although I don’t see it as much of a gift; I would rather be tall and muscular with nice clothes and a lucrative allowance. I would rather look and dress like Cliff Boswink, the lone grade eight boy on our bus, although I find his personality as pleasant as a pulled groin.

  I do get some conciliatory pleasure from the fact that it makes Cliff jealous when Amanda asks me to do her math homework for her. Every time Amanda passes me her math book, Cliff launches into a loud description of his latest dirt bike adventure. “Vroom! Vroooooom! Right over the ditch! Ka-boom! I land on the other side!” he brags loudly, amid choruses of admiration from the younger boys on the bus. Amanda, however, is not particularly impressed, and remains focused on her math. Cliff’s jealousy pleases me, and it helps me ignore that Amanda is using me.

  Both Amanda and Zoe have achieved bump status, which means that their breasts have grown large enough to warrant brassieres. They go to health classes separate from the boys. In our own all-boy health classes, we have each been given a pamphlet called You and Your Privates, which informs us that we should feel comfortable about our privates (sensitively referred to as our little weenies by our gym teacher, Mr. Zell). Just in case we aren’t one-hundred-per-cent comfortable though, Mr. Zell has placed a question box at the front of the classroom. The box is there to ensure anonymity, we have been told, but I suspect that the box may also provide a convenient way for Mr. Zell to edit out any questions he feels are “inappropriate.”

  To be quite honest, none of us boys is really very interested in reading about our own “privates,” since there is nothing very private about them. Each of us has had them for as long as we can remember, and we have seen many others hanging around in the locker room of the community swimming pool. What we would really like to read are the pink pamphlets that the girls carry out of their health classes, ones that quickly disappear into the recesses of their purses, never to be seen by male eyes. The only thing we know for certain is that the girls’ “privates” are much more private than ours.

  I have taken it upon myself to do some research on the subject by smuggling several old copies of Playboy from my uncle Paul’s garage. Now there are at least a dozen new words floating around in my head, dark and mysterious. I worry that I might be missing some genetic encoding, some built-in instinct about this sex stuff. Nobody else appears to be very concerned about it.

  When I am not engaged in some sort of shoulder-punching activity with the other boys, I spend most of my time thinking about girls, often with physically uncomfortable results which I hope nobody will notice when I stand. At home, my father laughs and tells me that I have “girls on the brain.” Sometimes I think the condition could be fatal.

  Today is different, though. I am not thinking about girls (at least not very much). Very little socializing is taking place. The back of the bus is strangely quiet.

  From my own spot in the back left corner, I can see the waxed dome of old Mr. Overhill’s bald spot reflected in the large mirror that hangs above the windshield. As you would expect from a squadron of sharp twelve and thirteen-year-old minds, we have given Mr. Overhill the clever nickname, “Old Over-the-Hill,” since he is well over forty. He reminds us periodically of his elderly stature by driving the bus over curbs and potholes. We forgive him for this tendency, since buses probably hadn’t been invented when Old Over-the-hill was still in his formative years. It does not occur to us that Mr. Overhill derives some sort of sadistic thrill from bouncing the crap out of his chatty, hyperactive passengers.

  Even Old Over-the-Hill is acting differently today. He is not glancing up into his surveillance mirror, nor is he screaming at us to sit down, to be quiet, or to stop throwing things. Even he, the bastion of adult predictability, is acting as if the rumours might be true.

  Old Over-the-Hill glances down at his watch, and I find myself doing the same. Some of the other kids are asking each other for the time. A few are synchronizing their watches. It is 8:27 AM.

  Cliff Boswink makes a concerted effort to appear unconcerned. He folds his arms across his intimidating chest muscles, and rolls his eyes towards the peeling pus-green speckle paint on the ceiling.

  “Fer cryin’ out loud, Sifter,” he brays, whacking me on the back, “you look like yer about ta leave Hershey-squirts in yer Mr. Briefs!”

  This is the type of brashness that everyone has come to expect from Cliff Boswink. Cliff is the self-declared coolest guy in all of Faireville Elementary School. So far, nobody has challenged him for the title, because Cliff has a reputation for punching people at the slightest provocation.

  The girls sometimes buy him potato chips at lunchtime as symbols of their undying devotion. He always takes the chips and says something unbelievably suave and sophisticated like, “bring me the barbecue kind next time, ‘kay.” Cliff is so cool that he has even made up his own nickname; he expects us to refer to him as “Blaster” Boswink. This is how cool Cliff is.

  Jake Bellows, the other grade seven boy on the bus, shifts his substantial weight in the seat, and the green vinyl makes a sound like a balloon leaking.

  “Whatsa matter, Jakey?” winks Cliff. “You shit yerself ?”

  “Shit, no, Blaster!” chatters Jake, “I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’!”

  Under normal circumstances, Jake would have said something like, “Why, no, Cliff, I’m not worried about anything.” Jake Bellows has a professor for a father and a lawyer for a mother; in the Bellowses’ household, the use of proper English is considered as important as breathing. When you’re talking to someone as cool as Cliff, though, a different sort of lingo is required. It is one of the unwritten laws of coolness: Never act smarter than anyone more cool than yourself. Anyone who breaks this rule runs the risk of being called a Smartass, an Einstein, a Browner, or worst of all, a Geek. And everyone knows that geeks are apt to be punched. Often.

  “There ain’t nothin’ to be worried about,” Jake repeats, as if he needs to convince himself of the fact.

  “Good,” croaks Cliff, “ain’t nothin’ to be worried about. It’s just a stupid hoax.”

  Of course, it’s just a hoax. No one among us really believes what that guy on TV said, even though he was on all of the talk shows and even the eight o’clock news last night; everyone knows that he’s wrong, he’s out of his mind, he’s a certifiable nutcase.

  The guy on TV said that he had proof — mathematical, astronomical, and biblical proof — that the world is going to end at 8:35 this morning. We all know that he’s full of crap. Even my father says so, and he should know. My father is a high school English teacher, and is used to people trying to pass absurdity off as fact.

  Of course, there is absolutely nothing to worry about. The world is not going to end at 8:35. Despite knowing this, we are all a little edgy.

  It is 8:31.

  I know I am not going to die in this bus, beneath the garish green ceiling dome. Even if the world really is going to end in four minutes, I know that most of the kids sitting on this bus will go to Heaven. So there is nothing to worry about.

  The rest of course will spend the rest of eternity in hell, burning and screaming, wishing they had never sinned. I know these things, because I used to go to Sunday School. I know that everyone goes to Heaven except for the sinners. I find myself wondering whether or not it is a sin to quit going to Sunday School. The rules of sinning are a bit vague on this point; “Thou Shalt Not Be Bored By Sunday School” is not one of the Ten Commandments. At least I know the Ten Commandments, which should count for something, I hope.

  I heard my father explaining the idea of hell during a telephone conversation with one of his high school English students.

  “The popular conception of hell a
s an eternal, tortuous fire,” he cheerily explained, “is only a literary metaphor for the torments that hell really embodies. The anguish described in the literature we have read is only what the various authors imagine it would feel like to be disinherited by God. Okay?”

  I didn’t quite understand what he meant by all of that, and I was not comforted by his reassuring tones. I still think of hell as a real place. The Devil is a real guy, not a metaphor or whatever my father would call him.

  The Devil does not have horns, a forked tail, or a little French moustache. This much I understand. The Devil is not stitched together from red satin like a little kid’s Halloween costume. The Devil is a man with a large chin and steel-grey eyes, wearing a black business suit, standing in front of a large door with a huge question mark painted upon it. He brays in a smarmy TV game-show announcer’s voice, “And now, studio audience, please put your hands together as our next unlucky sinner steps through the mystery door into an endless barrage of previously unimagined horrors . . . ” He sweeps his hand toward the door, and it swings open to the roar of morally righteous applause.

  Sometimes I have nightmares like this. Fortunately, I have always awakened before stepping through the door.

  Of course, I realize how silly these thoughts are. I try to shut them off. I try to think about hockey, or space ships, or about Zoe Perry, who is sitting right in front of me. I think that I’m in love with Zoe, but if I die today it won’t matter much, will it? You can’t fall in love in hell.

  It is 8:34. I am holding my breath.

  I think about how I felt when I peed my pants in the second grade. The shame was so overwhelming, I started punching myself in the stomach to give myself something less painful to focus on. Maybe hell is like approaching the door to your grade two classroom, reeking of urine and burning with shame.

  Once I was playing with the sterling silver locket that had belonged to my mother’s great grandmother, which I was warned to never touch. I watched with horror as it slipped through the radiator grate. Maybe hell is like never getting caught, like never confessing.