Sean Cullen - The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

“Dad? You ever think you got the wrong kid?”

His father stopped hammering and looked at Brendan. “Why would you say something like that?”

His father’s tone was so sharp, Brendan felt he’d said something wrong. “No reason. Well, I mean, I can’t do anything as well as you can. You’d think I’d have some kind of genetically transmitted talent.” He tried to laugh and lighten the mood. “I mean, maybe they switched the kids at the hospital by mistake and somewhere there’s a kid who builds and plays his own guitars, huh?”

His father didn’t answer him right away. His face was flat and expressionless. Then the moment passed. His father grinned at him. “I can guarantee you we got the right kid, okay?” He went back to tapping at the chisel and muttered, “Your sister? Now, there are some doubts

…” He turned his head slightly and winked at Brendan.

“Dad!”

“Just kidding. So. How was school today?”

“All right.” Brendan shrugged. “We got a new substitute teacher. He’s kinda weird.”

“Aren’t they all?” He turned back to his project. “I have to get this done for the One and Only Craft Show. You like it?” He poked the gargoyle with the head of the mallet.

“Uh… creepy?” Brendan said and he meant it. The gnarled, snarling face of the carving made him a little uneasy.

“Creepy’s good. People buy creepy.” Brendan’s father grinned, placing the chisel on an untouched portion of wood and tapping with the mallet, sending a delicate shaving curling to the ground.

“Dad,” Brendan said, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You know the scar I have on my chest…”

The tapping faltered for an instant, then continued. “Yep.”

“How did it happen again?”

“We’ve told you the story, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” Brendan said. “Mum spilled tea and I got this burn.”

“Exactly so.” Brendan’s father blew shavings from the wood and began tapping again.

“It’s a weird shape though, huh.”

“Sure is.” His father stopped tapping and looked at him. “Why do you mention it?”

“Oh, no reason really. It’s just that… well, it’s been bugging me a bit.”

“Bugging you.” Brendan’s father frowned. “Bugging you how?”

“It’s been itchy and stuff. You know.”

“Hmmm.” Brendan’s dad furrowed his brow. “Let’s see.”

Brendan stood, his head banging into a low beam. “Ow.” He winced and rubbed his scalp with one hand as he unbuttoned his white school shirt with the other. He held the shirt open so his father could look.

“It does look a little red,” he said. “Maybe your mum should look at it.”

“Naw, it’s okay.” Brendan didn’t want his mum to lose her mind as she always did when anyone showed any sign of ill health. He could do without the cloying attention.

“Okay. Well, let’s see if it gets better over the next day or two. But do me a favour”-his father winked conspiratorially as he said this- “if it does turn into something serious, don’t tell her I knew about it. Then we’ll both end up in a hospital. Okay?”

“’Kay.” Brendan laughed. His dad could always make him feel better, which was one of his many gifts. “I’m gonna go wash up for dinner.”

Brendan headed for the stairs.

“Hey, B! I almost forgot!”

Brendan turned back to see his dad digging in his pants pocket. He held up two thin strips of paper. “A friend of mine gave me tickets to a show tomorrow night. He played guitar on her last album so she shot him some freebies. Wanna go with me?”

Brendan stepped closer and took one of the tickets. “Deirdre D’Anaan,” he whispered.

“You’ve heard of her?” His father was mildly surprised.

“Not really,” Brendan said quickly. “Just saw a poster today.”

“She’s playing Convocation Hall. It’s an early show: 7 pm. Your mum shouldn’t mind too much. I thought we could come home for spaghetti night and then go to the show.”

Brendan couldn’t stop staring at the ticket. A coincidence? He shivered.

“Are you all right, B?” his father asked.

Brendan shook off his chill. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Sure, I’d like to go.”

“Good.” His dad smiled. “Now go wash up. And tell your mother I’ll be there in a minute.”

The next day, Brendan awoke feeling better. He had slept well, but he knew that his sleep had been filled with vivid dreams. He could barely remember them on waking. He was left with the impression that someone had been searching for him, calling him in a dark and trackless forest, but he had chosen not to make his presence known. He hadn’t been frightened, just not willing to be found.

He met Dmitri and Harold at the corner of Harbord and Spadina and they got to school in time for homeroom. Brendan had hoped to talk to Kim, but she came in just at the opening bell and plunked into her seat without giving him a chance to say a word.

The rest of the morning, he bided his time. In English, French, calculus, and biology, he tried to get Kim’s attention, but she was more focused than he’d thought possible on the teachers and the lessons. He decided he would have to wait for lunch, hoping he might get her alone. He didn’t know why it was so important. He just had a feeling that she knew more about Greenleaf than she was saying.

In gym class, Mr. Davenport was feeling sadistic as usual. He put them through a gruelling session of calisthenics. Brendan didn’t mind the stretching and push-ups. At least there was no chance of him tripping over himself. And when you were doing a push-up, you weren’t a long way from the ground.

Chester Dallaire was at his best, or worst, depending on your point of view. He had no problem with all the push-ups and sit-ups. Brendan had long ago learned to stay far away from him if possible. To begin with, Chester was the first of their class to really develop B.O. and perfect it. To be exposed up close could lead to watering eyes, hallucinations, paralysis, and, in extreme cases, death. The other reason he kept his distance was the prospect of being the victim of one of Chester’s hilarious “pranks.” Pranks in Chester’s repertoire included supergluing shoes to the floor or holding down a victim and farting into his face. Sometimes, like today, he merely settled for a jolly “pantsing.” 32 Chester waited to strike until Mr. Davenport was busy in the equipment room hunting down a medicine ball. The victim was a skinny kid named Miles Horsten, who stood with his head down and his shorts around his ankles as the class roared with laughter.

Brendan stood with Harold and Dmitri, but they didn’t join in. They had all been victims in their time and found nothing to laugh at in another kid’s humiliation.

“I’d like to get that guy,” Harold grumbled.

“He is a jerker, that’s for sure.”

“Jerk, Dmitri,” Brendan corrected. “Not jerker.”

“What?” asked Dmitri.

“I said he’s not a jerker. He’s a JERK!

In the uncanny way the world has of wanting to get you destroyed, the laughter chose this very moment to fade out and the whole class heard Brendan pronouncing, very clearly, the word “jerk.” There was an audible gasp.

Chester Dallaire stiffened. He turned his large face and skewered Brendan in a glare of hatred. Brendan felt like an escaping convict caught flat-footed in the beam of a searchlight.

“What did you call me, Clairabelle?” he growled. Brendan hated this nickname Chester had fashioned out of his last name. It was annoying in a way only truly idiotic insults can be.

Brendan flushed. He hated being reminded of his braces. He felt like he was going to be sick. Brendan opened his mouth to make a quick denial, but before he could say a word, he saw the blushing face of Miles, tears running down his cheeks as he pulled his gym shorts up. Instead, he just stared back at Chester with what he hoped was a defiant expression on his face. His heart was playing a drum roll against his ribs. He prayed he wouldn’t wet himself. He felt Harold and Dmitri shuffle closer to him. He wasn’t sure if they were showing support or trying to put his body between them and Chester’s fists. Probably the latter.