David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

I didn’t remember how long I’d been sitting there listening but at some point the tone of my dad’s voice changed and I started to pay attention. He was angry. I hoped it wasn’t because of me.

“What? No. No way. We’ve been through this once already.”

“We have, Jason, but—”

“Remember first grade? His teacher decided there was something wrong with him and wouldn’t shut up about it until we agreed to have him tested?”

I didn’t remember taking any tests or anything but first grade was ages ago.

“And even after everything came back negative she still wouldn’t let it go?”

“I remember. I do. Just—”

“Annie, c’mon,” Dad said. “That’s messed up.”

“Yes it is.”

“Why can’t he just be a high-spirited kid? Why do people feel the need to put labels on everything?” Dad said. “You want a label for Derek? Awesome. There it is. There’s your label.”

I totally remember him saying that. Word for word. Mom agreed, saying something like if Dad was trying to get an argument out of her he’d have to try harder. Then she said, “Mr. Howard said Derek’s in a different kind of trouble. There have been a few… outbursts.”

First of all, those had not been my fault. If Mrs. Bailey hadn’t spent so much time with her back to the classroom she’d have seen all the stuff that went down—all the spitballs and ear flicks—but that wasn’t the case. All she’d heard were the times I’d reacted. Because she was always facing the whiteboard she’d missed all the times I did ignore them—all the times I hadn’t done anything.

She’d missed all the times I’d just sat there and taken it.

“What have they decided is the matter this time?”

“Don’t be like that, Jason,” Mom said. “It’s not like the teachers want him to fail.”

“How should I be then?” said Dad. He was frowning. I could hear it in his voice. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. It got written down in some file that one teacher thought there was a problem and now that red flag’s always going to be there. I’m sorry. It just frustrates the hell out of me that he has to deal with this. Again. It sucks.”

I remember him saying that because it was a word that I wasn’t allowed to use. But it did suck. It sucked a lot. I sat on the stairs then, feeling angry and frustrated at the unfairness—the suckiness— of it all. Feeling like there was nothing I could do.

“You’re right. It completely sucks. But it happened.”

“Did your sister ever have to deal with anything like this?”

“Like what?”

“People thinking she had a problem or was strange because of the way she dressed or the music she was into or whatever,” Dad said. “Don’t forget—I’ve seen Josie’s Mohawk pictures from high school.”

I remember wondering how anybody could think Aunt Josie was strange. There was just no way. Maybe they were just jealous of how cool she was. Not everybody got to be an artist, after all, and I bet the number of people who got to be tattoo artists was even smaller. She’d also lived in Mexico and Japan and just about every time she came over she’d give me a new tattoo with Magic Markers. I was her favorite client because I sat like a rock. That’s what she told me.

“…and right or wrong people are going to have their opinions of him,” Mom was saying. “They’re going to label him in the same way they felt the need to label my sister and everything else—because their world doesn’t make sense without them.

“Listen—Derek has proven them wrong before. Just have him meet with their behaviorist and he’ll do it again and we can move on. Okay?” I remember hearing her chair scrape on the kitchen floor and her footsteps as she walked around the table. I knew she’d sat in my dad’s lap because his chair made a noise like it was complaining. “Would you like to know what I think?”

“Yes I would,” my dad said.

“I think he missed his daddy. Plain and simple. He puts on a brave face but I can tell it’s tough for him when you’re not here. He needed you.”

“Well, he’s got me,” Dad said. “I’m home now.”

“Why are you smiling?” Mom asked, smashing the memory to pieces and yanking me back to the present. “Is this funny to you? I asked you if you knew why they called.”

“Ms. Dickson told me to go to the office and I didn’t go,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I was going to, I swear,” I said. “But I went to the boys’ room and I lost track of time.”

“What were you doing in the boys’ room?”

“Drying my hair.”

“Drying your—wait. What?”

So I told her. Then I told her about what happened—about Budgie and the notes he’d passed me and that it was impossible for me to love Violet because I barely even knew her. All I knew for sure was that she used a pencil with a heart-shaped eraser and every Friday she smelled like apples. That was it.

“Ms. Dickson didn’t mention Budgie,” Mom said.

“See, it’s not my fault!”

“Derek, just because it’s not your fault doesn’t mean you’re not at fault,” Mom said. “What you did today was very dangerous. Do you understand why?”

I looked at the floor and thought for a second.

“I guess maybe I could have slipped and hit my head,” I said.

“No,” Mom said. “Well, yes, that’s part of it. You could have hit your head, but more importantly, nobody would have known you were hurt and needed help. Does that make sense?”

I nodded.

“I promised Ms. Dickson and Mr. Howard I would talk to you about this but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some repercussions at school tomorrow.”

“What, like drums?”

“Drums?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Percussion. That’s like drums, right?”

Mom smiled.

“Yes, percussion is like drums but I said repercussions, which are like consequences.”

I would have preferred drums. Drums were way better than consequences.

“And as far as that—as far as Budgie goes… just try to be the bigger person, okay? Try to ignore him?”

I told her I would but that trying to ignore Budgie was like trying to ignore a flaming elephant. Mom smiled again and laughed a little through her nose. I smiled, too, and that’s how I knew we were going to be okay.

“I’m sorry about today, Mom,” I said. “I’ll do better.”

“I know you will, Piggy-pig,” she said. She roughed up my hair, which was totally dry now.

I picked up the Chocolate Ka-Blam after all and went up to my bedroom and lay on my bed and ate it. Then I got out some paper and a pen.

Dear Dad,

Today Ms. Dickson picked me out of the whole class to be in a play with the middle school drama club. It’s called a chrismas carol and it has ghosts in it. I think all plays should have ghosts. Violet is in it to. Maybe we will get to be ghosts. Also I got in trouble today for throwing something at Budgie. Last night on Zeroman doctor Mayhem was going to posion the water supply with Serum Z that would turn everyone into zombies but Zeroman flew in and fot him and destroyed the serum. It was cool. When you come home we can watch it together.

A COUPLE OF DAYSwent by and nothing much happened. Then one morning I missed the bus and Mom had to drive me to school and when I got to the classroom everybody was crowded around Budgie.

“What’s going on?” I asked Barely O’Donahue.