David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

“My dad? Really?”

I had never really thought about what my dad was like when he was younger. I bet he was cool, though, like with slicked-back hair and a motorcycle. And sunglasses. I bet he had sunglasses. All cool guys had sunglasses.

“What was he like?”

“There are two students I remember very well from that year because it was my first year teaching in this district and Jason Lamb is one of them.”

I smiled when Ms. Dickson said my dad’s name because I didn’t hear it a lot. Mom always called him Bunny.

“Your father wasn’t a great student. He wasn’t a bad student, necessarily… just not a great one. The thing about your father, Derek, is that he always did his best. And no matter how bad the situation, no matter how frustrated he might get, he wouldn’t let anything beat him. He was also a good person. He had a good heart. And in the end… well… let’s just say that in the end we are judged not upon the strength of Holden Caulfield’s character but upon our own.”

“Was he the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“You said you remembered two students from that year—my dad and some other guy. Was he the other guy? Was he a good person, too?”

“Holden Caulfield is the main character in one of the greatest works of American literature of the twentieth century,” Ms. Dickson said. “Whereas Rory McReady threw his desk at me on more than one occasion.”

“So Holden Caulfield wasn’t the other guy.”

“No.”

It was weird listening to Ms. Dickson talk about stuff other than math or reading. It was weird that she knew my dad. It was weird that she liked my dad because I liked my dad, too, and let me tell you—having something in common with Ms. Dickson was the weirdest part of all.

“What’s he doing these days?” she said.

I told her how my dad was far away in Afghanistan flying helicopters for the army and how it had been eight months, one week, and four days since he was home and how before that I hadn’t seen him much since I was five. I also told her that the last time he came home he was supposed to stay home and we even had a big party with cake and two kinds of ice cream but then one day he got a letter in the mail and he had to go back.

Ms. Dickson got quiet all of a sudden and I sort of got the feeling she was frowning. Not like she was mad, though. It was more like she was sad or like she was thinking.

“Eight months, one week, and four days is a long time not to see your father.”

“We write letters back and forth so it’s not so bad,” I said.

Ms. Dickson got quiet again and she stayed that way until we got to my house. She stopped the car and turned around in her seat and looked at me with a funny expression on her face like the one Mom gets when I’m sad or I’ve hurt myself. She looked at me like that for what seemed like a long time. It made me a little uncomfortable. I pulled my book bag into my lap.

“I hafta go now, Ms. Dickson,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she said.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and Derek?”

“Yes?”

“The next time you write your father could you tell him Ms. Dickson is thinking of him?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my aunt Josie standing on the front stoop. You can tell my mom and my aunt Josie are sisters because they look exactly the same when they’re getting impatient.

“I really gotta go now. My aunt’s waiting.”

“What are you doing talking to me then? Shoo! Shoo!”

I got out of the car. I’d never heard Ms. Dickson talk like that—like a regular person, I mean. Usually no matter what she says she sounds like a teacher. I waved good-bye to her as she drove away.

WE HAD OUR FIRSTmeeting for A Christmas Carol in the middle school cafeteria which meant I had to hoof it all the way from Ms. Dickson’s classroom at the end of the fifth grade hallway to the other end of the school past the auditorium and along the hallway that connected the two buildings and I know that might not sound far but it was. Believe me.

Mr. Putnam was late and Violet and I had to listen to all the middle schoolers talk about middle school stuff, which, after a while, was really starting to terrify me. Dances? Permanent records? My mind whirled. I was pretty sure no one had even tried to tell us about those things. Violet and I sat there, not really looking at each other or saying anything. I was getting tired of listening to middle school stuff.

“Did you watch Zeroman last night?” I asked Violet.

“What’s that?”

“ Zeroman . You know. The TV show?”

“Oh. No.”

“You probably watch Jenny Rainbow and the Starlight Pony Squad , right?”

“No.”

“ A Dog Named Cat ?”

“No.”

“What do you watch then?”

“Nothing.”

“Cable out?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong with your TV?”

“Nothing,” said Violet. “We don’t have one.”

She might have said more things after that but I stopped listening. I couldn’t help it. Not seeing Zeroman was one thing, but not having a TV at all? What did her family do to pass the time—read? Talk to each other? It just didn’t seem right. I was still wondering what Violet and her family did without a television when the cafeteria doors banged open and Mr. Putnam entered.

Everything about him was big. He was tall and wide and big around the middle. His voice was big. Even his beard was big. The air seemed to get out of his way when he moved. He sat at an empty table, cracked his knuckles, and opened his briefcase. He took out a bundle of papers and held it up.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is a copy of the script,” he boomed. “In time you will each have your own to work from but since I seem to have broken the copy machine, today we have six.”

Some of the middle schoolers laughed. Mr. Putnam stroked his beard and cracked his knuckles again.

“Come, gather round, gather round,” he said, waving us all to the table. “Most of you were probably too busy to notice but we are joined today by Monsieur Derek Lamb and Mademoiselle Violet Gardener from Ms. Dickson’s fifth-grade class. Please join me in welcoming them.”

My cheeks got hot and I put my head down a little. I was starting to wonder if this whole thing was a mistake when the strangest thing happened—Mr. Putnam and all of the middle schoolers stood up and clapped their hands !

A kid next to me who I’d never seen before even put his hand out so I could shake it. Some of the girls were giving Violet hugs and Violet had a big smile on her face and was hugging them back. Mr. Putnam thumped me on the back and I swear my skeleton almost jumped out. It was weird. I didn’t think anyone had been that happy to meet me before.

That afternoon we did a read-through, which is where you just sit and read the script out loud for the first time. Me and Violet were in only one scene and it was a small one. It was the one where the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back in time to when he was a little boy trapped alone in a schoolhouse on Christmas Eve and had to be rescued by his sister. I was going to be Young Scrooge, and as if being rescued by a girl wasn’t bad enough, Young Scrooge is so happy that he embraces her. I had a pretty good idea of what embracing was but wasn’t completely sure. I hoped it wasn’t what I was thinking of.

“Trouble with the script, Mr. Lamb?”