All Good Children - Catherine Austen [38]
“I work until three,” Mom says.
Linda shrugs. “You never know. I might be doing some after school. I’ll check at work tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Mom says. She stands stiff and awkward, gripping me and Ally tight. When thunder rumbles way up in heaven, she squeezes us so hard it hurts.
“We lost the game,” I tell Dallas on my RIG. “They were useless.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“You should have been there.” I describe the fat ladies and what they said to Mom and how it fits with the zombie children who yelled “You don’t belong here!” at us.
He laughs. “They thought you were in grade eight?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point? You think the hepatitis vaccinations are turning kids into zombies? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
He shakes his head. “You’re crazy, Max. Why would they do that? We’re their children. We are the future of this country.”
“Maybe the future of this country requires a lot of slaves.”
Dallas laughs and the screen dissolves.
SEVEN
We receive two announcements Monday morning. First, we can wear costumes to the Halloween dance next Friday. Second, we’ll be vaccinated over the lunch hour, grade nine students today, grade ten tomorrow. “As you know,” Mr. Graham says on every screen, “you are not allowed to leave the school grounds at lunch. Not any day.”
“But tomorrow they really mean it,” Dallas whispers.
“I don’t plan on being here tomorrow,” I say.
“Afraid they’ll zombify you?” he scoffs. He hangs out his tongue and extends his arms, rolls his eyes at me when I don’t find it funny.
We sneak out for lunch—through the chemistry lab, across the parking lot and over the football field, hiding our faces from the cameras. We eat in the skate park, slurping limp noodles from thermoses, while two grade twelve ultimates perform skateboard stunts for their gorgeous girlfriends.
“I haven’t been on a skateboard since I was thirteen,” Dallas says, like it was decades ago.
One guy rides up the bowl, spins and crashes, spills backward onto the pavement. He removes his shoe and wiggles his ankle with both hands.
“I can ride better than that guy,” Dallas says.
The other guy walks up to the railing and kisses his girl for a long time, one hand at the back of her neck and the other hand spinning a wheel on his board.
“Maybe not better than him,” Dallas adds.
I’m dying to say that I kissed Pepper, but I’m afraid he’ll tell me they’ve been sleeping together all term.
He elbows me. “Remember that time you tried Austin’s board?” He wails like an ambulance and laughs.
“I’m not good with wheels,” I admit.
The feeble skateboarder clatters to the pavement again.
He rubs his ass and laughs hysterically, then lies back on the concrete and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke rings at the cold blue sky.
“How would you rather die?” Dallas asks. “Burning in a fire or drowning in icy cold water?”
“Fire. No contest.”
“Fire? You’re crazy. No one picks fire.”
I shrug. “I don’t like being cold.”
“So burning in a fire or drowning in a hot tub?”
“Hot tub.”
“Good man. Want to head back?”
“Not yet.” I take a picture of the skater and his girl, his hand in her gray pocket, her red hair blowing in the wind, brown leaves dying all around them.
Dallas grabs my RIG and scrolls through my photo albums. He pauses on my conservatory mural and snorts. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“The piece was supreme.”
“Not the piece. The stealing. From a school.” He holds up his hands and asks the air, “What do the children do in art class this year? Nothing. Because Max stole their paint.” He shakes his head at me. “I would have bought you paint if you’d asked. What are you going to do with it all anyway?”
“Use it in my art exhibit.”
“You took fifty cakes, Max. How much do you need for one project?”
“I’ll have a big canvas. Mom found an old army tent at the surplus store. There’s a guy at the carpark who’ll cut it and stretch it for me.”
“You