All Good Children - Catherine Austen [49]
My mother is suddenly all over me, looking for wounds. I shift onto my ass and let her take me apart.
“He has a very bad sprain,” the coach tells her. “Could be broken, judging by the pain.”
“I’m a nurse,” she says.
The principal walks up, hands on his hips, bald head glistening. “This is a strange situation.”
“A very bad sprain,” Coach Emery repeats.
Meanwhile I’m sitting like a stone while Mom prods my extremities. Mr. Graham stares down at us, unhappy. Mom pinches my Achilles tendon.
“Ow!” I pull my leg away.
“Yes, it’s badly sprained,” she says. “But the bone’s not broken.”
“Are you telling me he screamed like that because of a sprained ankle?” Mr. Graham asks.
Coach Emery chuckles. “These tough kids. They tackle each other all day without complaint, but pull a muscle too far and they cry like little girls.”
“Should that happen?” Mr. Graham asks. “I didn’t think that was supposed to happen.”
“With purely physical pain, yes, it can still happen,” Mom says like she’s being interviewed. “But, as you can see, it’s very short-lived.” She points to me, quietly slumped in the mud.
“Brennan! Richmond!” the coach calls. “Help Mrs. Connors take her son off the field!” Mr. Graham surveys me as Coach Emery helps me stand. “Right now!” the coach shouts. He turns to Mom. “He’ll have to take a break from football until this heals. No Halloween dance either. Have him study from home this week and keep him off his feet.”
Brennan and Dallas close in on either side of me. They sling my arms over their shoulders and wrap their hands around my waist. I fall short between them, childish and broken.
“Don’t put any weight on your right ankle,” Mom says. She stares at my feet, firmly planted on the ground. I lift my right heel and lean into Dallas.
“You’ll be all right, Max,” Mom says.
“Of course he will be,” the coach says. “Just give him time to heal.”
Dallas squeezes my ribs and I hop along between them. Brennan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even glance at me. For all I know, he’s a zombie. It’s getting hard to tell us apart.
“I can borrow a car from work tomorrow,” Mom tells me. “We could take your canvas for cutting.”
I look up from my RIG. “I’m going to keep it as a tent.”
She frowns. “Campsites are so unsafe, Max, and it’s an ancient tent. We’d need a stove and a cooler—”
“I mean for my art exhibit. I’m going to paint the whole tent.”
“That will take weeks.”
“Nah. It’s mostly tags and bombs. They don’t take long.”
She hovers in the doorway of my bedroom, shifting from leg to leg. “You mean graffiti?”
“Yeah. Layers of it in different styles.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“It’ll be glorious, Mom. It’s all coming together.” I return to my homework—five hundred years of dates to memorize and half the animal kingdom to classify.
Mom leaves the room, biting her lip.
“I thought you hurt your ankle,” Ally says as I walk her to the park.
“I’m a fast healer.”
“So you’re going to school tomorrow?”
“No. Next week.”
“Did you get suspended again?”
“No way. I’ve been good. I’m just supposed to stay off my feet for a few days.”
She stares at my shoes, so I tap out a dance. She giggles and hops. I twirl her on the pavement like a princess. “Stop,” she whispers.
A woman watches us from her living-room window— a vague pale shape in an unlit room. She could be anyone. We continue in silence.
The reformed gladiators, Zachary and Melbourne, are at the park again. Their mothers stand behind the swings, chatting, pushing their children through the air.
Ally walks to the oak tree. I shield her from view. Peanut darts down and devours the seeds while Ally whispers soothing words, “You’re such a pretty girl, such a good little mama.” She chats and giggles and blows kisses and gives this squirrel all the love she would have spent on friends if they hadn’t been turned into zombies.
“What on earth are you doing?” a woman shouts behind us. Peanut scurries up the tree. Ally drops the seeds on the ground and covers them with her skirt.
I turn to meet the angry