All Good Children - Catherine Austen [78]
“Stop staring,” Brennan whispers. He has a natural talent for ventriloquism. “Eat your food.”
I suck a spoonful of gelatin back and forth between my teeth until it liquefies with a red squeak.
History is excruciating. We study industrial catastrophes through the ages. We leave out the suffering and death, skip who’s to blame and focus on the bouncing-back techniques, every nose to a grindstone, getting the job done right.
Mr. Reese doesn’t participate. He shows a documentary, assigns a reading, points to questions on the screen, goes about his duties like a secretary to his former self. I hate him and all that he withstands. I hate him like I hate my mother, whom I love and wish I didn’t hate but I can’t help it. I hate every adult who feels bad about what they’re doing and does it anyway, sighing with every breath, clinging to the notion that they’re good people in bad times. I hate them for not standing up for me. I hate them for not helping me stand up for myself. I hate them for not teaching me to care about all the people they mowed down before they got around to us. I hope they choke on all their coffee-talk and tissues.
Mr. Reese squeezes down the aisles, inspecting our progress. I stick my foot out, and he stumbles, shocked and outraged but too scared to tell. I continue my work.
I’m no good at history anymore. I can’t separate the past from the future.
I harass Dallas at the lockers before gym class, stand too close and whisper, “Did you know that zombies eat brains?”
“No.” He reaches around me for his water bottle.
I’m right behind him at the gymnasium doors.
Coach Emery lays a hand on my shoulder and keeps it there.
“You look tired, Connors. Do you need to sit on a bench?”
I realize I’m staring after Dallas like a kid watching his daddy leave the daycare. I take a deep breath and relax the muscles of my face.
“There’s more to health than exercise,” the coach says. “Did you get a proper sleep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re all right to participate?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pats my shoulder. “Good boy. You don’t want to be sick for the holidays.”
“No, sir.”
We start with laps. I can’t tell if I’m imagining things or if Dallas speeds up whenever I close in on him.
“Stay as a group! This is not a race!” Coach Emery shouts.
We form small circles for basketball drills, passing and stealing the ball. Dallas stands directly across from me, next to Brennan. His T-shirt drapes over his ribs. The veins of his arms snake along his pale flesh like a topographical map. His eyes drift over me as they follow the ball. I fumble on purpose, but he doesn’t react.
“Pick it up and try again,” the coach says.
I slam it straight at Dallas. Brennan ducks in reflex. Dallas catches the ball half an inch from his nose without flinching and bounces it over to Bay.
“Careful how you throw!” Coach Emery shouts. “You must remain aware of your situation and those around you.”
Every time I get the ball I slam it at Dallas. He never tires of it.
Coach Emery finally grabs the ball from my hands and shouts in my face, “Spit that gum out of your mouth, Connors! You know there’s no chewing gum in my gym!”
“I don’t have any gum, sir.”
He frowns. “What the hell are you chewing then?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He puts his hand on my forehead, like I might be coming down with something. “Go sit on the bench.”
I sit out the rest of class. I close my eyes, take shallow breaths, listen to the ball bounce off the gym floor. Boom, boom, boom.
The coach kicks my foot as he walks by, and I realize I’m muttering to myself and pulling all the hairs from my thighs.
I sit on my hands, stare at the ropes that hang off the far wall, multiply numbers in my head. Two times two is four times two is eight times two is sixteen, and on and on until the trillions jumble in my head and I have to start over and over and finally the bell rings.
Panic grips me in the shower. I can’t accept the fact that Dallas has been treated just before we leave. I cannot live with that.
I adjust the water temperature. The drops hit me like