All Good Children Part 11

"Why did you quit the team?" I yell.

"Girls need their own teams to express themselves adequately. I'm tired of competing with boys."

"But you kick their a.s.ses. Is there a girls' football team at this school?"

She shakes her head.

"Get in uniform."

She looks at the field, looks up at me, shakes her head.

"There's no place for girls on this team."

"Did the coach tell you that?"

She frowns. "I don't remember who told me that."

"You're the best player on the team, Saffron. They need you."

"I don't like this conversation anymore." She turns to her friend, a tiny black girl with purple hair clips and a white zip-up sweater.

"No girl has to converse with a boy if it makes her uncomfortable," the friend says.

Every student in the back row nods and waits for me to leave. They have the same eyes, same words, same minds.

I shudder and nearly stumble off the bleachers.

The coach calls in the team and the game begins.

Mr. Hendricks was right. The Warriors have no hope of winning. The Chiefs are no bigger or faster but they have the advantage of not yet being zombies. They jump and scream on the sidelines, "Go, Matty, go! Come on, come on, come on!" They dive for tackles they have no chance of making. They run the ball like they're fleeing spear-wielding cannibals. When they score, they shout and leap and slam into each other joyously.

The Warriors stand on the sideline and shout stock phrases for no particular reason. "Good try! We're the best!" They only dive for tackles they can take. They run the ball like they're jogging to school. And when they scorea"which they only do oncea"they clap politely. Clap, clap, clap, pause, clap, clap, clap.

Mom arrives late and stands apart from the other parents, nervous and out of place. Ally stands beside her like a mechanical doll waiting for someone to wind her up.

"Do you see what I mean?" I ask.

"Your team's not very good," Mom says.

"Not good? Look at them, Mom. They're not right. None of them. Even the eighth graders are defective now."

Chicago runs for the ball, but he fumbles and a Chief throws himself on top of it. Chicago smiles and brushes off his hands.

"See that?" I ask. "He lost control and he doesn't care. He's not angry. He's not embarra.s.sed. You should have seen that kid two weeks ago. He was a mouthy little punk with an ego bigger than this field. Now he's a robot. They all are. Look at them."

"They're like the kids at my school," Ally says. She holds her teddy tight to her chest. "They're all slowed down." Mom frowns. "They run almost as fast as the other team."

"Inside," Ally whispers. "They're all slowed down inside."

"They are a bit quiet," Mom says.

"h.e.l.lo, Karenna!" a huge white woman shouts. She walks over, smiling and wheezing. "I thought that was you."

"Linda MacMillan," Mom says. "I haven't seen you for ages. Look, Max. It's Linda. She worked at Manor Heights with me and your dad."

I don't recall ever meeting Linda, and she's not someone you could easily forget. She weighs about five hundred pounds and she doesn't wear them well.

"Isn't this the best week of your life?" she shouts. "All these good children! I'm so thankful for Nesting."

"Nesting?" Mom repeats.

"The New Education Support Treatment." Linda looks at Ally and says, "She must have been done the first week of school. She's in grade one, isn't she?"

Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then she closes it tight and puts a hand on Ally's shoulder.

"You notice it most with the little ones," Linda says. "It's harder to tell in the older grades until you get their marksa" then you'll see the difference." She looks me up and down and snorts. "You're a hefty boy for eighth grade. You should be out there on the field." She wags her finger and says to Mom, "I recall you saying this one was a bit of a troublemaker. I'm sure you're glad that's over. What's he like now?"

"Max is as good as gold," Mom says softly.

"These clouds are getting darker by the minute," Linda says. "I hope we're not rained out, though G.o.d knows the gra.s.s could use it. Did you see that mess of paint at the end of the field? It's not right, letting the paint wash into the grounds like that. I don't know why they didn't just paint over it. How much does a can of paint cost these days?" She shakes her head at the conservatory and mutters, "You won't see any more graffiti once they do the high schools this month. Thank G.o.d. These kids are out of hand."

A fat black woman struts up to us. She holds out her hand to Mom. "I'm Denise Atkins. I work at the school. Thanks for coming out." She nods toward me and Ally. "It must be so stressful with two of them. How did you manage before?"

Mom shrugs. "They're not much trouble."

"I'm sure they're not now," Denise says. "You wouldn't believe the calls I've had this term. A lot of families are happy at last. No more constant battles. No mouthing off. No fighting over homework. No lies."

"No need to worry about their future," Linda adds. "That's the main thing for me. With the new cla.s.s sizes, every minute counts. I don't want my child's grades falling because some troublemaker is wasting time."

"My Saffron is a gifted student," Denise says. "Her talents were wasted in the old system."

"You're Saffron's mother?" I exclaim.

Denise and Linda turn on me like I called them fat cows.

"She's an excellent football player," I add.

"Have you noticed any side effects?" Linda asks, surveying me closely. "Some kids on other meds get confused and have outbursts like that. Just like in Manor Heights."

"Side effects of what?" Mom asks.

Linda and Denise exchange glances. "Aren't you on the parent-teacher board?" Linda asks.

Mom shakes her head. "Not this year. I haven't even read the minutes."

"You don't know about motivational leadership?" Denise gasps.

Mom shakes her head.

"Honey, you have to get on that," Linda exclaims. "Parent partic.i.p.ation is essential to program success. We can't be giving the kids mixed messages."

"You should have read the guidelines weeks ago," Denise sneers. "These outbursts can't be ignored."

Linda pats her friend's shoulder. "He just got done this week, Denise. It's a lot for a boy to take in." She turns to Mom. "Chicago had a bit of an adjustment last week when they did the grade sevens, but he's fine now. Better than fine." She points to Chicago, who stands like a zombie in a line of zombies. "He's the best player on the team."

I snort with laughter. It's stupid, I know. I regret it immediately. But it's impossible for me to leave that statement in the air without snorting at it.

Suspicion and hatred fly from the fat women's faces.

I scratch my nose and cough and snort some more like I'm having a respiratory attack until at last they stop staring at me.

"Nesting saved Chicago's academic career," Linda says. "He never got anywhere on time. He always left his homework to the last minute and messed around in cla.s.s. But now that's all changed."

Denise gives me a thorough inspection, scrutinizing my face, my arms, even peeking round my backside, like I'm a slave she might purchase for field work. "You don't play football?" she asks me. "I saw you talking to the coach earlier. Why aren't you on the field? Or sitting in the stands with your cla.s.smates?"

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder, just like she did with Ally. "I like having my children near me."

Linda smiles. "We have a lot in common, Karenna. I'm a softy, too, where my boy is concerned." She stares across the field and nods. "I was there for his treatment and I'm glad for that. It makes a difference to know it's done right. Plus it's extra money. I was let go from the hospital this summer. We're mostly living on the one income." She slaps a hand in the air and adds, "I'm sorry, honey. That was thoughtless. You've been on one income for a while now, haven't you?"

Mom nods.

"You should come do vaccinations with me!" Linda grins and jiggles like she's planning a garden party. "I've been telling them I need help, and they just said yes."

"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 hepat.i.tis 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 luncha"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 a.s.s 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?"