No Small Thing (9 page)

* * *

I’ve decided my history teacher, Mrs. Malanus, has it in for me. She never lays off for a second, always bugging me for answers to this and that. She thinks I’m some kind of genius or something, because she calls on me whenever one of the other kids can’t answer a question. This is the second-best way to get beat up at school. Even if I do know the answer, which I usually do, I don’t like showing off. So sometimes I just shrug and pretend I don’t know, like when she asked me to name all the different architectural styles of columns, or what flying buttresses are and what they’re used for, or some other thing like that.

I can’t help it if I know things. I like to read and that’s what I do at lunch instead of sitting with the other kids in the cafeteria. I hate the cafeteria. I hate seeing all those mouths eating. Rows and rows of mouths opening and closing and chewing. It makes me feel kind of crazy. Besides, I never have a lunch to bring and I sure don’t want to waste my paper route money buying food, so I just skip lunch altogether and read instead. I like history and I like reading about things like how buildings are made and why. But I don’t want this fact broadcast all over the school.

Mrs. Malanus won’t quit today, though. She puts a map of Quebec on the board and starts asking questions about
coureurs de bois
. She pronounces it “koor-ee-ur de bwaz.” Now I know all about how the
coureurs de bois
lived and how they trapped beaver and things to trade with the Métis. I even know how to pronounce the name correctly. They were woodsmen and they are an important part of Canadian history. I would like to live like a
coureur de bois
, riding Smokey through the wilderness, smoking tobacco, trading furs for weapons, building shelters in the snow if I needed to, and maybe even shooting a few people who poached from my traps—but I wouldn’t tell anyone in school about that.

“Who were the koor-ee-ur de bwaz?” Mrs. Malanus asks the class.

Silence.

“Maria?”

Maria shrugs.

“Jim?”

Jim does the same.

“Anybody?”

I hide behind my history text, pretending to disappear. I just know she’s going to call on me next.

“Nathaniel?”

I pretend I don’t hear and keep hiding.

“Nathaniel?”

There is an awful silence. I want to just shrug like the other kids and get out of it, but she won’t let up. I can hear all the kids creaking around in their seats to look at me. I glance over my shoulder and find Cheryl Hanson staring back at me from her seat at the back of the class. Her long blonde hair curls and flows over her shoulders. Her mouth is red like a cherry and she’s wearing a tight pink sweater. I can feel her big blue eyes burning right through me, and suddenly we are the only two people in the room. But we’re not in the room any more. We’re in a beautiful field full of wildflowers, stretched out next to each other on a blanket with Smokey quietly grazing nearby.

Cheryl’s hair tumbles all around my face as I lean towards her and press my lips against her mouth—

“Nathaniel!” the teacher screams, and I nearly hit the ceiling.

The other kids burst out laughing, and I can feel my face burning red with embarrassment.

Just then, the bell rings and I am saved for another day. I slam my books shut and run out of the class. I’m nearly out the school door when I feel a tug on my shirt. I think Mrs. Malanus has caught me! I turn around, ready to defend myself so I won’t get a detention, and find Cheryl Hanson’s beautiful blue eyes smiling back at me.

“Hey, going to a fire?”

I feel my face turning red again. I mumble into my shirt, hoping she won’t notice. “Oh, no, just trying to get away from that cow Malanus.”

“She really had it in for you today,” Cheryl says. Her even white teeth gleam like pearls.

“Yeah. She never lays off.”

“I thought it was brave the way you stuck up for your sister the other day.”

“Yeah, sure. Except I got my head kicked in by those guys.”

“I thought it was really brave,” she says again. “Your sister … she does that funny thing….”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I blurt out. “She’s always done it. She’s just too smart for her own good. She gets caught up in her thoughts. She’s not deficient or anything….”

Cheryl just looks at me. I think she’s going to give me the brush-off. And then she says something that I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams.

“Walk me home?”

She says this as easily as though she were asking me something simple and meaningless, like, did I have my homework done, or did I know what page we were supposed to read for history. She bumps her shoulder playfully against mine. I stand there just staring at her because I can’t believe my ears. Suddenly I can’t speak at all. Did she really ask me to walk her home? We don’t even live in the same neighbourhood. We don’t even live on the same planet, for that matter. Her parents are rich and own a huge house in the nice part of town. I’m sure they would be furious if they knew I was anywhere near their daughter. But I can’t believe my luck, and so I just nod and walk beside her.

I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long, yet somehow I can’t think of one word to say. I don’t even ask if I can carry her books because I don’twant to make any assumptions. I look over at her and she is holding her books against her chest, the sun shining and dancing on her long blonde curls. I know the sun shines on everybody, but with Cheryl it’s different. It’s as though the light is coming from somewhere inside her—like she
is
the sun, radiating warmth and beauty all over the world. I would love to run my hand through her hair and smell the sunshine in it. I would love to slip my hand in hers and feel the pulse of her next to me. I’m thinking this way when suddenly my dreams are burst by a loud voice.

“Hey, Cheryl!”

It’s Tyler Long, looking every bit the jock in his tight jeans and his football jersey. You can bet he never had a paper route or has to patch holes in his pants. He’s never done anything to me, but I hate him anyway. I guess I should be glad he doesn’t push me around or try to embarrass me in public. Yet, for some reason, it seems worse that he just ignores me. He’s too old for Cheryl, I tell myself, even though she’s one of those girls that always seems to be with older, more successful guys. He pulls up in his parents’ shiny yellow convertible and opens the passenger side door like I’m not even there.

“Come on. Get in.”

Cheryl gives me a look like she’s sorry and then trots over to Tyler’s car. “See you tomorrow,” she says sweetly, and waves before she disappears around the corner. Just like the daffodils, I can’t help thinking. One day they appear out of nowhere, and before you know it, they’re gone. Like everything in my life.

I think about Dad, and suddenly I’m feeling so angry and stupid that I decide to skip delivering my papers until later. I just have to see Smokey. I run up the street towards the road to the barn and see Cid and Queenie already at the top of the hill. “Hey!” I yell, waving madly. They keep walking. I guess they don’t hear me. “Hey!” I yell again, then start running up the hill. I finally catch up to them and tug on Cid’s coat. “Are you guys deaf?”

“Ma told us to never turn around when someone yells like that,” Cid says disdainfully.

“It’s different when it’s your brother.”

“How are we supposed to know the difference unless we turn around?” she says smugly.

She’s got a point.

“Never mind.”

We walk up the hill in silence, Queenie doing her little dance the whole way to the barn. I don’t try to stop her because my mind is back with

Cheryl Hanson, walking along the sidewalk to the good side of town.

Smokey whinnies happily when he sees us. The barn smells sweet and earthy. The sunlight filters through the slats of the walls, filling the barn with a dusky gold light. Smokey snorts contentedly in his stall, munching loudly on the last bits of hay in his trough. We take our time brushing him and picking out his feet before tacking him up and taking him to the field for a gallop.

As usual, Cid wants to ride first. Normally I would argue with her—just for general purposes—but I can’t bring myself to do it today. Cid jumps on Smokey’s back, reins him to the right, and canters full-out along the length of the fence. Smokey whirls like a pinwheel, his mane and tail flying, his hooves beating a quick rhythm against the ground. They dip out of sight below a small hill, then reappear along a crest in the field. They ride into the glowing ball of the sun, fusing with the orange light.

I can’t see them any more, but I can feel Smokey as warm and as real as though I’m on him, and I forget about everything else. I forget about Mrs. Malanus and Tyler Long and even Cheryl Hanson. I forget about Clem’s ghost. I forget that we’re poor and have to steal mouldy oldhay. I forget about Dad leaving us. I forget about it all.

I turn to look at Queenie. She is smiling and squinting into the sunlight. Her face is bathed in orange, the round ball of the sun reflected in her eyes. I feel so close to her right now. I know she understands the way I feel. I know she feels the same way too.

We wake up one morning to find the world buried under a ton of snow. It covers the rooftops and lawns like a heavy white comforter. It’s early November and I can’t ever remember the snow coming so soon. But the best part of all is that it’s Saturday and we don’t have to go to school.

“We can try out my new sled,” I tell Queenie, as she struggles with her boots in the hallway.

Ma gave me the sled for my birthday. It’s red plastic and doesn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve kept it in my room for weeks, waiting for the snow.

“You mean, hitch Smokey to it?”

“Yeah. It’ll be great. We’ll make a harness out of twine and run it back to the sled. Then we’ll cluck like this”—I make a clucking sound with my tongue—”and Smokey will trot along, as pretty as you please. He’s strong enough to pull all of us at once, but the sled can only carry two comfortably.”

“Who gets to go first?” Cid asks.

“It’s my sled, so you two will have to fight itout to see who gets to ride with me. Pick a number.”

“Three!” Queenie says right away.

“Forget it!” Cid protests. “I don’t trust you guys.”

“Fine. We’ll draw straws. We’ll do it when we get to the barn.”

We call out goodbye to Ma, who’s holed up in her room reading some Agatha Christie murder mystery for the umpteenth time. She loves to read so much that she’s read every book at the public library at least three times.

“Watch the traffic. The roads will be slippery!” she says.

“We will.”

“Queenie, you button up your coat and wear a hat—I don’t care how itchy you get!”

“Yes, Ma.”

“And mind you get home before dark! I don’t want to be worrying about you kids wandering home at all hours!”

Ma is still calling out orders as we slip through the door and bump my new red sled down the stairs into the snow.

“How’ll we attach Smokey to it?” Cid asks.

“We’re going to make a harness out of twine,”

Queenie says with authority, as though it were her idea.

“Won’t it cut into his chest? Won’t it just break?”

“Nat’s going to make a breastplate using sheepskin or something. It’ll be soft and strong, and Smokey will trot along as pretty as you please.”

Queenie repeats the words I said earlier like they’re gospel. That’s what I love about her. She’s always right on board. I don’t even have to explain things to her the way I do to Cid. She just innocently goes along with pretty much everything I suggest. Sometimes I wish I could be innocent like that again.

“Where are we supposed to get the sheepskin?” Cid asks.

“I’ve got some ideas,” I tell her, just to stop the questions from spoiling the magic of the new snow.

Our boots clump loudly through the streets, the steam from our breath curling around our faces and resting in white crystals on our caps and eyelashes. It’s hard going up the hill to the barn, with cars skidding and sliding on the icy streets. I’m tempted to hitch a ride on a car’s back bumper, but know I’d never hear the end of it if

Cid or Queenie fell off and got hurt. So we stomp along, talking excitedly about the possibilities once we teach Smokey to pull the sled.

The Gorilla is at the barn when we arrive, brushing his Morgan colt, the colt in cross-ties in the aisle. We ignore him, save for a mumbled greeting when we first enter the barn, but he insists on talking to us all the same.

“You kids been going through my tack box? I’m missing some brushes and things.”

“We have our own tack,” I answer, in a way that Ma would call snotty, but I can’t help it. He has no right to accuse us of anything—even though I did use his bleach.

“Well, I don’t want to find out you’ve been using my things.”

“We have no reason to use your things. We have our own—just like I said two seconds ago.”

The Gorilla gives me a look that says,
watch it, kid
, but I don’t even flinch. He can’t tell us what to do now that Smokey is gelded. I lean my sled against the wall and the Gorilla and I stare at each other like we’re in a showdown in some Western. Queenie starts to dance. I guess all this anger makes her feel nervous.

“What’s wrong with your sister?” the Gorilla says, jerking his head in Queenie’s direction.

“There’s nothing wrong with her. You just mind your own business.”

“Then, why is she always dancing around like some kind of mental patient?”

“I said there’s nothing wrong with her.”

I fold my arms over my chest and we stare at each other some more, until he finally looks away and I know I’ve won.

“I was just asking,” he says, turning his back on me.

I grab Queenie and pull her into Smokey’s stall. I know it’s not her fault that she dances. I just wish she wouldn’t do it in public. I wish she would grow out of it. I can’t even remember when she started dancing. She’s always done it in some form or another, I guess. Even so, the Gorilla has no right saying the things he said. Sometimes I wish I could mutate into a giant green monster like the Incredible Hulk. People might be a little more careful about what they say to me then….