Bad Boy Read online

  North Battleford was panicking and put the pressure on in a rush of their own. The puck skittered back and forth between the Moose Jaw blue line and centre ice. Number Five, looking for an easy trick, moved over and stationed himself to the left of the Cyclones’ net. A.J. was on him like a shadow, trying to shove him out of position and keep the goalie’s view clear. The Worm dug in and held his ground.

  As soon as the puck and the players were heading back towards the North Battleford end, Number Five moved to follow. But A.J. had hooked his leg solidly behind the centre’s left one and the Worm flipped backwards onto the ice. A.J. slammed down on top of him, all 176 pounds. Elbows first. And while Number Five turned white and gasped for breath, A.J. pushed himself up on the centre’s stomach, hard.

  “You trip me again and you’ll be chewing this goddamn stick,” he hissed into the boy’s face. And the Worm got the message, at last.

  There were no more goals, and the Cyclones staggered into the dressing room on the giddy, strungout high of winners. A.J. scrubbed the sweat off himself in the shower. He felt like singing. He had hammered out a little space for himself in this place with these people, and he knew it was going to be his best year ever.

  Outside the arena, though, he didn’t feel quite the same. Andrea held the Mustang’s bucket seat so that A.J. could crawl in behind. He hesitated — the back seat wasn’t his regular place — then slid in. It seemed dark in there, dark and close. He stared straight at the back of Andrea’s head, but every now and then the passing streetlights would catch on Summer’s knees or the metal clips of her jacket, and once, her hair. He saw her in fragments out of the corner of his eye, and couldn’t help but assemble them in his mind.

  She ignored him, or almost. After a hearty, “Hi, A.J.!” — to let him and the whole car know that he was only her brother’s friend and she saw him as often as Mondays — Summer let him fall off the edge of a cliff. All the way to the pizza place she talked to Andrea and teased Tully about his driving.

  “Just for a change, try the brake. You remember — it’s the other pedal?

  “Now, you may want to call the Minister of Highways on this one, Tulsa, but isn’t it considered bad manners to drive into the oncoming lane?”

  She had Andrea giggling and Tully rolling his eyes. A.J. sat, his hands burrowed into his jacket pockets. I’m in the wrong seat, he thought. I’m in the wrong car. I’m in the wrong life. He felt big and clumsy, overgrown.

  They had just moved into the doorway of the restaurant when Al Weitzammer stood up at a table and waved them over. From across the room, A.J. could see the table was already full. There were guys from school as well as the team, and girls. They’d have to push another table over.

  Smooth as anything, Tully took Andrea’s hand and threaded his way through the crowded restaurant. A.J. expected Summer to jump in ahead of him, close behind her brother. But she didn’t. She clasped the back of A.J.’s jacket, balled up a small piece in her fist, and pushed him in front of her. He was so surprised to feel her hand on him that he almost walked into a chair.

  They talked hockey from the moment they sat down. The game was replayed in fast forward and slow motion. Everyone made a fuss over Tully, which was to be expected. What startled A.J. was that they made a fuss over him, too. His checks and passes and, of course, his great play in the first period.

  Harold Doerkson from school, all knuckles and elbows and lecherous grin, kept leaning across the table.

  “Once you were over centre ice, you had him,” Doerkson said. “The sucker didn’t have a prayer. Bammo! Hot streak, Brandiosa.”

  Somebody elbowed Doerkson and glanced at Summer. Together they looked back at A.J., their eyes telling him he was still on a hot streak.

  A.J. had forgotten all about her. He’d been so busy absorbing the unusual attention, he hadn’t noticed that Summer hadn’t said a word since they’d sat down.

  A.J. turned cautiously, the first time he’d looked at her with both eyes all evening. She was still wearing her jacket, an oversized royal purple thing. It seemed to swallow her. She kept her arms tucked in at her sides and toyed with a napkin in her lap, rolling and unrolling one of the corners. Only her chin stuck out defiantly.

  A.J. touched her arm, clearly a question.

  Summer eyed him guardedly. “I despise hockey,” she said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” A.J. said.

  There was silence, then a clear, surprised laugh that almost lifted him out of his shoes.

  “Well, it’s a good thing you weren’t playing it or anything.”

  “Right,” A.J. said. “That was professional wrestling.”

  Summer laughed again.

  “Just call me Crusher,” he said.

  A.J. wasn’t naturally funny like Tully, but tonight he felt buoyant enough for anything.

  “So what do you think of the commodities market?” Summer asked, her eyes twinkling wickedly.

  “Just great,” A.J. said, playing along. “Specially now that people got them indoor commodities. They’re selling them commodities like hot cakes.”

  He knew he was surprising her. He surprised himself. Her laughter lit him up so much he had to look away to keep his face straight.

  He glanced across the table. Tully was riding high. Strangers craned their necks, wondering who was celebrating. But Andrea was clearly his biggest fan, watching him with shy, admiring eyes. That dog, A.J. grinned. He never misses.

  Tully felt strong. To be with the guys, a girl on his arm and a goal under his belt, made him feel safe.

  There would be no more trouble with Number 19. Early that week he had taken steps to make sure of it. He had gambled, and won.

  On Tuesday Tully had skipped his last class and driven to St. Augustus, a separate school. He’d parked across the street from the main doors, turned off the engine, and waited. At first he was icy cool, determined, but as the minutes dragged on he jumped at every sound, every passing car. The skin on the back of his neck tingled.

  When the bell finally sounded, he scrunched down. He did not want to see anyone he knew. He kept a careful eye on the crowd of kids that poured out through the doors and onto the sidewalk.

  Derek Lavalle came out with the last group of stragglers; that was his style. Tully knew he didn’t have to move. The red Mustang was like a flag. Smirking, Derek adjusted the collar of his jacket and slowly, slowly sauntered over. He stood on the pavement, as if he were admiring the car.

  Tully couldn’t bring himself to look into the grey eyes, and he knew that was a mistake. But he still had a few cards to play. Without warning, he leaned across the passenger seat and unlocked the door, then he pushed it open with his foot. It hung ajar for ten achingly long seconds. Finally, Derek moved. He walked deliberately around the car and swung into the passenger seat. Tully felt a small gush of relief, even triumph. He had guessed right.

  He didn’t let down his guard, though. Close in the car, he could still sense danger, its scent as keen as sulphur. But this kind of danger was different. It was unpredictable, exciting. His nerves were awake and he could feel his own power humming through his body. Wordlessly he flicked the ignition, and the Mustang surged into life.

  Now, four days later, Tully was enjoying a hangover of leftover sensation, buoyed by the energy of the night. The game had been great, the goal had been great. He and Derek had come to terms. Easy terms. Tully squeezed Andrea closer to him and impulsively kissed her on the side of the head, just above her ear. She looked at him quizzically, but he didn’t care. He kissed her again and this time she laughed, and so did everyone else. It was giddy, lighthearted. Almost like being in love.

  FIVE

  IT was a Thursday night in early October, and it was cold. Never mind the calendar. In A.J.’s heart it was already winter, and every time he looked up at the solid sheet of grey sky, he expected snow.

  They’d been “setting the house right,” he and his father. Decco never called it housecleaning, and before Alina had left, he’d n
ever done it. Now A.J. was surprised by how easily his father could whisk through a stack of dirty dishes, or buff up a shine on the cabinets. He’d known all along, the faker, A.J. thought.

  “Here, before you go, grab the other end of this,” Decco said. Already in his jacket, A.J. dropped his leather biking gloves and reached down for a solid grip on the hide-a-bed that doubled as a couch. It was ancient, and unbelievably heavy. There were no rolling casters; you couldn’t push it. The very few times a year it was moved, to vacuum the rug underneath, were pure penance.

  Both men took a breath. “All right, at the count of three …” Decco said. A.J. heaved and felt the muscles in his stomach and pelvis tighten angrily. The two inched crablike towards the door.

  “Over there,” Decco grimaced, his dark hair dangling over his forehead. A.J. knew he was strong, but by the time the hide-a-bed was over by the wall, his shoulder sockets were screaming, and he could feel the great rhinoceros sliding out of his grasp. It came down with a bang, the sound echoing through the metalwork inside.

  They both leaned on the arms, gasping. “Geez … I … hate this thing,” A.J. muttered. Decco nodded.

  “What are you vacuuming for, anyway?” the boy asked when his breath came back. “Trying to sell the house?”

  “No,” his father said, straightening up slowly. But there was the oddest look about him, an unfamiliar look. Almost shy.

  AJ. was intrigued. “Dad …?”

  “It’s just time, that’s all. Where are you going, anyway?”

  A.J. picked up his black and yellow gloves again. “Tully’s. We’re going to push some weight.”

  “All right. Don’t be late.” He tugged on the boy’s jacket collar. “No beer, hey?”

  A.J. rolled his eyes, but the warning was goodnatured, affectionate. The door banged lightly behind him as he left.

  It wasn’t late — just before eight o’clock — but the sky was dark. The pavement was coated with a damp mist that glistened under the streetlamps. It was like being in a movie.

  A.J. whipped his bike effortlessly around the corners. He would rather have had a car—who wouldn’t? — but it was a good bike. A Raleigh. He didn’t even mind the cold air that bit his ears and stung his nose.

  His father had been in a exceptional mood this last while. A.J. had been cautious; he knew Decco’s rol-lercoaster moods too well — the slow, jerking ascent and the gut-wrenching plunge. But as the days passed and the plunge didn’t come, A.J. carefully, carefully relaxed.

  The night was singing in him as he glided through the streets. He was looking forward to the evening. He hadn’t seen much of Tully lately, and he was hungry for a workout, and talk. Maybe Summer would drift down the stairs and shoot the breeze with them. He’d like that. He’d like it a lot. After their almostdate a few weeks ago, she’d been a little warmer. Not really nice, but warmer. For now, that was enough.

  A tiny piece of his mind was uneasy. He hadn’t called Tully’s house to make sure his friend was there. Tully had been disappearing lately, taking off without telling anyone.

  Summer answered the door.

  “He’s out, A.J.,” she said.

  “Again?” A.J. felt something inside him sink.

  “Again.” Summer moved, not quite a shrug, but a gesture of confusion.

  “He’s okay,” A.J. said, pretending to study the door hinge.

  “Yeah, sure,” Summer said softly. “It’s just … you know.”

  And he did know. They had so much history behind them, A.J., Summer and Tully. Sometimes A.J. wished they didn’t. Sometimes, like now, he wished he and Summer were just starting, with no history at all.

  “Is he with Andrea?” A.J. asked.

  Summer shook her head. “I don’t think so. She called here earlier and left a message for him.”

  He could feel her eyes on him, expecting.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just go look,” Summer said. “You know him. Just look around. And check.”

  She didn’t say what he was to check for. That was part of history, too. His insides felt clogged, like a stream choked with silt. But her worry was an echo of his own now.

  “Okay.” The leather of his jacket creaked as he moved. “I’ll look.”

  She caught his arm. “And you’ll tell me, right?”

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”

  He started a slow sweep of the likely neighbourhoods, gliding down back lanes. An outsider would think you could hide one person in a city of 40,000, but A.J. knew better. It was the same as a town of 4,000, or 400. You couldn’t really hide anything. There were eight old Mustangs in Moose Jaw. Three were notchback 69’s. Only one was red.

  He felt rotten spying on Tully. He wasn’t Tully’s mother. They were just friends. Best friends. But you didn’t let a friend make the same mistake twice.

  Last year Tully had a problem. It was a cominghome problem, it was a getting-to-school problem. Sometimes it was a walking problem. It was definitely a staying-awake problem.

  Someone else might have pulled it off, but the difference was too big for A.J. not to notice. Tully was usually so hyper-active, so alive, that to see him drifting through his days set off the warning signals in A.J.’s head.

  It made him angry because it was weak. And A.J. had seen weak. He’d seen it most clearly in the faces of what he called Space Cadets.

  Space Cadets were the swaybacked young thugs who worked at the trainyards, when they worked at all. Most were in their twenties, unshaven and stringy, with brains like pomegranates. Space Cadets showed up at parties everywhere, proud of their full-throttle lives. But they were from another planet, another sphere.

  Or so he had thought.

  One day, while he’d been waiting in the car for Tully, A.J. had seen a flash of silver stuck between the seats. Curious, he’d reached down and dug out a butter knife.

  It was new and shiny, except for the top two inches of the blade that were black. A.J. knew that if he combed through the car, he would find the knife’s twin, and probably a large wine bottle with the bottom broken out.

  These kind of knives led only one life, slated through the rings of a stove element. When they were glowing red they were clasped together to crush little chunks of hash that disintegrated into pungent clouds of smoke. The wine bottle was used as a convenient inhaler. A.J. had seen the whole performance a dozen times, and he had never gotten over how stupid people looked, hunched over a stove element. It made him sick.

  He curled his fingers around the handle of the discoloured knife. He heard Tully get in and pull the door shut with a solid bang.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Tully said, firing up the engine. A.J. didn’t reply; he just held the knife. Tully glanced over and took a breath, but nothing was said as the Mustang surged out into the flow of traffic.

  “Planning for a new career, Tul?” A.J. said finally. “Opening a restaurant maybe? Looks like you’ve already got the utensils. For something.”

  Tully laughed nervously. “It’s those damn hoodlums, officer. Always hanging around the back lane. My wife found it in the yard.”

  But A.J. wasn’t playing. “Get real, Tulsa. Every time I see you, you’re stoned. You’re like a bloody zombie. I hardly know you anymore. What a great life, Tul.”

  Tully’s face hardened and he leaned heavy on the gas. “Why, thank you, Mr. Clean. You’ve changed my life. How did I ever live sixteen years without you?”

  “I can’t believe you’re this stupid, Tul,” A.J. said. “I really thought you had more on the ball than a Space Cadet. Why don’t you just save yourself time and drop out of school and start collecting unemployment now? Beat the rush?”

  “That’s right, keep talking. You’re real good at that, A.J. It’s listening you have a problem with.” Tully’s voice was taut with bitterness. “You’re so goddamned self-centred you don’t even know I’m here half the time. I feel like your chauffeur. Call me a Space Cadet, but maybe I’m just lonely.”


  It was like a check from his blind side that sent A.J. sailing into the boards. It crushed him into silence.

  He had forgotten that Tully was good at this. Growing up in a real family, fencing was second nature to him. A.J. plowed straight ahead in an argument; Tully looked for a pressure point. This time he had hit it, dead on. It was a long while before A.J. could speak.

  But he didn’t give up, and he wasn’t alone. Tully’s parents had grown up in the drug-drenched sixties, and they had first-hand ammunition. They also knew about some pressure points themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Brown rode Tully continually — nothing vicious, but constant. And they did it in front of A.J., and anyone else who happened to be there. Summer was allowed to go to every party with Tully, as his chaperone, and she threw herself into the role with vigour. A.J. gave up his frontal attack and settled on needling.

  They outnumbered him, and wore Tully down. Or maybe he simply grew bored with it, or maybe he got tired of taking Summer on every date. Or maybe something else happened. Whatever it was, it finally worked.

  Or has it, A.J. wondered, wheeling his bike towards downtown. It had been five or six months that Tully had been his regular self, but did you ever really know somebody? What if he did spot the red Mustang, what would he say? Hi, Tul, just making sure you’re on the straight and narrow? You weren’t supposed to spy on friends.

  He spent twenty minutes cruising the downtown area, sailing past fast food joints and the empty parking lots where kids and cars usually clustered. He didn’t see any old Mustangs, let alone Tully’s red 69, and he was starting to feel stupid, and cold. The tips of his fingers were numb, and his head hummed with a dull ache.

  He was just turning around to start home, when he saw it, the snub back end of a red Mustang, parked in a side street. A.J. swung his bike around in the middle of the empty road and pulled up beside the car, his heart hammering. It was empty, but it was Tully’s; A.J. recognized the squashed Burger King bag on the floor in the back.

  A.J. looked left and right and finally chained his bike to a No Parking sign. This was the very edge of downtown and unfamiliar to him. On one side of the street there were a few dark buildings — dusty, semi-industrial places. A springworks place, a shoe repair, a grimy establishment called The Oh-Boy Lunch. It was closed. The other side of the street was an empty field, stretching eerily back towards the train yards. A.J. peered down the sidewalk and made out a patch of light from a window, half a block away. When he got there, he discovered it was a pool hall and coffee bar called Chicco’s.