Fruit Read online

  As I passed through the bra section on my way to the glove section, I heard a woman and her daughter talking in front of one of the displays.

  “If I don’t start now, they won’t grow properly,” the girl was saying. She looked my age, maybe a year younger.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s a life-or-death thing,” her mom said. “But let’s get a training bra and you can try that out and see how you like it.”

  I just about died! A training bra? I glanced over at the girl’s chest. She was pretty flat — flatter than me, anyway. If she needed a bra, did I need one, too? And what did she mean when she said they wouldn’t “grow properly”? I saw my nipples pointing in different directions, like Mr. Bertoli and his glass eye. Then I’d really be in a pickle.

  I was so worried about my nipples that I just grabbed the first pair of gloves I saw for Christine, put them in my basket, and headed for the men’s department on the other side of the store. I found a tie in a sale bin that I was sure my dad would like. Well, not that he’d really know the difference between a nice tie and an ugly one.

  While I was in the men’s department, I looked around to see if I could find anything for myself. But most of the clothes at Woolco aren’t the same kind of quality that you get at Sears. Then I started wondering what I would buy for Mr. Hanlan for Christmas.

  “What would Dan like from his favourite paperboy?” I asked myself. Before I knew it, I was standing right in the middle of the underwear section.

  “I bet Dan would like these,” I thought as I picked up a pair of red bikini underwear. They were very sexy. I knew Dan would appreciate them.

  “Thanks,” he’d say. “Maybe I should try them on to see if they fit. Can I count on you to tell me if they look okay?”

  “I guess,” I’d say and shrug, “if you really need a second opinion.”

  I started to feel pretty warm and dizzy so I put the red bikinis back down. Then I checked my watch and realized I’d better get to the cash register.

  All in all, I spent $42.64, which I thought was pretty good. I still had to get Uncle Ed’s gift certificate so I headed into the mall.

  As I passed Peoples, I glanced in to see if I could see Christine, but she wasn’t behind the counter. Maybe she was on her break. Or maybe she was in back of the store, polishing diamonds or whatever she does. Even if family members were allowed to say “hi,” I wouldn’t have gone in. I had too many important things to do.

  After I picked up Uncle Ed’s gift certificate, I decided I was hungry. I checked my watch and saw that I still had a half hour left before I had to meet my mom. Even though I don’t usually eat in public, I figured I’d just have a small salad and be on my way before anyone noticed me. Besides, I deserved to treat myself, seeing as how I got everyone such great deals on their Christmas gifts.

  When I got to the food court, my super-strong smelling powers went into overdrive. I could smell French fries and hamburgers and donuts and pizza. I changed my mind about getting a small salad and ended up ordering a cheeseburger, medium fries with gravy, and a medium Diet Coke from The Burger Depot. I found a table in the far corner of the food court and set my tray down. I was a bit uncomfortable about sitting by myself, but then I figured it made me seem mysterious. People started to notice me.

  “Who’s that?” they whispered to each other. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  I sighed and popped a French fry in my mouth.

  “I can’t believe someone as good-looking as him would be eating alone. What’s he all about?”

  I pretended to be too interested in reading The Burger Depot tray liner to hear.

  “Hey look! It’s Peter Fattington.”

  Someone else said that. That voice didn’t come from inside my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a pair of blue jeans standing beside me.

  “Having the pig trough special?” the voice asked. It was Brian Cinder. I heard someone else laugh. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. I was too scared. The table jiggled as he sat down across from me.

  “I’m doing you a favour,” he said as he grabbed my fries. “The last thing you need is to gain more weight.”

  He was with Paul Roxbury, another member of the Banger Group. Paul grabbed my pop out of my hand. “This better be diet,” he said.

  My burger flip-flopped in my stomach and my heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to explode. And then I would die, right there in the Lambton Mall food court, just a few days before Christmas, all because of Brian Cinder.

  They finished off all of my food. Then Brian said it was time to hit the arcade. “You got any money?” he asked. I looked up at him and shook my head.

  “You sure about that? Because if you’re fuckin’ lying to me, fat boy, I’ll have to pound the shit out of you.”

  I gulped. I had shopping money left over in my wallet, but there was no way I was going to let him know that.

  “I don’t have any,” I said.

  “What was that?” Brian leaned across the table.

  “I said I don’t have any.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m gonna check your pockets, lardass. And if I find out you’re lying to me, you’re fuckin’ dead.”

  I remembered the whistle around my neck. I felt it underneath my sweatshirt.

  “C’mon,” Paul said to Brian. “We don’t have time. We were supposed to meet Michelle a half hour ago.”

  Brian sat there looking at me for a couple of seconds. He was chewing on his bottom lip. “All right,” he said, getting up from the table. “Let’s go. This pig’s making me sick, anyway.”

  I watched them walk away. Just when I thought I was safe, Brian turned around and came back. “My lace is undone,” he said.

  There was no way I was going to bend down and tie his boot lace in the middle of the food court. There were too many people around. I didn’t move. Brian stood there, looking at me.

  “I said my lace is undone.”

  I kept my eyes on my tray. “Just blow the whistle,” I thought. “Someone will come to help.”

  “Tie it.”

  Just blow the whistle. That’s what it’s for.

  “Tie it!”

  I slid from my chair and got down on one knee. My hands were shaking, so it was hard to tie the laces. It took me three times.

  “Fuckin’ fat pig,” Brian said. Then he and Paul walked away.

  I counted to sixty before I dared to look up from the tray liner. I scanned the food court, but they were gone. But where? They could still be in the mall. I had to make it back to Woolco to meet my mom. Could I do it without running into Brian? What if he beat me up in the middle of the mall? Getting up from that table was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I didn’t have a choice. I started walking towards Woolco, quickly checking for Brian as I passed each store.

  Brian Cinder was a loser, plain and simple. And he was poor — so poor he probably didn’t have money to buy his own French fries. And he was ugly. And one day, one day . . .

  Brian was in Pantorama! I started walking faster, my bags swinging along my sides. Then I remembered Christine. She was working. If Brian came after me, I could run into Peoples and tell Christine to call the police and I would be safe.

  I checked over my shoulder and Brian was coming out of the store with Paul and Michelle Appleby. They were laughing so they must’ve seen me. They’d catch up to me any second and I didn’t know what they’d do to me then.

  “Christine,” I said to myself and just as I reached the entrance of Peoples, I saw her. She was standing behind the counter, smiling and talking to an older woman. When she noticed me, her whole expression changed. It was like she was scared of me — almost as if I was going to come into the store and do something bad to her. I knew that family members weren’t allowed in the store, but this was different. This was an emergency. Brian was heading straight towards me. Christine’s boss would understand.

  Christine mouthed two words to me.

  “Go away.�
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  I stood there for a second. Maybe Christine didn’t understand the situation. Maybe she didn’t realize.

  “Go away.” This time she looked angry.

  I felt something fall inside me, like I had swallowed a cold stone. Brian and Paul and Michelle were still heading in my direction. So I turned and walked as fast as I could. I walked so fast that my ribs started to hurt and I thought I would faint. I walked so fast that my inner thighs started to burn. I walked so fast that for a second, I thought maybe I could disappear into the air. I made it past the bra section and the men’s department, past the jewellery and finally out the doors. My mom wasn’t there yet. I stood behind a phone booth and waited, trying to catch my breath.

  “Did you get all your shopping done?” she asked me when she pulled up a few minutes later. “Did you talk to Christine? Did you see any friends from school?”

  I clicked my seatbelt into the lock. “I didn’t see anyone,” I said.

  For New Year’s Eve, my parents and I went to the Archers. Mr. Archer works with my dad in Chemical Valley. I don’t think my dad and him are best friends or anything, but Mr. Archer and his wife were having people over.

  “It beats sitting at home watching Dick Clark,” my mom said.

  “Might as well watch it at someone else’s house,” my dad said.

  I’d only met the Archers a couple of times before. Mr. Archer is short and fat and old. He’s always out of breath, so you think he’s about to have a heart attack or something. Mrs. Archer is fat, too. She’s younger than Mr. Archer, but I’m not sure by how much. Her name is Nadia and every time I see her, she’s wearing a muumuu, like Mrs. Roper on Three’s Company.

  The Archers have two children — Kate and Billy. Both of them are adopted. My mom told me once that Kate and Billy are “behavioural” kids and that Mr. and Mrs. Archer are foster parents.

  “I don’t know how they do it,” my mom said. “Opening their doors to all that chaos and such. Those kids come from such damaged homes.”

  I’d met Kate and Billy last year at the Chemical Valley Kid’s Christmas party. It takes place every year in an old movie theatre. They have musicians and a magician and a guy dressed like Santa comes in at the end to hand out crappy presents. This year’s C.V.K.C. party was supposed to happen on December 15th, but there was some chemical spill in the St. Clair River that day, so the party was cancelled. But I wouldn’t have gone anyway, because I’m too old to go to kid’s parties now.

  Kate Archer doesn’t think she’s too old to go to kid’s parties, because when I saw her at last year’s C.V.K.C., she looked the same age as Christine. She was fat, like Mrs. Archer, so you’d think they’re related, even though they’re not. She had a pageboy haircut that didn’t suit her and thick black glasses that made her eyes look humongous. Kate was pretty quiet and sat in a back corner all night long, sucking on candy canes. Billy, who’s a year older than me, didn’t look anything like her. I guess that makes sense, since they didn’t come from the same parents. He was thin and had a gap between his front teeth and long, greasy hair. He kept running around the theatre, tearing down the red and green streamers, yelling, “This sucks! This sucks!” over and over again.

  Mrs. Archer kept trying to catch up to him. She was holding a pill in one hand and a glass of punch in the other.

  “Now Billy,” she kept saying. “Don’t be like this. Take your pill. Now Billy.”

  Finally, one of the dads at the party grabbed Billy and put him in a headlock.

  “I got the little punk now,” he said. “You just try and get away from me, you little nut. I played for the Argonauts.”

  “There’s no reason to be rough,” Mrs. Archer said to the Argonaut man, “he’s just a child, you know.”

  Billy kept trying to squeeze his way out from under the Argonaut man’s arm.

  “Lemme go,” he was saying. “Lemme go, you big asshole.”

  Mrs. Archer managed to get the pill into Billy’s mouth while he was in the headlock. She told the Argonaut man to let him go.

  “He’ll be fine in a couple of minutes,” she said. By the time Santa came to deliver presents, Billy was sitting in the back corner beside Kate. He didn’t do anything for the rest of the night except pick his nose and wipe the boogers under his seat.

  When my parents said that we’d been invited over to the Archers for New Year’s Eve, I told them I didn’t want to go.

  “Can’t I just stay home?” I said. “I’m feeling sick to my stomach.”

  That was partly true. Ever since Brian Cinder came up to me in the mall, I felt like my stomach was twisted up like a pretzel. Everywhere I went, I kept checking over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t behind me. I was so glad that school was out for the holidays, but I didn’t know what I’d do when it was time to go back.

  Besides, Billy Archer was a Banger. What if he knew Brian?

  “Peter, you’re too young to be home alone on New Year’s Eve,” my mom said. “If the girls were here with you, it would be different. But they’re both going out.”

  “But Billy makes me nervous,” I said.

  “If he gives you any trouble, just tell us,” my dad said.

  “I’m sure they sedate him when company comes over,” my mom said. “He’ll probably be in his own world all night long.”

  I kept my fingers crossed that Billy wouldn’t be home. Maybe he’d go out with some of his Banger friends and it would just be me and pageboy Kate. As we drove over, I almost convinced myself that everything would be okay and that I had nothing to worry about. Then we pulled into the Archers’ driveway.

  “What’s that?” my mom shrieked. She was pointing towards the Archers’ bushes.

  Someone was in the front yard, crouched by the bushes, unscrewing the Christmas lights.

  “Henry, do you think we should call the police?” my mom whispered as the last red bulb went out. Then Mrs. Archer came running out the front door, wearing a red and green striped muumuu and carrying a glass in her hand.

  “Billy! Where are you?” she yelled. “Momma’s got something for you!”

  “I think we can hold off,” my dad said.

  Then the dark figure in the bushes took off down the street. Mrs. Archer didn’t see because she had spotted our car in the driveway. She waved her arm at us.

  “I was just stepping out for a breath of fresh air,” she said as we came up the front steps. “Come in, come in! Let me take your coats for you.”

  Mrs. Archer looked over her shoulder before she shut the front door. “Awfully chilly out there tonight, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Archer was sitting in the living room. “Well, here comes trouble,” he said and started to get up.

  “Alfred, don’t you dare get out of that chair!” Mrs. Archer said. “You know what the doctor said. And remember — no cocktail wieners for you. I mean it, Alfred. Honestly Beth, aren’t men a handful? Now listen, you all have a seat and let me grab some drinks. Peter, is Pepsi okay for you?”

  The Archers’ house smelled like mothballs and Pepto Bismol. Mr. Archer was sitting in an orange chair with electrical tape on the arms. The couch was covered in plastic, so that when we sat down, we all made a crinkling sound. Even the cushions and lampshades were covered in plastic.

  A deformed Christmas tree sat in the corner of the living room and the windows were divided into squares with electrician’s tape and sprayed with fake snow. But whoever did it sprayed the opposite corners of the squares, so in one pane, the fake snow was in the bottom right corner and in another, the bottom left-hand corner. It looked like the Archers’ living room had been hit by a blizzard from the inside.

  “I guess we’re the first ones here!” my mom said and laughed her fake laugh.

  “Well, actually, you’re the party,” Mr. Archer said and burped into his fist. “Turns out everyone else we invited couldn’t make it tonight. Too many other things going on this evening, I guess.”

  “Oh,” my mom said.

  “I hope
you brought your appetites with you!” Mrs. Archer said, coming back into the room with a tray. “Because we certainly have enough food to feed an army!” She laughed a fake laugh, too. “Beth, try some of my shrimp ring. I made the cocktail sauce myself. I got the recipe from TV Guide, so I hope it tastes all right.”

  “Holy Christ, Peter,” Mr. Archer said, “you’re getting to be a big fella, aren’t you? You got him signed up for football yet, Henry?”

  “Well, maybe one day,” my dad said.

  “Stand up for a second, Peter,” Mr. Archer said. “Jesus. Thighs on you the size of redwoods.”

  I tried to smile because I figured that Mr. Archer was only trying to be nice, but most people don’t take the Lord’s name in vain when complimenting people. He shook his head.

  “Like a brick house,” he said and whistled. I sat back down.

  “Now Alfred, you leave him alone,” Mrs. Archer said. “Peter, why don’t you go downstairs to the rec room? Just go through the kitchen and take the stairs. There’s some chips on the coffee table and Kate is down there, watching TV. I’m sure Billy will be joining you in a bit. He had to run to the store to get me something.”

  I didn’t move off the couch.

  “Go on, Peter,” my mom said and gave me a nudge, “don’t be shy.”

  “This may be the last time you see me alive,” I said to my parents through a mental telepathy message. My feet felt as heavy as bricks as I made my way past everyone and into the kitchen. I made a pit stop at the table. There were bowls of pretzels and chips, a cheese ball, a plate of cocktail wieners with toothpicks sticking out of them like little flagpoles, a crock pot of meatballs, a platter of Nanaimo bars, chocolate haystacks, shortbread cookies with bits of green maraschino cherries on top, and a plate of celery and carrot sticks with dip. I helped myself to a couple of Nanaimo bars, making sure that I rearranged the platter so it didn’t look like anything was missing.

  Then I went downstairs.

  Kate was sitting on the couch with a big bowl of chips in her lap. She was wearing one of her mom’s muumuus. Unfortunately, she still had that pageboy.