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  “All right, boys, let’s go,” Pete says.

  Bobby won’t move.

  “What’s the matter?” Pete asks him.

  “It’s not fair: here I am with no tooth and what did Pumphrey lose?”

  The Meat pauses, then says, “Oh, don’t you worry about him, Bobby, he’ll lose plenty. And more than a rotted tooth, too.”

  This seems to satisfy Bobby because he tries to smile, but it’s too painful with his swollen lip, so he walks over and joins the others instead.

  Pete looks at Wayne and says, “I’d watch my back if I were you,” to which Bobby replies, “Thank God you’re not, eh, Pete?”

  “What?”

  “Like Pumphrey.”

  Pete The Meat pauses for a moment. “Yeah, Bobby … thank God.”

  FOUR

  Wayne’s practically jogging to keep up with Marjorie. “Can’t you slow down?” he says.

  She doesn’t answer, just keeps up her Olympic pace, chin tucked into her jacket collar, hands in her pockets, overly long strides as if there were endless potholes in her path she’s trying to step over.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” says Wayne. “I appreciate what you did.”

  Suddenly she’s down on her bum, legs splayed out like a fallen youngster on her first pair of skates. He rushes over and holds out his hand, but she won’t take it.

  “I’m not handicapped,” she says, getting back to her feet and dusting away the snow on the back of her pants.

  “Don’t you have boots?” Wayne says.

  “Does it look like it? You think I’d wear these if I didn’t have to?”

  Wayne doesn’t say anything.

  “Not all of us have rich dads working at the mine, Wayne Pumphrey.”

  Marjorie starts walking again and Wayne wonders how someone who always looks like he’s just getting out of bed and who lives in a ratty coat with nicotine stains on the sleeves and who’s forever in boots with untied laces could be rich. The rattling change in his father’s pockets and his parents sometimes going into overdraft on their chequing account, so what’s rich about that?

  Wayne holds out his hands. “Would you like to borrow my mittens?”

  She shakes her head.

  “My toque? What’s funny?”

  “You want to be picked on less … stop wearing that hat, Wayne Pumphrey.”

  “Really? What’s wrong with it?”

  “The ponies. The little piggies at the trough.”

  Wayne takes off the toque and looks at it. “Mom knit this.”

  “Exactly.”

  Marjorie turns to go.

  “Wait.”

  “What now, Wayne Pumphrey?”

  “Umm …” He puts his toque back on. “Nothing.”

  “Just because I saved you doesn’t mean we’re going to be lifelong friends.”

  “Okay.”

  She starts to go again.

  “Pete’ll get you back for what you said. He hates anyone mentioning his real dad or his tough start and he struck a teacher once, I was told.”

  “Shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Wayne Pumphrey.” She stops and turns around. “Do you wear your sister’s panties and listen to Rita MacNeil CDs?”

  “What?”

  “’Cause that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Well, it’s a lie! I’d never wear my sister’s panties!” Wayne pauses. “And they’re my mom’s CDs. I can’t very well tell her to shut them off now, can I?”

  Marjorie shrugs.

  “What about what they say about you?” Wayne says.

  “What about it?”

  A rush of warmth in Wayne’s face makes him turn away.

  “My body, isn’t it, Wayne Pumphrey? What’s it to the crowd around here what I do with it.”

  Wayne doesn’t speak.

  “Let them talk. They’re all so perfect, are they?”

  A third school bell.

  Then “Ode to Newfoundland.”

  Wayne sees late slips and wagging forefingers and lectures about responsibility and detention and staring out the window and wishing he were somewhere else.

  “I hate Canning,” Marjorie says. “At least if we lived on the island we could go to St. John’s. Not everyone would know me. What? Why are you smiling?”

  “‘God’s country,’ Mom says.”

  “What, Labrador?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Too cold for God in Canning.”

  “She says we have the best northern lights—”

  “Pfft—”

  “And that when the sky’s blue and the sun’s reflecting off the snow there’s nowhere prettier.”

  “Really? Well you tell her that I can think of a hundred places better. A thousand.”

  “And the best of all, Mom says, is the quiet.”

  “That’s because no one’s stupid enough to live here. Except us.”

  Neither of them speaks for a long time. Then Wayne says, “Why does your mother always peek through the drapes?”

  “I don’t know, Wayne Pumphrey, why does your father always drive on the wrong side of the street?”

  Because he knows there aren’t always answers for things, or at least ones that make sense, he stays quiet.

  Then Marjorie says, “How long you gonna put up with it, Wayne Pumphrey?”

  “Put up with what?”

  “Whaddya think?”

  He doesn’t answer, listens instead to the faraway voices butchering the provincial anthem:

  When blinding storm gusts fret thy shore

  And wild waves lash thy strand

  Thro’ spindrift swirl and tempest roar

  We love thee, windswept land

  We love thee, we love thee,

  We love thee, windswept land

  Then he says, “Why’d you help?”

  “Beats me.”

  “You’ve never before.”

  “Only so often you can walk past the same car wreck.”

  Wayne nods.

  She brushes away the snow on her head.

  “Pete shouldn’t have said that,” Wayne says. “About your dad.”

  She breathes and slides her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.

  “Do you miss him?”

  Marjorie doesn’t say.

  “Sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  She turns around. Disappears into the sea of falling snow.

  FIVE

  “You can take the paper bag off your head now, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  Wayne does, folding it neatly and laying it on his lap.

  Mr. Rollie takes off his glasses and massages his eyes, then puts them back on. Runs a hand through his tangle of red hair. “Come closer, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  Wayne picks up his chair and goes over and positions it in front of the long table Mr. Rollie is sitting behind, then sits himself. He takes in the wall clock over the door with the stopped second hand and the whiteness of the room that’s like a hospital or an insane asylum. The only colour is the orange of the plastic chairs and Mr. Rollie’s hair and the brown food trays and the mural on the wall displaying the five basic food groups.

  “You sure you wouldn’t be happier in the band?” Mr. Rollie says.

  “Tried, sir: the drums. Mrs. Cooper said I had no rhythm.”

  “She did, eh?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Mr. Rollie leans across the table. “It’s just that I couldn’t see your face.”

  “But that’s the scene: Charlie Brown notices the cute girl staring and then puts a bag over his head.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware, Mr. Pumphrey, but it’s important in auditions that the director sees what your mouth is doing. Your eyes.”

  “Should I try it again?”

  “No, no.”

  Mr. Rollie twirls his pinky ring. His nails need trimming. “Didn’t Mrs. Cooper let you try any of the other instruments?”

  “Only interested in the drums.”

  Quiet for a moment.
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  “How old are you now, Mr. Pumphrey?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Right. You’re small for your age, aren’t you?”

  “A little.”

  Mr. Rollie’s pinky ring catches the cafeteria light and sparkles. “Perhaps it was your monologue choice. Most your age try stuff with a little more edge. Les Faulkner did a piece from Glengarry Glen Ross.”

  “What’s Glengarry Glen Ross?”

  “A David Mamet play.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A famous American playwright.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Mr. Rollie crosses his legs and Wayne notices little William Shakespeares on his drama teacher’s socks. “Lots of good drummers, were there? That why?”

  “Jim Butt.”

  “Well, he’s practically a prodigy. Other than Mr. Butt, I mean.”

  “A few.”

  “And they were all better than you?”

  “Mm-hm.” Wayne looks past Mr. Rollie’s shoulder towards the main doors and sees Julie’s face squished against the window. He looks away.

  “I won’t lie, Mr. Pumphrey, this year’s production is going to require some really strong actors. Be nice to finally make the provincials. They’re in St. John’s this year.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  “You think you’re ready for the drama club after what happened in the pageant last year, Mr. Pumphrey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You upset the manger.”

  “Costume was too big.”

  “And dropped the frankincense.”

  “Sweaty hands.”

  “You were pretty upset.”

  “I remember.”

  “You slipped out through the back.” Mr. Rollie pauses. “There’s more to acting than meets the eye, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, sir: there’re lines to memorize and pretty leading ladies to kiss or rescue or give mouth-to-mouth to—”

  “Whoa, slow down, Mr. Pumphrey. Sounds like Hollywood’s more your style.”

  “No sir, I don’t care much for Hollywood. Who wants to be chased by paparazzi and photographed on the beach when you’re not in the best of shape? No, a small school play suits me fine.”

  Mr. Rollie takes his glasses off again and puts one of the ears in his mouth. Chews. “You’re a funny one, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  “Born too late, Mom says.”

  “Why does she say that?”

  “On account I don’t like the Twilight movies or Justin Bieber or iPhones or especially Facebook.”

  “Why especially Facebook?”

  “Um … no reason. Just some girl who pretended to like me and then posted how gross I was when I started to like her back.”

  Mr. Rollie lays his glasses down and slides back in his chair and folds his arms. After a long time he says, “What do you write in those notebooks of yours?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve seen you … in the cafeteria, the library, outside when the weather’s nice, which isn’t very often. Are they plays?”

  “No.”

  “Short stories?”

  “Letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “Yeah, but they’re mostly for me.”

  “For you?”

  “That’s right. I don’t send them or anything.”

  “But aren’t letters meant to be sent?”

  “Not mine.”

  Mr. Rollie goes to say more but is interrupted by the opening door and Julie’s poking-in head. “Sorry for barging in,” she says.

  “What is it, Miss Snow?”

  “It’s just that … well, are you almost ready for me? Mom’s waiting to take me to the shopping centre to get a skirt and we’d like to get there before it closes.” Julie looks at Wayne and says, “There’s others out here, you know.”

  “Miss Snow.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Rollie.”

  “If your skirt is more important than this term’s production then maybe you should just go.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. I really want to be in the play (did I just hear you say the provincials were in St. John’s this year?), it’s just that I was planning on wearing the outfit to school tomorrow.”

  “I don’t appreciate you listening by the door, Miss Snow, and I’m with someone right now, so wait your turn.”

  Julie shoots Wayne a glare. Squeezes her lips so tight they turn white. Slams the door.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Keeps the shopping centre in business, Miss Snow does.”

  “She is a snappy dresser.”

  Mr. Rollie glances up at the wall clock. “We should finish, Mr. Pumphrey. Anything else you’d like to add?”

  “Not really, only that I’d like to be in the show because I think it might be nice to be a part of something.”

  Mr. Rollie sits there for a moment, then he puts his glasses back on and uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet. Holds out his hand.

  Wayne shakes it.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Pumphrey.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Wayne makes his way to the door.

  “Mr. Pumphrey?”

  Wayne stops. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re far from gross.”

  “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

  Wayne leaves.

  SIX

  Supper’s on the table when Wayne walks in: pea soup and dumplings, sliced homemade bread on a flower-patterned plate, cups of tea with swirling steam. A light above the stove illuminates the still-simmering pot, beside which rests the blackened wooden ladle that’s always used for soups and sauces and macaroni and cheese and— for when his mother can’t take much more of his father—throwing.

  His mother is blowing on her loaded spoon, while his sister, Wanda, listens to her iPod. There’s a place set for his father, but his father’s not in it.

  His mom slurps, then looks at Wayne and says, “Eat before it gets cold.”

  He goes over and sits down. His mother pours him a glass of milk. Lays a slice of bread beside his bowl.

  Nickelback’s wafting from his sister’s side of the table, some song about a photograph and red eyes and a guy named Joey with something on his head.

  His mother reaches over and yanks Wanda’s earphones out.

  “Hey!”

  “Not at the table.”

  “Didn’t have to tear my ears off—”

  “How many times have I told you.”

  Wanda sits back and crosses her arms and stares into the living room as if the key to her escape might be there.

  “Eat,” his mother tells her, but Wanda won’t, so his mother tells her again.

  Wanda dips her spoon in, stirs, fills it, and then drops the contents back into the bowl. Repeats. Gives their mother a look as if to say, I’m nearly eighteen and soon I’ll be able to do whatever I fucking well want.

  Wayne blows on his own spoonful before putting it in his mouth. Hacks off a chunk of dumpling. Looks over at his dad’s place, then at his mother. After a while he says, “Where is he?”

  No one answers, so he says, “His soup’ll get cold.”

  “Pfft,” Wanda says.

  Wayne looks across the table at her.

  “Doubt he gives a shit about his soup right now.”

  “Wanda,” his mother says.

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  “Well how long does it take to pick up butter?”

  No one says anything.

  Wayne’s mother drops another dumpling into his bowl even though he’s not done with the first one.

  “Where were you?” Wanda says.

  He looks up. “School. You should try it.”

  “Funny. What were you doing at this thing called ‘school’?”

  “Auditioning.”

  “What?”

  “For the play. Mr. Rollie says he needs re
ally strong actors this year.”

  “Mr. Rollie? He’s queerer than Sunday.”

  “Wanda,” his mother says.

  “Loves the young ones too, I’m told.”

  “Shut up,” Wayne says.

  “Don’t drop your script.”

  “Mom!”

  “Enough, Wanda!” his mother says.

  Wanda laughs, bunched-together teeth in too small a mouth.

  Then it goes quiet save for his mother’s slurping. Afterwards she uses what’s left of her doughboy to sop up the dregs in her bowl. Licks her fingers. Says to Wayne, “Your father’s brother was an actor. Was on TV and everything.”

  “Uncle Philip?” Wayne says.

  “Or he used to be anyway. Then he drove a truck, or was it a taxi? What odds, he’s dead now.”

  “What shows?” Wayne says.

  “Oh, goodness … I think he might have been in one about a wolf or a dog or something. The Littlest Hobo, I believe it was.”

  “Or, in Mr. Rollie’s case, The Littlest Homo,” Wanda says.

  Before Wayne can tell her to shut up, the sound of his father’s car is in the driveway and everyone’s suddenly adjusting themselves in their chairs: his mother pushing hers in, Wanda sitting a little more erect, and half of Wayne’s bum off his own.

  The engine dies and a car door opens, then closes.

  “Don’t say a word,” his mother tells them.

  Wanda goes to put her earphones back in, but his mother glares at her. Then she gets up and goes over to the stove and refills Wayne’s bowl even though he didn’t ask for more. She puts it down in front of him.

  Boots on the porch. A hand on the door handle and a puff of air as it’s pushed open. Footsteps. A cough. Something falls on the floor. Keys? Another cough. More footsteps. Closer. Past the foyer. Into the kitchen.

  His father stands there: work shirt untucked beneath that nicotine-stained coat, woollen socks and strands of hair in his slits for eyes and soot in his moustache and a sway so slight it might not be happening at all.

  He comes over and takes off his coat and drapes it across the back of his chair and sits down. Smoke and cold and iron ore dust coming off him.

  Wayne’s mother squeezes her tea bag. Adds milk. Stirs and stirs until there’s a tornado inside her cup.

  His father reaches for a slice of bread, dunking its corner into his soup. He takes a bite and scrunches up his face. “Freezing, this is.”