Rooster (10 page)

Rooster stared at her in silence. “I think I have the wrong Elma,” he finally said. “The one I was supposed to meet here was going to help me with a bunch of people who wanna go bowling.”

“No. See, that's the idiot's way of looking at this. That's the simple way. ‘I've been asked to take a bunch of very low-functioning people to the bowling alley and make sure they don't kill themselves. If all goes well, they may even try out for the Special Olympics.' The other way of seeing it is, ‘I've been
called
to lead this group of very
special
individuals to a higher ground than they've ever been on before. I'm going to make them respect each other and to bowl as a team who support each other so they can reach their goal of qualifying for the Special Olympics. That is the mission I have been given, and I am going to do all that I can to fulfill it.' Do you see the difference?”

“No,” said Rooster. “They sound exactly the same to me.”

Elma shook her head. “I'm not surprised to hear that.”

“Except that the first one makes more sense.”

“I'm not surprised to hear that either.”

“It just seems a bit more real. More believable.”

“Of course it does. You're an idiot. The first one would naturally make more sense to you.”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“You act like one. You talk like one. You look like one. That makes you one. What else can I say?” She closed her binder. “But all right. I've tried my way. Let's try yours. How are we going to do this? What's the next step? What's the big plan?” She stared at him with glowing green eyes through her big, dark-rimmed glasses. “Come on. Roll out the blueprints so I can see how you're going to pull this off.”

Rooster took a moment to think. It was true, he was now realizing, that his approach to the project with the Strikers was a remarkably simple one. Actually, he didn't even have an approach, so calling it simple was an overstatement. He had nothing. He had followed up the collapse of his first plan with absolutely nothing. He had devised no strategy over the weekend to bring the Strikers together as a team. He had no idea how he was even going to attempt to make them play well together.

He did, however, remember Mr. Thorton talking about the hero cycle and all of its various components. Ironically, Rooster had been quite absorbed by that part of the leadership class, an option he had taken to get out of music and gym. When Mr. Thorton asked if anyone had any examples of heroes that they would like to share, Rooster had thought immediately of his father, a long-distance truck driver who'd been killed in a horrifying crash on the treacherous Rogers Pass in central British Columbia. With a load of ninety tons of lumber on the back of his rig, his brakes had failed as he wound down one of the many steep, winding slopes. To avoid crashing into any of the other motorists on the highway that day, among them a busload of seniors on a sightseeing tour, he had tried to maneuver the truck along the shoulder until he could somehow bring it to a stop. Instead, and in spite of his best efforts, he had crashed through the guard rail and plunged to his death. No one else had been injured.

Rooster recalled the debilitating grief he had felt and his mother's endless sobbing at the funeral.

“Don't tell me you don't have a plan,” said Elma, mockingly. “Don't tell me you just expected me to do all the work while you took a fifteen-minute smoke break every fifteen minutes and talked with your little friends on the telephone.”

Rooster knew he needed to come up with something quickly.

“I bet you've told Puffs and Jayson all about the Strikers, haven't you?”

With the mention of Jayson's name, she gave him an idea.

“I'm sure you guys probably talked about them all weekend.”

Subtley he slipped into action. “I really don't know what he sees in you, you know that?” He shook his head and stared into her eyes as if he was a scientist studying something rare and unusual.

Elma stopped talking and frowned. “What?”

“I don't know what he sees in you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Rooster stared for another few seconds, then sat back and changed the subject. “Nothing. I just got carried away with something else. Not important. Where were we again?”

“What does who see in me?”

“Nothing. Forget about it.”

“What does who see in me?” she said again.

“I can't say.”

“Rooster.”

He tried to look apologetic. “Hey, look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't even know I was saying it out loud. Forget it. You'll find out soon enough anyway. Let's get back to what we're supposed to be doing. Can I borrow some paper and I'll write down what I think we have to do to get the Strikers working together? I do have a plan. It's just not written down yet.”

Elma moved her binder to the far end of the table. “Tell me who you're talking about.”

“I told you I can't.”

“Tell me who you're talking about.”

“I promised him I wouldn't say a word.”

“You won't be able to say a word if you don't tell me. Your jaw will be wired shut. Now tell me who you're talking about.”

He shook his head. “Never. Uh-uh. Mum's the word. Bob's your uncle. I'm not saying another thing.”

Elma's eyes narrowed. “Do you remember what Andy Gilmore's nose looked like after I hit him with that ball?”

“Of course I do. I was right there.”

“That's what your nose is going to look like
after
surgery when I get finished with your face if you don't tell me who you're talking about.”

Rooster frowned. “You're a bully, you know that?”

“You better believe I am.”

“Your own mother is trying to turn Winston High into a violence-free school while her very own daughter is engaging in tactics that — ”

“Rooster, shut your mouth and tell me who you're talking about.”

“Is that physically possible?”

“I don't care if it is or not. Now tell me.”

He took another deep, resigned breath and let it out slowly. “I told him I wouldn't say anything.”

“You already have.”

“I haven't said his name.”

“I won't tell. I promise.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want to pass this year or fail?”

He hesitated. “Are you sure you won't say anything?”

“Of course I'm sure. You're the idiot, not me.”

“Can I just say one more thing before I tell you who it is?”

“Hurry up. It's almost seven.”

“I really do not see what he sees in you.”

“You've said that already.”

“I just wanted to stress that point.” He was starting to wonder if he should go through with it or not.

“All right. So it's obviously not you. What a surprise. The heartbreak is overwhelming. Now tell me who it is.”

Rooster stopped again to reconsider.

“It's Jayson.” He felt a pang in his heart as he said it. It would take several more dirty looks to Jolene to even the score after this one.

Elma immediately blushed. “Jayson?” The excitement in her eyes made Rooster look away and stare at the table. “Really?”

“That's what he said.” He could barely speak, his mouth was suddenly so dry.

“What? I didn't hear that.”

“That's what he said,” he repeated.

“Omigod,” said Elma, putting her hand to her chest. “Be still my beating heart. Jayson Cullen likes me.”

“He may have been joking. I don't know.”

Elma got serious again. “Make up your mind. He either likes me or he doesn't.”

“Well, he said he did.” Rooster didn't know where to go with it anymore.

“Then he does. He likes me. Period.”

“But like I said, I don't see how.”

“Is that really for you to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Did he send you here today to validate his feelings for me?”

“No. He doesn't even know I'm here.”

“Would you like it if your best friend asked you why you liked Jolene?”

“It's obvious why I like Jolene.”

“Okay. Would you like it if her best friend asked her why she likes you? Because that isn't obvious either.”

“Probably not.”

“All right then. Leave it alone. Let the man think for himself.” Elma pulled her binder back toward her. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You're welcome.” Not surprisingly, Rooster did not feel as relieved as he had hoped, but at least she wasn't leaving.

“You're a weasel for saying anything, by the way. I would kill my best friend if she ever did anything like that.”

“You just said thank you.”

“I know. But if you were my best friend, I'd kill you for doing what you just did. You've violated the sacred trust of friendship. He told you something in confidence, and you blabbed it to the one person he least wanted to know.”

“I did it for you.”

“Bull. You did it so I would shut up about your nonexistent plan.”

“I did not.” He tried his best to sound indignant.

“Okay, where is it?”

“I told you, it's not written down.”

“You have a plan that's not written down?”

“Yes.”

“That's called an idea. An idea is different than a plan. A plan is something that's mapped out. It has a beginning and a middle and an end. Things actually happen in it. An idea is just some cloudy little picture floating around in your brain, and in your case it doesn't have much room to float in.”

“You're funny, you know that?” said Rooster. He was floundering now. He had no ground to stand on. He'd created a lie about one of his best friends, and it had gotten him nowhere. He was about to begin a project that could make or break his final year of high school, and he had no clue how to proceed with it.

“Maybe that's one of the things Jayson likes about me,” said Elma, who looked like she might be enjoying the best night of her life.

Rooster stared at her. He was about to tell her the truth and wipe that smug little grin off her face when he heard a familiar voice call out from the front entrance, “There he is, goddamn it.” It was Roseann. The Strikers had arrived.

8

H
alfway through the first game, Percival went crazy after he picked up a ball Roseann had touched with her wet fingers.

“I could get sick!” he shrieked. “Who knows where her fingers have been!”

“In my mouth,” said Roseann, who was unmoved by Percival's hysterics.

“I can't bowl like this!” He stomped off toward the washroom, holding his hand in the air as if it was gushing blood.

Back at the scorer's table, Roseann took a seat beside Tim. “What's the matter with you?” she said, sucking her fingers again. Standing next to them, Dorothy-Jane-Anne prepared to throw the first ball of her next turn.

“I'm not sure,” said Tim. He was hunched over the score sheet, covering it like someone trying to light a fire in the rain. He was trying to calculate the adjustments Roseann had made to her score. “I don't think your scores add up.”

Roseann leaned closer to hear him over the clatter and noise around them. “Huh?” she said.

“I don't think your scores add up.”

She leaned closer. “What?”

“I don't think your scores add up.”

She frowned. “Who are you talking about?”

“Who am I talking about? I'm talking about you. I don't think your scores add up.”

She took her fingers fully out of her mouth and wiped them on her shirt. “What do you mean, my scores don't add up? They do so add up. I did them myself.”

“I don't know if they do or not,” said Tim. “That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

“Are you calling me a cheater?”

“I might have to. I'll have to see.”

Behind them all, standing with his arms crossed and a slightly frightened look on his face, was Rooster. The start of the night had gone reasonably well for him: he'd helped them with their bowling shoes and gotten them settled in the proper lane. He came up with the idea of picking numbers between one and twenty to determine their order on the score card.

“Eleven,” said Roseann, after thinking for some time.

“Eight,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne.

“Eleven,” said Tim.

“You can't pick eleven,” said Rooster. “Roseann took eleven already. You have to pick something else.”

“Okay, okay. How about eight?”

“You can't take eight. Dorothy-Jane-Anne took eight.”

“Oh, I see. I see. I get it now. Okay then. I can't take eleven and I can't take eight. How about … one. Can I take one?”

“You can take one. That's a good number.”

“Seventeen!” shrieked Percival.