The Monkeyface Chronicles (8 page)

“Why don't we just play for fun today?” Michael suggests. “We don't have to keep score, and you won't have to keep any records.”

“You don't win games by playing for fun,” Mr. Packer says.

“So you want us to play five-on-three?” Michael wonders.

“Penalty-killing practice,” Mr. Packer says. “It's going to happen out there on the ice sometimes.”

“But we're not on the ice right now, sir,” Michael says.

“REMIND ME, MICHAEL,” Mr. Packer says in his booming Official Coaching Voice, “WHO. IS. THE. COACH.”

“I'm not trying to cause trouble, coach. I just want you to see Philip play,” Michael lowers his voice, “you know, with guys who can
actually play hockey
.”

“I don't know, Michael,” Mr. Packer sighs. “With all of Philip's injuries, I think he'd rather just sit out today's game.”

There he goes again, talking about me like I'm not even here. Maybe he thinks my facial deformity comes with a hearing impediment.

“I'm okay,” I say from the bench, “I'll play.”

Of course, there isn't a single square inch of my body that isn't in some kind of pain from the beating I took yesterday, but Michael is sticking his neck out for me again, and I'm not going to let him down.

“I don't think it's a good idea,” Mr. Packer says to Michael.

“Please, coach?” Michael says.

“I'm okay, Mr. Packer,” I reassure him.

Mr. Packer sighs, shrugs, and without looking at me, calls out, “PHILIP SKYLER! SUB IN ON LEFT WING ON BLUE SQUAD.”

I grab a stick and stand to the left of the face-off circle, next to Michael.

“ANYONE ELSE FROM RED OR YELLOW SQUAD WANT TO JOIN BLUE SQUAD FOR A SHIFT?”

No one on the bench moves or makes a sound.

“THEN IT'S FIVE-ON-FOUR HOCKEY. TEAM WHITE WITH THE MAN ADVANTAGE.”

Mr. Packer strides over to the stage, snatches up the puck he's left there.

“He doesn't think you belong here, Philip,” Michael whispers to me. “Prove him wrong.”

Mr. Packer returns, holds the orange plastic puck over the face-off circle. “Remember, Michael, if Philip gets hurt, it's not my fault,” he says, loudly enough for the other players to understand that they've just been given permission to try to hurt me.

The whistle screeches and the puck hits the floor. Michael wins the face-off, and jabs the puck over to me. The adrenaline surges through me. Everything becomes more vivid. Time slows. I see and hear everything.

I duck Turner Thrift's elbow (he was one of the guys who held onto Michael while Grum and Grunt beat me up yesterday). I fake a shot at the goalie, then flip the puck over Turner's stick to Michael. As the goalie moves over to take Michael's shot away, I rush forward, dodging a shoulder-checking attempt from Sam Simpson. Michael passes the puck between Sam's feet, right onto the blade on my stick like he always does. My wrist shot hits the net over the goalie's shoulder.

After the whistle blows, Turner Thrift shoves me from behind. I heard him coming, though, so my hands were already out to cushion the fall. I do a few quick pushups, then I get up and grin at Turner (which, with my distorted features, resembles a wolf snarling). He gives me the finger as he backs away. Mr. Packer pretends not to notice any of this.

“Nice shot, Philip,” Brian Passmore says to me.

“Beginner's luck, Monkeyface,” says Trevor Blunt, who is playing for the same squad I am (he was the other guy who held onto Michael yesterday).

From the bench, Cecil Bundy claps and cheers. It may be the first time that I've seen him smile during gym class. In fact, it may be the first time that I've seen Cecil smile at school.

Sam Simpson calls out to Cecil, “Siddown, Cecil, before I re-arrange your face.”

Mr. Packer does not overhear this threat. Cecil stops smiling and sits down. Mr. Packer stands at the centre of the gym and holds the puck over his head.

“You take this face-off, Philip,” Michael says.

I change places with him, and cross sticks with Sam Simpson, who says, “Watch you don't lose a finger or an eye, Monkeyface.”

Although Mr. Packer is standing right beside us, he somehow fails again to hear Sam's threats. The whistle chirps, and he throws the puck to the floor. I beat Sam to it, pass it over to Michael, then sidestep the slashing blade of Sam's stick as I rush past him, my eyes and fingers still intact.

Phys. Ed. class is over now, and we're in the boys' change room, getting back into our regular school clothes. I ducked a lot of elbows, dodged a few shoulder and hip-checks, and jumped over several stick blades jabbed out in attempts to trip me, but I didn't fall a second time.

The change-room banter is different today, and it isn't just because Grant and Graham Brush aren't in here swinging their penises around. We weren't officially keeping score, but everyone knows that the four-man Blue squad beat the five-man White squad by a score of ten to two. I got five goals, with assists from Michael, and Michael got five, with passes from me. Ten short-handed goals from the Skyler Brothers.

By the end of gym class, the Red and Yellow squad guys were cheering every time Michael or I touched the puck. Caleb Carter got so excited he fell off the end of the bench; he's holding an ice pack on his elbow now. Even avowed individualist Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright patted me on the back as we filed out of the gymnasium and said, “Good game, Skyler.”

“Doesn't mean nothin',” Sam Simpson says. “They weren't our real teams. We weren't even keeping score.”

“So you fags can knock off the friggin' cheerleading already,” Turner Thrift adds. Brandon Doggart, White squad's goalie, assures his Blue Flames teammates, “Don't worry, boys, I wasn't even trying today. It was a charity game.”

“We'll start playing for
real
again when Graham and Grant get back,” Sam Simpson says, “and Monkeyface can go back to warming the bench for the Faggot squad.”

Michael strides over to the bench where Sam, Turner and Brandon sit.

“You guys lost fair and square, so stop being sucks about it,” he says, staring at each one of them in turn. “Wanna tell
me
my goals don't count? Wanna call
me
a faggot for beating you?”

None of them say anything else, but when Michael turns around, Sam Simpson looks at me and mumbles
“Faggot
Monkeyface”
under his breath.

Michael spins around, hissing, “What did you say, Simpson?”

I'm getting just as tired of people speaking
for
me as I am of them speaking
about
me. I am right here. I am not going away. “My name is
Philip
,” I say, “
not
Monkeyface,
Simpleton
.”

The volume of conversation in the room drops. Everyone knows how much Sam Simpson hates the nickname “Simpleton”; it probably has something to do with the fact that, other than Phys. Ed., he is failing every subject.

He rises in front of me and raises his fists. “Stand up, Monkeyface,” he demands. “Let's fuckin' go!”

I stand up. “What, Sam? You gonna re-arrange
my
face?” I stick my chin out. “Maybe you can fix it up for me a little. C'mon, Sam, do me a favour.”

A few of the guys chuckle at this.

“Ah, screw you!” Sam barks. He retreats to the bench on the other side of the dressing room.

“You're so dead at recess, Monkeyface,” Brandon Doggart says. “I'm gonna make your right eye match your left one.”

I am not putting up with this crap for the rest of my life. I walk over to where Brandon sits. “Just in case you missed it earlier, my name is Philip.”

“No, faggot,” Brandon says, “your name is Monkeyface.”

“Okay then, Doggart. And from now on, your name will be Dogfart.” I sniff the air. “Kinda fits.”

The dressing room is completely silent now. Brandon shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Monkeyface, you are
so
fucking dead at recess. So. Fucking. Dead.”

“You must have learned that each-word-as-it's-own-sentence technique from Coach Packer, eh?” I say.

“Dead,” is all Brandon says, then he stares at me, glowering, unblinking.

His stare won't kill me, though. In fact, nothing he is prepared to do will actually kill me. He can punch me, kick me, throw elbows at my face during a floor hockey game, call me names, whatever. Nothing he or anyone else here is prepared to do will kill me. I didn't die yesterday, and I'm not going to die today.

“You know what, Brandon?” I say, “Why wait until recess? Why don't you stand up right now and kill me?”

“Philip . . . ” Michael says.

“Come on, Brandon. Stand up.
Kill me
. Take my life. Do it.
Murder
me. Make me stop breathing. Make my heart stop beating. Make my brain stop thinking. Do it.
Kill me.
Come on.”

Brandon Doggart unlocks his eyes from mine and looks over at my brother. “What the hell is wrong with this kid? Has he got mental problems?”

“Nothing's wrong with him,” Michael snaps.

I look around the dressing room. “Actually, guys, there
is
something wrong with me. I have a genetic defect. I was born with a deformed face. And it
does
make me look sort of like a monkey.”

Wow. It is so quiet in here.

“And if you feel you need to remind me about it by calling me Monkeyface, go ahead. I'll live.”

I make eye contact with Caleb Carter, Stevie Underwood, and Bradley Miller, who are wide-eyed, teetering on the edge of the bench nearest the dressing room door. Then I sit down on the bench beside Cecil Bundy, who is sniffling. “It's okay, Cecil,” I tell him. “You'll live, too.”

Mr. Packer strides into the change room. He has already changed back into his Vice Principal's suit, and he speaks pure Vice Principal.

“In case I don't see you boys again today,” he says, “everyone have a safe and restful Christmas holiday. And, for those of you who play for the Blue Flames, a reminder that it's not a holiday from hockey — we've still got a full practice Monday afternoon.”

He turns to Michael, points a thumb in my direction. “Can he skate?”

I'm right here, Packer! I'm not deaf!
“I can skate,” I say.

“He can skate,” Michael confirms.

“Good,” Mr. Packer says. “Bring him with you to practice on Monday. Maybe we can teach him a few things.”

Brown Is Not a Colour

A
t recess I see Adeline Brown quietly making her way toward the back of the schoolyard. She's gripping her
Bible Stories for Children
book in one hand, and the brown paper bag containing her recess snack in the other.

“Hey, Adeline!” I say as I catch up with her.

“Oh, Philip, it's you,” she says with relief. Then she studies my face, her brown eyes amplified to bug-like proportions by her thick, old-fashioned glasses.

“That looks terrible,” she says. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as it hurts other people to look at it.”

“No, no,” she says, her cheeks flushing a deep red, “I wouldn't . . . I didn't mean . . . I meant your black eye.”

“It's okay,” I say, smiling as best I can. “I was just kidding. Self-deprecating humour. Ha ha.”

“You know I would never make fun of your . . . ” She pauses, studies her buckled, Pilgrim-like shoes. “I'm not exactly a fashion model myself.” She tucks her
Bible Stories for Children
under her arm, reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a sleeve of cold french fries coated in congealed fat, and a small jar of “Cheez.” She dips a few fries into the iridescent orange. “Want some?” she offers.

I politely decline. If this is her mother's idea of a nutritious afternoon snack, it's no wonder Adeline has weight problems.

“I just wanted to thank you for standing up and telling Mr. Brush what happened yesterday, Adeline.”