Duck Boy Read online

  “Why am I doing this?”

  His steps broke the ice until he was up to his thighs. Once the water was too deep to use his feet to break the ice, he began to punch the pond ice with his fists.

  “Get the Duck Boy! Get the loser,” David commanded. The group on the shore hurled anything they could find at Steve, showering him with ice and water. Another picked up his backpack and hurled it into the pond, where it floated, sort of.

  Steve hobbled on his tiptoes in frigid water almost up to his chest. The freezing water burned his ribcage, making it hard to breathe. He was still a few feet from where the frantic duck sat locked in its frozen seat. As he bobbed closer to the duck, he realized that if he wanted to free it he’d have to confront water that was over his head. And he really couldn’t swim.

  The school bell rang, and a few more rocks and sticks spattered around Steve and the duck before the group of students headed to school, leaving Steve, the duck, the pond, and the ice to battle it out.

  Steve struggled to keep his chin above the water. The chill numbed his mind and stole his breath.

  He lunged towards the duck, smashed down with his fists, hoping to crack the ice around the duck without having to attempt to swim. But the ice broke around his hands, leaving the ice around the duck intact.

  Steve allowed his body to sink under the freezing pond water so he could give a strong push to where the duck sat. His head slowly dropped beneath the surface, falling into a world of black water.

  He looked down. The chrome skeleton of a shopping cart shimmered under him. He looked up at the frantic, frozen mallard—its webbed feet paddled in terror, still imprisoned. Feathers flashed, were they red? and a wink of sunlight turned the ice gold. Steve stood on the cart and prepared to push himself up to the surface.

  But somehow his right foot slid into a small gap in the shopping cart’s metal grid. When he realized what had happened, he tried to pull his foot through. He planted his left foot on the outside of the cart and pushed, trying to muscle his foot through the cart’s grate.

  The last of his dry breath bubbled through his mouth. His lungs burned. He tried to spin his body, but the hole in the cart’s shell wouldn’t allow it. The burn in his lungs became a raging fire. He thrashed mindlessly as the pain in his lungs and leg became unbearable.

  Hope left him alone in the black water. His body stopped fighting and hung above the shopping cart, now quiet.

  This is it. Dead Duck Boy.

  The icy black water seemed to leak through his skin, inside, taking his last moments.

  What a way to go.

  As his trapped foot relaxed, the shoe loosened and dropped away, belching a bubble before see-sawing to the pond bottom. Now smaller, his foot slowly slid through the grating, and he thrashed to the water’s surface.

  His face broke through the pond ice and he stuffed his burning lungs with bright morning air. The terror returned. Steve floundered his way towards the shore, leaving the duck behind.

  As he flailed to save his own life, a foot inadvertently broke the ice underneath the duck, freeing it from the pond’s surface. Frantic wings beat around Steve’s head as the bird took to the air. And the duck, probably feeling attacked, snapped at his hand. He would have hollered, except breathing and floating seemed more important.

  He felt like a 1000-pound rock. Flailing arm over arm, he tried imitating a front-crawl stroke he’d seen on TV.

  His TV swimming tired him, so he dropped down under the water again, trying to regain strength. He eyed the cart, which was now behind him. He bicycled his feet forward until he was standing.

  “Yes,” he said to himself, discovering the water was only up to his chest. “Yes, yes, yes.” With each step toward the shore, terror ebbed from his mind. He stopped for a moment, freezing water up to his chest, heaving, wondering if his lungs would ever be the same again.

  He realized for the first time since he entered the water that he was freezing. He reached instinctively for the house key he wore around his neck. It was gone.

  “Ah, crap,” Steve said angrily to himself. “Do I have to go to school LIKE THIS?” he shouted. He climbed out of the pond and noticed his missing shoe. “MY NEW SHOES!” he screamed. He kicked off the remaining Nike and hurled it into the pond. “This day sucks!”

  Home or school?

  He debated. His frozen thoughts moved slowly. He was probably almost a mile from home, and he had frozen feet slopping in wet socks. He had no house key. School was much closer. The choice seemed to come slowly and with great effort. His decision was a practical one, though humiliating.

  Up the steps, and through the main doors of the school. His wet socks slapped on the linoleum as he walked to class, leaving a trail of small puddles.

  I can barely think.

  He entered the Frown’s class, mid-lecture, and to the surprise of nearly everyone, plopped into his seat with a splat. The room went silent. A slow drip, drip, drip pattered onto the seat from his elbow.

  Just be normal.

  He smiled pleasantly, to suggest that nothing was wrong.

  The Frown, dumbfounded, joined him where he sat, inspecting him from head to toe. “Mr. Best. You are leaking in my classroom,” he said slowly. Drip, drip, drip.

  Steve, not quite himself, wasn’t really listening. He was staring at his hands, which were an interesting shade of blue. He would have smiled, but his face felt numb.

  The Frown followed Steve’s stare. His scowl burst into confusion for a few moments. Then alarm. “Go see the nurse, Mr. Best,” he ordered. “Now.”

  Though Steve couldn’t remember quite how he got there, he ended up in the nurse’s office, where he was given dry clothes pilfered from the lost and found. The ball-shaped nurse wrapped him in blankets and made him sit bundled until he warmed up.

  The clothes. They didn’t fit. They didn’t match. Like his life. The shoes were size 12 at least. He wandered through the day looking homeless, which made for easy jokes. Even worse, one of the four boys videoed him stomping into the pond, and posted it to YouTube. He was the joke of the school. But the joke wasn’t funny. As he thought back, he couldn’t even remember if the duck was OK or not. By lunchtime, the sun had melted the ice from the pond anyhow.

  The duck would probably have survived.

  And it was true. The newspaper had reported that there were too many ducks in the area. Everything added up to one big disaster. To top it off, the school called his dad, who had to leave work early to pick him up.

  Duck Boy. Duck Boy.

  The nickname somehow stuck. Steve had only two friends at school who called him by his real name. Everyone else called him Duck Boy. And he hated it. The name echoed in his thoughts whenever he felt like a twit, whenever he felt fear.

  Steve’s mind resurfaced in the principal’s office where he waited.

  Dad’s here to pick me up again. I’m in trouble again. Not much has changed.

  As the secretary breezed back into the office, the main door closed behind her, popping the principal’s door open a couple of inches. The two muddled voices inside the office became clear.

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.” Steve recognized his dad’s tone immediately. “He was never like this. I’m not…I’ve given up. I don’t know what to do. I’m having my own difficulties at work.”

  “I know you’ve had some difficult times recently, since your wife, um…er, disappeared, but whatever the reason, Steve is not functioning in the classroom. His work is sloppy, when he does it.” That drawl belonged to the principal, Mrs. Wilcox. “He has no ability to focus on his work.” The drawl paused. “If we cannot help turn him around in the month after Christmas, he’ll have to repeat the grade. I’m sorry. I have no choice.”

  Steve felt a knot clamp around his stomach.

  I won’t be going to high school next year. I’ll be fifteen in September and still in middle school.

  “He’s just having a rough time,” Mr. Best pleaded. “He needs a
break.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Best. I’m not in the business of giving breaks. The Board expects me to make sure each student meets the standards. It’s my job. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I can’t bend the rules to help you or your son. It’s hard to take now, but in the long run it’s always best.”

  Doug Best jerked the door open and noticed Steve waiting. “Let’s go,” he sputtered.

  They walked through the now-empty school corridors. A janitor was loading the last looseleaf from the floor into a recycling bin. A few straggling teachers chatted.

  But Steve and his dad weren’t talking. Mr. Best’s pale, clamped features seemed to have scared his hair into confusion.

  This disheveled man unlocked the car doors and slumped into the driver’s seat. Once settled inside he heaved a sigh, reached up to his throat and loosened the knotted tie around his neck.

  “Dad? Are you OK?” Steve asked.

  Mr. Best folded his hands and rested them on top of the steering wheel and rested his forehead on them. His eyes closed.

  “I don’t know if I’m going to make it, Son.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I just don’t know.” He dropped his hands from the steering wheel and sat up. Key into the ignition. The car choked to life in the winter air, and he wrestled it into drive.

  The car’s heater whirred weakly against the frosted windshield, struggling to keep a small oval of the windshield clear. Steve watched the frost for a few minutes as Dad prepared a fatherly chat. A chat always followed one of Steve’s bad days.

  The pattern was as predictable as peanut butter, and as tired. It wasn’t as though Dad were a bad man. Just lost. Lost, like Steve. He took his wife’s disappearance so personally he could barely function any more. He wanted to do something, to make everything better, but there was nothing to be done, no words to say, no handy heroics or caped cartoon conquerors to save the day. A lecture was as good as it got.

  “Listen, Steve,” he began, spouting clouds of steam. “I know things haven’t been easy since your mother left.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I meant disappeared. Your life and mine…both of us haven’t done so well. But I really need you to try…you know…to get it back together.”

  “Dad, I heard.” Steve said, cutting in. He’d heard this speech hundreds of times over the past year and a half since his mom disappeared. “If I don’t improve in January, no high school.”

  Steve’s words seemed to anger his dad. “I don’t know what good talking does,” he muttered. “You know what’s going on better than I do.” He tried to continue to talk, but his mouth fumbled and hissed steam as he began another sentence. “I… It’s…you….” He shook his head in obvious frustration. “I can’t deal with this any more, Steve.” His voice suddenly became a yell. “If you know what’s happening, why can’t you do something about it? I’m trying to hold things together here, Steve. I need you to pull your end. All you have to do is your schoolwork. That’s not so much, is it?” Dad’s yell rang and faded in the winter air.

  “That’s not too much to ask, is it?” his dad repeated in a quiet, desperate voice.

  Steve didn’t answer. When you’re drowning it’s best to save your breath.

  Steve watched his father strain as black waves of emotion washed over his face. Slowly his face returned to its exhausted, frantic look. “I’m sorry, Son. I didn’t mean what I just said. I had a very rough day at work. I’m taking it out on you.” The hum of the car tires on the road filled the car for a few minutes. “I have another piece of news.” His muscles strained and streaked like lightning bolts from his jaw down his neck. “I’m being forced to work this holiday. A bigger firm bought our company. And if I want to keep my job, I have to work this Christmas holiday.”

  Doug Best was a salesman. He sold fire detection and control equipment to industrial clients. A few years ago, he had loved his job. All he talked about were the things he sold—fire alarm systems, sprinkler systems, and all the related equipment. Steve loved to listen to him discuss and demonstrate the equipment. In fact, Steve felt like he knew as much as Dad did. But, something had changed. Dad didn’t enjoy his job as much, especially since his wife disappeared.

  “My new boss booked me for a trip to Indonesia over Christmas. I’ll be selling to some companies in Indonesia that don’t celebrate Christmas. I won’t be in my hotel room. I’ll be working every day. So, you’ll have to go to your great aunt’s house for the Christmas break.”

  It took a minute for Steve to make the connections and realize whose house he would decorate for the holiday. “What?” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you’re going to do this to me. It so completely sucks. Can’t I go with you on your trip?”

  “I wish you could, Son.” Dad shook his head and frowned.

  “Did you check with Brian’s family?” Steve asked desperately. Dad nodded. “They can’t take me?”

  “They’re heading to Kicking Horse to ski for the holiday,” he replied.

  “They could take me.”

  “Steve,” Dad said in a serious tone. “Do you know how broke we are?”

  “No.”

  “There’s no way around it. We’ll celebrate our Christmas early, at home tonight. Then I’ll drive you over to your aunt’s later. I have to catch a plane to Denver about 10:30 tonight. And Steve…” Steve looked up at his dad’s worn face. “I’m sorry.”

  It was the second Christmas since she’d disappeared. The first had been horrible. This one looked like it was only going to be awful. Only slightly better than going to school. Or the dentist.

  The evening was uneventful. “I wish I could be home for Christmas Day, but this is all I can do,” Dad said through a mouthful of fried rice and ginger beef. Steve and his dad exchanged their presents while picking away at boxes of cold Chinese food. There weren’t any Christmas feelings to make this moment feel festive. The smiles were forced and painful, and no one attempted a “ho, ho, ho.” There was nothing there worthy enough to call Christmas—just presents, tinsel, and tension.

  The only Christmas sounds that played that night were the silver bells of the genuine, imitation antique telephone, which rang merrily as a call came in. Looking for any distraction he could find, Steve sprang off the couch to answer.

  “Hello, Steve. This is your Great Aunt Shannon,” said a warbled old voice. To Steve, her voice even smelled old. “Did your dad tell you to bring your mom’s research notebook? The police returned it to you a while ago, didn’t they? I think they gave it back to your father. He probably put it where it belongs—on your mom’s nightstand.”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” Steve answered, knowing exactly what she meant.

  “I’ll bet he forgot, the poor fellow,” Aunt Shannon said. “You do remember her notebook? The one she used for research.”

  “Yes, I remember, Aunt Shannon,” he replied.

  “I’m sure you have it back by now. It’s on her nightstand. Please remember that notebook for me. It’s very important for my research. You forgot it the last few times you came, you know.”

  “What research?” Steve asked, ignoring her last remark.

  “I’m going to find your mother, Deary,” Aunt Shannon said. “She hasn’t left you, you know. It’s just an experiment gone haywire.” She seemed to have no idea how much Steve didn’t want to talk about it. Any time Steve remembered his mom, her disappearance, or anything related to either, it felt as though someone had taken a sharp stick and poked him in the eye.

  “Whatever,” he muttered.

  “You’ll bring some soap and some clean underwear, too, won’t you? And I hope your dad asked you to behave yourself. You really should, you know.”

  “I’m planning on it.” Steve rolled his eyes as his dad looked on.

  “You know I don’t like to say goodbye,” said Aunt Shannon.

  “Right,” Steve said, as the line went dead at the other end. Goodbye, Steve thought, that’s the first thing I’d like to say.

&nb
sp; The suitcase slid around in the trunk and Steve swayed wildly from side to side as Mr. Best drove their rusty blue station wagon.

  “You’re kinda driving like a madman, Dad,” Steve commented, body-checking the door as the car rounded a corner too quickly.

  “I have to be there two hours before the flight leaves,” Dad complained. The car jounced to a stop at the front walk.

  He looked glumly at Steve, and then at his watch. Steve slammed the car door open with a crunch into a snowbank. Dad popped the trunk. Steve got out and closed the door. The frosted passenger window whined as it opened enough so Mr. Best could speak. “I’ll be back in two weeks,” he said, leaning over the passenger seat. “I’d come in, but I’m late.”

  Steve grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, and thumped the lid closed.

  “Oh my god!” he exclaimed. He returned to the open passenger window. “I forgot my backpack.” The backpack held the socks and underwear he needed for his Christmas stay. Dad sighed heavily, making Steve hasten to add, “But I know where the key is and I can get it myself. See you in two weeks, Dad. Have a good trip.” He tried to sound sincere as the closing passenger window moaned again. He turned to walk up the steps to the unwelcoming house.

  “Steve?” Mr. Best had opened his door and was standing outside of the car. He twisted his frown into a forced smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  Steve nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too, Dad.”

  His dad ducked into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed, and was gone before the steam from his words was eaten by the darkness.

  The night was suddenly silent as Steve trudged up the walkway to the house. On the front door of the house hung a fluorescent orange “BOO!” In the flowerbed, a white ghost rose out of an old unkempt grave. Through the door he could hear the sounds of someone playing something like “Jingle Bells” on an organ. The organist hit several wrong keys at a time, but the music didn’t slow down or stop. Steve rang the doorbell.