Free No Small Thing by Natale Ghent Page B

admiring the sign, and somehow I forget about Cheryl Hanson and how mad I was.
    “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.”
    * * *
    Summer is really over now and I’m stuck behind a desk again. I’m in grade eight though I’m supposed to be in grade seven. Ma said it would give me a challenge to skip a grade. But the only challenge I’m facing is being the youngest kid in the class. I may get good marks but I don’t like school, no matter what grade they put me in. I decided years ago that school isn’t about learning, it’s more like crowd control. They can’t teachyou anything really interesting because they’re too busy making sure the kids don’t freak out and wreck stuff. I would hate school entirely, except for the fact that Cheryl Hanson is in two of my classes. And then I remember the fair and my blown attempt at meeting her. I’ve never had any luck talking to girls. For me, talking to girls is like trying to catch a knife by the handle. It’s dangerous and kind of stupid. Mostly you just cut yourself to pieces and wonder why you try to do it at all. But sometimes, when things are just right, you can make it work, and when you do, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.
    As I’m sitting there, I realize I’ll never have the guts to talk to Cheryl. It’s not just because I’m younger, either. It’s because my family is poor and everyone knows it. What girl wants to go out with a poor kid whose socks never match and who wears Toughskins from Sears instead of Levi’s? Probably not too many. Ma tries, but she can’t afford to buy us new clothes all the time, if at all. Not that I’d want to wear bell-bottoms anyway, because they look so stupid. But I would like a pair of painter-pants, or even a pair of tan cords….
    The teacher drones on and on. I watch the kid next to me tracing around the Adidas logo on hissneakers with a pen. Around and around and around. I swear the clock is ticking backwards. I’m about ready to scream when the bell finally rings.
    Outside the kids are running and hollering, thankful to be set free. Orange and red leaves swirl everywhere and the schoolyard glows with a honey-coloured light. I see Cid talking with some friends on the steps of the high school, so I leave her alone and go to look for Queenie at her school. I’m just about across the street when I notice a group of guys around Queenie. I can’t tell what they’re doing at first, but then it dawns on me that they’re making fun of her for the way she goes off dancing sometimes.
    The first kid doesn’t even see me as my fist hits him in the side of the head and sends him flying. I manage to get in some good punches before the other guys jump on me. They punch and kick me and I punch and kick back, but there are just too many of them. Someone hits me in the back with something—maybe a piece of wood—and I fall to the ground. They’re kicking and kicking me and I’m just trying to protect my face and ears. Through all the punching and yelling I can hear a girl screaming, and suddenly I realize it’s Cid. She’s hollering and swinging her bookbag like a medieval knight swinging a mace.
    “Get away from him! Get away from him!”
    I’m thankful that she wants to help, but all I can think about now is how this is going to look to the rest of the kids. Cid manages to scatter the fighters because even the worst guy in the world hesitates before hitting a girl. One guy spits at her as he’s running away and Cid spits right back, then helps me to my feet. Queenie stands there, her hands covering her eyes, until the punks are gone. I can taste my own blood on my lips and my head is splitting. Cid frets over me but I brush her hands away.
    “I’m okay.”
    “They would have killed you.”
    “You should have stayed out of it.”
    “Look at your eye….”
    “I said I’m okay!”
    Cid turns her back on me, and I know she’s furious. That’s when I notice Cheryl Hanson looking at me from the sidewalk. She