All the Broken Things (11 page)

Ernie jumped on the lower shelf of the cart and pushed with one foot, riding it until they reached the classroom door. “Don’t tell,” he said. It was an order not a plea.

When they entered, Teacher was saying how the most important thing about the two stories—Orpheus and Sir Orfeo—was the risk they both took in going down to the underworld to save someone they loved. This was their heroic deed. “Over the next weeks, we will speak more about this story, but for now, I wonder if anyone can tell me what makes a person a hero?”

Ernie’s hand shot up, which surprised everyone. “Someone who sings dogs to sleep,” he said, and many in the class laughed.

“Very funny,” said Teacher. “But children, really, what makes a hero a hero?”

“He’s someone who loves so much, he does valiant deeds,” Sally offered.

Bo watched the back of her head, the perfect part of her hair, and the long brown braids, one on either side.

“Yes, class. Did you hear what Sally said?” Sally’s shoulders softened and her back straightened.

“Yes,” they answered together, grateful for Sally’s answer. The class breathed out a breath they’d been holding hard. They looked toward the film projector.

“Sally, you get the lights, please, and, Emily and Peter, pull the blinds down.”

Teacher was now leaning into the projector, squinting, trying to find the right feed. “I’m fitting this film in before the lunch bell, but really it is part of the history lesson. I would like you to think of heroes when you watch it, please.” She was nervous about working the projector and the class loved her more when she was like this, a
real
human, like them. “I think it goes here,” she said, fiddling with the film.

“It goes in there, Miss,” said Bo. He showed her the right slot in the receiving winder. She smiled at him in a way that made Bo forget for a second that she was his teacher, and he smiled back. He was glad they weren’t talking about monsters anymore.

She hit a switch and said, “Now sit back, class.”

The theme song, full of trumpets, rolled over them. There were little kids in the film watching a museum display of toys. Laughing. Suddenly the toys began to do things, and the children laughed harder. Then there were G.I. Joe dolls in camouflage. They were just dolls at first, but then they began to move, doing what soldiers do,
and the children in the film became serious, because now they were watching a war through the display-case glass.

Teacher stopped the film and asked, “What is happening?”

Bo heard Emily say, “The children’s imaginations are coming true.”

And Teacher said, “Good,” and let the film run again, and now the G.I. Joe dolls killed one another, a jet dropped bombs, there was a river of blood, and the movie-children stared and stared.

Bo swallowed, and held his breath. For him it was memory.

Teacher began to speak over the credits.

“War,” said Teacher. “Why do we have war?” The film flapped against the reel and someone turned the lights on.

Bo sat very still and tried not to blink. He sent his mind to wander in Orange’s blue castle. He fought knights on her behalf, and then he ran and ran around the track, and thought about Loralei and smelled her and fought her again and again, and in this way he stopped himself from listening to Teacher and the class speak of war. Then it was quiet, and Teacher was looking at him and he realized they were alone.

“The bell rang,” she said.

He got up and gathered his things.

“Bo,” Teacher said, as he was about to leave.

“Yes, Miss Lily.”

She was biting her bottom lip and looking worried. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s in the curriculum.”

“Okay.” Bo nodded, but he felt sick. He had to get home to Orange. But he could see that Teacher wasn’t done with him.

“Remember I once told you where I worked before becoming a teacher?”

He did. Her summer job for two years before teachers’ college had been in a chemical plant that made Agent Orange in a small town outside Toronto. “It doesn’t matter,” he’d said.

“It does matter. It’s important for everyone to understand that their actions have consequences. War is bad.”

Bo turned away. He thought of Father Bart saying this same thing to him about stealing the Host. War is bad, he thought. But war also made Orange.

“I have to go take care of my sister,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

And Teacher just nodded.

B
O
’
S MUM HAD ALREADY LEFT
for work when he got home and Orange lay on the floor of her room splashed in her own vomit.

She slept, her breathing thick with mucus. He lifted her so that she would not wake, put her on the mattress. He washed the sick from her cheeks and from the wispy hair
near her ears. Vomit congealed inside the curl of her ear too, and he took a damp cloth and wiped it away. When she was tidy and he’d cleaned up the mess on the floor and made sure she was peaceful, he called the hospital, asked for Rose Ngô. It was some time before she picked up.

“Mum, it’s Bo.”

“Bo,” she said, and he could hear surprise in her voice. “Why are you calling me? What is the matter?”

“Sister is sick, Mum.”

“Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll bring some medicine home.”

“She’s very sick. I have to go back to school, Mum. Her face is all red and she’s burning hot. She needs to see a doctor.”

“Bo, no,” said Rose, and here she switched to Vietnamese. “No more doctors, Bo.” She hissed this into the receiver and then she hung up the phone.

Orange didn’t wake up when he propped the window open, or when he tucked the sheets around her to try to keep her in one place until he got home. The whole house stank of sick. Before he called the hospital a second time, he watched Orange’s flushed face, the red only making the shape of it more marvellous and strange. His mother would not come to the phone, and the Muzak infuriated him so he hung up. He wiped Orange down once more with a cold cloth.

“Sorry, Orange. I have to go.”

T
EACHER SAID
, “Take out your copies of
Sir Orfeo
. How many of you read the poem over the weekend?” All of the girls put their hands up, and a few of the boys.

Bo saw that Ernie did not raise his hand, so he decided it would be better not to admit he had read the poem even though he had read it through twice. When the time came, he would vie for the role of the Fairy King, who said almost nothing except “Truly it is so / Take her by the hand and go / I want you to be happy with her!”

Then they began a reading, going around the class taking turns until the entire poem was read. It took almost the whole period, with Teacher stopping here and there to ask them questions. She wanted them to understand everything about the poem and its story so that when she rewrote it as a play, they would truly enter the spirit of it. “A play is a little piece of magic,” she said. “If it’s done well.”

Emily had her hand up.

“Yes, Emily,” said Teacher.

“In the Greek story, Orpheus has to promise he won’t turn around when he leaves Hades. But he does. He turns around to make sure Eurydice is there, and she dies again.”

“That’s right.”

“Why doesn’t that happen in
Sir Orfeo
?”

“It’s a really good question,” said Teacher. “I don’t really know. No one knows. But one thing is true. Whenever someone retells a story, bits get added and bits get lost.”

“I like this version better,” said Emily.

Teacher said, “Me too.”

When they were done reading, Teacher doled out parts, the class’s anxiety and excitement pressing them into one great feeling. A boy named Michael had got to read the Fairy King section and had said the lines with such conviction, Bo had no doubt who would be King. He thought again about working the curtain, how pleasant that would be.

Several of the girls cried when Emily was picked for Heurodis.

“And I’ve given the role of Sir Orfeo to Bo,” said Teacher.

The class fell silent. It was like Bo had entered a shadow. His classmates could not see him in this role. They would not. But Emily’s face lit when this was revealed.

“It’s a play,” said Ernie, to snap her out of it.

“Obviously I know that,” she said.

The class erupted into laughter, and then chatter, and Teacher let it get wild.

Bo looked at Teacher. “It will be too many lines, Miss,” he said.

“It will be a challenge,” Teacher said, tilting her head and smiling.

“I don’t want the part.” He had said it louder than he meant to, and now the students quieted and looked at him. It was as if they had never considered he might want or not want anything.

Teacher sat on the edge of her desk and gazed at them all. “I gave you each a role that I think will be good for you. That I hope will help you develop into good adults. I’ve given a lot of thought to this. I also want you to know your character so that as we study the poem and its history this term, you will come to know these characters even better. That will happen as we begin to look more closely at the Greek myth of Orpheus and compare some of the stories, and the people in them.”

Peter’s hand shot up.

“Yes?”

“Ernie and I play a tree.”

The class burst into laughter again—even Bo laughed, careful not to catch Ernie’s eye.

E
RNIE HELD
B
O
’
S LARYNX
with the palm of his hand, shoving him again and again into the gym wall. Bo strangled as Ernie whispered, “Orfeo, Orfeo, Orfeo.” They were in gym class, and Mr. Morley was late. Peter watched like they were on TV, his eyes glazed, entranced.

Shut up, Bo thought. He hadn’t wanted the part. He slammed back with his torso, pushed Ernie away long enough to adjust his position, make himself less vulnerable. He made like he was recuperating, then rammed his head into Ernie’s stomach, pushing through and, when Ernie fell, landed astride him. He pinned Ernie’s arms to the ground.

“Jesus,” said Peter.

Mr. Morley’s head appeared just above the horizon of boys—his tawny hair, some of which he had already lost, and a blush of angry pink rising on his face.

“What’s this?” he said.

He sentenced the whole class to ten minutes of fast laps. Mr. Morley sat on a chair in the middle of the gym until they were done. He went from visibly furious to calm in those ten minutes, and when he called for them to stop running, they came to him, panting, out of breath. He gestured and they understood. Bo expected to be sent to the office. He wondered if Ernie would be sent too.

“Today,” said Mr. Morley, “you’ll learn to fight properly. Peter, twenty push-ups for blaspheming. Bo, get the mats. Ernie, help him.”

“Cobra Clutch!” someone squealed.

“Wrestling,” said Mr. Morley.

They hauled out an old mat set, pieced this together in the middle of the gymnasium. It was a bull’s-eye, a huge dartboard laid out on the ground. There was
something ceremonial in setting it up, amplified by Mr. Morley’s quietness.

“This is an old sport,” he said. “The rules have evolved over centuries.” He showed them how to enter the wrestling arena, how to shake hands. “No oil, no sweat.” He dried his own arms with a towel. He wore an undershirt and shorts. “Next class I will bring singlets.”