The Boy in the Box, page 18
“Let’s do it,” Samuel said.
Norval looked over his shoulder to check for teachers and then pulled himself up onto the stage. Luckily, he had been a member of the crew for the most recent school musical, Beans, Beans, Beans! He slipped behind one of the curtains and used a rope to lower one of the flies that were used to hold up scenery. Once it was on the ground, he opened his backpack and unrolled the banner.
Norval and Samuel had made the banner together. Three bed sheets stitched end to end, it was an impressive six feet high and twenty-four feet long. Attached to its top at two-foot intervals were ties made from shoelaces, and now Norval used them to attach the banner to the fly, scrambling on his knees across the stage. Panting from both exertion and fear, he looked around for Samuel.
He was there, all right. Holding the principal’s microphone in his hand. He gave Norval a thumbs-up.
“Here goes,” Norval said, feeling as if he was about to seal his own fate. He went to the other side of the stage, counted to three, and then, as quickly as he could, hauled up the fly.
The banner unfolded perfectly. Next, he opened the curtains. Immediately, students began to notice it — how could they not, it was so large. They whispered, giggled, pointed. The red letters were enormous.
The unofficial, againstthe-rules, fantastic
SULLIVAN MINTZ CELEBRATION DAY!!!
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Samuel shouted into the microphone as he strode to the front of the stage.
Everyone turned to look at him, and somebody called out, “Way to go, Patinsky!”
Samuel waved. “That’s right. Today we’re going to celebrate the life of Beanfield student Sullivan Mintz. And we’re going to start it off . . . by dancing! Do it, Norval!”
Norval had almost forgotten the next step! He tripped across the stage to the sound console. Samuel had already plugged in his MP3 player; all Norval had to do was press play. He turned the volume all the way up, hit the button, and the cafeteria shook with the beat of drums and the wail of electric guitars. When he turned, he saw Samuel actually starting to dance. Right on stage, by himself, rocking his big body, shaking his butt, pointing his index fingers out at the other students, all with an enormous grin on his face. Norval couldn’t help laughing out loud. The lunchroom aides were laughing, too. Man, he thought, if only Sullivan could see this. More unbelievably, some of the students — girls, mostly — started swaying to the music. Then they started dancing! And then a few boys joined in!
“Yeah, baby, get down!” Samuel growled into the microphone. “Now, who’s got a memory of Sullivan they want to share? I mean, he was a student here, right? He went to class with us, walked the halls. Some of you must have something to say. Don’t be shy.”
At that moment, Norval saw something that made him freeze. Principal Washburb was moving up the aisle. Norval could see that he was shouting, but it was impossible to hear him over the music.
Washburb was having trouble getting through the dancing crowd. Somebody even elbowed him in the nose, knocking his glasses sideways. Turning again, Norval saw a girl pull herself up onto the stage. He recognized her; she was in the grade below them and always wore her hair in a ponytail. The girl took the microphone.
“At the beginning of the year,” she said, “my dog died. He was old, but it was still really sad. I was crying at my locker and this boy came up and asked me if I was okay. I showed him a photograph and he said that it must have been a really great dog. He was just sweet to me, that’s all. He made me feel better. I never even knew his name until I saw his picture in the paper. It was Sullivan Mintz. He was really nice. I guess I just want to say, ‘Thanks, Sullivan, wherever you are.’ ”
The girl’s eyes were shining. Quickly she gave the microphone back to Samuel and jumped down into the dancing crowd. “Yes, he was!” Samuel shouted, taking back the microphone. “Sullivan Mintz was a nice guy and we’ll never forget him!”
“Sullivan Mintz forever!” somebody shouted.
“Sullivan Mintz forever!” the crowd shouted back.
Everyone danced.
Principal Washburb finally reached the stage. He hauled himself up, caught his breath, and marched over to Samuel.
“You and your buddy are in for a world of pain,” he bellowed.
Samuel just kept on dancing.
SULLIVAN performed the following night and the one after that. Each time he grew a little more confident, of his juggling and his acting ability both. He started to sense more clearly the response from the audience — anticipation, fear, amazement. He could even tell when their attention lagged once or twice, although he hadn’t yet figured out how to tighten up those moments.
Everything seemed different to Sullivan now. He wasn’t just a bystander, somebody watching from the wings while the others performed. Now he, too, was a part of the show. When he was helping to set up the stage, he was also setting it up for himself. When he was going to sleep in the caravan, he was as tired from his performance as Esmeralda, Frederick, and Clarence were from theirs. When Master Melville sat down for dinner and said, “Eat up, my dears. You’ll need your strength,” he was talking to Sullivan, too.
And in small, subtle ways, the others treated him differently as well. Coming off the stage, Frederick didn’t insult him anymore. Instead he would say things like, “It’s an easy audience tonight,” or “Watch out for the heckler in the second row.” Esmeralda always noticed and complimented him when he did something particularly well. And Clarence, who had been his director, now talked to him like a fellow performer. Sullivan couldn’t help marveling at all the changes.
After his fourth performance, as he gathered up props, Sullivan noticed that the line to buy bottles of Hop-Hop Drops was longer than usual. Could it possibly have anything to do with his act? As he stood watching, he noticed some people in the line looking at him and whispering, as if he were some sort of celebrity. He felt himself blush with pride and turned away to help Frederick bring down the stage.
When the camp had been cleaned up and the last bottle sold, the other kids brushed their teeth in the field with cups of water. But Sullivan didn’t join in or follow them into the caravan. Instead, he remained standing outside, feeling the cool air and watching Master and Mistress count the money and lock it in the metal box. He wasn’t sure why he was waiting there. Perhaps he wanted Master Melville to say something more, to tell him again what a hit he had become. But no, it wasn’t that. He realized it was Mistress he really wanted to hear from.
Mistress Melville alone had not once complimented his performance. When he came off the stage, he couldn’t help looking to see if she had been watching him. But she was always tuning her banjoukulele or wiping down her harmonica. He didn’t know why it should be important to him, when she was clearly a mean and cold-hearted person. Maybe it was that she was so pale and beautiful that a single kind word from her would mean more than a hundred from someone else.
Master Melville packed up the table and chair while Mistress picked up the money box. Perhaps now was the time he might coax her to say something. Even if all she said was that he wasn’t terrible, he thought he would be satisfied.
She began to walk by. Quickly he said in an unnaturally high voice, “It was a good show, wasn’t it, Mistress?”
She stopped. And looked at him. “Why are you talking to me, boy?”
“No reason. I was just —”
“And why are you standing there when you should be in the caravan? You’re not planning to run again, are you?”
“No, Mistress, I wasn’t. I only thought —”
“You thought? Why do you believe that you have a right to think anything? I’ll be the one to tell you what to think. You had better understand that you are now a part of this medicine show. So get yourself ready for bed. You have to perform again tomorrow. And the night after that and the night after that. This is your life now, boy.”
She walked away, the money jingling in the box. Master Melville put out the last lantern, and suddenly, it was dark. Sullivan heard low voices in the caravan, the snorting of the horse, a cricket starting to chirp in the tall grass. Master Melville came up and said quietly, “You must be tired. Time for a much-deserved sleep. Go on with you now.” So Sullivan went on. He found his toothbrush and walked to the edge of the field, where he brushed his teeth. He went behind a tree to pee. He washed his hands and face in the basin that had been left out, then he tossed away the dirty water and clipped the basin to its place underneath the caravan.
He went to the back of the caravan and climbed inside. And then, as Master Melville closed the door and the room went black, and he heard the key in the lock, Sullivan remembered something. He remembered his parents, Gilbert and Loretta. He remembered his sister, Jinny. And Manny, too. He thought of Norval, his one school friend, and even, for some reason, of Samuel Patinsky. And he realized that he had not thought of them all day, not once. He had thought only of his performance on stage. Had looked forward to it, had hoped to succeed more than he had hoped for anything before, and when he had succeeded he gloried in the applause and shouts and praise. In all of that, he had forgotten the people back home. He had forgotten the family that loved him. And forgetting, even for that short time, felt like letting go. It had been a relief, he realized now, not to be missing them all the time.
The caravan began to move. Somebody turned over. Somebody else sighed in his sleep. Sullivan stared up into the darkness. He had friends — his first real friends, who cared about him and who relied on him. He was good at something that really mattered to him, something that was valued and important and that thrilled him to do. Mistress Melville was right. He was a member of the medicine show. He would keep looking for a way to escape, of course, and eventually he had to get back to his family. But for now, he thought he could be happy here. He’d found a place where he belonged.
I want to thank my two fine editors, Lynne Missen at Penguin Canada and Lynne Polvino at Clarion Books, for their hints, nudges, and explicit requests, all of which helped to make this a better book. Also thanks to Marie Campbell for shepherding the manuscript to its proper homes. And a final grateful acknowledgment to the Ontario Arts Council for a Works in Progress grant.
Cary Fagan, The Boy in the Box
