27

The Birthday

The caretaker had just unlocked the doors when Mr. Peters arrived.

“How’s that kid of yours doing?” Mr. Grant asked.

Mr. Peters slowed his pace to let him catch up. He knew whom he meant but did not like the way he called Dylan that kid.

“Who are you referring to?” Mr. Peters asked.

“You know, that new kid.”

“I don’t have any new kids,” Mr. Peters responded.

Mr. Grant looked down the hall and thought for a moment.

“Derek…no, Dylan. How’s Dylan doing?”

“He’s okay.”

“Boy, he’s quite the sight. His hair’s a mess, his clothes smell, and it doesn’t look like he ever bathes.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have the ideal life.”

Mr. Peters did not want to talk anymore, so he walked into his room, pretending not to hear the next question.

Mr. Grant followed him and repeated his question. “Did you need a broom yesterday?”

“Uh…no…why?”

“Well, I caught Dylan running out of the boiler room at light speed.”

Mr. Peters tilted his head and stared over the caretaker’s shoulder. “Really?”

“Yeah, he said that he was looking for a broom, but he looked pretty guilty if you ask me.”

“Hmm…I’ll talk to him. You might want to keep that door locked, Mr. Grant.”

“Yeah, I usually do.” Mr. Grant bit his lip and gazed at the ground. “That’s the strange part. I remember locking it yesterday.”

Mr. Peters was at his desk working when Mrs. Evans entered the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Peters.”

“Good morning.” Mr. Peters stopped what he was doing and looked up. “Oh, thank-you for taking care of my star pupils yesterday. What was the end result anyway? I didn’t get a chance to talk to you.”

“Albert is so strange. I couldn’t get a rational thought out of him. He doesn’t know why he provokes Dylan. He said he’s afraid of him, and when I asked him why he teases him, you know what he said?”

Mr. Peters shook his head.

“‘Birds gotta fly.’ That’s what he said.”

“What does that mean?” Mr. Peters chuckled.

“That’s what I asked him. He said, ‘Birds fly to get food. If they don’t fly, they get eaten by rodents. If rodents don’t get food, they die. If they die, the birds eat the rodents, so they can fly. If I could fly, I wouldn’t eat rodents.’”

Mr. Peters shook his head in disbelief. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Oh, that’s only the part I remember. He went on and on and on. I tell you, that kid’s got verbal diarrhea. I don’t think he can control the thoughts that come out of his mouth. He says things before he’s even aware of it. I had him write about why he teases Dylan and what he’ll do next time he gets the urge to provoke him. It took him two hours to write an illegible paragraph. Half the time he was dancing and doing strange movements with his arms. The secretary and I stared him down a few times, and then he’d quickly put his face back into his work.”

“What about Dylan?” Mr. Peters asked.

“He didn’t show up.”

“Oh, well isn’t that a surprise,” he said sarcastically.

“What about the behavioral lady?” Mrs. Evans inquired. “What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Jules.”

“Was she helpful?”

“A little. She’s going to come back, but for now she wants us to set up specific consequences for specific behaviors. She sent some suggestions to me in a email.”

Mr. Peters counted on his fingers. “One, if he’s disruptive or noncompliant in class, he goes to the office. Two, if he’s violent, shows aggression, or swears at someone, he’s to be sent home for the day—an informal suspension. Three, if he uses or displays weapons of any sort, he will suspended, and a meeting will be held at area office to discuss his future placement.”

“That sounds fair. I take it he doesn’t know this yet.”

“No, I’m going to tell him today. I came up with this behavior contract for him,” he said, handing it to Mrs. Evans.

“Did Mrs. Jules suggest this?” Mrs. Evans asked.

“Yeah, she thinks working toward something achievable will help him. These are all things he can do without too much difficulty. He doesn’t lose any points; he only gains points. This is one way for him to earn something, instead of always having things taken away from him.

“I think it’s worth a try, but I don’t have a lot of faith in behavior contracts. I’ve used them in the past, and they rarely help—especially for someone like Dylan. He has so many problems. This piece of paper isn’t going to change his life.”

“I don’t have much confidence in it either, but I thought I should give it a try.”

“Well, good luck.”

Mrs. Evans left the room, and just as she rounded the corner, Dylan stepped into the classroom.

“Today is my birthday!” he shouted.

“I thought you didn’t know when your birthday was,” Mr. Peters said.

“It’s today.”

“Remember I asked you when you arrived? You told me you didn’t know. I thought you were just being stubborn.”

“It’s today,” he repeated.

“What is the date today, Dylan?”

“My birthday.”

“So if I go look at the calendar,” Mr. Peters said with a smile, “it will say ‘Dylan’s birthday.’”

“No, probably not,” Dylan said flatly.

Dylan’s mood surprised Mr. Peters. He did not display any remorse for or even an awareness of the previous day’s events.

“What are you going to do for your birthday?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not going to celebrate?”

“We might have cake. Grandma told me I had to have a good day to get a birthday cake.”

Mr. Peters thought for a moment and tapped his forefinger on the desk. “Hmm. Here’s a thought—can I take you out for a birthday lunch?”

Dylan’s eyes widened, and he straightened up in his chair. “Where?”

“Wherever you want.”

His smile quickly disappeared. “Grandma won’t let me.”

“I’ll talk to her. Is she at home right now?”

“Yeah, she’s always home.”

“Before I call her, I’d like to go over some things. Have a seat.”

Dylan sat down on the chair his teacher had dragged across the floor, and Mr. Peters began explaining the potential consequences of his behaviors. Dylan didn’t say much but appeared to understand. He liked to idea of earning computer gaming time for good behavior.

“Can we shake on it?”

Dylan nodded and extended his hand.

“So you agree to everything we’ve discussed?”

“Yes.” Dylan nodded again.

“Okay, I’m holding you to this. Now, go outside and play.”

Dylan ran out of the classroom and slammed his body into the outside door. Mr. Peters walked into the library and dialed the familiar number.

“Ms. Truss?”

“Yes.” She coughed into the phone.

“Hello, this is Mr. Peters.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Peters, Dylan’s teacher.”

“Oh, right.”

“I just found out that today is Dylan’s birthday, and I’d like to take him out for a special lunch. Are you okay with this?”

“Uh…yeah…sure. Why?”

“I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but I thought it would be good for both of us to interact outside of the classroom.”

“Boy, you’re a sucker for punishment. Make sure you tell him your expectations before you leave because he can be a real…he can be such a jerk. You tell him I said that.”

“Uh…no, I won’t tell him that. That’s not the way I talk to kids.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

“Well, maybe you…” Mr. Peters stopped himself. “Uh, I have to go. Thank-you, Ms. Truss.” He slammed the phone down angrily and walked back to his room.

The news of their lunch date put a smile on Dylan’s face. He was in a happy, playful mood all morning, which was almost as disruptive as his defiant behavior. Mr. Peters had to remind him to calm down several times because he was starting to disrupt the class. The teacher did not come down on him too hard though, as his jovial mood was such an improvement over his usual one.

When the lunch bell rang, and most of the students had left the room, Mr. Peters asked Dylan where he wanted to go for lunch.

“Super Burger!”

Mr. Peters wrinkled up his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, all right. It’s your birthday. Grab your coat and wait for me at the front entrance. I’ll be there in a minute.”

When all of the students had left the classroom, he grabbed his coat and closed the door behind him.

“Going out for lunch today?” Miss Roland called.

“Yeah, I’ve got a lunch date with Dylan.”

She shot him a look of horror. “Aren’t you worried about reinforcing his bad behavior?”

Mr. Peters spoke through clenched teeth. “No! I don’t have that concern, Miss Roland.”

He sped away from her toward the office.

“And where are you going, Mr. Chevalier?” Mrs. Evans asked Dylan.

He put his hand to his mouth as if to cover up his voice and whispered, “Mr. Peters is taking me out for lunch.”

“Well, aren’t you special.”

He smiled. “It’s my birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday. I didn’t know it was your birthday.”

Mr. Peters went into the office to check his mailbox and came out the other door.

“Is the birthday boy ready?”

Dylan smiled at him.

“Well, let’s go then.”

“Which car is yours?” Dylan asked as they entered the parking lot.

“The green one.”

“That’s a piece of junk.”

Mr. Peters chuckled. “Excuse, me young man, but that happens to be the best car in the parking lot.”

“Yeah, right,” Dylan said with a laugh.

“The ’75 Dodge Dart is the best car ever made.”

“Then why are there rust holes on the side?”

“Those are ventilation holes. They’re supposed to be there. You realize that you’re insulting my baby, don’t you?”

“Well, your baby is very ugly. I wouldn’t want to meet its mother.”

“Don’t push your luck, boy.”

Mr. Peters opened the door for Dylan and helped him with the seat belt. He had to yank on it to get it to release.

“Is this thing safe?”

Mr. Peters glared at him as he slammed the passenger door shut. The entire car shook from the force. Mr. Peters jumped in.

“Okay, let’s go.”

As they stepped through the doors of the restaurant, Mr. Peters asked, “Are you okay with this?” He sensed Dylan’s discomfort at the sight of dozens of teenagers. “I don’t mind going somewhere else.”

Dylan moved closer to Mr. Peters. “No, I’m okay,” he said quietly.

The two of them looked up at the menu board and then ordered. Dylan didn’t say anything while they waited for their lunches. With his tray in hand, Dylan led the way to the furthest corner of the restaurant, where no one was sitting.

“Let’s sit by the window?”

“I like it here,” Dylan responded.

“But it’s so dark.”

Dylan collapsed into his chair and started eating french fries. Mr. Peters shrugged his shoulders and sat down.

He held up his glass. “Happy birthday, Dylan.”

Dylan held up his glass, and as their cups touched, Mr. Peters said, “L’chaim.”

“La what?” Dylan asked

“L’chaim. It’s a Hebrew toast which means ‘to life.’”

Dylan nodded. “Cool.”

Then Dylan began talking, and chewing, without stopping. There was never a lull in their conversation, as Dylan was knowledgeable in so many different areas. Little bits of food sprayed out of his mouth, forcing the teacher to shield his lunch with his hand.

“How do you know so much, Dylan?” Mr. Peters finally asked.

“I don’t know. I watch nature shows sometimes. I like the History Channel too.”

“You like history?”

Dylan nodded.

“Wow, I’m impressed. I don’t know many kids who like history.”

“I do. I wish I lived in a different time.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Which time period would you like?”

“The past.”

“Yes, but which time period—the medieval ages, the dark ages, during the times of the Romans or the Vikings? Which period?”

“I don’t know…when they used swords.”

Mr. Peters told him about the castles he had seen in Europe and the ruins in Greece and Turkey. Dylan had many questions about the places he had seen and told Mr. Peters that he would like to visit them someday. As they finished off the last of their lunches, Dylan got very quiet.

He glanced around the room and whispered, “I’m going to see my brother.”

“Really!” Mr. Peters said excitedly. “You must be looking forward to that.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s older than me.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Edmonton.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know. A long time ago.”

Dylan’s enthusiasm did not match his teacher’s.

“Are you okay with this?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You don’t seem very excited.”

Dylan shrugged. Then he gazed around the restaurant at the teenagers eating their lunches.

“Can we go now?” Dylan asked.

“Are you finished?”

“Can I drink my milkshake in your car?”

Mr. Peters nodded and stood up.

The two of them drove back to the school in silence. Mr. Peters could tell that Dylan did not want to talk, so he allowed him the private time. They got back to the school twenty minutes before the afternoon bell.

“Why don’t you go to the playground until the bell rings, Dylan?”

“Okay.” A sad look of gratitude met Mr. Peters’s eyes. “Thank-you,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome, Dylan. It was my pleasure.”

Dylan jumped out of the car and secretly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Then he sprinted around the front corner of the school.

Mr. Peters sat quietly in his car. Dylan’s expression had impacted him like he had never thought possible.

The wind at the back of the school took Dylan’s breath away as he rounded the corner. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, folded his arms, and breathed into his chest. Just outside of the Hidden Forest, Jake was approaching Ted and Sam. Dylan walked toward them slowly.

“Hey, Ted!” Jake called. “Do you want another Hurt’s Donut?”

Ted shook his head and backed away. Sam was suddenly interested in a thorny branch and studied it intently.

“Oh, come on. Mr. Peters likes it when we share.”

Over Jake’s shoulder, Ted’s and Dylan’s eyes connected, and Dylan sent him a silent message. Ted straightened up and squinted at the bigger boy.

“Take another step, Jake…and…and I’ll wipe my bum with your shaggy head!”

Jake paused at Ted’s tone. Then he burst out laughing. Ted’s and Dylan’s eyes connected a second time. Dylan slapped his forehead with his palm and shook his head in disbelief. Ted realized how ridiculous his threat sounded, but his body language remained forceful.

“What kind of threat is that?” Jake laughed.

Ted’s violent expression stopped Jake’s laughter.

“Whoa, Teddy Bear. Relax, man. I’m just joking. Let’s be friends. Come on. Shake my hand.” Jake extended his hand.

“My hand,” Ted spat, grabbing Jake’s hand, “may be the last hand…you EVER shake!”

The force of his message pushed Jake back a step, but Ted kept his grip on his palm. He squeezed with all his might, and as Jake tried to pull his arm away, Ted squeezed harder. Dylan nodded his approval, and as he slipped into the Hidden Forest, he saw Sam kneel down behind Jake. With one last violent yank, Ted released Jake’s hand, and he tumbled over Sam’s back and landed on his neck and head. Sam leapt up and stood beside his friend. The now-growing group of students watching the interaction burst out laughing.

“Did you see that?” someone shouted. “They got Jake!”

Jake jumped up quickly. His reddened face shook, and he wagged his sausage finger at Ted. “You wait, Teddy Bear. I’m gonna get you.”

This was Ted’s proudest moment, and he wanted to shout out with glee, but he remained firm in his expression and stance. As Jake stomped away, Ted and Sam faced each other. Ted started to shake.

“You were great, Ted,” Sam said. “Now that is standing up for yourself.”

Ted smiled nervously. “I’m a dead man.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “You are a dead man.”

Dylan sat down in the shelter of the Hidden Forest and leaned up against a tree. He pulled out the envelope and shook it gently by his ear, awaiting the familiar sensation beneath his shirt. It didn’t come. He patted his shirt, searching for the outline of the medallion. Panic set in. He pounded his chest violently with both hands. The realization that the medallion was gone struck him like a lightning bolt.

“Oh no!” he exhaled. “What am I going to do now?”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the rough skin of his branded palm. Slowly, he lowered his hands and studied the indentations. The two impressions stood out like woodcarvings. He placed the bases of his palms together and noticed that the sword on one hand was raised while the impression of the sword on the other hand was indented.

“What did Ted call this?” he asked himself. “White space? No, negative space.”

He rolled one palm over the other and adjusted the placement of each impression until they lined up perfectly. The two opposing designs fit together like a magical key and locked his warming hands in place. Dylan closed his eyes and raised his glowing hands toward his face.