CHAPTER 1
IT’S HARD TO BE BAD
Pat… pat… pat…
A small, black ball hits my bedroom wall and bounces back to my hand. Soon my family will go to sleep and at last I’ll get my chance to rig that-
I hear footsteps moving past my bedroom boor and halt my next throw, quickly seating up from where I’m lying on my bed. The sound passes – that of my parents taking my little sister to bed. I throw the ball.
Pat.
Just how long exactly does it take a person to go to bed? And by that I mean my family, not me.
Pat.
It’s way past my bedtime for a 12-year-old kid. I’ve got neighbours to torment, mailmen to chase, and a little sister to traumatize in the morning. Again.
Pat.
I hate that my parents don’t hate me. It would make things so much easier for me if they did. I’ve tried every way known to kid society: not doing my chores, going to bed late, getting bad grades, saying that one bad word I know, and basically being a bad kid. Nothing works.
Pat.
I hear a closing door as they leave my little happily-tucked-away sister in peace and comfort, save for the nightmares she’ll be having, courtesy of me.
Pat.
My door doesn’t even as much as make the slightest of all sounds when it’s opened, and Mom’s standing at the threshold.
“Connor, you’re still awake?”
Of course I’m still awake! Unlike other people, I have actual work to do around here. And what were they doing? Tucking my little sister in like they don’t have work in the morning.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Uh-huh.”
She knows I’m lying. She’s my mother, she probably knows I know that she knows I’m lying. The door’s opened wider to reveal Dad in all his fatherly state.
I knew he was standing there. It’s their own little tactic I’ve come to learn. First Mom comes in playing good-cop, then Dad “tries” to play bad-cop. Pathetic.
Dad slowly makes his way into the room. “Mind telling us what’s wrong?”
Dad has this way of speaking as if he’s coaching a golf team – calm, vibrant and boring! And those plaid shirts he keeps wearing. It’s like he wants to win some sort of Dad of the Year award.
“No.”
I know how to play the game. I might be bad but one should also be smart when it comes to such things. If they somehow managed to gather incriminating evidence against me, I’d get grounded for days – of which I have not.
“Try to get some sleep, kiddo, it’s Christmas Eve.” Dad strolls over to a light switch and turns it off, then he, with Mom leading the way, closes the door behind him on his way out.
I instantly leap off my bed and rush to the door where I lean my ear against it. I know they’re still out there – at least till they finish talking about me. I can just about hear their hushed voices through the white door.
“What do you think?” Mom asks. I can clearly hear the unmistakable strain of worry in her tone.
“I think he’s planning something.”
“On Christmas Eve?” Mom sounds shocked. “But he likes Christmas.”
“That’s the problem,” Dad says, then realises his mistake, “I mean he likes it for the wrong reason. Just the way he looks at his coal in the morning creeps me out.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the look, to. Maybe he thinks there’re diamonds inside?” Mom does love her questions, but I know she’s just looking for excuses by the way she slowly lets out a weary breath. “I’m worried more about his hair, though.”
“His hair?” Dad says. Yes, my hair. The boring brown I inherited from them both was simply not my style, so I added a little something of my own.
“He’s dyed it black,” Mom says, “didn’t you notice?”
“What, no,” a hear shuffling. “Where’d he get hair dye?”
“Wait, don’t! You’ll see him in the morning,” Mom says. I don’t even move an inch. “No point in stressing the problem. Remember what happened last time?”
Feet shift and footsteps sound, them walking away I suppose.
“Your right. There’s nothing we can do, now,” Dad says. “Lets not let him ruin our Christmas with worry. Again.”
By the time they leave, my ear is pressed so hard against the door that it starts to hurt. I lean up again it, back to the door. I clench my hands into fists with the thought of them talking about me like that. Something being true doesn’t mean a kid wants to hear it. And offering to tuck me in was a thing they didn’t even bother to.
That part hurts even worse for a reason a can't care any less of. What am I doing? I’m too old for that. I’ve got work to do. It’ll take more than words to stop me. My gaze absently takes in the room – my bed in particular. It’s all unevenly lumpy. The very reason I had lain on it – to hide it.
Briskly, I move to my bed and throw off the covering to uncover a carefully laid set of winter clothes – gloves, scarf, overcoat and more of the like. I put them on and reach down under the bed to grab my boots and backpack. Opening the backpack, I take I peek. Nails, matchbox, lighter fluid, a small hammer, Dad’s flashlight with a black-light feature, a stick of TNT (got it from a friend) and a carved wooden stopper with the exact measurements of our neighbour’s car’s exhaust pipe.
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Everything’s going in accordance with my perfectly planned plan until the moment I open my bedroom door. I don’t even get a chance to step out the room when my little sister starts crying.
It’s like a broken siren, or some sort of crafty alarm system. I shut the door and run back, throwing my backpack and boots under the bed, and hop onto the bed, covering myself with a blanket to hide the taunting evidence of my winter clothes.
I terribly miscalculated on this. I thought traumatizing my little sister would cause enough chaos to tire out my parents for the night. I didn’t think it’d be a nightlong thing.
My door creaks open, but I’m facing the wall, so I don’t see much but a line of light that crosses my room. I try to slow my breathing. Maybe if they think I’m asleep they’ll leave.
“Anything wrong?” I hear Mom’s voice.
“Nothing, just checking,” Dad says from the door.
“Come on, Ted, let’s go back to sleep.”
“What happened, anyway?” Dad asks.
All I make out before they close the door is, “We forgot to turn on her nightlight.”
I wait a few minutes, then some more until I’m sure they’re asleep before slipping out of bed. The dark halls are quiet as I tiptoe my way to the staircase. At my arrival, I turn on the flashlight with the black-light feature on.
I’ve spent days marking little Xs on every creaky part of the staircase with neon paint just for this occasion. And now as I creep down the stairs without a sound but the inaudible padding of my socks, I know I’m truly at my acme of bad.
I flick off the porch light and open the front door with the house key that went missing when I was seven, letting in a cold chill of Christmas air. It’s pitch black out there – like my hair – but not too dark to see an old pickup truck slowly rolling by with a sturdy beam of light to illuminate the way. Our little sleepy town has a weird way of keeping time – I mostly only remember the holidays – but I didn’t know it’s already Halloween.
Flurries of snow drifting about only adds to the dark and eerie sensation I feel. Is this fear? I know I always feel like I’m being watched, but seriously! Where’s the “Christmas spirit” at? The neighbourhood’s not that big on decorations, which is partly the reason for the darkness, but a kid can dream, right?
I bet airports are more Christmasy than this- I close the door behind me and start putting on my boots -but I do guess the fewer decorations that light up the place the better. Getting caught is the last thing I need right now, other than getting arrested – but they don’t arrest kids, do they?
I may not be able to see much, but as I move past the porch and get to a crawl position on our lawn, my eyes are locked on to my target across the street at our neighbour’s house – specifically his red convertible out on the driveway.
I crawl through the wind, glad the flurries haven’t built up too much snow, with nothing but my bare gloved hands to drag me through it. Why is it so hard to be bad? I feel cold and-
“Arrge!” I hit my head on something hard. A rock maybe?
“Connor?” the rock says. No, wait, it’s not a rock. But I somehow still wish it was.
“Berry? Why are you crawling around our yard?!”
“Anna said you’re going to sabotage Mr Fernandez’s car, so I thought that if you were doing something bad tonight then I should do something bad. You know, because we both might fall behind our Coal Average-”
“I know!”
I don’t hate the guy, chubby chicks and slightly overweight form and all, but sometimes I really wish he was a rock, so I can throw it in a lake. I just… hate people copying my style. Being bad is art, and right now my art just got flashed down the toilet.
“You didn’t answer the question, Berry.”
“Oh right,” Berry reaches back to grab something. “I got this from Anna-”
“To the point.”
“I’m gonna rig a floorboard on your porch.”
A short silence follows. Some things about Berry, I can say, doesn’t make sense. Like why he came all this way specifically for our porch.
“You do know that this plan of yours might actually hurt someone, right? What if my little sister happened to fall in your little trap?”
“I know, it’s genius, right?!” Berry gives me a broad grin.
“Of course it’s genius!” But I should really check up with Anna on this just to make sure it isn’t her idea. “Keep up the good- I mean, bad work, Berry.”
“Thanks.”
And then it hits me. “Hey, just asking hear, but did you see a creepy old car go by here?”
“No,” Berry says to my fears, “I’ve been stocking your house for hours. Didn’t see anything.” He takes a wary look around. “Actually, I haven’t seen anyone out here for hours. Why’d you ask?”
“N-nothing, just asking.” I can already feel my chest tightening around my heart. Like breathing condensed air with a heavy presence lurking behind you.
We exchange our farewells and crawl on to our own business. Berry’s a good kid- I mean, a bad kid. But they’re worse kids out there. Way worse. Kids who go too far.
I get up to my feet and race across the street. I’ve wasted too much time as it is. Berry already made sure of that. I get a few nails and my hammer, feeling the car tires with enough holes that a second grader would lose count. I grab my one stick of TNT, soak it in lighter fluid because Anna once said – oh I’m turning into Berry – that TNT is too stable to be ignited with exhaust fumes.
I shove the TNT top-end-first into the exhaust and hammer the stopper into place, blocking the pipe. Then, for the ribbon on top of this hand-made Christmas gift, I dump the rest of the lighter fluid in Mr Fernandez’s flower bed and throw in a lit match. What can I say? Being bad is art.
* * *
Christmas morning dawns on our little town. The snow outside is heavy, but so is the tension. Every kid in town is rushing to their Christmas tree, full of hop and – in my case – greed.
I’ve just walked into the living room. My family’s huddled up in a corner, busy opening presents and checking the stockings while listening to the sweat choral of Christmas jingles from a strangely unspecified part of the house. Too bad they’ll never know I hate the cookies last night. Again, not much went into decorating, but that’s normal.
I make my way to the Christmas tree, my eyes locked on to the little sack that’s always left in the exact same spot. I’ve always thought it looks like one of those sacks people store money in, but smaller. All it needs now is a dollar sign. I open it and...
“One, two, three, four, five...” I recount. “One two- arrge!”
This can’t be right. I’ve failed. Me? Five measly lumps of coal? Me? I’m ruined! Ruined!
Mom sees me clutching the sack in a death grip and inquires, “Connor? You okay? Connor?”
Dad completely misreads the atmosphere and moves closer, leaving my little sister to open a multicoloured present with too many ribbons. It’s like Santa’s way of mocking me. “Hey, chirp, I wanted to ask, er, what happened to your hair-?”
“Just leave me alone!”
Coal-filled sack in hand, I storm out of the room, only hearing, “Mommy, look, chocolate!” from my little sister.
I shut- no, I slam my bedroom door hard enough to send a shockwave down my arms. The sack is thrown to the floor with spewed out coal scattering every which way.
I hear a soft tapping on my door. Then a voice. “Conner-”
“Go away!” I cut Mom short.
“Your friends are here,” she says. “Berry, and that Anna girl.”
My heart sinks. I can’t face them. But I know why they’re here. We all have to report to the council to submit our annual coal. But with only five lumps of coal, I’ll never meet the cut. I might get kicked out, stripped away of my rights to be an official bad kid. Or even worse. They could stop Anna and Berry from ever seeing me again!
It’s faint but I hear it. I hear it all; Mr Fernandez’s car being switched on. A few seconds later brings a loud boom, which isn’t right. Shouldn’t it be a pop.
I hear Dad running down the stairs. “Honey! Come quick!” The front door is opened.
Mom leaves my door and runs after him. “What’s wrong-?!”
A board breaks. “ArrGE! No, wait!” Dad calls out, “call an ambulance! Ur, make that two!”