Read Online Fruit by Brian Francis - Free Book Online Page A

marble for an eye.”
    I tried to get myself excited as I handed in my form on the last day of grade 7. It had taken me a good ten minutes to make a red circle around the word “Shop.”
    “Peter, this is your chance to be normal,” I told myself. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even make a boy friend. You can do it!”
    But during the first week of class this year, something bad happened. We were going to make plastic key chains, Mr. Gilvary told us. He brought in large sheets of coloured plastic that had to be snapped into smaller pieces to make our key chains.
    “Put your goggles and gloves on before you do this,” he said. “Then secure the plastic sheet good and tight in the vice. Now grip the top and give it a sharp pull towards you.”
    When Mr. Gilvary snapped the sheet, the sound was so loud, I screamed and ducked behind one of the woodworking tables.
    Everyone turned to look down at me and started laughing. Brian Cinder sniffed loudly.
    “I think he crapped himself.”
    No one came within ten feet of me for the rest of the day. That night, I sat my parents down and told them the school had made a terrible mistake.
    “They overbooked the shop class,” I sighed. “Now some of us have to go into home ec. No one volunteered, so they made us draw straws. And guess what?”
    I tried to do my best disappointed look, but inside, my stomach was doing flip-flops. There was just no way I could spend the rest of the year in shop class.
    “What do you mean, they overbooked it?” my mother asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said, “that’s just what they said.” I hoped she wasn’t going to ask any more questions.
    “Why should you have to switch classes?”
    “I told you. I drew one of the shortest straws.”
    “How many other students had to switch?”
    “Um, I don’t know. Three or four, maybe.” It felt like my armpits were raining. “Look, it’s not that big of a deal. I mean, I’m kind of upset, but what can I do?”
    “Well, we can call the school for one thing,” my mother said. “Why should you have to suffer for a mistake that they made on their end?”
    This wasn’t going well at all. My parents couldn’t call the school or else Mr. Mitchell would tell them that I said they were the ones who wanted me out of shop class and into home ec.
    “My mother isn’t a very good cook,” I’d told him and shrugged.
    “You can’t call the school,” I said, “or else everyone will say I’m a whiny baby. I pulled the shortest straw, Mom. Fair is fair.”
    “But I don’t see why . . .”
    My dad, who hadn’t said a word, held out his hand.
    “Give me the form,” he said to me.
    “But Henry! We can’t just . . .”
    “Peter, give me the form.” He didn’t sound angry, just very tired. I gave him the form along with a pen.
    “I was really looking forward to making a birdhouse this year,” I said as he signed the sheet.
    He made a strange noise in his throat and handed me back the form.
    “Thanks for being good sports about this,” I said as I walked out. Even though it’s not very Christian to lie to your parents, I couldn’t let them find out the truth. Especially my dad. The last thing he needs is to find outjust how un-normal I really am.
    Now, I’m just finishing up my first sewing project. It’s a pillow shaped like a hot dog. It even has yellow and red felt for mustard and ketchup. Next month, I’ll start working on my first piece of clothing. I think I’ll make a sweatshirt for my dad.
    The home ec teacher, Mrs. Williams, thinks I’m very talented.
    “You certainly have a knack for the art of domesticities,” she said to me. “But I do wish you’d keep your fingers out of the cookie dough, Peter.”
    I used to be more normal when I was younger. I’d always get invitations to birthday parties or sleepovers. Sometimes, I’d go roller-skating with Todd Moffat at Skate City, but that was before I broke my arm at his eighth birthday party. I never learned how to use the rubber