Read Online The Monkeyface Chronicles by Richard Scarsbrook - Free Book Online Page A

do will kill me. I didn’t die yesterday, and I’m not going to die today.
    â€œYou know what, Brandon?” I say, “Why wait until recess? Why don’t you stand up right now and kill me?”
    â€œPhilip . . . ” Michael says.
    â€œCome on, Brandon. Stand up. Kill me . Take my life. Do it. Murder me. Make me stop breathing. Make my heart stop beating. Make my brain stop thinking. Do it. Kill me. Come on.”
    Brandon Doggart unlocks his eyes from mine and looks over at my brother. “What the hell is wrong with this kid? Has he got mental problems?”
    â€œNothing’s wrong with him,” Michael snaps.
    I look around the dressing room. “Actually, guys, there is something wrong with me. I have a genetic defect. I was born with a deformed face. And it does make me look sort of like a monkey.”
    Wow. It is so quiet in here.
    â€œAnd if you feel you need to remind me about it by calling me Monkeyface, go ahead. I’ll live.”
    I make eye contact with Caleb Carter, Stevie Underwood, and Bradley Miller, who are wide-eyed, teetering on the edge of the bench nearest the dressing room door. Then I sit down on the bench beside Cecil Bundy, who is sniffling. “It’s okay, Cecil,” I tell him. “You’ll live, too.”

    Mr. Packer strides into the change room. He has already changed back into his Vice Principal’s suit, and he speaks pure Vice Principal.
    â€œIn case I don’t see you boys again today,” he says, “everyone have a safe and restful Christmas holiday. And, for those of you who play for the Blue Flames, a reminder that it’s not a holiday from hockey — we’ve still got a full practice Monday afternoon.”
    He turns to Michael, points a thumb in my direction. “Can he skate?”
    I’m right here, Packer! I’m not deaf! “I can skate,” I say.
    â€œHe can skate,” Michael confirms.
    â€œGood,” Mr. Packer says. “Bring him with you to practice on Monday. Maybe we can teach him a few things.”

Brown Is Not a Colour
    A t recess I see Adeline Brown quietly making her way toward the back of the schoolyard. She’s gripping her Bible Stories for Children book in one hand, and the brown paper bag containing her recess snack in the other.
    â€œHey, Adeline!” I say as I catch up with her.
    â€œOh, Philip, it’s you,” she says with relief. Then she studies my face, her brown eyes amplified to bug-like proportions by her thick, old-fashioned glasses.
    â€œThat looks terrible,” she says. “Does it hurt?”
    â€œNot as much as it hurts other people to look at it.”
    â€œNo, no,” she says, her cheeks flushing a deep red, “I wouldn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . I meant your black eye.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I say, smiling as best I can. “I was just kidding. Self-deprecating humour. Ha ha.”
    â€œYou know I would never make fun of your . . . ” She pauses, studies her buckled, Pilgrim-like shoes. “I’m not exactly a fashion model myself.” She tucks her Bible Stories for Children under her arm, reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a sleeve of cold french fries coated in congealed fat, and a small jar of “Cheez.” She dips a few fries into the iridescent orange. “Want some?” she offers.
    I politely decline. If this is her mother’s idea of a nutritious afternoon snack, it’s no wonder Adeline has weight problems.
    â€œI just wanted to thank you for standing up and telling Mr. Brush what happened yesterday, Adeline.”
    â€œ Do unto others as you would have others do unto you ,” she says. “Since I always wish that someone would stand up for me once in a while, it was my Christian duty to say something.”
    A wave of hot guilt rushes through me. When a crowd has gathered around Adeline or Cecil or some other unfortunate soul, I have