“Among other things, he has a symptom called Syncope. Unless he powders up those fantastic nuts, he’ll sweat until his blood pressure drops and then he passes right out. Technically it’s not sugar. Sounds better, though, than Flour Nuts or Doughnuts.”

  “I prefer Sugar Nuts,” said Sugar Nuts.

  “Of course you do,” she said. “You can pull up your pants now if you like.”

  “I prefer them like this.”

  “Of course you do. You gonna sing us a song?”

  “Hundred percent yeah, I am.”

  “What are you gonna sing?”

  “Lemmy!” he shouted, racing around the courtyard as if we were riding a motorcycle out on some desert plain.

  “Sugar Nuts here loves two things more than anything in the world – more than eating pussy I reckon.”

  Sugar Nuts blushed.

  “What’s that?” asked Isaac.

  “Playing poker and singing Ace of Spades”

  “Is he any good?”

  “What does that matter? It’s not about sounding good or playing a good hand.”

  “What is it about?”

  “Having a fucking good time.”

  Then she closed her legs, lit a cigarette, blew a plume of smoke in Isaac’s face, and when it cleared, she was gone. Isaac stood there both aghast and amazed. One thing was certain; he would never think about a vagina or a retarded person that same way again.

  Eventually went back into the club and bought himself a drink. He stood in the back of the room staring out over the tops of people’s heads, scanning left and right with his mouth agape like a damn carnival game. There were so many people though. The place was a tragedy waiting to burn to the ground; there was no way he would find her – not unless she found him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  It was her – The Girl.

  Instantly, Isaac turned into a sack of panic. Excitement rippled through his body and quickly swelled into a tidal wave of fear and apprehension. He had a smile, yes, but it was a nervous smile as if she had just pulled a gun on him and he still hadn’t processed that he was going to die.

  “Hi,” said Isaac, though it didn’t sound like a vowel either one of them had ever heard. He waved, too, which was odd, considering how close they were.

  “Do you wanna be my partner?” she said.

  All he heard was, “Do you want to marry me, and move in together, and fill our house with pot plants and potpourri, and buy a puppy and a kitten, and never get out of bed on Sundays, and have favourite TV shows, and give each other nicknames, and always be holding hands, and then eventually have a baby – but better to have two, so they can be best friends and then we can live happily ever after.”

  His head heard all that and his heart exploded.

  “I do,” he said, staring into her big goofy glasses.

  “It’s a duet,” said The Girl. “I figure it’ll be a tonne of fun. Whattaya say?”

  He had already agreed to anything she could ever possibly want.

  “Yeah, cool,” he said, sounding anything but.

  “Finish your drink then,” said The Girl. “We’re up next.”

  Then she dragged him towards the stage. The crowd was already cheering before they had even gotten on their feet. And by the time they had their microphones in hand, it was rapturous. But when the title of the song came up on the big screens, it was pure bedlam.

  “You know it?” shouted The Girl.

  “I don’t know,” said Isaac.

  “It’s The Pogues,” she said. “You sing Shane’s parts and I sing Kirsty’s.”

  “Ok,” said Isaac, feeling like a puppy that had just been picked.

  Her smile was magnificent. It stripped him of his worry and shone far too bright for him to notice any of his insecurities. And when she took him by the hand, he almost died. Were this a movie, there would not be a dry eye in the house.

  “Just have fun,” she said.

  “Ok.”

  And then the piano started playing and the whole crowd sang along.

  Track 25 (Yellow)

  “You want me to come in with you?”

  Sitting in the car, Graham fought to muster the courage to go inside. They’d been parked there for half an hour already and the whole time he’d been wearing his sulky face. Sitting across from him, Mary shook her head in disbelief.

  “I don’t need you to hold my hand,” he said. “I’m not a bloody child.”

  Were he in a high chair, he would have hit his sippy cup to the floor by now.

  “So what’s the hold-up then?” said Mary.

  “Just give me a damn second.”

  “Don’t get all snooty at me. I’m not the one moping around the house all the time complaining about their bum.”

  “I’m going. I’m going. It’s just….”

  For a grown man, he looked all of five years old.

  “Are you scared?”

  “What? Huh? What? Pfft. No, I’m not scared,” he said, trying to sound like an action hero.

  “You do realize half the shit I have to do as a woman, right?”

  There was no pretending in her voice.

  “Fine,” said Graham, accepting his fate.

  “You want me to come in?”

  “No, it’s fine. You wait here. It won’t be long.”

  “Just remember we have to be at the school at eleven-thirty.”

  “I know, I know.”

  It was a large clinic, full of all kinds of doctors solving all kinds of ailments. And the place was packed too. There were cars stacked up from here to Timbuctoo. To say it was playing on Graham’s mind would be an understatement. There were a few things in life he would have preferred to do without a few dozen nosy pokes peeking over his shoulder, and checking into a proctologist was one of them.

  “Hi, I have an appointment,” he said.

  He looked around the room nervously, spying each person – it was an instinct he couldn’t control. He didn’t want to be here; not in the slightest. Who in their right mind would?

  “Name?”

  “Graham?”

  “No, the doctor.”

  There were only four doctors sharing the space. Their names were on giant bronze plaques on the wall. Two were nutritionists, one was a homeopath, and the last – his doctor – a proctologist. And he was the only man on the list. Graham did his best to whisper.

  “Doctor Boyle,” he said.

  “I’m sorry you’ll have to speak up,” said The Receptionist.

  She didn’t even try to read his lips.

  “It’s...uh…”

  All of a sudden it felt like he was buying pornography from a newsstand.

  “Which doctor, sir?”

  She said it in a tone that raised everyone’s attention.

  “Doctor Boyle,” said Graham, again barely audible.

  “Was that Doctor Boyle?” said The Receptionist.

  Her voice could warn ships of rocky shores.

  “That’s right,” said Graham.

  “Just take a seat,” she said, smiling. “The doctor is going to be a few minutes late.”

  “That’s fine,” said Graham, acting cool, as if he were here for a financial consult as opposed to a rectal examination.

  The waiting room was full. There were kids running around unattended while their mothers flipped through a small forest’s worth of magazines. Though he loved his own, he had little patience for the offspring of others. He thought about tripping them as they ran past and then just settled on hoping that they would fall on their own which, in the end, was just the case.

  No amount of chipped teeth and grazed knees, though, could distract him long enough from his own gigantic burden. He wished he was young enough to be able to bawl in tears and then be taken home and tucked into bed with his favourite teddy and a goodnight kiss.

  “Excuse me,” he said, sounding calm but with a look of sheer terror on his face. “Will the doctor be long?”

  He already had it set in his head; if it was more than three minutes, he’d leave. He’d make it sound like he was angry and that is was more of a burden for him to go but that the doctor had given him no option – on account of his lack of professionalism.

  “It shouldn’t be long,” said The Receptionist.

  She sounded so kind, it almost hurt to ask.

  “Could you just ring and check? I really have a lot to do today and I can’t afford to be late. It’s not really fair on my clients if I’m passing on the effect of someone else’s tardiness.”

  He hadn’t intended to sound mean, it’s just how it came out. It was true nonetheless, but what fault was that of the poor girl who was being nothing but kind?

  “I’ll call now,” she said, still smiling, though in some ways it looked coerced.

  Graham’s whole expression had changed. His face looked constrained as if he’d been holding onto a bowel movement to the point where had had barely a second to spare.

  “I really am very busy,” he said.

  That was when he saw the photo.

  “Is that the doctor?” he asked in a whisper.

  The Receptionist, still on the line, looked over her shoulder and nodded.

  “Jesus Christ,” he thought. “Look at his hands.”

  It was true. The Doctor’s hands were frightening. They were oil rigger’s hands. His fingers were long and thick and covered in burly knuckles. He could dig a swimming pool with his pinkie alone.

  “I have to go,” said Graham, distraught.

  He couldn’t even look at The Receptionist.

  “But the doctor will be here in two minutes.”

  He tried to stick to the plan. He tried to sound mean and hard done by.

  “I have a thing,” he said, already half out the door. “My kid’s school. I can’t be waiting around all bloody day.”

  And then he left, racing out the front door, past someone who may have been The Doctor, and he didn’t stop until he was strapped in his car seat with the engine running. He felt as though he had just stayed his own execution.

  “That was quick.”

  “Yeah?” said Graham, still huffing and puffing. “I guess it was.”

  “So how was it?”

  “Fine,” said Graham.

  He didn’t mention anything and she didn’t ask. It was a respectful quiet on the way to the kids’ school; shameful on the part of Graham and loving for Mary.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said.

  “Thanks,” said Graham.

  He knew if he said more, he’d give the truth away.

  “Just eat more fibre,” he thought.

  When they arrived at the school, they could hear all the kids on the other side of the wall screaming and carrying on. It could have just as easily been the scene of a terrorist attack or a slumber party massacre; such was the plight of their pointy little shrieks. They were having the time of their lives.

  Every now and then one of them would fall or lose their shoe and then burst out into tears. But just as quickly they’d get distracted and would break out into a fit of demented laughter once more. And this continued over and over like some maniacal fractal with thousands of tears merging in and out of a kaleidoscope of taunts, jeers, and laughter.

  It was then that they heard a laugh that sounded like his son, but in a way, they had never heard him laugh before. It was hard to explain. But it was as if they had turned around and caught their shadows unaware - acting like totally somebody else.

  “I’m gonna get you, Nathan,” screamed one boy.

  “You’ll never get me,” screamed the boy he was chasing. “I’ve got invisible mode.”

  “Holy shit,” said Graham. “It’s him.”

  They stepped closer to the giant wall that separated the playground from the busy street. The whole school was like a fortress – kept shut by two giant iron gates.

  Graham wedged his face into the small gap between the gate and the wall trying to peek into the playground so that he could see his son in his natural environment, unspoiled by the presence of his mother and father.

  “Can you see him?” said Mary, pushing her way to the crack in the gate.

  Graham wrenched his face this way and that but he couldn’t make out a thing. The urge though was overwhelming. Hearing his son laughing the way he was, he just had to know: who was his son when he wasn’t around?

  “Can’t see a thing,” he said.

  “Move,” said Mary, pushing him out of the way. “You don’t know how to do it right.”

  Were she any animal at all, it would definitely be an owl, what with the way that she twisted and spun about her head. The boy was laughing like they’d never heard him laugh before. He was speaking as if he were an entirely different child. All she wanted was just to see, if only for one second.

  “Come on,” said Graham. “We’ll be late.”

  Nathan’s teacher was already waiting by the time they got inside. She smiled the same way to adults as she did to children; it was hard to take her seriously – or honestly for that matter.

  “Nathan is such a wonderful boy,” she said.

  They could both tell where this was going.

  “He’s so polite and sweet, and…..”

  Obviously, she was going somewhere dark.

  “So here’s the thing,” said Miss Stevens. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

  It was now that her face turned into its proper shape; a mix between an old kitchen sponge and a cancerous mole. Her posture, too, was different, as if she was squaring up to punch one of them in the jaw.

  “So what’s the problem?” said Graham.

  He had little patience for teachers, even though he was one.

  “It’s several things actually. Since the start of the year, I have to say that Nathan has been quite unruly in class.”

  “Unruly how?” said Mary.

  She didn’t need to square up. She could break a jaw in her sleep.

  “Well….”

  Miss Stevens seemed unprepared.

  “For starters,” she said. “He doesn’t sit still in class. His focus is terrible. This year we are focusing more on reading and activities instead of playing and Nathan is one of the only children who hasn’t made that transition. Hasn’t or is unwilling to. It’s making my job intolerable and it’s a distraction for the other students who are all putting in the effort to act more accordingly.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it?” said Miss Stevens shocked and perturbed.

  “How old is Nathan?” said Mary.

  “He’s seven.”

  “Ok, so he’s a seven-year-old boy,” she said.

  “Yes? And?”

  “A seven-year-old….Boy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Of course he doesn’t sit still, he’s seven, and he’s a boy.”

  “Well, some of the other children have…”

  “Good for them,” said Mary. “Listen, I had to leave work early for this – we both did. So...."

  “You know there are drugs he can take that will help him.”

  “Drugs? Are you insane? He doesn’t need help.”

  “Actually you’d be surprised,” said Miss Stevens. “They do really well for the children’s concentration. They stop their fidgeting and completely lose their interest in playing altogether. A lot of the other boys in class are already taking them. The difference is massive. And it makes my job so much easier.”

  “You’re job? You’re a first-grade teacher,” said Mary, poking her with every word. “You’re an overqualified baby sitter; that’s it. They’re children; they’re not supposed to have focus. Stop trying to make seven-year-olds act forty and then bloody complain when a forty-year-old is acting seven. If the kids can’t focus, maybe you should give more interesting classes. Don’t blame their lack of attention on the fact that you can’t teach.”

  “How dare you?”

  “How dare I? You’re trying to push drugs on my child.”

  “Mental support supplements.”

  “Jesus Christ. Graham, can you step in here?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re not putting our kids on Ritalin. Don’t be retarded.”

  As he spoke, Isabel was already racing down the hallway with her bag dragging behind her like a mangled twin. The smile on her face could have lit up a dozen cities for just as many years. Her eyes, too, were as wide as a hurricane; and she kicked up just as much dust as she ran towards her father beaming.

  “What an awesome surprise,” she said. “Did you know you were picking us up all along? Did you keep it a secret? Is today a secret day? Are there more surprises? Did you get us more toys?”

  She ignored the wall of ice between her parents and The Teacher, instead bouncing around as if the air was made of trampolines and marshmallows. She could have said anything at this point. She could have described the innards of a sea slug or talked about how much her toes itched and it would still be as if he were seeing the ocean or the sun for the first time. The smile on Graham’s face wasn’t the kind that one could will on their own. It wasn’t the kind one saw in photographs or when unwrapping unwanted gifts. This wasn’t the kind of smile that one could practice; and even if they did, it wasn’t the kind of smile that one would ever get right. He was happy – that’s all.

  “Missed you, darlin’,” he said.

  “Missed you too, dad. Oh, guess what?”

  Her face was shaped like an exclamation point.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow I have my first ever test.”

  “Wow,” said Graham. “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “What kind of test is it?”

  “It’s a history test”

  “A history test?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yep.”

  “But shouldn’t that be a future test?”

  Then they both burst out laughing.

  “You’re the funniest, dad,” she said. “I love your jokes.”

  “Thanks, darlin,” he said. “Love you too. Now give us a second here to talk to your brother’s teacher. We’ll be done in a jiffy.”

  Then he turned back to Miss Stevens, whose face shaped like a nightstick.

  “There is the other matter,” she said.