Real Boys Donʼt Knit

Daniel Leonard

Chapter 1

Sydney Seymour woke up to the morning news playing like it did every morning.  He
rolled his trundle bed underneath his brotherʼs.  He then carefully placed Patrick,
Weasel, and Blankie in the gap where they could breath.

            He opened the bottom three drawers that were his and pulled out fresh
underwear, jeans and shirt.  David had once explained to him that if you wore your
underwear to bed at night your privates wouldnʼt be able to breathe.  This would result
in a general loss of volume, which of course was not desirable.  However, Sydney still
couldnʼt bring himself to just wear his jam-jams to bed.  One always had to be prepared
for escape, and you canʼt go anywhere not wearing underwear.

            Sweet cereal like Fruit Loops has to wait until after granola, or Cheerios with fruit
in it.  He was off Chex this week because he didnʼt want to commit to a cereal until heʼd
gone through his options. So today was Cherrios with slices of banana and enough
honey to receive--and ignore--a pointed look from his mother.

            “Did you read for today?” she asked him over her coffee. 

Her sweater and sweat pants draped overlarge on her frame and she pierced him with
eyes slightly enlarged by 80ʼs rimmed glasses.

            “Mhungle wnateref gluab.”

            Sydney gave her an apologetic look for his full mouth, having  just shoved half
the bowl of cereal and bananaʼs in it as soon as he sensed the question coming.  It
would buy him just enough time for her to be distracted.  Lance, David or Caitlin might
come into the kitchen.  There might be a blurb on the news about an earthquake. There
might be an earthquake.

            But having finally swallowed his mouthful and finding the kitchen still intact--
tacky fifties tanned cupboards and all--the question still hung over the table.

            “I forgot.”

            “mhm” she didnʼt lift her gaze. Though not an angry one, it was perhaps slightly
bemused as she spotted the empty space on the living room bookshelf where a Harry
Potter book should be stored. Its recent disappearance had coincided with the
disappearance of her son for long hours of time into his room, and the appearance of
his unopened school-work bag on the dining room table. Well, she thought, at least itʼs
not masturbation. Then got up and went to wash out her mug.

            This was the first year Sydney walked himself to school.  Three blocks. 220
sidewalk cracks.  Three puddle crisis zones.  Around the second block, you had to walk
in the middle of the street because the dog on the west side would chase you down the
line of his fence.  You couldnʼt walk on the East side because that would mean having to
cross all the way to the West side at the intersection, and that wouldnʼt be the most
efficient walk between Point Home and Point School.

Todayʼs mental conversation: The technical aspects of a movie that uses a character at
two different ages.  This was a conversation Sydney had had with himself earlier.  At
that time, it seemed that the best idea was to film the actor at their younger age and
then later when they were older.  Now though, Sydney was questioning the dedication
of the actor and the production to dedicate such a time span.  After all, if the guy had to
be a baby in the movie and then had to be a really old man, the movie would take
forever to be done. As he walked down the middle of the second block he wondered if
perhaps you could use two people who looked like each other at different ages.  Kind of
like how Sydney looked like his dad. Sydney could play little dad in a movie. No.  This
would be most impractical.  The younger actor would never agree to such a contract. 
The rest of the walk was dedicated to wondering about the dayʼs reading.

            The main street was the last of the walk to school, but the worst.  The sidewalk
was always crowded with chattering kids on their way to school and you couldnʼt walk in
the street with all the cars zooming by.  Sydney watched them all on the other side while
pushing the walk signal button again and again to the beat of a made up song.  The
light switched and the cars came to a hault as Sydney took a deep breath and joined
the throng.  Today he chose a look of fixed consternation, he imagined that the concrete
was trying to break apart and swallow all the kids and if anything broke his
concentration, the sidewalk would succeed.  Therefore, Sydney could not be bothered
by conversation or social interaction; he was preserving all their lives.

            Sydney was able to maintain his concentration all the way until his classroom
door.  Once again he had misjudged the time and had arrived early.  He stopped his
watch and made a mental note to try leaving a minute later tomorrow. Having a book out
was not an option as this would catch attention and was an object easily taken or
knocked out of hand.  Instead, Sydney tried to reproduce the exasperated, exhausted
“Iʼm not to be bothered” look he had been studying at home that week.  Out of the
corner of his eye, Sydney watched the four boys standing at the front line.  Once again,
as he analyzed their baggy Jerseyʼs and designer jeans, Sydney wondered whether he
should untuck his hand-me-down shirt from his hand-me-down pants.  He ran his
fingers through his limp product lacking hair while questioning the practicality of spikes. 
But it wasnʼt really the appearance Sydney wanted.  He wanted to be standing up there,
with them cool collected...stupid. Well. Maybe not stupid.

            The door of the classroom opened and Mrs. Stenson welcomed them all into the
classroom.  She gave Sydney a particular smile, but he didnʼt notice this as he once
more concentrated on keeping the concrete from swallowing people.  “Heʼs a crazy little
oddball,” she would tell his future teachers, “but if I had to make a bet of who will make
something of his life, thatʼs the one.”

Sydney didnʼt get to eat hot lunch so he put his sack lunch in the bin with all the others,
and made a beeline for his desk.  Around him, the classroom was a general hubub of
noise. Class took time to start so Sydney pulled out his copy of the third Harry Potter
and hunkered down.

            “Hey Sydney.”

            His look of exasperation needed no acting; Harry had just gotten into
Transfiguration class. Judith sat across from him in their little four-desk grouping.  He
did not know much about her except that her pair of scissors were in his backpack.  He
hadnʼt meant to keep them, but continually forgot to give them back.  He had the same
problem with the second Harry Potter book that was sitting on his shelf at home with the
name “Mrs. Stenson” written on the front cover.

            “Hey Sydney. How are you?”

            In response Sydney held his finger up in front of the book to indicate the
monumental importance of finishing the sentence he was on.  He then laid the book
open on the table before looking up. This would be a good indication that he was so
involved with the text that he really couldnʼt be bothered to dog ear the page yet.  He
then worked his face into a tired smile--making sure she saw the tired annoyance in
how he wiggled his eyebrows up over his eyes--and made mid-eye contact with Judith.

            “Hi Judith.”

            Judith Mulberryʼs haircut and clothes had the same fashion sense her parents
had in naming her.  Her clothes came from the Salvation Army and an older sister just
as Sydneyʼs came from Goodwill and his brothers--though he would never admit these
outlets to himself.  Hers were just as oddly mismatched, though they showed a few
more food stains than his and the sleeve of her faded curtain-flowery dress looked
suspiciously singed.  While Sydneyʼs ears extended too far from his head, Judithʼs eyes
had been attempting separation since birth. The home barbershop haircut worked well
for Sydney--a quarter inch buzz cut could be accomplished blind[1]--but poor Judith was
frizzle-frazzled in every direction with at least ten different lengths attempted in various
places.  A cat could not cough up something quite as disastrous.  When Judith walked
to school she couldnʼt talk to anyone because she was carrying fairy dust on her tongue
and if she blew it out, her and everyone else on the sidewalk would be attacked by
large, club-baring goblins. Sydney, however, did not know this about Judith.  If he had,
he might have considered offering her the position of Side-Kick, even if she couldnʼt
actually perform a side kick[2].

            “Did you do your homework last night?” she asked.

            Sydney eyes her singed sleeve critically.

            “Yeah.”

            “I thought it was kinda hard. I donʼt get the whole part about carrying things over.
I thought that was for addition.”

            “Really? It only took me like three minutes. Is that a burn on your dress?”

            “O. Well. Thatʼs good about homework.”

            Sydney felt something twinge uncomfortably in his stomach as Judith turned
away to begin reassembling her pen so that Sydney wouldnʼt figure out it was a spy
laser--she had disassembled it to show him but decided she didnʼt want to anymore. 
Once more, Laser Pen recognition was required of any Side-Kick, but Sydney was
unaware of Judithʼs Skills.

Sydney went back to Harry Potter, supposing that she had broken her pen somehow
and couldnʼt get it back together. After all.  How could anyone else know that the reason
you can take apart pens is that they can be used as spy lasers? Certainly not Judith
Mulberry with her singed dress and fleeing eyes.  He felt another twinge in his tummy,
then wondered if Patrick knew how to turn a pen into a spy laser.  He would surely
know. Or maybe if Sydney explained it him then the two of them could hang out and...

            Sydneyʼs thought swished away as Mary Peterson--who sat behind Judith--
knocked the incomplete spy laser/pen out of Judithʼs hands while making a deal out of
getting to her desk.

            “Canʼt you see two people need to fit here?” the girl sneered, “Maybe you should
try glasses.”

            Judith immediately crammed herself as far as she could into her desk and held
the fairy dust on her tongue while the girl rolled her eyes and flicked her conditioned,
forty-dollar haircut. 

            “Maybe you should try running,” Sydney said over Judithʼs head, “then you
wouldnʼt have to fit two and half people there.”
            He rolled his eyes and cocked one eyebrow and went back to reading Harry
Potter, but he made sure to check that Judithʼs mouth had smiled just slightly.

            Normally, Sydneyʼs super evolved hearing could bleep out the silly insults his
immature peers would throw at him, but Sydneyʼs super evolution must have been faulty
again today because he did hear a couple words, and one specifically that would have
to be approached during Walking Seminar at some point.  Sooner or later he needed to
rap his head around “gay”.  Everyone was using it, so it was common ammo, but maybe
he could put a better spin on it somehow.

            Harry Potter had to wait.  The inevitable had occurred as it did every day and
class had begun.  Sydney gently dog eared the page he was on and pulled his math
homework out; as pristine and perfect as it was every day.

            Draco Malfoy smirked all the time at Harry Potter in such abundance that
Sydney had decided Websterʼs dictionary was necessary.  He did his best now to
exemplify the definition and combine it with Pansy Parkinsonʼs haughty--another
Webster Dive--expression while the class fell silent to yet another question on problem
thirty-three.

            Sydney threw his hand into the air.

            “Itʼs 36! You can take the three and carry it up into the tens and...”

            Sydney felt himself swelling just slightly.  He had the eyes of all twenty-three
students and one teacher in the room because he knew something they didnʼt.  He
might not know how to play football, or who was the pop star of the week, or which
Pokémon evolved with a leaf rock or with a fire one; but all that knowledge they had was
nothing right now.  In the classroom, he was the cool guy, because he had the
knowledge. This was his moment. His only moment.

            “...so half goes to the right and the other half to the left.”

He didnʼt care that the looks he was getting were not the admiration he imagined they
were. He also wouldnʼt discover until it was far too late that he wasnʼt the only one who
knew the answers.  But the social filter of when to open oneʼs mouth and brain and
when not to was not one Sydney had accounted himself with.

------

            Up until a few weeks before, Sydney would sneak out of the lunch room after
eating and spend recess in the library.  He would look through books and research
strange new things just like Harry, Hermione and Ron did.  There was no time for recess
when the world needed saving. However, just two weeks ago Mrs. Granghat--the fifth
grade recess monitor (aka: the wicked witch of the west)--had taken him aside.
            “Sydney, you need to go outside during recess, you cannot go to the library.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because that time is for recess.”

            “But Iʼm in school.  How come I canʼt spend my recess reading in the library?”

            “Because you need to get outside and get some fresh air.”

            “I donʼt need fresh air. I play at home. We have a back yard. And a dog.”

            “Sydney Seymour, you will come outside every day for recess and you will not
go to the library, do you understand me? Someday youʼll thank me.”

            So , Sydney would chew every bite as slowly and carefully as possible to insure
he didnʼt choke and die, even if--regrettably--it kept him from talking with the others
around him. By the time he had finished every last bite--between one and two hundred
usually--the cafeteria had emptied of the large mass of sunshine eager children. Heʼd
then get up and grab one of the rags and spray bottles and begin cleaning tables.  The
lunch ladies would let any of the kids who helped clean tables choose anything they
wanted from the treats/snacks bar. This was not a task Sydney took lightly.  He made
certain that each and every spec of food was removed.  Well aware of the miniscule
size of germs, he cleaned each table three times.  When he was finished he was the
only one remaining aside from the lunch lady who sat calmly in the back waiting for him.

            Judith, had always wanted to help Sydney Seymour clean the lunchroom tables,
however her allergies to 14[3] major brands of disinfectant made this impossible. 
Unfortunately, Sydney had always hoped that he would one day discover the true
identity of his Side Kick by looking up from a table to find a compadre wiping across
from him.  Instead, every day when he looked, he only found Judith Mulberry sitting at
the far table reading one of those silly “American Girl” books and getting in his way.

            As he walked towards the main doors Sydney dropped the cupcakes he had
chosen into a trash bin, then walked outside focusing on making sure the air around him
didnʼt whip into a horrible wind and sweep the entire school away. In the dark corner by
the 1st grade doors Sydney pulled out tonightʼs math homework and got started. He had
to be ready.

            Only fifteen minutes in, though, and Sydney had his knitting out.  He reasoned
that the dyeing Penguins in Antarctica were in far greater need than his ability to
multiply.

            There were two reasons why Sydney joined Ms. Stensonʼs knitting club.
            One: The idea of a penguin waddling across the ice in a sweater he made.

            Ms. Stenson had informed the class one day of something absolutely and
positively tragic.  An oil spill in the southern hemisphere of the world had robbed
thousands of Antarctic penguins of the ability to stay warm.  Ms. Stenson had explained
that there was a very simple solution to the problem at hand: scientists wanted organic,
knit sweaters, by the thousands.

            Two: Sydney liked to Knit.

            Every Thursday heʼd go into the reading room adjacent to Ms. Stensonʼs
classroom. Hansel Blackfield was the only other boy waiting there.  Fortunately for
Hansel, he was very bad at knitting, and very good looking.  Unfortunately for Sydney,
he was very good at knitting, and he tucked in his shirt and had a part.  The group
would sit for an our each meeting and knit their sweaters. Ms. Stenson would travel
around fixing stitches, loosening fingers and reminding them all of where their work
would end up.

            Today Hansel had not shown up.  He would often do this, to the great relief of
Sydney.  On these days the girls would talk to Sydney and they would laugh and be his
friends.  Mary Peterson, though stung earlier, let the hurt go with good grace as the two
swapped stories about when theyʼd seen Titanic.  Sydney knew full well that she
believed sheʼd won their little battle of words earlier, and he allowed her this concession
for the sake of their good will and conversation. This is reason two-point-five of why
Sydney came to Knitting club.

            At the end of the time, like every day, Sydney would gently rap the sweater
around the bright red needles, making a secure little package of yarn and metal.  He
dumped all the contents of his backpack on the floor and put the package at the bottom. 
Then carefully picked up all the books, notebooks, forgotten papers, broken pens and
pencils and all other manner of school debry that exist in other school packs as refuse,
not camouflage, and piled them on top of his precious little package.  Buried deep at the
bottom where no one would see it. Because Sydney knew that real boys donʼt knit.

-----

            “Pull up a chair Sydney.”

            Sydney could not be trusted to fix his own homework, every missed problem had
to be gone through by his father.  His father, a practical businessman, assumed that the
work Sydney had given him was his highest quality, and therefore if higher quality was
necessary--which it was--certain actions would have to take place.
            “If  Patrick is walking 10 miles east to the market, Then three miles north to
Chrisʼ house, then 3 miles west to get to Margaretʼs house.  How far west is Margaretʼs
house from Patrickʼs.

            Sydney tried very hard to keep the wall to wall carpeting from climbing up the
walls and eating the family pictures, but his concentration was slipping. This was an
important task because his mother had spent a lot of money--

            “Sydney. Straighten up and answer the question.”

Obviously the carpet wasnʼt moving up the walls, the walls didnʼt need him...nothing
needed him.

            “10.”

            Sydney remembered that--in the middle of this math problem--Margaret had
forgotten to bring cookies, so Patrick had to of course--

            “Well thatʼs what you wrote here,” the man next to him said, “and sense I marked
it wrong, thatʼs probably not the right answer. So letʼs try this again--“

            Sydney began to feel very small.  He was trying to concentrate on being normal
sized, but unlike the concrete and the sky...he couldnʼt make things stay.  He felt the
room getting bigger and bigger.  He didnʼt feel like Harry Potter anymore--

            “how many miles?”

            “3,” prompt guesses werenʼt necessarily a good--

            “I told you to stop talking like that, you sound like Mickey Mouse. And how the
hell did you come up with three? Answer me.”

            The concrete wasnʼt actually going to eat the kids today, just like how the carpet
would never climb the walls. It was all just a part of his...his...imagination.  None of it
was real. What was real?

            Sydney squeezed his pen--not a spy laser--

            “I donʼt know.”

            When Sydney got too small it was hard to keep his insides on the inside.  This
was just physically a fact.  Big things that hold big things canʼt hold big things if the big
thing get little.  As he got smaller Sydney could feel his eyes and throat burning as the
big things inside started getting pushed out.
            “So sit up in your chair. Quite your crying, and tell me how far west Margaretʼs
house is from Patricks.”

            He focused on the numbers and letter jumbled before him, itʼs all he could do.
He didnʼt need to save the world.

            “s-s-seven.”

            Little droplets of salt water blossomed across the page as Sydney wrote in the
correct answer to the first problem of the night.   Sydney did not concentrate on keeping
the doplets from eating the words. He didnʼt need to save the world, because it wasnʼt
saving him.

[1] In fact Sydneyʼs mother did have a habit of removing her glasses before removing
the hair of her sons with a large buzzer.

[2] Even if she couldnʼt actually perform a side kick--which a yellow belt in karate--
Sydney was quite proficient at.

[3] It was the allergy to number 15 that Judith would not survive.