Sundog Gets Schooled

By Thom Whalen

Sundog is a fourteen-year-old boy who was raised on a houseboat by unconventional parents. They have never let him go to school or learn to read. When the family comes to San Diego for the winter, he decides that no one, not his parents, the school authorities, or the neighbourhood bullies are going to stop him from getting an education.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thom Whalen
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301315673

Thom Whalen

Thom Whalen studied experimental psychology at UCSD (B.A.), UBC (M.A.) and Dalhousie University (Ph.D.). After working for the Government of Canada conducting research on the human factors of computer networks for thirty years, he retired to begin a new career writing fiction.If you wish to send him email, contact information is available at http://thomwhalen.com/ He eagerly awaits comment on his stories.

Book preview

Chapter One

Everything changed the year that we decided to winter in San Diego harbor.

On the second morning after we arrived, I decided to go ashore and explore a little. I guessed that it was about nine in the morning. I was pretty good at guessing the nearest hour by looking at the sun but I never knew the exact time. Only Moonglow got to have a watch because she had to get to places on time to keep her appointments.

I was feeling good. Walking was easy because the air was cool and the sidewalk was flat.

About two blocks from the water, I saw a guy a little older than me come out of one of the houses. A little older but a lot bigger. I was to learn that they grow kids big in Southern California.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his arms hanging loose at his sides, his hands balled into fists, and his head thrust forward, waiting for me to approach him.

I kept walking. Instinct and experience told me that I was walking into trouble but there was nothing that I could do about it. If I turned around and tried to walk away, he was going to think that I was afraid of him and come after me. Then, when he caught me, he’d be that much bolder and whatever he did would be that much worse.

That’s the way boys are.

Hi, I said, when I got close.

What are you looking at, loser? he snarled and stepped forward to meet me.

What did he think? I was looking at him, of course. What else would I be looking at? Why don’t you tell me? I said, trying to sound tough.

He got physical immediately. He wanted to intimidate me before I had a chance to prepare myself. He pushed me hard in the chest and I had to step back to keep my balance. You’re looking at me, he snapped. You’re looking at the guy who owns this street. He shoved me again and I had to take another step back. He raised his chin and stretched his neck to put his face close. So, now you can tell me what you’re looking at.

I knew what he wanted but I wasn’t going to say that I was looking at the guy who owned the street. If I did that, then he’d expect me to ask him for permission every time I left the houseboat. I’d be looking over my shoulder all the time. Instead, I asked, What’s your name?

I’m the boss of you. You’re going to call me Boss. That’s all you need to know about me. He pushed me again, even harder, and I had to stagger a little to keep to my feet. Where do you go to school? he asked.

Nowhere, I said.

He stepped forward and pushed me again. I asked you where you go to school. He pushed me again.

I don’t go to school.

Then you must be stupid, he said and pushed me backward once more. Stupid kids don’t go to school. He pushed again. So what are you?

He wanted me to say that I was stupid. I said nothing.

Suddenly, other hands pushed against my back, forcing me to step toward the bully. I looked around and saw that two new boys had come up behind me. They weren’t as big as the first boy but both were bigger than me.

My heart sank. I was trapped but good now.

The three boys pushed me around from one to the other for a minute, asking each other questions like, Think we should beat this weenie to a pulp? and Why don’t we throw him into Gonzalez’s cactus patch?

I was stumbling, desperately trying to keep to my feet.

They were scaring me. I admit it.

Nobody had ever beaten me up before, mostly because I hadn’t been around bullies like this before. The kids I hung with up north wanted to talk to a guy, to get to know him, not just push him around. Now it looked like a beating was a real possibility. Even inevitable.

I didn’t think that I’d like being beaten but I couldn’t think how to avoid it.

I didn’t know anything about fighting. Starman always said that real men don’t fight. Only cowards fight. That was one of his many mantras. Only cowards fight.

I had never felt so helpless. My heart was pounding and I was sweating in the cool air. I was so scared that I wanted to drop to the ground and start crying like a baby. But I didn’t dare do that, either.

I figured that if I was that scared then I was a coward.

Only cowards fight, so, according to Starman’s logic, I should start fighting.

I began swinging my fists and kicking with my feet as hard and fast as I could. I flailed around in all directions. I lacked experience so I compensated with energy. If they gave black belts for going berserk, I would have qualified for one right then and there.

I could hear myself shouting and screaming but I had no idea what I was trying to say. Maybe I was calling them warmongering imperialists like Starman would. Maybe I was just trying to deafen them.

They were screaming back at me. I had no idea what they were saying, either.

I was getting in some good licks but I couldn’t tell who I was hitting or where. All I knew for sure what that I was getting the worst of it. They were laying two blows on me for every one that I laid on them but I figured that wasn’t bad. Considering that there were three of them and they were all bigger than me, it should have been three or four of their blows to each one of mine.

I couldn’t keep it up for much longer but I had no way of stopping without getting beat even worse.

I redoubled my efforts, punching and kicking as fast as I could, turning around to strike at the guys behind me, trying to keep them all away.

It was useless. When they began hitting hard at my face, I had to put my arms up to protect it. But then, I wasn’t keeping them at a distance any longer. They closed in to finish me off with body blows.

I went down and they began kicking at me while I was on the ground.

Suddenly, one of them shouted something and they fled.

Just like that, I was alone, curled up on the sidewalk, hearing their feet pounding away in all directions.

I could feel blood flowing across my cheek; my nose was bleeding freely and my lip was split.

I was too sore to stand up, but I dared not stay on the ground for fear that the bullies would come back and resume the beating. I rolled over onto my knees and waited for a few beats, panting heavily, watching my blood dripping from my nose and lip down onto the sidewalk.

Then I found out why they had fled.

A black and white car screeched to a stop beside me. I looked up and saw flashing red and blue lights.

A police officer stepped out. His hand was resting on his gun. He looked grim.

Chapter Two

What are you doing? the officer demanded harshly. Not, Can I help you? or, Who was beating you? but, What are you doing?

I’m bleeding, was the first thing that came to mind because I was looking at my red blood pooling on the grey concrete.

Get up!

I’m bleeding, I repeated. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.

A heavy hand grabbed my arm and jerked me to my feet. I had been kicked right where he grabbed me and I couldn’t keep from crying out in pain at the rough treatment.

What are you doing here? the officer asked again. He sounded a lot like the bullies who had been beating me. It must have been the Southern California drawl that made them sound alike.

I’d never spoken to a police officer before. Starman was expert at avoiding the police, at least, most of the time. The rest of the family followed his lead.

I’m going to be okay, I said. I just want to go home now. I tried to step away from him, but he was still hanging onto my arm.

You aren’t going anywhere until you answer my questions. He squeezed my arm harder and made it hurt more but I was ready for him this time. I didn’t make any sound.

Now that I had taken a moment to gather my wits, I tried to explain myself better. I was just walking down the street and three boys started beating on me. That wasn’t strictly true. Technically, they’d just been pushing me and threatening me until I started beating on them, but my statement was true in spirit. They’d started it. If I’d had a choice, there wouldn’t have been any fight.

Why aren’t you in school? the officer asked.

I don’t go to school.

How old are you?

About thirteen, I think.

You think? You don’t know?

No. My family doesn’t celebrate birthdays. Starman says that birthdays are a bourgeois conceit.

The officer stared at me for a long time.

From his expression, I suspected that the officer didn’t know what bourgeois conceit meant. That’s all right. I didn’t know what it meant, either. I’d just heard Starman say it a lot. Almost anything that he doesn’t want to bother with, like birthdays or wristwatches or holidays, are bourgeois conceits. If he doesn’t like something and it’s not a bourgeois conceit, then it’s fascist imperialism.

As I looked back at him, I wondered if my eyes were blackened yet. I had never had a black eye before so I didn’t know how long it would take for the bruising to start. My whole face hurt bad and I was certain that, if my eyes hadn’t turned black already, they would soon.

What’s a Starman? the officer finally said.

He’s my father.

Who’s your mother? he asked. A star woman? He was sneering at me. Starman sneered a lot, too.

Moonglow, I replied, softly, beginning to wheeze a little as the blood flow thickened and began to clog my nose.

The officer started breathing heavily through his mouth as his face slowly turned red. He thrust his head forward and balled his hands into fists at his side. He looked like he was wanted to slug me.

I didn’t dare show him how afraid I was, either. I shrugged. That’s what they call themselves, I said.

What do you call yourself? he asked in a low growl.

Sundog.

What’s your last name?

I don’t have one. Sundog is my only name.

He snarled like an animal. I guess the police in San Diego don’t like people who don’t have last names. He stared at me for a minute, breathing heavily, maybe waiting to see if I’d change my name for him.

I waited, too.

Finally, he asked, Where do you live?

On a houseboat. It’s in the harbor.

The officer glanced down the street toward the ocean. How long have you lived there?

For two days.

Where did you live before that?

We spent two months coming down from Seattle. We were living in a cove on an island in the sound. We move the houseboat around when people complain about us. I didn’t mention that we also move the houseboat from one part of the harbor here to another part every day to try to avoid the Harbor Police. Starman worked hard to avoid all kinds of authorities.

I bet they do. How long have you been living on a houseboat?

For as long as I can remember. My nose had stopped bleeding but it was already completely clogged and I had to breathe through my mouth. My upper lip was itching where the blood was drying. I wiped some of it away with the sleeve of my tee shirt. I looked down at the smear of red. There was a lot of blood.

And you don’t go to school?

I shook my head.

We’ve got truancy laws here in California, he said like that was my fault.

I shrugged again. I was shrugging a lot, but I didn’t know what to say. When I asked Starman about school, once, he said it was a bourgeois conceit and jack-boot fascism. I never asked again.

What does your father do for a living? he asked.

I refrained from shrugging again and said, I don’t know.

Does he grow marijuana? Cook meth? Smuggle cocaine?

I don’t know. I guessed that the officer was trying to find out where we got our money from so I said, Moonglow teaches yoga. We didn’t use much money so we could get by doing little things here and there.

Moonglow teaches yoga, the officer said, mimicking my voice in a nasty falsetto. Why am I not surprised to hear that?

I said nothing.

Get in the car, the officer said and pulled me over to the back door. He hurt my arm again where it was freshly bruised, but I didn’t complain. He wasn’t going to give me any sympathy.

He never did ask me who beat me up. I’d already begun to suspect that he knew who those boys were and didn’t want to do anything about them. I was an easier target.

It was the first time in my life that I’d spoken to a police officer and I didn’t like it. He wasn’t as helpful as I’d have expected.

Now I knew why Starman always moved the houseboat rather than wait around to explain things to the authorities.

Chapter Three

The police officer took me to his police station and, after assorted formalities and indignities, put me in a small room and told me to wait.

After a while I got bored and tried to open the door. It was locked. I sat down and waited some more.

After a long time, a lady in a nice, blue, store-bought dress and jacket came into the room. She introduced herself as Mrs. Stark. I guess she liked the way I looked because she told the police officer that she would be all right alone with me.

I heard the lock click shut again.

She looked so nice and smiled so kindly that I didn’t realize that she was the most dangerous person that I would meet that day. More dangerous than the bullies or the police officer.

Is the name on your birth certificate really Sundog? she asked in a soft, gentle voice.

I don’t think I have a birth certificate. It hurt to talk with a split lip, but I didn’t complain. I was happy that nobody here was going to hurt me any more. I think I was born on the houseboat. I was pretty sure that Starman would say that birth certificates were bourgeois conceits.

She opened a leather-covered notebook and wrote something in it.

Are you being home-schooled?

Yes, I said. That was a lie. I knew what she meant because I knew kids in Seattle who were getting schooled by their parents. But the closest that I came to getting a lesson was listening to Starman rant about bourgeois imperialism for hours, usually over dinner, or Moonglow teaching me how to sew a pocket hem. I doubted anyone would count that as schooling.

Can you read and write?

Yes. That was another lie. I know all the numbers and I can print my name – snake, cup-up, cup-down, circle-line-up, circle, circle-hook-down – but that’s about it. I’m pretty sure that there’s more to reading and writing than just printing the letters in my name.

I was surprised to hear myself lying. I don’t usually lie. I guess I lied because I was embarrassed. I could feel my face flushing under the dried blood. No one had