Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.
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The Fire Triangle
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Alp Sarsis, author of the Guardian Blue fanfic series. Godspeed, brother.
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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Part 1)
"I was born in a crossfire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the drivin' rain..."
The Rolling Stones - Jumpin' Jack Flash
Erin Hopps had never been more irritated.
"See?" She said, indicating the space beyond the door with a sweep of her paw, "I told you there was nobody out there."
Conor only raised his nose and sniffed. "Just coz you can't hear 'em—and I can't smell 'em—doesn't mean there's nobody out there, Snowdrop."
Oooo, the 'S' word! At once the insides of her ears turned red as stoplights
"Don't...even...!" the white-furred young bunny hissed, jamming a finger upwards while her right foot commenced to thump like a sewing machine. It was bad enough when he called her that in private—but in front of his stinking lawyer? She was halfway ready to drop him off ANOTHER fire-escape. And speaking of Mr. Rodenberg when she looked his way for a reaction, she noted that the rat-attorney appeared far more sanguine than her about the current state of affairs.
"Sorry kiddo; for once, I have to agree with your boyfriend..."
That brought an instant rejoinder—from both of them.
"He's NOT my boyfriend!"
"She's not my girlfriend!"
"Yeah, yeah...all right, my bad." The grey rat shrugged and waved a paw, "But he's still right, Ms. Hopps; you can't be too careful in a situation like this." He thumbed his chest and nodded at the doorway, "Believe me, I know; I've been in similar places, a lot more times than I care to count." And then, waving an inviting paw at the chair beside the bed, he said. "Now c'mon and sit down; let's hear what this silver-fox kid has to tell us."
Without waiting for Erin to comply, he turned and put his paws on his hips, looking straight up at Conor with a piercing gaze.
"Oh...and Booby?"
"Yeah?"
Halfway closing his left eye, Rodenberg widened the other one until it looked like a glittering black marble. And then, flashing his incisors, he angled his nose even further upwards.
"I haven't lasted this long as a mob attorney without being able to tell when someone's lying to me. You follow what I'M bringing out?"
Conor said nothing for a second, and then took a deep breath...as if preparing to go off a high-dive for the very first time.
And then he nodded, "I getcha," and launched into his story.
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Okay, I need to start from the beginning over here—and I mean the beginning. Sorry, but a lot of what else I have to say isn't going to make any sense unless I do.
Yeah, yeah...roll your eyes all you want, bunny girl; but now listen...
Officially, I'm fourteen years old...but honestly, I don't know how old I am. Heck I'm not even sure about my birth name. I think it's Caden, or...something; begins with an 'C', that's all I know. It's a big reason why I picked Conor as the name I use now. And don't even ask me about my last name; I've been trying to figure that one out since, like forever. Yeah, seriously.
All right, now this shouldn't surprise you; after all, there's only about a zillion other kids in the same boat. I got no idea who my father is. I never met him...and mom only mentioned him once. And believe me, it wasn't a positive review. I don't know what the heck he did, but it must have been something pretty awful.
Yeah...about my mother. I don't remember a whole lot about her either. I was only three when I lost her—I think. I don't know what she did for work, who her friends were...I don't even remember her name; I always just called her 'mom' or sometimes 'mommy.' I know the city we lived in—Hartfurred Connecticat—but I couldn't tell you the name of our street, our apartment building. or anything else.
Uh-huh, yeah...I see that look on your face, Mr. Rodenberg. No, I didn't just happen to forget all that stuff. When I took that beating on my first day in Jersey Juvie, a coupla teeth weren't the only thing I lost.
Ohhhh...yeah, that's right; I told Erin, but never told you. I'll give you the down and dirty later, but on my mother's grave, a whole lot of my memory from that time is like a scrambled egg—and the further back I go, the messier it gets. Heck, I have to keep a picture of mom on my laptop, just so I won't forget what she looked like.
Yeah, sure...you can see it; hold on a sec.
There, that's her.
Uh-huh, yeah...she was really pretty,
Ahhh. yes...there's a few things from back then that I can remember pretty good. Like, there was this margay lady who ran a daycare center in our apartment building; Mom used to leave me with her while she went out to work. Ummm, I think...I'm not sure, but I think it was an unlicensed operation. I remember one time when the cops came by and she made us all hide in the furnace room; her apartment was downstairs in the basement. I didn't know what the heck was going on at the time, but I get the idea now. I also remember that she took really good care of us...though I couldn't say how exactly. The only other kid I remember from that time was a beaver-kid named Bobby-Something. I dunno why; we weren't really friends, but for some reason I remember him...or at least I remember his name.
Another thing I know from back then was that my mom loved me, very, very much. Whenever she'd come to pick me up, she'd always give me a great big hug. No matter what kind of day she had, she was always happy to see me.
But the thing I remember most about her was the way she used to sing me to sleep every night. She'd put me to bed, go grab a guitar, and then come back and sing to me. Ahhh, she had the most amazing voice. And the songs she sang to me weren't the usual bedtime stuff; I remember that too.
Ahhh, lessee...Moonshadow by Cat Stevens; for years I thought that was written as a kid's song. Then there was Blackbird by the Beastles, and, uh...this kind of reverse psych tune called Stay Awake. I dunno where she got that one from, but it always worked, turned me out like a light whenever she sang it. Another couple of songs I heard a lot were I'll Stand by You by Purrtenders and 'When the Night Comes' by Joe Cockroar.
Yeah Erin, I know; that last one's a rocker—but not the way my mother sang it. The song she sang that'll always be a part of me though is, 'Who Knows Where the Time Goes?' by Furport Convention. I'll explain why in a minute.
Hrm? Ahhh, yes and no, bunny-girl. That might be where I first got interested in playing the guitar, but...honestly, the 6-string was never my mom's instrument. Don't get me wrong, she was good on guitar—but she was way better on the piano. I didn't find that out for a while though, since we didn't have one. And anyway, heh, even if we did, how ya gonna lug one of those things into your kid's room? I only heard her play the keys once that I can remember; it was on a public piano—at this flea market, I think. But that's one other thing that I'll never forget. The tune was Kashmir by Led Zeppelion and she just up and crushed it.
The day that everything changed didn't hit me like a freight train; it just sorta crept up on me. I think mom may have been feeling bad for a while, but I can't be sure. And it's not just my memory, pancreatic cancer has a habit of not letting you know you've got it until after it's too late.
Uh-huh, that's right, guys; that's what she had. Yeah...thanks. I didn't find out what it was until later, after she was gone, but thanks...I appreciate it.
But, getting back to my story, one day, mom didn't come to pick me up at day-care after work. I wasn't worried about it; she'd done that before. Except, when Mrs—ah, I still can't remember her name—when she came to tell me about it, she was crying. That spooked me real good. And it didn't get any better when my mother finally showed up the next morning. She'd been crying too; I could tell. And when she gave me my hug, she started bawling all over again, holding me so tight that I thought she was going to break something and just smothering me with kisses.
For a week after that, everything seemed to go back to normal. The next day, mom dropped me off at daycare, and went off to work like usual—or, that's where I thought she was going.
But then—I think it was on a Saturday—she dressed me up in my good clothes, and took me on the bus to this big, red-brick building. We were met inside by this raccoon lady, who seemed really nice, but then mom told me I was going to have to stay there awhile while she 'went to the doctor.' I didn't understand at first; going to the doctor didn't take all that long, right? When I finally got that this place was gonna be my home for a while—and that my mother wasn't going to be staying there with me, I cried and begged her not to leave. I remember that she got down on one knee, took me by the shoulders and told me to 'be strong' for her. "You're a tough kid, son. You can do this."
I know that coz I heard that kinda talk from her a lot in the next couple of months...whenever she came to visit me, and then later, when I went to visit her, she would always give me a pep-talk, making me promise to 'stay strong' for her.
Anyway, the place where she'd left me was basically an orphanage; I can't remember the official name, but the orphanage is what I call it. The room where I was staying was okay, and the staff was nice enough, though they'd always change the subject or something when I asked about my mom. The kids were another matter. A lot of them were there either coz their folks had abandoned them or, even worse, they'd been taken from their homes after being abused. I don't think I need to say how badly that can mess you up.
To be fair though, they kept the hard-cases in a separate wing, away from the rest of us. I remember because I was always being old to stay out of that part of the building. Just the same, it was while I was in the orphanage that I first got grief because of my species. It wasn't anything big...not at first, anyway. It was little things, liiiike...ohhhh, none of the other kids ever called me by my name, it was always by my species.
Yeah Erin, there were one or two other foxes there, but I was the only silver-fox. So that's what they called me, Silver-Fox, or sometimes just plain Silver. Another thing I noticed was that none of the other kids ever wanted to share with me. They'd share with each other, but not with me...not unless a staff member made them do it. Nobody wanted to play games with me either. I could never figure out why—until one day...ahhhh, I don't remember her name either, but she was a wild goat. Anyway, this jackrabbit kid, sorry Erin, but that's what he was—didn't want to play hide and seek with me, and Ms. I-Can't-Remember-Her-Name tried to talk him into it. At first, she was nice, but then she put her hoof down. And when she did, the bunny-kid started crying his eyes out. When she asked him why he bawled at her, "If he catches me, he'll EAT me!"
Hold it, time out...don't apologize bunny-girl. I don't blame your species for that, so don't you do it, okay?
Okay...but that was the first time a prey kid ever said they were scared I was gonna eat them. And that's something else I'll always remember. No predator kid ever forgets the first time somebody lays that fear-of-being-eaten thing on them.
Nope...I never got to play much with the other pred kids, either. No...they weren't scared I'd eat 'em, they were sure I'd cheat 'em. That was another first...the first time I ever got ran up against that foxes-are-shifty-and-untrustworthy 'tude.
What about the other foxes in the orphanage? Nah, that wasn't happening either; they were both way older than me, at least four years. And even if they hadn't been, fox kids weren't allowed to...
Ahhh, I'll get to that later.
While all of this was going on, my mom kept up with her visits. At first, I was glad to see her. But after a while, I started to notice that she wasn't looking too good...and it just kept getting worse and worse. Her fur was falling out in clumps—like she had mange or something—and she was losing weight like you wouldn't believe. She couldn't handle the cold either; used to come bundled up like there was a blizzard going on, even when it was t-shirt weather outside. I know now that it was coz of the chemotherapy, but I didn't know it then.
The worst part, though, was the pain. Every time that mom came to see me, I could tell she was hurting, even though she tried to cover it up. It made her super-touchy, too; she 'd snap at everybody over every little thing—but never at me. She never lost it at me, no matter what. She never gave in to the blues either, she was a fighter all the way. Only once did she let her feelings get to her; but that didn't happen until later.
As time went by, her visits got less and less frequent; from every other day, to twice a week, to once a week...and then she stopped coming altogether.
No, Counselor...not yet. Instead, they started bringing ME in to see her. It was the first time I'd ever been to a hospital. And lemme tell you, it scared the livin' heck out of me, especially the smell. You know what I'm talking about; you can smell it right now, in this room, that stinging, bitter thing that goes up your nose and stays there. Uh-huh...so imagine what it was like for a fox-kid who'd only just turned three, or maybe four. If I hadn't been there to see my mother, I would have run back out to the car and locked the doors.
When they brought me into her room, she was lying in bed and hooked up to an IV and one of these monitor things—same as me, right now. Later, she was hooked up to a lot more stuff. But, holy foxtrot, if I thought she'd looked bad before... I've seen dead bodies since then that looked better.
Yeah, Erin...yes, I have. But the thing that really got to me was the way she smelled...as if that hospital smell wasn't bad enough, all by itself. I'd noticed it before when she'd come to see me at the orphanage, but now it was hitting me in the face like a firehose. I had no idea what it was, but now I know.
No, I'm not gonna say it; I think you can guess.
I didn't want to go into her room at first, but then mom saw how scared I was and held out her arms to me. That was it, I went running to her, and let her hug me; I could never resist when she did that.
I don't remember everything she said to me. But basically, she told me again to be strong for her...that she knew I could be strong coz I was her son. It was something she said to me every time I saw her after that; be brave, be strong, and never give in without a fight, no matter what. Several times, she made me promise to always be a good kid. And I...I...
Yeah, I'm okay...it's just...like I told you before Erin, I broke that promise to my mother—more than once.
No, Mr. Rodenberg, I don't think you do. It wasn't just my mom I made that promise to; a fox is never s'posed to break their word to another fox...period. And now, bunny-girl, now you know the big reason I got involved with that loan-thing; I was trying to make it up to her.
Ahhh, I'll get to that in a minute, but right now...Lessee, where were we?
Right, okay... Well, I know now what mom was trying to do, she was trying to prepare me for when I'd have to go on without her. I like to think that, when it came to being strong and standing up for myself, that's one promise I kept.
Then one day, when I went to see her, I remember asking her to sing to me. "I haven't heard you sing for a long time, mommy."
She took me in her arms and held me while she sang. I remember that her voice was all thin and papery, but it still sounded beautiful to me.
'Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving
But how can they know, it's time for them to go?
Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming
I have no thought of time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who...knows where...the...?'
All of a sudden, she stopped singing...and I felt her shivering. When I looked up, I saw that she was crying.
"Ohhhhh, I'm going to miss you so much!" she sobbed, and then held me tight, stroking my head. "My little boy," she whispered, "my little silver fox. I love you, kid—more than..."
But then a nurse came in and made her let go of me; she was in an oxygen tent at the time.
Noooo, that wasn't the last time I saw my mother. When I went back to visit her the next week, she actually seemed to be getting better, and she was even better the week after that; they even took away the oxygen tent.
But then, the week after that, they took me to see her at a different place, not a hospital but something called a 'hot-spits.'
Yeah, right...a hospice. What can I say, I was three years old or whatever.
Mom didn't look any better that day, but she didn't look any worse either. I remember it as pretty much a routine visit; her telling me to be strong and all the usual whatnot.
But then, three days later at the orphanage, I was having breakfast and got called into the director's office. 'Son, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm afraid your mother's gone.'
I didn't cry, I didn't know what the heck he was talking about. Gone...what did he mean, gone? Had she gone to another hot-spits, or what?
Even at the funeral, I didn't know what had happened. That couldn't be my mom in that little urn. Yeah, I know; she'd been cremated...but just try explaining that to a three-year-old kit.
The one thing I remember about her memorial service is how few animals were there. Some of the hospice staff showed up and a couple of folks from the orphanage came, but that was it. None of mom's family were there...but then I don't think she had any. For a while, I used to wonder why my dad never showed. Now, I think, most likely, he didn't know that mom had passed. I mean, she never heard from him, never tried to get in touch with him—at least, not that I knew. And then there was that one time she talked about him. When I think about it now, I think that, prolly, she wouldn't have wanted him there.
When the service was over, they took me to this place called Ferry Landing Park and had me scatter her ashes on the river. Even with someone helping me, I nearly dropped the stupid urn into the water.
When I got back to the orphanage, I couldn't understand why everyone was being extra nice to me...or why I felt so sad all of a sudden. I skipped dinner that night and shined on breakfast the next morning, too. I just plain wasn't hungry. I had no idea what was going on, but somehow, I knew that something really bad had happened.
Two days later, I was called to the office and told that I'd be leaving at the end of the week. My first reaction was 'Yaaaay!' I thought I'd be going home with mom again. I think someone may have sat me down to explain things, but I'm not sure. Anyway, if they did, it didn't work...right up until the day I left, I kept looking for my mother to come and bring me back home.
When the car came to pick me up, needless to say, she wasn't in it. And it wasn't a car, it was a minivan...or that's how big it would have been for a deer, or...
Yeah, okay... But anyway, I have to jump ahead a little bit here; this is some stuff I didn't find out until later.
Now that my mother had passed, I was eligible to be sent to a foster home. In those days, they were segregated by gender, boys with boys and girls with girls. That's changed now, but what's still the same is putting kids of the same size species together. In my case, small to medium-size mammals.
What? No Erin, when I say foster home, I don't mean like being adopted by foster parents. This place was like a way station between the orphanage and adoption. It was privately run, but got money from the state to operate. That's important for a reason I'll explain in a minute.
I didn't know where I was being taken at first...only that I wasn't going to visit my mother again. I found out later that it was a town called Danbeary. They took me to this big, gray house with kind of a weird roof, a lot longer on one side than the other; what they call a salt-box. It sat pretty much all by itself; the nearest neighbor's house was at least a block away. It was an older place but well kept. I think it must have been around early November when they brought me there; all the trees were bare, but there hadn't been any snow yet. I later learned that the house had originally been home to a family of caribou, but had been renovated by the new owners to accommodate smaller mammals. For instance, it now had three stories instead of two.
They brought me inside, and that was when I first met the Kaneskas, the European badger couple that ran the place. They were nice enough, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong here.
Anyway, after they introduced themselves, they took me downstairs to my room, which turned out to be in the basement.
Nahhh, I didn't mind that at all. Foxes are a denning species, don't forget—and the day care center where mom used to drop me off had been down in the basement, too; it felt almost like I'd come home.
Almost...I was gonna have to share that room with two other boys, and it wasn't much bigger than my room back home.
And that brings me to something else I didn't find out until a whole lot later. My first impression of that house had been of a ware-house. And that feeling turned out to be exactly right; the Kaneskas were in it for the money. They got a quarterly allowance from the state for every kid under their care—and so, they tried to cram as many kids as they could into that place. Including me, there were twelve of us, the maximum number allowed for a house that size, and they provided only the most basic services...just enough so that The State wouldn't bellyache. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kaneska drove a Lepus, and her husband had a boat that he liked to take out on weekends—none of us kids were ever invited along.
We were never abused, you understand. They never beat us or starved us; that came later, when I landed in Granite Point. Their usual method of discipline was this thing they called the 'time-out room.' It was this really small room, 'bout the size of a large-mammal closet, with nothing inside but a bed. And I mean nothing; just four bare walls, a single, overhead light, and no windows. There was this button you could push when you were ready to say you were sorry, or if you needed to go to the bathroom, but that was it. And if you pushed it coz you were bored or angry or whatever, you were given some extra 'time-out time'. Except for once that I remember, nobody lasted more than a day in there. Me, I usually broke after an hour or two.
If I had to use a single word to describe the Kaneska's attitude towards us, I'd say indifference. They just didn't care one way or the other. We got three square meals a day, decent food, but we hardly ever asked for seconds. And what the heck is this thing you call 'dessert?'
No, they didn't run the place all by themselves, Mr. Rodenberg. They had a couple of part-timers helping them; unpaid interns, I think. All I know is that none of them stayed on for more than six months. Anyway, it was the kids who did most of the chores, mopping the floors, vacuuming, cleaning, and keeping our beds made. Mrs. Kaneskas did all the cooking, but we had to do the dishes afterwards.
Yeah, yeah...pretty much the same arrangement YOU have at home, bunny-girl; did I say I had a problem with it?
One thing I have to give those badgers—they worked their tails off to get the kids under their care placed with a family. For the longest time, I was sure they got a bonus for every kid they placed, but later on I found out that wasn't the case; go fig.
Of course, and I didn't know it at the time, being a fox, I had a big strike against me in that regard. The whole while I was in that foster home, I never once had anyone show up, looking to adopt me.
Not that I really noticed, not at first; I was waiting for the day when my mother would come to bring me home. I used to drive the Kaneskas nuts, asking when I was going to get to see her again. When was she coming to get me; when I was going to go visit her again? To their credit, they never got mad at me over it.
But then, after I'd been there for about a year, they got this new girl to help out. She was a Mara by species; big rodent from South America, looks kinda like a cross between a donkey and a rabbit—no offense there, Erin. Her name was Becky-something. I don't remember her last name, but lemme tell you—she put the 'tude in attitude. Always grouchy, never smiled, never lightened up. What I remember most about her is that she always wore black and never stopped chewing bubblegum; had like sixteen rings in her ears and two more in her nose. Oh, and there was one other thing; she used to give the Kaneskas the finger sometimes when their backs were turned. It was the first time I ever saw anyone make that gesture. One of my roommates asked her what it meant one time, and she told him, "Mind your own business, punk!" Eventually one of the other kids asked Mrs. Kaneska what it meant, and got an hour in the time out room for his troubles. By then tho', Becky was long out of there.
It was late spring when it happened. I remember, coz I'd just finished shedding out my cub fur for my grown-up coat. Becky had been given the job of cleaning out this garden shed, and I'd been assigned to help her. Or rather...they'd had me and two other kids draw straws for the job; I lost.
Becky was in a really bad mood that morning—even for her. It wasn't anything to do with her job; she was having some kind of trouble at home. I know, coz the whole time I was helping her, she never stopped griping about her folks—especially her mother. Something about the upcoming weekend and her boyfriend; I'm not exactly sure. Whatever, she was seriously torqued at her mom.
And then...I remember she was taking out some old bottles and stuff out to the trash in a wheelbarrow. She had way overloaded it, and halfway across the yard, it tipped over on her. Ho-leee foxtrot, I was no stranger to temper tantrums back then—heck, I'd thrown one or two myself—but I'd never seen anyone her age up and lose it...and I'd never seen anyone, period, totally lose it. No kidding, it made me want to run back inside the house and lock the door.
Her meltdown didn't last very long, though. It stopped right quick when Mr. Kaneska threw open an upstairs window and called, "Hey, is everything all right down there?" Becky said yes, and he closed it up again
But she was still mad; I remember her grabbing the stuff she'd spilled and just throwing it back into the wheelbarrow. I grabbed a rusty can and started to help—and that was when she said it. "You're lucky, fox-kid; you don't have a mom!"
"Yeah, I do," I said grabbing a wadded-up cardboard box, "she's coming to get me later."
Ohhh boy...BIG mistake. Like I said, Becky was ticked at her mother, not me. But her mom wasn't handy and I was. I remember her putting her paws on her hips and looking at me like I'd just crawled out from underneath a rock.
"Coming to get you? What, is she a zombie or something?"
"What?" I asked her, all confused, "What are you talking about?"
Well remember, Erin, I was only like four, going on five, back then. The only thing I knew about zombies was that they were some kind of monster.
Anyway, the next thing Becky said to me was. "What do you think I'm talking about, you stupid fox kid? Your mother's DEAD, okay?" She had a bottle in her paw and I remember her throwing it hard into the wheelbarrow, breaking it into a zillion pieces, "Like I wish mine was!"
There were a lot of things she could have said to me right then, but...
"No, she's not!" I was starting to cry, "She's coming to bring me home, you'll see!" But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. It was more than a year after my mother's passing, and I had long since stopped asking about when they were taking me to see her. I was finally starting to get a handle on death and dying, too. But I still hadn't made the connection between that, and my mom not being around.
...Not until now.
So...I did what any fox-kid that age would have done; I went straight into the first of the so-called five stages of mourning—anger and denial.
"My Mom's alive!" I insisted. "And she's coming to take me home—soon!"
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Becky threw back her head and laughed. Ewwww, I liked her better when she was mad. "What's the matter with you, kid? Didn't you go to her funeral, didn't you see her laid out, dead?"
No, I hadn't; my mother had been cremated—but of course Becky didn't know that. Anyway, that was when I really blew up on her.
"She's not dead, you're lying!" I fox-screamed. "Lying rodent! LIAR! LIAR! LIAR!" That set her off too.
"Stupid kid, your mom's dead. She's not coming to get you, she's dead...dead, Dead, DEAD!"
"BECKY!"
We both looked up and there was Mr. Kaneska, leaning out of the window again. For some reason, I remember that he had a pipe in his mouth. And from the look on his face, it was pretty darn obvious that he'd heard everything Becky had said to me; "I'll see you in my office, right NOW!" he growled, meaning her, not me.
I don't think it'll surprise you guys that she blamed the whole thing on me. "You little jerk; look what you..."
"I HATE YOU!" I screamed, and I almost bit her. I didn't, thank God. Instead, I went running for the house and down to my room.
Becky was fired on the spot of course—but the damage was done. I stayed down there in the basement for two whole days; didn't want to eat or talk to anyone, I couldn't sleep either; all I wanted to do was cry. I found out later that they almost took me to the Emergency Room; they were that worried.
It wasn't just her meltdown at me that got Becky canned. It was anything but the first she'd messed up; heh, don't think that'll surprise you either. But looking back on it now, I gotta admit something. As mean as she'd been to me, SHE was the one who finally put me on the road to moving on from my mother's death; at last, I was coming to accept it. If I ever see her again, I might even thank her.
Noooo, funny-bunny...that's not the drugs talking.
Don't get me wrong guys, my mom's still with me in spirit—but only in spirit. I keep her picture on my laptop, and I try to do what she would have wanted with my life. But you'll never catch me trying to have a conversation with her, not even in my head. She's gone, and that's how it is.
Ohhh-kay, I'm gonna hit the fast-forward button here. One morning, Mrs, Kaneska put me in the minivan and drove me to this big, brownstone building. I had no idea where I was going or why we were going there, but I think you can get the idea; it was my first day at kindergarten.
That was the only time Mrs. K ever drove me to school; the place was easily within walking distance of the foster home. After that, she had some of the older kids go with me. Someone still had to come pick me up though, since kindergarten let out earlier than the other classes. Usually, though, they had one of the part-timers do it.
I loved kindergarten; you would too, if you'd been me. Back at the foster home, I had practically nothing to do all day. No one ever read to me or told me stories; no one ever sang to me—tho' with a voice like Mrs. Kaneska's, that was probably a good thing. I hardly ever got to watch cartoons on TV; the older kids always had dibs. The only diversion was reading and I didn't know how yet.
So, do you get it now? Kindergarten was like a whole new world for me. There were games, there were stories, there were sing-alongs; I saw my very first movie in that classroom, Pirates of the Caribbean, Curse of the Black Pearl. For the next two years, Jack Sparrow was my hero.
Oops, you're right Erin, my bad; Captain Jack Sparrow.
Anyway, I used to try to make excuses to stay after whenever class let out. I only managed to pull it off once or twice, walking home with the older kids when they were done with school.
Oh yeah, Mr. Rodenberg...I was the angriest little fox on the planet when school let out for the summer. Some of the older kids even teased me about it, pretending school was over for me, for good.
Of course, it wasn't, but when classes started up again in the fall, things were way different than before. Now school was mostly work, not play. Honestly, once I got the hang of it, tho', I turned out to be a really good student. I picked up fast on arithmetic, and even faster on reading. Part of the credit, I have to admit, belongs to the Kaneskas. They used to practically sit on us kids and MAKE us do our homework. It wasn't so much that they cared about us; that was The State's big marker for how well a foster home was performing—the grades that their kids got in school. Even without that, by the time I was in second grade, I was at the head of my class.
But...you know what they say; nothing in life comes without a price; I found that out real sweet quick, maybe two months after I started my third year.
The kid's name was Tony Camano, a bush dog, if you know what that is.
Ahhh, if a bear and a wolf had a kid together, and it was about as big as a coyote...that's pretty much what a bush dog looks like. If you want to find one in Zootopia, the best place to look would be the Rainforest District.
Anyway, Tony was the second grade's resident thug; him and his stooges—can't remember their names, but they were a maned wolf and a wild boar—they used to hit on the smaller kids for their lunch money, you know the drill.
Now, being as I was a fox, they didn't like me to begin with—and Tony had been held back a year; once he figured out that I was the class brain, he zeroed in on me like a heat-seeker.
I remember that it happened in the boys' room; I was just about to leave when I found myself surrounded by Tony and his buds.
"Hey fox-kid!" he said, and shoved me into the wall. After this introduction, he proceeded to demand that I hand over my lunch-money.
"I don't have any money," I protested—and I didn't. The foster home had an account with the school district and paid them for our lunches directly. I didn't know that back then though, and, of course, neither did Tony.
Or maybe he just didn't care.
"Okay, kid...then let's see what you got in here," he growled, and then grabbed my backpack and began pulling it off my shoulders.
And I bit him on the shoulder.
Why'd I do it? That backpack, and everything in it was literally all I had in the world right then, a charity donation to the foster home. That's part of the reason I fought back; the other part...I'm pretty sure came from my mom.
I-I-I couldn't tell you how exactly; maybe it was all those times she told me to be strong and stand up for myself, maybe it was something in my blood. Whatever, when Tony C. grabbed my backpack, I went for him and sank my teeth.
You can guess how it ended, I got the snot kicked out of me and then got treated to a swirly. They dumped my backpack on the floor, too...but at least they didn't steal or break anything.
My teacher wasn't stupid. When I showed up in class a while later, she took one look at my face and the bite on Tony's arm, and put two and two together. Boom; straight to the principal's office for both of us!
Now, you need to understand something here...I was in at least as much trouble as Tony, maybe more. The one thing they absolutely didn't tolerate in that school was biting another student, especially if you were a predator. And, whatever kind of reasons I'd had, I was the kid who'd attacked first. Never mind my good grades, I was looking at being expelled for what I'd done.
I was called into the office first...which I thought was kind of unfair; Tony had started it, after all. Anyway, the principal was an impala, and he had a picture on his wall that scared the living heck out of me; an otter-kid, getting busted by a cop while playing hooky; made me think that this was a guy who enjoyed dishing out discipline. I don't remember his name; that painting, I can't forget.
But if that pic on his wall was making me afraid, there was something else that scared me a whole lot more. Even back then, I knew that snitching was a one-way ticket to being ghosted by every kid in the school and then some. And being a fox, I had trouble enough making friends as it was. So, when the principal asked me what had happened, I told him I'd fallen down the stairs.
Yeah, Erin...that old thing; gimme a break, willya? I was like seven years old at the time. Anyway, my school was in a two-story building, so it was something that could've happened
No, of course he didn't buy it...but I still refused to tell him what really happened. When he asked me if the kid that beat me up was Tony Camano, I pretended like I didn't know who the heck he was talking about. Finally, he gave up and sent me back outside, 'but stay right there.'
Tony went in next...and when he came out again, he just kind of gave me a look, but didn't say a thing. I was sure then that I was toast, about to be kicked out of school.
It didn't happen; we each got two weeks detention, served separately of course. Turned out Tony had refused to give me up, too; told the principal that he'd gotten those bite marks on some broken glass. There'd been no witnesses to our fight, and so detention was the worst thing the school could give us. I didn't get off quite so easy as him, though. When the Kaneksas heard what happened, I ended up confined to my room after dinner, every day until my detention ended. But hey, who cared? I hadn't been thrown out of school.
I learned two big lessons from going head-to-head with Tony C. Number one, I'd been 100% right to keep my fox-trap shut when the principal tried to lean on me. Number two, I'd been even more right to stand up for myself when that bush-dog and his crew tried to shake me down. My second biggest fear, next to being expelled, was that Tony and his guys were gonna come looking for some payback on me—but that didn't happen either. In fact, it was just the opposite. Not only did him and his boys never bother me again, neither did anyone else, not for a while, anyway.
No Erin...it wasn't coz I'd refused to snitch on him, or out of respect for my having stood up to him.
Yep...that's it, Mr. Rodenberg. Why pick on someone who's nutty enough to fight back, when there's a zillion other kids available who won't stand their ground?
From then on, that was my rule; always stand up for yourself, never back down. But later on, when I got older, it backfired on me, big time.
Ahhhh, that's another thing I'll get to later. Right now, I want to jump ahead a little and tell you about Jimmy Sanchez.
About a year after my encounter with Tony C., the city opened up a new library branch, within walking distance of the school. I used to go there on rainy days, after classes let out. It was the place where I first started to learn how to use a computer.
And it was also where I first met Jimmy Sanchez.
Now back at the school, they had a strict rule about foxes not being allowed to associate with other foxes. Put two of my species together and they'll start scheming to hustle somebody; that was the attitude. The Kaneskas felt even more strongly about it but I didn't know that...not yet.
I mean, why should I? The whole time I was there I was the only fox-kid in residence. I'm pretty sure they'd had that rule in place at the orphanage, too; I never saw those fox-kids I mentioned earlier hanging with each other.
I'm telling you this because Jimmy was a fox; in his case, a gray fox. If it hadn't been for that library, we might never have met. He went to a different school than me, and lived in a different foster home...or foundling home as he called it, run by an order of nuns, the Sisters of the Precious Blood.
We met one day, when he sat down at the table where I was reading. I had my face buried in a book at the time, and so he didn't notice me and I didn't notice him.
When I did, tho', we became best buds, just like that. Not only was he my species, but he was also another orphan; oh yeah...we were gonna hit it off all right.
When Jimmy and I got to talking, I found out that he knew even less about his background than I did. He'd been dropped off at the foundling home before his eyes were even open and didn't know his dad or his mom. He didn't know HIS real name either. The Sisters had given him the one he went by now. And about the only thing they knew about him was that he came from Hispanic parents; the note they'd found in the box with him—yeah, that's right, a cardboard box—had been written in Spanish. And all it had said was, "I can't take care of him, I'm sorry." That was it, nothing else.
In some ways, Jimmy had it better than I did. The foundling home wasn't nearly as crowded as my place and the kids had lots more activities than we did. The food was better, too.
That was the upside; the downside was that The Sisters were way stricter with their boys than the Kaneskas. For instance, at the foundling home, everyone had to wear uniforms; docker pants in dark blue, and light blue button-down shirts with the foundling home emblem on the pocket. Jimmy said they always itched like crazy during the shedding season. And in the winter-time, they had to wear these, like, sport coats that were pretty much useless at keeping out the cold.
But the worst thing about that place, according to Jimmy, was that they were strictly Old Skool when it came to discipline—meaning yeah, you guessed it., corporal punishment. More than once when I met up with my bud, he had his knuckles bandaged. A couple of times, he had trouble sitting down.
Yeah, Mr. Rodenberg...it was because of his species, at least in part. There was this one nun at the foundling home, a marmot named Sister Mary Louise Carloccia. She hated foxes, and would look for any excuse to lay some hurt on my friend. Jimmy used to tell me that it could've been worse; at least he wasn't a weasel; she liked weasels even less than our species.
Anyway, before too long, Jimmy and I were hooking up on a regular basis. If it was raining or otherwise nasty outside, we'd go to the library. If it was nice, we'd go to the park.
Oops, yeah right, I didn't mention that did I? There was a city park only a few blocks away from the library. Nice place too; it even had a little outdoor theater. I never would have known it existed, if Jimmy hadn't taken me there.
Jimmy wasn't sure about his age either, but I think he was probably older than me. As a rule, gray foxes are smaller than us reds, but he and I were pretty much the same size. Anyway, his big thing was stickball, and he was good at it. Whenever we'd go to the park, he never had trouble getting picked, fox or no fox. Even after a session with Sister C, he could own that game. After we became friends, he started putting his foot down. If you wanted him on your team, you had to pick me, too. After a while though, he didn't need to make that pitch. Though I was never as good at stickball as him, I eventually got the hang of it—enough to be chosen without any outside leverage.
My game, though, was Ringolevio—what I think they call Bush Chase here in Zootopia. It's pretty much a game for predators only.
How does it...? Okay, the kids divide up into two teams, 'hunters' and 'prey.' And then...
Oh, quit looking at me like that, Snowdrop, it was just a game. Besides, don't you bunnies play 'Munch' all the time?
THANK you... Now, if a hunter-kid catches a prey-kid, he grabs hold and chants 'Ring-o-LEV-io, 1-2-3; Ring-o-LEV-io, can't-get-free.' The prey kid then gets taken to 'jail', and they're outta the game. But if he or she manages to break free before the hunter kid finishes the chant, they're not out and can keep playing. And the kids in jail can get back in the game again if a member of their team grabs 'em and yells "Olly-olly oxen free!' The game ends when all of the prey kids are caught, and then the two teams switch sides. That's a really basic version of how it's played, but I think you get the idea.
No Erin...only with your paws. Grabbing a kid with your teeth was strictly cheating and could get you kicked outta the game if you did it more than once.
As for me, I took to Ringolevio like a bat takes to flying. Not to toot my own horn, but I was killer at it; one of the few kids who could play equally well on either side. So could Jimmy...tho' he wasn't quite as good at it as me. No big surprise, really, I suppose, since both of us were foxes.
Well, you have to understand something Mr. Rodenberg. Calling a fox a predator species is only kind of a half-truth. Back in the days before we evolved, foxes used to catch and eat other mammals, chipmunks, mice, squirrels, and—yeah, I'll say it—rats and rabbits. But at the same, don't forget, there were plenty of animals out there ready to make a meal out of us; bobcats, bears, cougars, wolverines, and especially coyotes. So, as time went by, us foxes not only developed some serious hunting skills; we also got good at evading predators.
Yeah, okay...now, like I said at the beginning, Ringolevio was my game. After a while, whenever me and Jimmy would show up to play, kids would fall all over themselves, arguing over which side would get to pick me. I was harder than heck to catch, and every bit as good at making catches. I would rarely, if ever, chase another kid, though. What I liked to do was set up an ambush, get downwind of a guy, get as close as I could, and then pounce when they weren't looking. And if I was on the prey team, and another kid grabbed me, I'd try to hustle them into letting me go before they could finish the chant.
Ohhh...like, I'd look at the jail and yell, "Now!" The kid who had hold of me would think I'd let myself get caught, on purpose, as a distraction. He'd turn and yell to one of his guys to that someone was making a jailbreak—and when he did, he'd loosen his grip a little. No idea why, but it almost always happened, and THAT that was when I'd make my break. Or—I did this a lot—if a hunter kid grabbed me, instead of trying to pull away, I'd start pushing against him. The natural reaction when someone does that is to push back, and when they, I'd make my move, and pull free.
One time though, my hustling skills nearly got me and another kid killed. There was this road running through the park, and this lynx-girl grabbed hold of me right in the middle of it. Right then, just our luck, a car came along. I yelled out 'Car!'...and I think you can guess what happened next.
Yep...made it by the skin of our teeth. No hard feelings though, it was just one of those things. We did make up a new rule, right then and there. No yelling 'Car!' unless one was actually coming
My specialty, when it came to Ringolevio, was breaking other kids out of 'jail'. Yeah, yeah...I see that look on your faces...Nyuck! Nyuck! Nyuck! I really was that good at it though. One time, the hunters managed to take down every kid on the prey team but me—and I managed to set free every single one of 'em.
But then, one day, this new kid showed up at the park to play—and everything changed.
His name was Mark Wemba, a brown hyena kid. Him and his family had just moved into the neighborhood, but he was no stranger to Ringolevio; really good at it.
But it wasn't until the day he was made captain of the hunter team that he really began to strut his stuff.
What he did was convince the guys on his team to play AS a team. Up until then, it had been pretty much every kid for himself.
To make a long story short, Mark's guys wiped the floor with us. I was the first prey-kid to go to jail that day. As good as I was, I didn't have the skills to get away from three guys at once—and I never got out of there, none of us did. When we switched sides, and the other team became the prey-kids, the game ended without a single one of their guys in jail.
When I went home that night, I was one seriously ticked off little silver fox I can tell you. That new kid was a dirty cheater, he was gonna ruin the game for everyone, blah, blah, blah...
I complained about it all through dinner and ended up getting sent to the time-out room, coz I wouldn't shut up about Mark, even after being told three times.
For the next two days it rained, and so it was library time. The next day, when I met Jimmy at the park, the game of the day was stick-ball.
But when Ringolevio finally came up again, this time I got picked for Mark's team. And that was when I finally stopped grouching.
Gotta say it; I never made friends with that 'yeen-kid. In fact, I could barely stand him, even when we were playing on the same side. No, not because of that first game; because the guy was, like, totally arrogant. I used to wonder out loud to Jimmy Sanchez how the heck he kept his balance with a head that big. Even so, I took away one very important lesson from being around him; you don't have to LIKE somebody in order to learn from them—which I did. The next time I played against Mark's squad, I asked to be made captain and managed to get our guys to play as a team. We still lost, but it was a way closer game than that first one. And the next time I went up against him, my team won.
That was it; after that, every game of Ringolevio played in that park was organized team against organized team. And while Mark always won more times than he lost, he never came to dominate the game.
Neither did I, but I didn't care. Win or lose, I always had fun—until winter came along and pretty much shut things down.
No...you can still play Ringolevio in the snow. In fact, it's even better in a way; you can build an actual jail for the kids who get caught.
What I mean to say is...by then I had bigger problems.
Author's note:
For those who don't know, Ringolevio is a real game, going back to the 1800s; popular in New York City and other cities in the Eastern US. You can learn more about it by Googling Ringolevio and Game.
The effects of chemotherapy, described earlier in this chapter, are based on personal experience.
The game of 'Munch' was created by Alp Sarsis