Show And Tell
A Foster's Home For
Imaginary Friends Fanfic
by
C. "Sparky" Read
On the glossy cover of the photo album, jointed teddy bears stood in forced poses of gaiety, the toys positioned by human hand to appear as if they were romping across an Astroturf meadow. Brightly-colored balloons and clothing made the bears look even more saccharin, and it really was no wonder that Mac had to rescue the album, empty, from the garbage when Mom threw it out. But when he saw it, he had known it was just what he needed. The forced scene of merriment on the cover was of little concern to him, though he did sometimes catch himself wondering if the bears somehow were really enjoying eachother's company and not just appearing in the picture because they were made to. It was a dumb idea, he knew; but somehow it was comforting.
The eight-year-old was dragged back to reality by his teacher's voice. "Mac?" it was saying. "Mac, honey, you're last. Class is almost over. What's that you got there?"
At once Mac clapped both hands over the cover of the album, ashamed of the bears and the contents of the book. What had compelled him to bring it to show and tell today, anyways? He never shared the photos with anyone anymore, not even Mom - not for a few years. Mom knew he had the pictures - they were after all some of her favorites - but she had said nothing when blank spaces had appeared overnight in various family photo albums. She had prints of some of them, and something told her Mac would take good care of them all. The boy had tried on a few occasions in the past to get Bloo to look at them, but the imaginary friend always pointed, his mouth invariably crammed full with something, and blurted something earth-shattering, like "Oh, man! What store'd your Mom get that outfit you're wearing in that one, Baby Freakshow?"
Mac didn't share the album with anyone anymore.
"Mac?" prompted the teacher again.
Mac slowly slid out of his seat and walked to the front of the class, damp palms clutching possessively at the album. "Uh," he said when he reached the chalkboard, turning around to face the class. "For show and tell today, I...brought..."
"Nice teddies," said a smirk-faced boy, and the class laughed. Mac's teacher came to the rescue.
"What kind of pictures are in that album, Mac?" she asked him. She sat behind her desk, her kind eyes fixed on the boy.
Mac took in her voice, and tried not to look at his classmates. "They're pictures of...of...me and my big brother." His voice fizzled out and, catching himself, he added a bit too loudly, "When I was a baby."
"Let's see 'em," piped up a girl in the front row; and at once the room was filled with insisting voices, demanding to see the contents of the album. Terror creeping over him, Mac stumbled backwards into the chalkboard, clutching the book tightly. Suddenly he didn't want any of these kids to see even one of the pictures. They weren't for them, they were his, his alone.
But the teacher's voice rose again: "How about just one?" she suggested patiently. She'd worked with children for a long time, and she recognized the look on Mac's face.
Mac hesitated, then nodded at the floor. The class fell silent as he opened the book and leafed through it, finally extracting one five-by-seven and holding it up.
In the photo, a five-year-old boy with sharp features and black hair sat holding a picture book, and in his lap a bright-eyed baby, not yet old enough to sit up unassisted, sprawled against him, head turned to look up at his brother. On the older boy's face was a look of peaceful patience, one hand pointing to something as he explained its meaning; and on the baby's was an expression of fascination and wonder. Mac held the photo up for almost thirty seconds, and the children, who sensed something powerful that not all of them grasped, were deathly quiet.
"Let's see another," suddenly blurted the boy who had made the comment about the teddy bears before.
Mac put the picture away and didn't answer. The teacher once again filled the awkward silence. "Mac," she said quietly, "why is this photo album so important to you?"
But before Mac could stammer something the bell rang and the children erupted from their desks like miniature Explorer I's, bolting for the door. Ordinarily they knew to wait until they were excused, but that rule was often ignored on Fridays. "All right, all right you rascals," the teacher beamed at them. "I'll see all your bright and shining faces - with your homework - back here on Monday."
Mac tuned her out. Still holding the album, he pulled his backpack off of the back of his chair, swung it on, and walked outside. Suddenly he was sprawling as someone tripped him, his chin striking the dirt, the album bouncing a couple of feet away.
"Nice teddies, lame-o." Terrence loomed above him, blocking the sun and leering down at him. His middle school wasn't particularly nearby but sometimes the thirteen-year-old made a special effort to meet Mac after he got out of class. Terrence didn't have any friends, or hobbies, and he frequently turned to his little brother for after-school "entertainment."
"Aww, liddle Mac fall down go boom?" the older boy sneered as Mac propped himself up on his hands and knees, gazing up at him in shock. Terrence bent closer. "Come on," he goaded, "get up."
But Mac didn't get up. Instead, he did something he'd learned years ago not to do: he cried. He opened his mouth and squinted his eyes and he bawled like an infant, hot tears streaming down his quickly-reddening face.
Terrence blinked and stepped backwards, baffled. He hadn't made made Mac cry like that in a long time, and he didn't quite know what to make of it at first. But then his features hardened as he puzzled out his mistake: he'd struck too soon, they were still too close to the building. Mac was trying to get an adult's attention to get Terrence in trouble. Scowling at the dirty trick, Terrence turned his back.
"Oh shut up, you baby," he snapped, digging his hands deep into his jeans pockets. "I wasn't gonna do nothing." He started for home, paused, and threw meaningfully over his shoulder, "We're gonna have fun this weekend, you and me." Terrence withdrew his hands from his pockets and ran, ran home to empty the fridge, watch some wrestling, and forget.
Mac had stopped crying abruptly as soon as Terrence had spoken, but the tears remained, making paths down his face. He touched his chin. It wasn't bleeding. His right knee hurt, perhaps he'd skinned it; but he could check later. He reached forward, crawling, to retrieve the wayward photo album, and reverantly wiped some mud off of a teddy bear's expressionless face; then he pressed the book to his body. He held it. He held what was left.
Characters copyright Craig McCracken; story copyright C. "Sparky" Read, with acknowledgement to Raymond Carver