Читать книгу Last Dance - David Russell W. - Страница 9

Andrea Pearson is my best friend. And I don’t just say that because she could kick my ass without breaking a sweat. Truthfully, that feat wouldn’t be all that much. I’ve seen eighth graders who could probably do the same. But we’ve been friends since we were both little, and she would kick my scrawny butt each and every time I made a comment she perceived to be smart-assed, which was often.

When we were very little, my comments were of the “girls can’t do” variety, and she would promptly demonstrate that I was wrong by ably completing the task and would also spend a little ass-kicking time punishing me for making the suggestion. As we grew into adolescence, the ass-kickings came following comments about how her body was failing to develop at the same rate as the other girls in our school. In our teenaged years, they were delivered in response to suggestions of how she and I might enjoy the developed parts of her body that had finally caught up to her peers in a way most teenaged boys in our school did not fail to notice. It was a history destined either to make you best friends or worst enemies. Andrea was sitting across from me in Las Margaritas Restaurant on Fourth Avenue, tossing back Coronas at a pace I didn’t bother attempting to match, interrogating me, as usual, about decisions I made in my life.

“You’re really gonna piss Owen off,” she told me unnecessarily.

“I know. It can’t be helped.”

“Yes, it can,” she scolded. “Why do you insist on alienating yourself from everyone in authority?”

“You’re still here. You have authority.”

“Don’t you forget it.” In addition to being best friend and self-appointed guardian of my best interests, Andrea was also a prominent detective in the Vancouver Police Department, with a clearance rate unmatched by any of her peers. “But I can only fire at you. This Owen clown can fire you.” She smiled at her clever play on words.

“No, he can’t. And that was awful.” Her smile didn’t fade: once she had decided her joke was funny, it really didn’t matter what I thought. “I’ve got the union. And, of course, my secret weapon.” Andrea raised her eyebrow as she tossed back the last of her Corona.

“My charm,” I told her.

She put the bottle down on the table and indelicately tossed the lime wedge — rind and all — into her mouth. With anyone else I would be appalled by her table manners, but with Andrea it had a certain perky wholesomeness. “I’ll be sure to save the want ads from tomorrow’s paper for you,” she said. “What about this ‘faggot’ thing on the kid — what’s-his-name’s — locker? You want me to look into it?”

I chuckled. “You gonna shake down the student body, Detective Pearson?”

“I’m just saying I could pick out the biggest, dumbest looking hoser of a guy and put the fear of god into him.”

“That would be the Owen vice-principal clown.”

“He wouldn’t have vandalized a kid’s locker.”

“Not now, but I suspect it would have been about his speed when he was in school.”

“You really got a hate on for this guy, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? What’s the story with you two?”

“He offends my sensibilities.”

“That’s it?”

“You need more?”

She shook her head. My sensibilities were not easily explained, even to me. “You got any kids’ names I could work with?”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s the clown’s job.”

“What about the kid? What are you going to do about him?” I thought about that for a moment. Following my initial conversation with Bill, I had almost convinced myself that I would wash my hands of the issue. But I felt I owed Tim more. “Yo, Winnie,” she barked to bring me back into focus. “Stay with me at least until dessert.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Planning how you’re going to save the world?”

“Something like that.”

“What can you possibly do if the VP refuses to let the kid bring his male date to the dance? He outranks you.”

“A court might see it differently.”

“Shit, Win. That’s just not the best way to win job security. You’ll be looking for career number three before long. You can’t sue the vice-principal because you disagree with him.”

I smiled just enough to look sly and sneaky. “Probably not. But the students could.”

“I’ll bring coffee and bagels Saturday morning. We can look through the want ads together.”

“I think I love you.”

“I think I’m uncomfortable with you loving me.”

“You’re just going to have to live with it.” Sara was, once again, speaking her mind with little regard for her audience. The class, with the exception of Sara, was speechless after listening to the task I had just assigned them: they would be taking the very administration of their own school to court to undo an injustice. As the weight of the assignment and the gravity of what was happening sank in, the stunned looks began transforming into grins, then all-out smiles and laughter. Even Tim showed no sign of discomfort at the infamy the case was sure to bring him. The vandalism of Tim’s locker seemed to have galvanized him into action. “This is exactly what we need to do to get Owen to listen to reason.”

The rest of the class was spent assigning specific duties to class members, including research for relevant statutes, articles of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and any case law the textbook might have included that could be relevant to our challenge. I wanted to make sure the class focused on the legal issues at stake rather than personal attacks against my supervisor, but I couldn’t help but feign deafness when I overhead conversations in which they slagged him. Before the period ended, we had the basis of our submission to the court that I dutifully promised to file on my way home from school in the afternoon. As the bell rang to end the period and the day, only one student remained behind and, unusually, it was not Sara. She was riding the high that came with being unanimously selected by her classmates as the representative who would argue Tim’s case — with my assistance — in court, if it came that far. Instead, Jordan Kansky, a student I could usually count on for irrelevant, unfunny interruptions during lessons, sat sullenly at his desk as his classmates filed out.

“Jordan?” I asked him. “Is there something you need?” He looked uncomfortable, and I suddenly sensed my cool status was not, in fact, unanimously shared by every member of my Law 12 class.

“I want to talk to you about the lawsuit.” His voice was sullen, challenging.

“Sure. What’s up?” His discomfort visibly increased, and he sat silently for long enough that for a moment I thought he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open. It wouldn’t be the first time; I had nearly mastered the skill while listening to any number of my students’ oral presentations. “Jordan, I’m planning to go home in about sixteen seconds unless you have something important that’s going to keep me here.”

“Can I be blunt?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Fine. This assignment is bullshit.” Silence fell while Jordan stared me down.

“I see. Are you referring to the lawsuit we are undertaking as a class?”

“Yep.” I thought that would have been an appropriate moment for him to go into further details, but he went no further.

“Would you care to elaborate?” The challenging look he had been wearing gave way to one of classic teenaged deer-in-the-headlights confusion. Not that I had really held out much hope for a sophisticated debate following his opening statement. I had hoped it might at least be multi-syllabic. “Are you planning to expound on that theory?” Jordan continued to look at me in confusion. “Okay, how about would you like to explain what characteristics of the task have led you to such a negative opinion?” I sighed. “What’s bullshit about it?” His mental light went on, just as surely as if I’d flipped a switch.

“It’s just that … I don’t agree with it.”

“With what, Jordan? Spit it out.”

“I don’t want to work on helping some homo bring his homo boyfriend to our grad dance.” He had promised to be blunt. I guess I should have been prepared for the reality that not all teenaged boys would be progressive, liberal-minded civil rights advocates. Jordan’s steely resolve looked a tad shaky after making his declaration; he seemed not to trust that I might not chastise him for his redneck ways. I wondered how many others felt the same way but didn’t have the balls to confront me.

“Jordan,” I began, but he interrupted me before I could go further.

“I know. I know. Not very tolerant of me, but I’m not going to apologize for the fact that I don’t believe in homosexuality. And I sure as hell don’t think I should have to base one of my grade twelve marks on trying to get Tim to bring his lover to the dance.”

“Fair enough.”

“What?”

“You’re right. I don’t think you should have to do something that you feel strongly against. I may not like what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it.” Once again Jordan looked at me like I was a babbling idiot, and I wasn’t convinced he was wrong. “Voltaire,” I told him. That didn’t appear to clear it up.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sometimes kids cut to the chase way easier than their teachers.

“Look. My feelings or your feelings about Tim’s sexual preferences are irrelevant. However, I believe his Charter rights are being violated, and I can’t stand idly by and let that happen. It seems to me that most of the class feels the same way. But if you feel differently, I won’t make you participate.”

He looked at me with some satisfaction. “Okay then.”

“Okay then. Are we all right?”

“Yeah, thanks for being cool about this.” Cool. Ahh. Jordan headed for the door then stopped, turning to face me. “Voltaire? So when you quote eighteenth century French philosophers, does it make you feel powerful?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

“Just remember: power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims.” I stared as blankly at him as he had at me. “Tagore. Nobel laureate for poetry in India in the early twentieth century.” He walked out the door before I could see if he was smiling smugly.

Kids today.