Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 2.1

If I had known how bad things were going to get by that day in April, I would never have gotten out of bed this miserable Monday morning for my first day of school in January. But here I am, a salmon valiantly heading upstream, unaware of the awaiting grizzly bear with its gaping jaw.       

English class has taught me that writers like Shakespeare use the weather as a metaphor for their characters' lives. You'd think, then, that the weather on the walk to my first day at Queen Elizabeth High School would have told me to turn around and run away, fast. Because I'm joining halfway through the year, it's not a warm September day, it's January third. The skies are dark until 10 am, the humid wind off the ocean burns my skin and a miserable ice rain soaks through the new jacket Mom bought for me. By the time I make it into the warmth of the school hallway, I'm actually happy to be there. That doesn't last long, though.

Ten minutes into my first class I'm doing my best to concentrate on my textbook. Not because I'm interested, but because I don't want anything to remind me of how lonely I am. The atmosphere isn't helping. At the front of the room is an ugly green chalkboard with white chalk and erasers that are decades old. There's very little natural sun because the window panes are thick and dirty. Instead rows of ugly florescent lights flicker overhead, buzzing as they reach their final hours. My new classmates and I sit in hard wooden desks in rows that are too wide to comfortably whisper to one another but just narrow enough to pass notes. Not that we need to, what with text messaging.

"Today," announces the teacher, "we continue our study of poetry." He's an elderly gentleman with white hair, a beard, and half glasses. Not only is he wearing a suit, he's wearing a three-piece suit. A famous black and white picture tugs at my memory. He almost resembles Johannes Brahms, the German composer from the Romantic era whose most famous piece, sadly, is the lullaby parents sing to sleepy children.

Then it hits me. This guy is a reincarnation of Sigmund Freud, the psychoanalyst who blamed everything on his mother.

I ignore Freud and concentrate on the wall behind him. In my head I draw a stickman and a raft on the green ocean of the chalkboard and sail for home. So long, dreary Vancouver; hello sunny Toronto.

"Yesterday I asked you all to bring a poem to read in today's class. Who would like to go first?" continues the teacher.

Before anyone can answer, the door to the classroom opens abruptly and a guy with dirty blonde hair sticks his head in. "Hey, is this English 30?" he says. "Sorry, I had a scheduling conflict."

"Mister – ?" says Freud, flustered at the interruption.

"Oh, just call me J.J.," he says. "It's all cleared with the office." He walks across the room, combing the bad dye job of his dirty blonde hair with his hand, and takes a seat beside a dark-haired girl. A goatee sprouts from his chin and matches his hair which hangs on either side above a black t-shirt that says "Greenpeace" underneath a white collared shirt that's unbuttoned. And, bizarrely, he's wearing shorts that expose hairy, half-tanned legs, even though it's the middle of January and Vancouver isn't exactly known for its patio weather this time of year. He leans back in his seat as though he were about to watch a movie and taps fingers on his desk in a steady pulse. There's a faint smell of something sweet on him that I don't recognize, like smoke if a chocolate factory caught on fire. His smile is charming, his teeth are flawless, and he has dimples in both cheeks.

This guy is damned good-looking. Trouble always is.

"Very well," says our teacher.

J.J.'s arrival has caused a distinct ripple. The girls seem to be more animated. The boys nudge one another. I think I hear a guy whisper the doctor is in, but that can't be right. Freud gives a slight sigh which seems to say "Why my class?" The blonde girl J.J. sits beside is elated, and they actually kiss one another. Figures. The hot guys always date the hot girls.

"May we return to the task at hand, please?" drones Freud from the front of the room. "Who would like to present first?"

I'm not worried about him picking me. That's one of the few good things about moving. You can claim total ignorance for the first entire week. Then you have to get your act together.

But then Freud stands over my desk and I shift uncomfortably. I get the sinking feeling that saying "I'm new" won't work with him.

"Miss Saunders," says Freud, turning to the row next to me. "Please come to the front."

A girl with short black hair highlighted purple, a nose piercing and enough earrings to open her own tackle store looks surprised. "I don't have anything prepared," she says. "My computer crashed last night."

The teacher's face turns pink, and for a moment he resembles Santa Claus more than Freud. "This was a simple assignment," he says.

Miss Saunders just shrugs. Freud consults his class list and asks two more students, a red-headed guy who looks like that character from Harry Potter and an East Indian girl who barely speaks English. Neither are prepared.

"I merely asked you to bring a poem today for discussion," says Freud, frustrated. "And yet none of you are ready. Why is this?"

He consults the class list for another victim, and I pray my name hasn't yet been added because of red tape.

"I'm ready," calls a voice.

Freud looks up. "Miss Lee," he says, relaxing.

The eyes of the class turn to the girl sitting next to J.J. She stands with confidence. Soft blonde hair runs to her shoulders and settles around a pink sweater. She smiles brilliantly at Freud. There's some strange connection between the two of them that I can't put my finger on.

"What poem have you selected, Miss Lee?"

"Shakespeare," she says. "Sonnet Eighteen."

There is mumbling from the class.

"Delightful," says Freud. "Please begin."

I can't wait to see this.