Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 2.2

Miss Lee – I don't know her first name – takes a sip from her Evian, walks to the front of the room, takes a deep breath, collects herself, and, in a sparkling voice, begins.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day

Thou art more lovely and more temperate

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May

I forget about the poem and study the lovely Miss Lee. Her hair shines like it's in a shampoo commercial and her complexion is so flawless she's practically airbrushed. She's one of those girls that won the genetic lottery when she was conceived. That's not to say she's not smart – I wouldn't risk quoting Shakespeare – but her looks sure won't hurt her when she applies for a job. Or has a flat tire on the side of the road.

Freud stares at her as though she were his reason to return from the First World War. She finishes reciting.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

"Wonderful, Miss Lee," says Freud. She practically curtseys as she goes to sit down. The eyes of every guy in the class follow her, and I realize that she's bewitched more than just Freud. I look at Miss Lee and want to be like her. But instead I have my ample butt, my thick thighs, my tiny boobs, and my unsightly red hair.

Still, there's something not quite right about this Miss Lee. It's not that there's a piece of the puzzle missing, because she's got it all. It's like the picture is out of focus. I squint, but I can't figure out what it is.

"Who can tell me what this poem is about?" announces Freud.

I'm dangerously inattentive and don't have the faintest idea what her poem is about. I studied Shakespeare's plays in Toronto, of course, like Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth,and Hamlet, but I don't understand all the fuss. They're the sort of thing my mother would appreciate, not me. Like antique furniture, but made out of language instead of wood.

Freud scans the room for someone to explain the poem, but no one volunteers. I sit in my desk and concentrate on becoming invisible as Miss Lee explains the sonnet's themes of love, beauty and the immortality of poetry. I wish she would add boredom.

"A most concise explanation," says Freud. "Who would like to go next?"

The entire class stares at their desks in complete silence. Vancouver and Toronto are thousands of kilometers apart, but it's good to know some things don't change and this is one of them: never make eye contact.

Freud consults his list again. "Mister Foster," he says. Heads turn to a baby-faced guy with rows of curly black locks sitting in the back row. A soft nylon guitar case leans against the wall behind him.

Mister Foster looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. He scratches at unshaved whiskers on his face with a wrist that has a bandana wrapped around it. He's wearing stone-wash jeans that belong in the eighties and are too small for his slightly chubby frame. A red tongue sticks out between a pair of giant lips on his black t-shirt. I can't place the image and decide it's an ad for chewing gum. He's got a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke on his desk, as if drinking Diet Coke will burn off his extra weight. He's the kind of guy that doesn't care about his appearance, but then wonders why girls don't go for him. I have to admit I like his black Doc Martens, though. I have a thing for shoes.

Mister Foster is a poor imitation of J.J. He's the type that couldn't get a girlfriend in a million years, and so he just went into music to get laid. He's one of those hack musicians that think that girls will throw themselves at him just because he carries a guitar. Well, let me tell you something, buddy, I wouldn't go for you if you played like Andrés Segovia.

Then I realize where I've seen the tongue and giant red lips. They're the logo of The Rolling Stones, that British rock band. People Magazine runs pictures of Mick Jagger running around the globe with women half his age. He's worshipped all over the world but I don't understand why. It's not like he's adding anything to society.

"I don't have anything, sir," says Mister Foster. His voice is soft.

"I'm sorry?" says Freud. "Speak up."

Mister Foster looks like he's embarrassed just being alive. He raises his voice a touch, but it's still deathly quiet. "I don't have anything ready. I was practicing last night and couldn't get around to it."

"'You couldn't get around to it'?" repeats Freud.

"Not really, no," says Mister Foster. He scratches at the surface of his desk with a fingernail.

"Mister Foster," says Freud. "Your attitude is deplorable. You will fail my class if you don't take an interest."

"That's okay," Mister Foster says, staring at the bandanna around his wrist. "I don't mind."

I stare at him, shocked. Freud is also shocked. The class whispers its disbelief. Several students turn around in their chairs to look at him. But he just stares at his bandanna.

I don't know this Mister Foster, but I know the type. I can't stand these guys. They walk through life with their heads in the clouds because they think three chords on a guitar and a voice that sounds like it's been scratched with a pickaxe will earn them million-dollar record contracts and groupies with giant breasts they can snort cocaine off in New York. Meanwhile, those of us who were properly trained in music, those of us who can tell the difference between Beethoven and Mozart, languish in obscurity. But the thing is, for some of them, it actually happens. The cards all fall into place and they go on to become music "legends." Hopefully this won't happen to Mister Foster, here, and he'll end up pumping gas at Petro-Canada like he deserves.

I suppose it might seem that I have a lot of bitterness towards the world. I do. So sue me.

"You do not care if you fail my class?" says Freud, flustered.

"Not really, no. I'm going to be a musician. I could quote you song lyrics if you want, like Dazed and Confused by Led Zeppelin. Or Black Country Woman.Forget about Stairway to Heaven, though. That song is so overplayed. Even Robert Plant hates it, and he wrote it."

My mouth is agape. So are the mouths of many of my classmates. I can't believe anyone would be so insolent. That's the problem with these guitar-playing rock star wannabes. They don't care about anyone but themselves. They're total hedonists, into nothing but drugs and booze and sex. I wouldn't be surprised if this Mister Foster is stoned right now.

"Literature, Mister Foster. Not a childish rock and roll tune."

Mister Foster glares. "Rock is not childish. It's – "

"So you have nothing prepared, then," says Freud, angrily. His strident voice cuts through the whispers of the students. "I can only hope that the world appreciates your efforts as much as I. Perhaps you should start saving now for a squeegee and a bucket of soapy water."

Now I can't believe Freud would be so rude. I mean, I know I was thinking about him pumping gas, but I would never actually say it. And besides, teachers are supposed to inspire their students, not cut them down.

The class looks to Mister Foster for his reaction, but he just continues to scratch at his desk with his fingernail. "Two-fifty for a wax," he says. He's trying to look unaffected, but his skin is flushing and anger is in his eyes. I hope he's not going to go on a shooting rampage.

"Miss Lockhart," says Freud suddenly, looking at his list. He finds me and fixes me with a gaze above his half-glasses. "Do you have a poem prepared?"

My mind is a whirl. "It's my first day," I stammer.

"So you have nothing prepared," says Freud. I can't tell if he's too angry to care or if he needs a hearing aid.

"No. I just got he– "

"The attitude of this class is deplorable," says Freud, now clearly hostile. "I will give the entire class five minutes to find a poem to recite. Anyone who does not will receive a failing grade. Miss Lockhart, I will start with you."