Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 3.1

I hear my name called a second time as I try to find the office, wandering through the maze of hallways lined with green steel lockers plastered with stickers, graffiti and notes to friends. Framed photographs of the school's previous student bodies hang above the lockers, and the school's history follows me. Pictures change from black and white to colour. Hairstyles get larger. Glasses get smaller. Some students try to conceal their braces while others proudly display them. Others pose for their school photographs in band uniform or football jerseys. An odd shape in one of them catches my eye and I stop at a class around the turn of the millennium: one guy is posing with a silver and blue can of Red Bull, holding it for the camera as if he's in a commercial.

I find the office, push the door open and step inside, half-expecting Mom to be waiting for me when I arrive, half-wishing that she's going to tell me it's all been a mistake and we're heading back to Toronto. But there's no sign of her. Instead several secretaries stand behind a high wooden desk that separates the waiting area from the office proper. I think the desk is there to protect them should students freak out and go for the throat.

I try to get the attention of one of the secretaries, but no one hears me over the clatter of computer keys, ringing phones and whirring photocopiers. I shift my weight back and forth between my feet awkwardly. Finally one of the women spots me. She puts her hand over the receiver on her phone and says, "Yes?"

"I'm Rebecca Lockhart," I say. "I was just summoned here. Over the intercom."

"Oh, yes, dear, Mr. Downs is expecting you." Then she peers at me, oddly. "You're Catherine's daughter, aren't you? Our new Vice-Principal?"

That didn't take long. "Yep, that's me," I say, trying to be cheerful.

"You have the same eyes," says the secretary.

"Thanks." I feel like I'm under a microscope.

"Mr. Downs's office is just down the hall, third door on the left, next to your Mom's. I think she's with a student." She points me down a corridor, then returns to her conversation.

This can't be about Metallica because I was paged just as class ended, unless Mr. Penderton is the fastest snitch in history. It must be normal paperwork that comes with joining a school halfway through the term.

I stop outside a frosted glass door with the words Vice-Principal on it. There are two voices coming from inside. One I instantly recognize as my mother's. She's using her stern tone of voice, the kind that she only uses when I'm in trouble. Whoever's in there with her must already be on her bad side. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but this is her first job since she graduated and I can't help being curious.

"Mister J– ," she begins, in her stern tone. I can't see anything through the window but the door is open a crack, so I can hear everything clearly.

"Call me J.J.," says a voice, cutting her off.

This J.J. gets around.

He's calm and confident, not at all how I would be if I were in the Vice-Principal's office. "I know what you're going to say, Mrs. Bradshaw," I hear him say.

That's a mistake. After what happened, I doubt if she'll ever let anyone call her Mrs. again.

"Ms.," she corrects. I swear I can hear the period. "I don't like nicknames."

"Right, Ms. Bradshaw," says the voice. "I insist, call me J.J. Look, I know I smell like pot, but it's not mine. It's my father's. We light up together sometimes, but this is his. It's second-hand. I'm innocent."

I stare at the frosted glass, wondering what kind of father would smoke pot with his own son. Mom has to be thinking the same thing. In Toronto, families bonded over Hockey Night in Canada. Things are definitely different here in Vancouver. I don't think this was covered in her education textbooks or in Making the Grade: Establishing Student/Teacher Relations, which has sat on her dresser every night since she bought it.