Last Dance. David Russell W.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ there was that. It was a sad statement about my life that I was placing so dear a value on Sara, Tim, and Nathan’s view of my coolness. The bell rang as she finished her proclamation. Standing, she patted me on the arm as she walked by. “I knew we could count on you.” She winked as she walked away. “Let me know how it goes.”

      The rest of the class was filing out. Most of them never bothered to say goodbye. Clearly they did not share Sara’s view of my coolness, or they would not have dreamed of leaving without a closing salutation. Tim and Nathan stood beside me as I watched Sara recede from sight out into the river of teenagers flowing past my open door toward eighteen hours of academic reprieve.

      “You don’t have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable,” Tim finally assured me.

      I turned to face him. “What the hell kind of name is Van?” I asked.

      He smiled for only the second time that afternoon. “I think it’s kind of sexy,” he replied with a coy grin.

      “Go home,” I demanded. Nathan laughed uproariously at my discomfort and followed Tim out the door.

      Chapter Three

      Bill Owen was a big man.

      He was about six foot three, and I shrank in comparison at my average barely six feet. He was also big-shouldered, enormously big-gutted, and big-voiced. He often tried to use his size as an intimidation factor in his relationships with the rest of the teaching faculty. Sometimes it worked. At least half the staff was so reluctant to meet with him, they went along with his edicts to avoid any kind of confrontation.

      This was going to be fun.

      Bill’s office was the smallest of the three vice-principals, though he had served in his administrative position longer than anyone else, including the principal. There was a theory that anyone who remained a vice-principal for more than six or seven years was pretty much a lifer. In a large city like Vancouver, where there are over twenty high schools, it was likely true. My impression of Bill in my year at the school had confirmed the theory. In a rare moment of serendipity, his office was devoid of students or other staff taking up his time. There was no real reason to put off the conversation. I knocked gently on his open door.

      Bill turned away from his computer and looked at me. It was also well known that he knew as much about computers as I knew about physics. “Oh, hey, Win,” he began jovially enough.

      A pet peeve of mine is being called “Win” by those I don’t consider to be friends. There’s something about the presumption of informality I find rankling.

      “Hey, Bill. Got a minute?” I resisted the urge to call him “Billy” or “Billy-Bob.” This conversation was going to be edgy enough. He looked only mildly distraught at seeing me. Despite my present vocation, few people are happy about sitting down to chat with lawyers, even former ones. But Bill smiled pleasantly and offered me a chair at his little round table. In education, round tables are considered friendlier than sitting across a desk from one another.

      “How are things going?” he asked with feigned interest.

      “Good. Things are good.” I paused to permit a silence to hang between us long enough to be just this side of uncomfortable. I’ve found in both my careers that a sustained silence often indicates to the other party the gravity of the conversation about to take place. “I need to talk to you about one of my students.”

      Bill sighed and tilted back in his chair. His posture took on a fatherly form, no doubt preparing to pass on some kernel of classroom management wisdom. The man loved to dispense kernels. “Having some trouble in class?”

      “No,” I responded, making sure to not allow any defensiveness in my tone. “No, the student is fine with me. I’m actually here on his behalf.” The contrived warm smile that had welcomed me only seconds before began to fade, though it did not completely disappear from beneath the eighties-style police mustache he refused to shave.

      “Who’s the student?”

      I paused until it seemed he was on the edge of repeating the question. “Tim Morgan.”

      “Oh, Christ,” he sputtered, grunting as he heaved himself forward from his chair’s tilted position. A few more pronouncements like this one, and I could practically give him a workout. He put his beefy arm on the friendly round table and stared at me without speaking. I decided I would out-pause him and see what happened. His eyeballs finally rolled skyward in disbelief and he let out a tremendous sigh. I suspected that was the most exercise he’d had all day. “So I’m guessing this is about his choice of date for the graduation dance?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you want him to be able to bring his, what, his boyfriend?” The scorn dripped off his final word.

      “To be honest, I really don’t care who he brings to the dance.”

      That slowed him down only long enough to clear the anger spittle already forming at the side of his mouth. I wondered if it would get caught in his moustache. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

      It was time to lay out the cards. I sat forward gently, saying, “I care about why he’s not allowed to bring his date.” Only a short pause was necessary before carrying on. “You can’t tell someone that he can’t bring a date because he’s gay.”

      “I can’t?” I could sense Bill’s back going up. On the plus side, it was improving his posture.

      “No. You can’t. It’s discriminatory.”

      “I’m the vice-principal here.”

      “I’m aware of your title.” Oops. I had not planned to be snarky or sarcastic. I’d lasted less than two minutes. If Bill’s posture straightened any more, he’d be completely standing.

      “Look,” he began, his voice rising slightly.

      “I’m sorry. That was sarcastic and uncalled for.” My mother had been reminding me lately of the need for occasional humility. My apology took the wind out of his sails. I’m known for my sarcasm, not my apologies. “I just meant to say that even as vice-principal, there may be limits to the reasons you can deny someone their choice of date to the dance.”

      Bill began to slouch slightly in his chair, a good sign. “Look, Win, I have nothing against Tim or his date. I’ve never even met him. But I have three hundred and fifty other grads and their parents to think about.”

      “What about them?” I asked innocently.

      “If Tim brings his boyfriend to the dance, there could be a lot of upset, uncomfortable people.”

      I let that sit for a moment. “So Tim is being denied his choice of grad date because a few people might be uncomfortable?”

      “Win, it isn’t always as straightforward as it seems.” I smiled slightly at his choice of words. He seemed to catch the humour, too, and smiled back. “Sometimes I have to make a decision that’s best for the whole school community, not just best for an individual student.” What a load of crap, I thought, but elected not to voice it.

      “Bill, this is Tim’s graduation as much as it is anyone else’s. He ought to be able to enjoy it just like everyone else.”

СКАЧАТЬ