So when I found out I’d have Mr. R for grade ten social, I was all, like, yes! I was kind of nervous, too. I really wanted Mr. R to like me. I think every kid in the school felt the same way. You were cool if Mr. R talked to you, smiled at you — liked you. And since everybody wanted to be cool, even The Six, it was a big deal to be liked by Mr. R.
Nobody — not even the kids who thought it was a blast if a teacher quit her job (like Miss Sawyer did last year) or took a couple of months off for stress leave (like the tall physics guy — I didn’t know his name) — not even those kids messed around in Mr. R’s class.
That first day was amazing. In only one class, Mr. R made me want to know everything there was to know about twentieth-century history from World War II on. We’d studied the first half of the century in grade nine and that had been baseball-bat-over-the-head dull. World War I, the Depression, William Lyon Mackenzie King — all of it a major snore.
Mr. R showed us this video he’d made of his most recent trip to Europe. It wasn’t like some educational video. His commentary that went with it was hilarious. He had all these sarcastic comments about the people in all the countries he’d been to. Like they were the dumbest people on the planet. All of us were killing ourselves laughing.
But it wasn’t just funny. It was like incredibly interesting. You actually wanted to watch it — and ask questions. I didn’t ask any, though. I guess I was afraid of sounding as dumb as the people in the video.
Lots of kids did ask, though. Jen, who had been known to say fairly stupid things trying to be funny, was the first to put up her hand. “Mr. R, are the kids in those countries mostly like us or are they really different?”
Not a bad question.
Mr. R said something about kids being pretty much the same everywhere “except not as cool as Parkerville kids.” We all laughed at that part.
There were lots more questions. I looked over at the other side of the room and T-Ho had his hand up. T-Ho — the kid who told me at the Dairy Queen the day of the dog-shit episode that the only bigger waste of time than school was “listening to the losers who asked questions at school.”
But there he was — hand in the air. “I was wondering why people go to them other countries anyway. What’s the point?”
Mr. R grinned. “Very good question, T-Ho. We go in part to see them — the country, the people, how they live … that sort of thing. And I hate to use this word, but it really is educational. There is a lot we can learn from seeing how other people did things in the past — that’s what we call history — and how they do things now. Oh, and there are some terrific pubs and bars in these places too.”
That had the class laughing again and even T-Ho was grinning back at Mr. R.
At the end of the class Mr. R stood at the door. As we were going out, he said, “Welcome to Social 10, Mr. Mitchell” or “Miss Danforth” or whatever to each one of us. Again with the names. And I know for sure he got those names 100 percent correct.
When we got out in the hall, it was different than with most classes, where you’re talking about food or what you’re going to do after school or how stupid that teacher was. People were talking about France and Germany and Belgium. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that happens all the time in high school.
Jordie Carlton was the toughest kid in our school. Big and stupid tough. Nobody, including The Six — not even nose-breaking Hennie or T-Ho the Psycho — messed with this guy. Yet there was Jordie, talking about going to Europe someday to check out “that history stuff” like it was as important as his hopped up ’85 Chevy pickup.
I could tell this was going to be the best school year ever.
And all because of social. Who would have thought that would be a reason to get up in the morning?
The thing is, you wanted to do great in Mr. R’s class because you didn’t want to disappoint him. And three weeks after I started in his class, I knew I’d disappointed him. I mean, it wasn’t in class, but he was disappointed just the same. In me.
He was there at the wrestling regionals when I lost my match. The regionals were usually in the spring but there had been some problem that year so the tournament was put off until the following September. The start of my grade-ten year. Like I said, Mr. R was at most of our school’s games and tournaments, so it wasn’t any big surprise that he was at regionals or that he was the only teacher there besides Coach Findlay. After the match Mr. R came up to me. I figured he’d say the kind of stuff people say when you lose at sports — “You’ll get ’em next time” or something like that. But that wasn’t it.
“You shouldn’t have let that guy beat you, Andy,” is what he said.
“I know.” I looked down at my feet like I suddenly needed to study my sneakers.
“No, you don’t. You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, but one day you will. We’ll talk about it and you’ll understand.” He started to walk away, but then he turned back. “The fall of the Alamo.” He said it softly but I heard it. And the look on his face — not pissed off exactly but real serious — let me know he wasn’t kidding around.
He turned and walked away again and this time he didn’t stop or look back. So that’s how I knew I’d disappointed him. I wasn’t sure what he meant or what we’d be talking about “one day.” All I knew is that I’d let Mr. R down and I felt pretty shitty about that. I decided right then I’d work harder than ever in his class, starting Monday.
Monday — that was the day we started the Holocaust unit. It wasn’t actually called the “Holocaust Unit,” it was just the war unit. But the Holocaust — that was the part everybody remembered.
Five
“Hey, Alamo.”
I turned around. Hennie and Jen were leaning against the first floor lockers that ran along the wall next to Miss Van Tiegan’s classroom. Physics. Miss Van Tiegan had replaced the tall guy who went on stress leave. Anyway, Jen was looking at me. Hennie had his earphones on and he was staring down at his iPod like it had rabies. I figured it wasn’t working, but that didn’t surprise me. Hennie was the kind of guy who would wear his watch into a swimming pool just to see what might happen then be pissed off when it didn’t work after he got out of the water. Maybe he’d taken his iPod for a swim.
“Hey,” I said back. I noticed Jen had done something different to her hair, but I wasn’t sure what. It was just different. Streaks? Not great though. Maybe if she’d actually finished whatever it was she doing with the streaks. But, hey, at least it wasn’t dirty. Or maybe the streaks were there to hide that part.
She must have noticed me looking at her ’do, because she shook her hair like a woman in a shampoo commercial as she spoke.
“Goin’ to the dance?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. You?”
“Dude, we’re all going.”
Hennie straightened up and shuffled off down the hall, swearing at his iPod. Jen waited a few seconds then followed him.
That was it — the whole conversation. Most of the conversations between The Six were like that. A lot of raised eyebrows and body language — the biggest thing was to look bored. Jen had that part pretty well mastered. Except when she was hitting on a new guy, which tended to be on Fridays. Every Friday.
So I went to the dance. Before I tell you how it went, I guess I’d better mention Diana McNair, my ex-girlfriend who I was hoping wouldn’t be my “ex” for that much longer. It was going to be a little tough to make happen, though. Of all the people in the school who didn’t really like me, Diana really didn’t really like me. I guess breaking up with girls sometimes makes them feel that way.
It was stupid, I know that. I was stupid. I know that too. I think Diana liked me quite a bit and the thing is I liked her too — a lot. But it was the whole sex thing. I wanted it — she didn’t. At least not as fast as I did. Which would have been okay if she hadn’t already had sex with two other guys. She’d mentioned that one night when we were making out in the kitchen at her place. In the kitchen.
That’s beca
use her mom was in the living room so the couch wasn’t exactly available. Plus it was a little tough to do the casual walk through the living room on our way to Diana’s room, pretending we were just going up there to study. Yeah, Mom wasn’t about to buy that. So we did our best with the counter in the kitchen. That’s when Diana sort of announced that she’d been there and done that. A couple of times.
I was all like cool, I’m fine with being number three as long as it’s real freaking soon. And that was the problem. Diana, the two-times non-virgin, wasn’t on the same page when it came to just how far we would go.
A couple of weeks after the kitchen thing — one night while her mom was having a bath or something and we actually got to the couch — I was pretty sure it was about to happen. So I was a little surprised when Diana suddenly pulled my hand away from where it was totally enjoying itself and said, “Alamo, I’m not going to have sex with you. I like you and everything but I’m just not ready, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” I said kind of loud. “What about before, with those other guys?”
“It was too fast both of those times. I wasn’t ready then either but I let it happen and I wished after I hadn’t. I don’t want to feel like that again, okay?”
But like a jerk I kept trying, and talking, and trying some more. Not just that night but a lot of nights. Mostly I was just really pissed that I was still a virgin and she wasn’t. I tried every ploy I could think of. I don’t know if I really thought, “Do you realize I could be killed on my way home tonight and if that happens I’ll die without ever having known the joy of yadda, yadda, yadda … ” could work, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
It didn’t work.
So I broke up with her. And I wasn’t even cool about it. I said stuff I shouldn’t have said and tried to make Diana feel totally crappy. Which I guess I did because she was crying when I left her house.
But afterwards, sad became mad and Diana did an excellent job of letting me know she hated me. Pretty much every day. And she made sure her friends hated me too. Which meant that there were even fewer people saying hi to me as I walked down the halls between classes. Counting The Six, the total number of people at Parkerville Comprehensive who actually talked to me was five. (I already explained about Rebel.)
And the worst part of it was that I wanted to get back with Diana. I knew I’d been a total creep and I felt bad about that. Plus I really liked her. Even without the home run. Besides, having a girlfriend was good. It made me feel, like, I don’t know, like I fit in. Didn’t matter though. Diana and I were done — forever.
School dances are like people. Some of them are boring. Some are anything but boring. And some try so hard not to be boring that they wind up being totally pathetic. The good thing is a dance can change. It just needs the right song at the right time, or the DJ to say something really funny or cool. That’s all it takes to get everybody up off their chairs and moving.
That first dance of the year started out boring then moved directly to pathetic. First there were the decorations, which were totally stupid. They looked like they were for a Halloween dance, which this wasn’t since it was only September. They were a cross between Dracula’s castle and Madonna’s bedroom — sort of sleaze with fangs.
There were those folding metal chairs all around the outside walls of the gym and some tables at one end — right under the fake fangs. The Six took over one of the tables, sat down, and waited for something — anything — to happen that might break the boredom.
As if the decorations weren’t bad enough, the DJ was unbelievable. This DJ said a lot of things, but none of them were funny or cool. His name was Mighty Michael. The name alone ought to tell you right off that this was maybe the un-coolest guy ever to yell, “Parkerville, are you ready to par-tay?” into a microphone.
Then the dance changed. It suddenly became like the Guinness Book of Records all-time best dance ever, and a lot of it was because of Mr. R.
I was sitting with The Six and we were trying to decide whether to do a group hurl or hang Mighty Michael upside down from one of the basketball backboards. We figured we’d use the one sporting the cutout of a woman with bad hair wearing a black bra and a black cape — one of the classier decorations.
Anyway, that’s when suddenly, like out of the freaking blue, Mr. Retzlaff came over to our table and sat down in the only empty chair. He smiled and raised his glass of Coke, sort of like a toast to us and we all did it back.
“Pretty much sucks so far, doesn’t it?” Mr. R waved his arm around the room.
We were all like, yeah, totally.
And that’s when Mr. Tardif — the French teacher who you wouldn’t think is cool at all — suddenly got up on stage and started doing a guitar-hero type performance to “Rock and Roll All Night.” You know, the KISS song? And he was pretty good. I mean, all of us were a little embarrassed at first. Teachers are supposed to be … teacher-ish. Even Mr. R, who was so not like a teacher — even he didn’t get up in front of the class and act like one of us.
But Mr. Tardif did. And after a couple of minutes, we were okay with it. And, like I said, he wasn’t a bad Spaceman.
Mr. R watched and laughed like the rest of us. He made some pretty funny comments too, even though they were kind of hard to hear over the music. When the song was over and Mr. Tardif was bowing to the audience, Mr. R turned to us and grinned. “I used to have a dog with those same moves, but I de-wormed him and he’s fine now.”
We were still laughing when Mighty Michael grabbed the microphone and yelled, “I AM DOWN WITH THAT MAN” about fourteen times. Mr. Tardif walked off the stage and got high-fives from some of the other teachers and even a few students.
Mr. R didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave our table. By “our,” I mean The Six table. The Six, for god’s sake.
We didn’t really know what to say to a teacher at a dance. I think we were still trying to deal with having a teacher — no, make that Parkerville’s coolest teacher — sitting at our table. Finally Jen said something about how awesome social studies was. Not the best conversation starter, but at least she was making an effort.
But Mr. R shook his head. “No school talk. Tonight is about having fun. And I am DOWN WITH THAT.”
We laughed pretty hard at that and Mr. R smiled and stood up. I thought he was leaving but he just turned the chair around and sat back down. Then he leaned forward on the back of it and looked at us. People all over the gym were checking us out; I knew that without even looking around. Mr. R was hangin’ with The Six, and people were noticing.
The only thing was, if we weren’t going to talk about school, we didn’t really have much more to say. It got sort of awkward after a while. Finally, Mr. R said, “Okay, one last bit of school talk. You guys are really kickin’ in social and I want you to know I appreciate it. Have a good time tonight.” Then he stood up, turned the chair around again, and walked away.
I looked around the table. Every one of The Six were watching Mr. R walk across the gym. I mean watching him. And if we weren’t already “kickin’ in social,” I can guarantee we would have been after his visit that night. What teacher does that?
Sure, some of them might brag up the preps and they might do it in the hallway at school or even in the lunch area. But Mr. R had come over to the seven people in the school who were least likely to win awards for brains or personality — at the dance — and pretty much told us we were cool.
Mighty Michael yelled, “I AM DOWN WITH THAT MAN!” one more time and this time I turned and grinned at him. (What the hell? He’s a DJ … he’s supposed to be a dork.) I figured maybe the Retzlaff thing had been a sign. I mean, hey, if a guy like Mr. R was into The Six, then maybe I was on a roll. I looked over toward the stage at the other end of the gym where Diana McNair was leaning against the wall and drinking a lemonade with two girls who looked like niners. Diana was in grade ten, but God had decided she shouldn’t be in any of my classes that year. What was that expres-sion — t
he one about how absence makes the ladies miss the crap out of you? Something like that.
I walked over, took a Coke from the drinks table, and gave a buck to the nerdy kid in charge of refreshments, who looked like he thought his job was at least as important as, say, the guys who handle security for the Queen. Then I slow-strolled over to where Diana was missing the crap out of me. I stood there for a while before she even noticed I was there. I grinned at her. I hadn’t really thought about what I’d say, so I just went ahead with the always brilliant, “Hey, Diana, what’s happenin’?”
I knew from a couple of times in the backseat of T-Ho’s Crap Wagon that Diana liked to talk dirty — especially at certain times — but I wasn’t quite ready for what came out of those Angelina Jolie lips right at that moment.
If Diana was missing me, she was amazing at dealing with her pain. Amazing and loud. What she said to me wouldn’t have been so bad if her voice hadn’t been a couple of decibels louder than Mighty Michael’s. Diana still hated me, and everybody in the build-ing — and maybe some people in buildings a few streets away — knew it. I wanted to at least walk away with some tiny shred of dignity so I waved and said “later” like everything was all cool. She told me where I could go and what I could do when I got there. Loudly.
I got the hell out of there and went back to The Six, where Big Nose Kate and T-Ho had seen (and heard) the little drama and were close to pissing themselves right there at the table. The rest of them were up dancing or in the can or something but it didn’t matter. These two would be more than capable of making sure I didn’t soon forget the Diana episode.
Big Nose Kate yelled, “She is not down with that man!” And when he was finally able to talk, T-Ho grabbed me by the shoulder so hard that it hurt and said “Another example of why you ain’t jen-yoo-wine, know what I mean?”
Shit.
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