Winter Thirst

by Ilia Bera

  “I was just kidding…” Brittany said.

  “I said, stay after class.”

  Wade turned back to the rest of the class and continued his lecture.

  “Fuck…” Brittany muttered.

  TEN

  no respect

  Brittany tried to sneak out with the rest of the class, hoping Wade had forgotten about the detention he’d assigned her two hours before.

  “Brittany—Where do you think you’re going?” Wade barked. He didn’t forget.

  “Sorry—I forgot,” Brittany lied.

  Wade waited for the rest of the students to leave, and then he closed the door with force. He turned to Brittany and stared into her eyes. Unlike the rest of the class, Wade didn’t intimidate Brittany.

  There was a long silence.

  “What?’ Brittany asked.

  “I’m waiting for your apology,” Wade said.

  “Apology for what?”

  “The apology you owe me for disrespecting me.”

  Brittany rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fenner. What could I ever have been thinking?” she said sarcastically.

  “That’s not going to get you very far in life, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That attitude. That disrespect.”

  “Look—I had a bad day, okay? Can we do this another time?”

  “You are one spoiled little brat,” Wade said.

  “What?” Brittany asked, offended.

  “Your parents—The Brucheveskyjs. Everyone in Snowbrooke knows who they are.”

  “So?”

  “You come from one of the wealthiest families in the country—and you act like it too. You’re used to getting everything you ask for. You’re used to throwing money at your problems to make them go away.”

  “That’s not true,” Brittany said, defending herself. “My parents gave me shit.”

  “In that case, help me to explain why you seem to think you are so deserving. Help me to explain why you think you can talk down to me like you do. Why you think I’m some sort of peasant.”

  “Who says that I think that?”

  “If there was any other teacher standing here right now, your ass would be sitting at home, explaining to daddy why you’ll never be able to go to college. I haven’t done that—and you still act like you deserve my sympathy.”

  “Well doesn’t that just make you a great humanitarian.”

  “What did I do to you?” Wade asked.

  Brittany looked over at the clock.

  “Look at me,” Wade said.

  Brittany looked into Wade’s eyes as the room went silent again. “What?” she asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Brittany asked.

  “Why you hate me so much—What did I do to you?”

  “You call yourself sympathetic, but you’re the opposite. When we’re late, you yell at us. When we try to explain our reason, you tell us to shut up. You aren’t sympathetic. Do you even know why I was late? Do you even know why that Connor kid is always late?”

  “When someone goes out of the way for you, you treat them with respect. That means showing up on time for class.”

  “His mother is in the hospital!” Brittany yelled. “He works a full time fucking job, sees his mother in the hospital and he still makes it to your class within a few minutes of the start time.

  “Do I deserve your sympathy? Maybe not—Maybe I’m just an undeserving bitch who doesn’t deserve anything because her parents, who she hasn’t seen in fifteen years, left her a credit card that hasn’t expired just yet—But Connor? Yeah—He deserves your sympathy.

  “I don’t give a shit when you yell at me, or threaten to kick me out. I’m trying my best—and no, maybe my best isn’t up to your standard—but when you treat everyone else like shit, then you lose my respect. I get it—you don’t need to teach this class. I get that you’re doing us all a favour, and giving us another chance. And I’m sorry that it isn’t your dream gig—but you need to open your eyes and realize that your life isn’t the only life that shows up for this class every night.”

  Wade stared at Brittany for a moment. Brittany looked back at the clock.

  “So what—Am I kicked out of the class or what?” Brittany asked.

  “Sit down,” Wade said.

  Brittany sighed.

  “Sit down,” he said sternly.

  Brittany reluctantly took a seat at a desk.

  “I understand that life can be hard. I understand that sometimes there are more important things to think about than prepositions, or Charles Dickens. I don’t even like Charles Dickens. I think he was a self-indulgent writer and I don’t care for Tale of Two Cities.

  “I’ve got a life—just like you. Sometimes, I have things happening at home that make it difficult to put on a smile for a group of kids who would rather be playing video games. Believe me—I know what you’re going through right now.

  “That being said—there’s a very important life lesson up for grabs here. Do you know what separates the successful with the unsuccessful?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The successful suck it up. Yeah—It isn’t easy to suck it up sometimes, but that’s what you have to do. I heard about Connor’s mom, and it’s a shame. I know about you and Kane—and it’s unfortunate.”

  “You don’t know anything about me or Kane.”

  “You think I’m just some dumb angry fat guy? Yesterday, you were both drooling over one another. Today, you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Take it from someone who’s been in a lot of relationships—someone who’s been through a lot of fights.”

  Brittany rolled her eyes. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “It always is. All I’m saying is, the world doesn’t stop for your problems. I can stand at the front of the class and say, ‘It’s okay that you’re late and forgot to do the homework. You still get an a!’ But I don’t say that—You know why? If I did that, I’d be setting you up for failure. If you show up late for a university class and expect the professor to care about—or even listen to your problems, you won’t last a semester. When I see a kid who graduated my class dropping out of college, I feel guilty. I feel like I let that kid down. It’s a blow to what I’ve chosen to be my lifework—do you understand?”

  Brittany was silent as she listened to Wade’s speech.

  “I’m not a high school teacher,” Wade continued. “I teach creative writing for senior year college students. The university—not the public education board, pays me. I do this because I was given a second chance, and I’m thankful every day for it. The guy who was running this class before me, Quincy Glass, was a dickhead. He failed most of the students that came through, and he didn’t give any warnings.

  “I was teaching a bunch of rich kids who were taking my class because they heard it was an easy GPA booster. Not one kid who came through my class knew what they wanted to do out of college, nor did they care. As far as I know, they used their degrees to wipe the shit off of their asses. The kids Quincy was failing were kids, like you, who were victims of unfortunate circumstances—Kids who didn’t know that they wanted to go to college until after high school was finished—Kids who went travelling instead of finishing school—Kids who weren’t fortunate enough to get teachers who complimented their learning style. Those were the kids who wanted to be in my class—kids who actually wanted to learn what I had to teach. And, because Quincy didn’t recognize that, they never got the chance. And that was really hard on me, so I took over the class.

  “This isn’t me trying to shame you, or me trying to let off some steam—this is me trying to help you. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

  Brittany shrugged.

  “That’s it? Nothing to say?” Wade asked. “None of that even went into your brain, did it?”

  “You want me to say that I’m out of line, but you can’t acknowledge your own faults.”

  “And what faults are you referring
to?”

  “I’ve already told you—so I guess poor listening skills is one of them.”

  Wade wanted to explode—nothing he’d said had gotten through to the stubborn girl.

  “I agree with you—The world is a mean, cold place. I know that no one is going to stop what they’re doing to listen to my ‘unfortunate circumstances’. I know that, because I deal with it every damn day. But you don’t go and kick a dog so it understands what pain feels like—especially a dog that’s already been hit by a truck. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you honestly think Connor doesn’t realize that people don’t have time to listen to him whine about his mother? Of course he knows—which is why he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone!

  “And no—I don’t give a crap about Kane, and no—that has nothing to do with me being late. Did you ever think that there might be another reason why everyone is always late for your classes—year after year? Did you even think that maybe the problem isn’t every single one of them, and maybe that it’s you?”

  “Me?” Wade asked. “They’re late because of me?”

  “Sure—I was late because of you. Why wouldn’t that be their reason too?”

  “And why exactly am I the problem? Am I boring? Do I make you uncomfortable? I’m dying to hear your reason.”

  “Yeah—You’re boring, but so is every other teacher. Your impulsive outbursts make me uncomfortable, but that’s beside the point. I was late because I don’t respect you. And you can take that as am insult, or you can take it constructively. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t respect me?” Wade asked. He tried to maintain his poker face, but the remark stung. In twenty years of teaching, he’s never felt genuinely hurt by a student’s comment.

  “Why would I? You walk around telling us about why it’s so important to be respectable—that it’s the most important trait we could have. But it’s like having a waiter tell you the steak is the best thing on the menu, when the waiter is actually a vegetarian. You’ve given yourself the title of ‘most respectable man’, but has anyone ever told you how much they respect you? Or is that a title you assigned yourself?

  “Respect is something you earn, and so is ignorance. Self-proclaimed respect is ignorance. You want my respect? Earn it. Quit telling me that you’re my last chance. Quit telling me that I need to respect you because I have to. What you’re asking for is pretend-respect—pity. I can figure this class out on my own. I can memorize the textbook, read the Dickens book and figure out everything I need from the library and the Internet—I’m learning the material just fine. I will pass the test; I will meet the class requirements. You want me to acknowledge you and listen to your lectures? You want me to take notes? You want me to come and ask you questions, and show up on time for class? Then earn my respect. Don’t beg and whine for it like some toddler at the toy store.”

  “Go home,” Wade said as he stared at the door.

  Wade was silent. He’d just been told by a nineteen-year-old girl. Everything she had said was true—no one had ever had the balls to tell him. He was so affected that he couldn’t muster up the strength to look Brittany in the eyes—A nineteen-year-old girl who spent more time every day doing her makeup than sleeping.

  Brittany shook her head; fume practically pouring out of her ears. She picked up her bag and left the room swiftly. She said nothing on her way out.

  Suddenly, Wade felt a strange tingle in the centre of his back. It seemed to pulse and vibrate through his bones.

  He took a breath, trying to gather himself. The last time he’d felt that shiver was when he held his newborn daughter for the first time.

  ELEVEN

  mid-life crisis

  Wade felt foolish. Not only was Brittany completely right—he’d managed to live up to his new title of “ignorant teacher” by kicking her out of the class, instead of admitting his faults. If it was respect that he wanted, he knew that we would have to start owning up to his problems.

  He walked over to his desk and sat down, staring at his own reflection in the window.

  The revelation was a huge blow to his ego—But strangely freeing. It was like blinders were lifted from his eyes, and he could finally see himself clearly.

  His hockey coach, back when he was twenty-years old, was his idol. Guy Trottier had reached the nhl—a milestone Wade never reached in his career. Guy played four seasons in the nhl, and he even made it to the playoffs with the Montreal Canadians.

  Never once did Guy tell Wade or any other player to respect him. Everyone just did, but not for the reason you might think.

  Guy was the only son of a poor farming family. He’d always dreamed of playing in the nhl, but his parents didn’t have enough money to enrol Guy in hockey lessons or leagues. But that never stopped Guy—he made his own ice out on the field and he taught himself how to skate and shoot pucks.

  When he was old enough, he got a job at the local skating rink, shovelling snow and driving the Zamboni when his boss had the day off. He worked his ass off to make enough money to buy real hockey gear and equipment. He would stay at the rink for eighteen hours every day. He would show up when it opened to watch the local hockey team’s morning practice, he would work fourteen hours, and then he would skate until it was time to close up. When his boss wasn’t around, he didn’t close up. He just kept on skating.

  Then, he hitch-hiked three hundred miles to attend a tryout. He missed the cut—by a lot. He was told to go home the day he arrived. But still, he tried again the next year—and the next, and the next and the next.

  It wasn’t until he was twenty-eight that he got drafted to an ahl team—the league below the nhl. He wasn’t nearly as talented as all of the eighteen-year-old kids who’d spent their lives in quality skating rinks. But still, he worked himself to the bone—staying hours after practice to try to mimic what the kids were able to do. He barely slept, he was always sore and he was the lowest paid player on the team.

  He never complained. He never whined. He never argued with anything any of his coaches or teammates said to him. He just took it all with a smile on his face.

  And somehow, he pulled ahead of the competition. With sheer, unbridled willpower, Guy made it to the nhl. He was old, and was quickly aging past his prime. He didn’t last very long, but he reached his dream.

  And he did it without muttering a single complaint.

  Guy was the kind of person Wade wanted to be his whole life. People would drop what they were doing and listen to Guy—even if he was just talking about something funny he read in a newspaper, or telling a story about the line at the dmv. Guy earned people’s attention. He’d earned their respect.

  Wade had other coaches—coaches that were much more accomplished than Guy. Brad Cook, one of Wade’s coaches, won two Stanley Cups, and played twelve seasons in the nhl. Everyone knew his name.

  But even Brad Cook stopped what he was doing when Guy Trottier had something to say.

  Wade began to stuff his syllabus and his textbooks into his bag.

  Brittany was angry—with herself, with Wade, and with life in general. No one would give her a break—no matter how badly she wanted just one little tiny break.

  Unable to stare at herself any longer, she punched the mirror of the university bathroom, smashing it into pieces. The shards of her anger fell into the old porcelain sink, along with the blood from a number of freshly made cuts.

  Brittany looked down at her bleeding hand. “Shit,” she muttered.

  She grabbed some paper towel, to apply pressure to her new cuts.

  Vampires bleed just like any other mammal—they were human once, after all. But their blood doesn’t satisfy their thirst the way human blood does. There is something about human blood—something that isn’t in a vampire’s blood, or the blood of any other creature. No one really knows what it is, seeing as if you compared the two, side by side, you wouldn’t be able to find a difference. Even with the best microscopes and chemical tests, there is no apparent difference. But any vampire
would tell you that there’s something there, in the blood of humans—something more valuable than any diamond.

  That’s not to say that vampires didn’t drink the blood of animals, or even their own blood—they did. Although it didn’t satisfy their thirst, but it did make the thirst more manageable—like drinking a glass of water to suppress your hunger before a meal.

  Brittany’s eyes were starting to turn red, and her fangs were starting to push out from her gums.

  She raised her hand to her mouth and began to drink her own lost blood. The anger raging in her body was pulling her thirst out from its dormant state. She closed her eyes as she tried to calm herself down. The taste of her own blood was offering a mild, temporary relief.

  She looked back up at the wall where a whole mirror once sat. In a small hanging shard, she could see the red dissipating from her eyes.

  “Why am I even taking this stupid class?” she asked herself.

  She rinsed the rest of the blood off of her hand in the sink. Her cuts were already starting to slowly heal—one of the few perks of being a vampire.

  “He doesn’t know how lucky he is that I don’t just end his pathetic little life,” Brittany muttered. “At least if he was dead, he wouldn’t be taking his failed sports career out on everyone else.”

  She turned and left the bathroom. The thought of killing Wade remained in the back of her mind. She tried to push the thought back, knowing that she was still in the passion of the moment.

  She turned around the corner of the forlorn university hallway. Around the corner, Andrew was waiting for her.

  “Hey,” Andrew said.

  “Hey,” Brittany said, forcing a smile and continuing to walk.

  Andrew started to walk next to her. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah—I’m fine.”

  “He didn’t flunk you out, did he? He was pretty worked up today.”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “I’m sure that it’ll work out—once he calms down a bit.”

  Brittany opened the university door.