— The students will not find out ahead of Wednesday that there was a death, says Max. — Or any erroneous details about the death, if news management is done correctly. News management is your job. He slams the dishwasher door closed, his elbows folding back to his sides.
Walter sloshes water into the kettle for a cup of instant decaf.
Walter regards Max in his old sweatpants, his oversize T-shirt proclaiming Don’t Mess with Sulu drooping over his ass, Max locking the dishwasher door, stabbing the On button.
— Tell me, says Walter. — What are you feeling? It’s okay to cry.
— One moment please. I can’t hear a word you’re saying with the water on, Max says in that strident principal’s voice that makes Walter want to set his own hair on fire as he double-checks, triple-checks the lights on the dishwasher. — What did you say? asks Max.
— Oh forget it, says Walter, turning to the cupboard for a coffee cup. He stops. His hand rests on the cupboard door.
Something suspended inside him has just dropped. Lieutenant Fong meows.
Max adjusts the single magnet on the fridge, a mini replica of the Starship Monoceros from his favourite television show, Sector Six. He brushes past Walter on his way out of the kitchen and into the TV room because tonight is Monday night and Monday night is Sector Six night even if it’s just mid-season reruns and a boy died today. Max dusty, mouldy, plumped on the couch.
Sunday, Saturday, Thursday, Friday. Last Friday.
Walter should have noticed, should have hooked the dead boy Patrick Furey back from the edge of that cliff. He should have stood at the bottom and let the boy bounce off his belly. Walter never met the parents, he never met the dead boy really except to squirm across the desk from him last Friday as the boy insisted on opening his mouth and confessing his obsessions into Walter’s ears. Patrick Furey was addicted to another boy. I’m in love, he told Walter. Patrick’s voice jumping and squeaking as he creaked forward on the chair opposite Walter, Walter nervously spooning out globs of canned therapy-speak as fast as he could in the direction of the boy, — Is that so? How do you feel about that? Really? Mm-hmm.
Walter noting every papery curl, every ragged edge of the posters pinned to the wall behind the boy’s head: the poster of the Hang In There ginger kitten clinging to a fence, the Black History Month poster trumpeting Inspiration in rainbow colours. Walter still managing to blob out platitudes, a horse shitting in a geometrically perfect line in a parade.
But as the dead boy talked, his problem mushroomed between them, the boy blowing his problem into a giant word balloon that squished them into opposing corners, — He’s in my English class, said the soon-to-be-dead boy. — I really love him. He gave me his grandmother’s necklace. I can’t sleep anymore, Mr. Boyle. This school is an insane asylum. They stole my skateboard. Mr. Applegate says that because it was off school property the school isn’t responsible.
— Insane asylum is a bit harsh, don’t you think? said Walter.
The chair’s hiss as the boy leaned forward, fingers at his chest, fiddling with the heart pendant on the long chain around his neck, his sweater on inside out, his eyes wet and wide. He said, — You know what I mean, right?
The dead boy wearing a girl’s heart-shaped locket around his neck. His fingers tangling in the delicate chain. His heart exposed outside his clothes.
— I don’t know what you mean, said Walter.
— Well you’re— you’re—
— No, Walter said. Because he would not lose his job for this kid. — Let’s focus, he said. — This isn’t about me. Sounds like your problem is a lack of focus. You don’t know what your feelings are. You’re distracted from your schoolwork. Keep focused on the important things.
Walter caught up a pencil from his desk, started tapping his front teeth with the eraser end. He dropped the pencil, slid open his desk’s top drawer and crinkled open a package of Sezme Sesame Snaps. Crunched a Sezme wafer loudly.
The boy leaned back in his chair. His mouth a straight line.
Walter finished chewing his Sezme. Swallowed. Picked sesame seeds from his teeth with tongue, then cleared his throat. He picked up his pencil. — Life is all about focus, Walter said, resuming tapping the pencil against his teeth.
— Mmm, said the boy.
— Awesome, said Walter. — Thanks for the talk. Good luck!
And the boy slipped from the office. Walter too sweaty to call out a goodbye, his hands clasped in his lap to clamp down on the shaking.
The boy left the door ajar so Walter wheeled over in his desk chair and pushed it closed himself. He turned to his computer and clicked open a new file. The boy’s name, Furey, Patrick under the file icon. Under category Hobbies, Walter typed, Likes skateboarding, into the electronic file. He clicked the file closed, then turned to his lunch bag for another package of Sezme Snaps. He jammed all the Snaps in at once, the sharp corners piercing his gums.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Monday. Monday. Monday. Monday.
The boy having solved his problem then.
Mrs. Mochinski
As Mrs. Mochinski pulls open the door to the school Tuesday morning, she smells that familiar smell of floor cleaner, basketball rubber, gym socks and chalk, the smell that tricks her into believing every time she walks into the school that she hasn’t yet received her Grade 12 diploma, that she hasn’t yet gotten past high school or scored a high-paying corporate job like the ones they always give advice about in the newspaper’s career section. She grabs her mail from her pigeonhole, scuttles through the hallways, traversing the long, wrong, subterranean way to her classroom because she doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Anyone. She unlocks the door of her classroom, inadvertently slams it behind her. She found the divorce papers in her mailbox this morning. Her husband’s inky signature scrubbed into the papers. He dropped them off last night, in the dark, like a coward. When she signs the papers she will be a single woman, and her life will be over.
Then she reads the memo, the paper limp in her hand. Reads that she and all the other teachers are to ‘Please refrain from discussing the tragedy with students until Principal Applegate has gathered all the facts.’ For a moment, she can’t even remember who Patrick Furey is, is sure she’s never taught him, and then her head threatens to cave in.
In her ten-minute Teacher Advisor group first thing this morning, the unicorn girl who always sits in the front shoots her hand into the air.
— Mrs. Mochinski? she asks, and Mrs. Mochinski dreads the question she knows will come, she just knows it. — Where’s Patrick today?
— Patrick? answers Mrs. Mochinski, scrambling with her chalk, her chalk holder, trying to stop her hands from trembling.
— I don’t know. He’s away obviously.
He’s away obviously. What is she? An android with a microchip instead of a heart? The stick of chalk in her hand snaps in half. She shakily fishes another
