One Bird's Choice (17 page)

Eleven

Back to School

I
'M STANDING AT MY CLOSET,
holding a white button-up, collared shirt in my left hand. In my right I’m holding a faded blue T-shirt with the bearded face of Ernest Hemingway printed on the front. There are decisions to be made. Tomorrow, for the first time in years, I’m going back to school. Not to sit in on a university lecture or speak to a high school class, but to elementary school, where it all started, to revisit grade one.

My aunt Grace is a primary school teacher. This year she claims that obedience, respect, and fun radiate from her students. She calls it her dream class. Since I’m back at Lilac Hill, she insists I take part in something called Visitor’s Day, a morning when a guest comes in to help with the kids’ activities. Grace has been telling me for months that spending some time away from the farm and around kids will do me some good.

I drop the white shirt back down on the shelf in a wrinkled heap. I’m going with Hemingway for practical reasons. If, as I fear, I’m a disappointment to the kids and have nothing to say, Ernest will be more of a conversation starter than a tedious shirt and tie.
So, kids, what did you guys think of
The Old Man and the Sea
? Maybe a touch too theistic?

Anything but a wooden barrel held up with wide suspenders will be an improvement over my recent attire. I’ve been taking advantage of the lax dress code at the farm by wearing an old pair of sweatpants I found in my closet. I love them and have been wearing them every day. The benefits of an elastic waistband are many. No pockets? No problem. What do I need pockets for at the farm?

Before bed I rummage through my room, trying to find an old picture of myself from grade one. I can’t even remember what a kid in grade one looks like. I know they’re short, and that’s about it. I’m able to unearth a picture of myself when I must have been around twelve. I’m sitting on the couch playing a black clarinet with a songbook open in front of me. I haven’t seen the picture in years. There’s a glowing red pimple in the middle of my forehead that looks like a large, misplaced nipple. One of my eyes is closed, the other is squinty. I’m wearing green silky pyjama bottoms, no shirt, and a worn fedora. I decide that this image is the purest and deepest representation of awkwardness. I fold it twice and throw it under my bed.

I fall asleep fully clothed, delighting some more in my sweatpanted legs, and hoping the six-year-olds will be much more graceful and refined than my twelve-year-old self. Or my twenty-seven-year-old self, for that matter.

I’ve hit the perfect water temperature this morning, a rare feat. Plus the hot water is lasting for longer than usual. Ironically, in these conditions it seems wasteful to have a short shower. So I linger. I feel as if I could stand under the warm jet of water until summer.

In the kitchen Mom offers to make me breakfast. “Just like your first day of grade one,” she alleges. “I think I made you some fried eggs then too.”

When she places the plate of steaming eggs and toast in front of me, I see a patch of dry, red skin near her temple. It looks sore and itchy.

“Whoa, what happened there? Did something bite you?’

“What do you mean?”

“That rash.”

“Oh, that, yeah. No, no, nothing bit me. I’m just allergic to the cellphone. That’s why I rarely use it. And when I do, I have to remember to hold it an inch or so away from my face.”

I dunk my first piece of toast into one of the yolks. “Sorry, Mom, for a second there I thought you said you were allergic to the cellphone.”

“I did.” She sits down now, tucking into her own plate of hot breakfast.

I rub my forehead with my hands. If I wasn’t feeling so anxious about my class visit I might ask Mom to expound on her peculiar cellphone allergy. As it is, I don’t. I strongly consider just standing up, bowing once, and heading back to the shower. Instead I finish my eggs and clear my plate.

Outside I’m not surprised to find my windshield in need of a scrape. As usual, spring is late for her own party. I’m running late too, and when I can’t find a scraper, I resort to using a small bottle of hand sanitizer I keep in the glove compartment to grind off the frozen condensation on the glass. It takes much longer than it should and fundamentally reinforces why I live with my parents and have no job. I can’t help imagine what my grade one teacher would think if she saw me now.

Luckily I’m able to find the red-brick school, which is tucked inside a new residential development, without much difficulty. Children in boots and winter jackets are walking in groups of three and four along the sidewalk. They’re my compass. I pull into one of the last remaining parking spots and head inside.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the front door. It’s a dreary sight. My blossoming beard, untrimmed in weeks, is a shaggy, homely mess. The circles under my eyes look darker than usual. I look like I’ve just rolled out of a bed made from a flattened cardboard box in a bus shelter. I hope I don’t frighten the children.

In the main office a friendly lady with curly grey hair gives me a name tag and directs me to the staff room. There’s a pot of coffee brewing on the counter that I smell before I see. Most teachers have already made their way to class; a handful are delaying the inevitable. Grace introduces me to the remaining few. I shake some hands and offer the requisite small talk.

“So you’re just here of your own accord?” a sociable teacher with dangling apple earrings asks. “That’s brave.”

“Yup, just thought it would be a fun change of pace.”

“And you had no problem getting off work for the morning?”

“I was persistent.”

“Well, send him to my classroom when he’s done,” she says to Grace. “If he hasn’t already run back to his car screaming.”

Grace and the lady share a lengthy chuckle. I yawn, scratch my beard, and stare longingly at the brewing coffee. I stopped for a cup on my way but would love a second. I wonder if the entire pot is already spoken for. Surely there aren’t enough teachers left to drink a whole pot?

“He’s really great.” I turn around to see a man dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and green khakis. He looks to be only a few years older than me, but he’s at least a foot shorter (his eyes are at my armpit). His hands are in his pockets and he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“No, I mean your shirt.” He nods in my direction. “I’m a massive fan.”

“Okay,” I answer, “cool.”

“In fact I named my dog after Kenny Rogers.”

“What?”

“Kenny Rogers. I mean, ‘The Gambler’ seriously has to be one of the best songs ever recorded.”

“Right,” I say, looking down at the face on my shirt. “‘The Gambler,’ yeah, I agree for sure.”

“Agree with what?” asks Grace, joining the conversation. She’s nibbling on a toasted bagel. Where did she get that?

“We’re just talking music over here,” he says.

“We’re both into similar stuff,” I add.

“What stuff?” Grace sounds confused.

“We both love Kenny Rogers — you know, ‘The Gambler.’”

“I didn’t know you’re a Kenny Rogers fan,” she says to me.

“What? You didn’t? Course I am, big time. Huge.”

“I figured you guys would get along,” says Grace. “I’m sure you have other shared interests.”

“No doubt,” I say, swallowing a yawn.

We continue talking, solely about Kenny Rogers, until Grace nods, telling me it’s time. I follow her to the classroom, wiping my sweaty palms on the legs of my pants.

Hour One: Getting to Know You

Grace greets each student as they arrive and ushers them to a large green mat. I’m slouched at the blackboard, hands in my pockets. The entire class of thirty sits cross-legged around an empty wooden stool. Two of the youngsters furtively stick out their tongues at me. I return their salute. Grace guides me to the stool with her hand on my back. She tells the class I am her nephew and that if they have any questions, now is the time to ask. She retreats to her desk.

I seat myself on the stool. I fold my arms uncomfortably over my stomach and smile sheepishly at the back wall. I’m faced with a sea of waving hands. The first boy I call on slowly drops his arm when I point in his direction. He looks from right to left and after a few seconds just shrugs his shoulders.

The second child, an unsolicited girl with a frizzy ponytail, stands to announce in an unexpectedly emphatic voice, “You smell like coffee.” She goes on to explain how her parents don’t drink coffee anymore, only green tea. I want to tell her she looks like an owl, but instead I just say, “Okay, guys, I think this is the question circle, not the comment circle.”

A red-haired boy with freckles is next. Finally, an appropriate question: he asks me my age. I let them guess. First I hear twenty-five. “Older,” I say. The next guess, eighty. More questions follow, mostly regarding my gross beard and crooked teeth.

After question period the kids sit at their desks and draw. Some use crayons, others markers. I manoeuvre among the tables and chairs, examining the artwork enviously, handing out little sticky stars.

I stop at the desk of one girl who’s dressed in a pair of jean overalls and white running shoes. She’s biting her tongue in concentration. She’s using a brown crayon and is clearly drawing some type of tree, a seemingly decayed weeping willow, blowing in a windswept meadow. The tree looks lonely, sad. Its tragic beauty holds my attention but is ultimately unbecoming, almost lurid. The more I examine it, the more it revolts me.

“I’m drawing you,” she asserts, sensing my presence without taking her eyes off her picture.

“Excellent,” I say, handing her a shiny red star.

Hour Two: Gym Class

I’m guiding a single-file line of about fifteen enterprising boys. The elementary school gym seems much smaller than I remember. When I was in school, it seemed so expansive. Apart from its diminished size, everything else is identical. The climbing ropes hanging from the ceiling are the same; so are the basketball nets with wooden backboards painted white and the yellow overhead lights, which buzz softly in the background. Even the scent of rubber balls and sweat is familiar.

I let the boys decide which game they want to play. I hope for dodge ball, but the group settles unreliably on floor hockey. I realize afterwards that they would have voted for whatever game I said first.

One child, a plump, brash boy named Mitchell, crawls over to the equipment room and screams. He knows the parachute is in there and he wants to play with it. After much cajoling I finally convince him to forget the parachute so we can play hockey, but he has a condition — he demands to be goalie. I’m hesitant. I find myself easily irritated by Mitchell and disinclined to grant him his wish. I think it started when I heard him bragging to a girl in class that he had five chocolate chip cookies in his lunch, and she couldn’t have any. She didn’t seem to care, but I did. I love chocolate chip cookies. I had visions of standing over Mitchell, slowly eating his cookies one by one as the crumbs rained down onto his desk. But I give in. It takes ten minutes to strap him into the goalie pads. “These smell,” he says.

When the puck drops, I forget about Visitor’s Day. I’m not just supervising anymore; I’m back in gym class. I’ve taken up a defence position on the red team, who were one player short. I’m feeling good, feeling loose. I haven’t played a game of floor hockey in years. The plastic stick is too short for me but my passes are crisp, my stick-handling has never been so precise. And no one from the other team is getting by me — no one. I’m a wall of defence.

It’s about fifteen minutes into the game, with our team ahead 1–0, when Mitchell starts voicing his complaints. “Iain,” he’s moaning. “Iain, I’m getting bored back here.” His piercing voice sounds too old for a six-year-old. I think it’s the way he pronounces his words. It takes Mitchell twice as long to say
bored
as it would any of the other kids. It’s infuriating. I’m trying my best to ignore him. After all, we’re in the middle of the game and I’m trying to win.

“It’s okay, pal. Just hang in there.”

“But no one’s shooting on me.”

“Yup, we’re winning, champ. Let’s try and remember that,” I counter.

With Mitchell still lamenting his lack of action behind me, the pace of the game slows in front. Both teams are starting to float and lose interest. One group of boys is leaning on their sticks and chatting in a small circle. The game needs a spark.

I elegantly strip the puck from a boy in stocking feet (he forgot his gym shoes), dance around three opposing players, and from just a couple of steps in front of my own goal flip the puck high up off the gym floor. It moves purposefully through the air in what seems like slow motion and sails over the goalie’s shoulder like a bird. The soft orange puck hits the very top right-hand corner of the net.
Goal!
— and what a beauty. The young blond goalie hasn’t even moved; he’s picking at the straps of his right pad.

I slap the blade of my stick on the floor. “Woooo!” I yell. “Brilliant! 2–0.”

The gym is silent. I look around to see all the six-year-old boys staring blankly at me. Before I can speak, Mitchell pushes his goalie mask up over his head. “When we play hockey, the teachers aren’t allowed to score,” he declares, taking extra long to say
allowed
.