Picks and Sticks

by Michèle Muzzi

  Here he came. Jane tried to visualize what Mr. Marsh would look like to someone for the first time. Sloppy, she thought. He was very tall, his suit jacket busting at the seams. He wasn’t fat, just burly, rugged-­looking, with a full red beard and bushy, mostly grey, wild hair. He looked like he belonged in the forest chopping down trees. He had a double reputation: intimidating grizzly or huggable teddy.

  “Hello there,” the ill-­kempt man said amiably to Irina. He frowned at Jane and shook his head. “Divisional championships can only get you so far in life, Miss Matagov,” he said. “I am so proud of your achievements, but your punctuality and attendance record is starting to … well, we’ll talk in a minute.”

  Jane figured she was in for intimidating grizzly.

  Mr. Marsh picked up Irina’s papers off the secretary’s desk and read them.

  “You live here in town?” he asked Irina when he was done.

  “Yes, Mister.”

  “You might want to call me Mister Marsh. Or sir,” he mumbled. “I’m the principal here.”

  “Yes.” Irina blushed.

  “You have just moved here?”

  “… Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “Yugoslavia.”

  “To Parry Sound, Ontario, Canada, eh? That’s one heck of a journey.”

  “Yes.”

  Irina shifted the hockey bag in her arms, and he looked down at it.

  “What’s in that?”

  “Books — from Yugoslavia.”

  “Yugoslavian books, eh? I’m not sure those are going to help you here, Irina,” he said. “Let’s see …” She imperceptibly moved the bag away from him, but he was looking at her papers. “I’ve never seen anything like these in all my years … But … you are obviously a teenager,” he chortled. “Have you got an envelope with your address on it? That would give me proof of residency.”

  He mimed an envelope, the licking of the stamp. Irina went silent. Jane spoke up for her. “Her dad works at the arena, Mr. Marsh. Maybe he could give you a pay stub or something.”

  “How long has he been working there?”

  Silence. Jane spoke again for Irina. “For a month now? Six weeks?” she ventured.

  “And you’re just getting to school now?” Mr. Marsh asked Irina, incredulous.

  Irina looked like she wanted to bolt. Jane stood and touched her arm. Irina flinched, then said, “No. No. I … could not … I … I have no en-­ve-­lope … but the papers are not …?”

  “They are very official-­looking, from the highest level of government here — the federal government … which is so unusual,” he ended feebly. “Right then, Irina, you are fifteen?” She nodded. “Grade ten. Where are your parents today?”

  “My father working.”

  “Your mother?”

  She shook her head.

  “No mother?”

  She shook her head again. Jane’s heart sank. Another person missing a parent — they were alike in that.

  “I’ll make some calls,” he allowed.

  “No. Please …”

  Mr. Marsh stared at her.

  “No … Please … I just … I get envelope. Papa come. Please. No calls. I come back tomorrow with Papa and envelope.”

  She started to leave. Jane stopped her, then appealed to Mr. Marsh with a look.

  “Don’t worry, Irina,” Mr. Marsh boomed. “I’ll speak to your father tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll work out. In the meantime, let’s fill out a list of classes you would like to take and we can get you situated, all right? Come with me.”

  Irina held back. She was paler than Jane had ever seen her. Her radiant glow was gone. Mr. Marsh stood waiting.

  “Why don’t I come in with her, Mr. Marsh?” Jane offered. “I think she’s a little scared of you.”

  “Come along, then. Two birds with one stone.”

  Jane squeezed Irina’s hand and they followed him into his office. Jane had never been in the principal’s office before. At the threshold, she heard Irina gasp, and then, she did, too. Here was a place of intricate beauty. Around them were tiny winter scenes, carvings of igloos, some surrounded by people of the North, knives in hand. Dogs strained to pull long sleighs, even their harnesses evident in the delicate stone. A woman carried a baby on her back, struggling to walk, a long stick in hand. Jane was enchanted. Glancing up, she discovered a life-­sized dog sleigh in the corner, adorned with old snowshoes. “Calms people down, when they walk in here,” the principal said. “I know it’s unusual.” He sat down, huge behind a regular desk, and took out a chart. Irina touched the glossy leather webbing of the snowshoes as he ran through a list of subjects she could choose. He named those she could understand — English, gym, math — and chose the rest for her.

  “Better put you in French. You are good at languages, I am sure … you need science at your age. How about music? You like music? Do you play an instrument?” He mimed playing a trombone. Irina shook her head. Mr. Marsh scribbled a few more notes into the boxes of the chart and handed it to her with classroom numbers and times on it. He nodded at the door. “You’ll need to show this to your teachers so they can admit you. And please, don’t tell the guidance counsellors I did it for you. I’ll just get in trouble.”

  Irina thanked him, but looked confused. She seemed reluctant to leave the sanctuary. Then she smiled at Jane, heaved up her bag, and wandered out.

  “Well, now, Jane,” Mr. Marsh said breezily, turning his attention to her. “I see by your records that you’ve been skipping first class every Wednesday. Care to enlighten me?”

  “Tea and doughnuts at Steve’s Bakery after practice. Little breather before the rest of my day.”

  “And this will end, yes?”

  “… Yes.”

  Jane was sitting in her grade ten English class preparing to follow Mrs. McGuire’s lesson on Romeo and Juliet when Irina walked in late, her attendance sheet in hand, her pale eyes red-­rimmed, her uniform jacket and parka sticking out of her overstuffed hockey bag. She gave the sheet to the teacher and was directed to a desk near the back, an empty one beside Jane.

  Irina sat behind the girl who had been doing the stomach crunches a few days before in the locker room; she still had not bothered to introduce herself to Jane. This girl sat hunched over the Shakespeare play, seemingly uninterested in Irina’s arrival. Jane was already sick of her attitude; the moment she had found out Jane was a figure skater, and a good one at that, she seemed to give up on Jane as a person. She pretended that she didn’t know Jane’s name, even though there had been that big Mr. Marsh announcement. She did look tough, though, like she belonged on a soccer field, a field hockey field, any field but here, but that gave her no reason to be aloof. Jane wasn’t going to mess with her, or ask her name, for that matter. The new girl could do the approaching.

  Irina moved to close her half-­open hockey bag, but her parka fell out. The big-­boned girl swiveled around in her chair to get a better look inside. Irina kicked her chair violently, and the girl was met with an ice-­blue stare. Jane felt like celebrating as the girl swung back around, and the startled teacher introduced Irina. Irina stood up in her white shirt, pleated skirt, and thick tights, and nodded awkwardly to the class. Someone snickered. Jane wanted to save her.

  By the end of a tough class on Shakespeare’s language, Irina looked like she wanted to cry. Jane had tried to help her follow along. She had moved her desk closer to Irina’s and placed her fingers under the words as they went by, but for someone just learning English, Shakespeare was impossible.

  The bell rang. Irina did not move. Jane stayed beside her. The English teacher cleared her throat and suggested that they move on to their next class, but Jane spoke up for Irina. “I think she just needs a minute, Mrs. McGuire. She … she doesn’t speak English very well. I think she’s overwhelmed.”

  “My next class
will be coming in.”

  “I know.”

  Irina stood up. Jane gathered her books. The next thing she knew, the hockey bag was kicked closer to her feet. Jane looked down at it and then up at Irina, bemused.

  “What’s this?”

  “These here, for you.”

  Jane crouched down. Under Irina’s parka and uniform jacket sat hockey equipment and a pair of hockey skates that looked to be Jane’s size. Jane beamed at Irina and lifted the bag. What a message! As they exited the class, Jane realized 5-­foot-­10 was waiting for them just outside the door. Irina and Jane started down the crowded hall, the girl following behind.

  “Where are you going to go next, Irina?” Jane asked.

  Irina shrugged and held up her chart. The two of them stopped to let the flow of traffic skirt around them. The girl stopped, too. Jane scanned Irina’s chart, then glared at Big-­Bones.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  “Not sure,” the girl answered.

  “I’ll take you to the gym,” Jane said to Irina. “I’ve got science next, and usually I get the evil eye if I’m late, but, oh, well. Here’s the cafeteria,” she said as they passed it. “Let’s meet there for lunch.”

  Irina agreed. They carried on, the large girl hovering two steps behind.

  “I can carry that bag for ya if ya want,” the girl offered. “I think we’re going to the same class.”

  “No. That’s okay,” Jane said, hiding her surprise. “I’ve got it.” Irina stepped closer to the bag. Jane pushed the straps further up on her shoulder. “Goin’ to science?” the girl asked.

  “Yeah. I’m just showing Irina where the gym is.”

  “I’m new, too. I’m still tryin’ to get my bearings,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Jane asked. She tried walking faster. The girl sped up with her.

  “Yeah. Been here ’bout a week.”

  “Seems longer,” Jane said, stopping. “Seems like much longer that you’ve avoided saying hello to me.” The girl’s face fell. Maybe she wasn’t so tough after all. Jane instantly regretted her rudeness. “But, then again, sometimes I miss things,” she continued, starting to walk again, trying to make amends. “I’m often late and cranky and tired. Maybe you did say hi.”

  “Did you bother to say hi to me? You’re the popular one around here.”

  “I definitely tried. And I am not popular.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Maybe we should both try harder.” They tried to smile, but it just ended up forced. Still, the girl wouldn’t go away.

  “You been skating in the morning?” She pointed at the bag.

  “Yeah. Figure skating,” Jane emphasized.

  “You carry your pretty things stuffed into a hockey bag?”

  “It’s easier. Holds more,” Jane said.

  “Come on! I saw Irina give you that bag. It can’t be your skating bag. Don’t all you figure skaters carry frilly frou-­frou bags?”

  “What’s it to you?” Jane faced her again: a challenge. Not only was this girl insulting, there was just no way anyone could know that Irina was giving her hockey skates. “Do you know what’s in here …?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “Books. Books from Yugoslavia. She thought they might be useful here. She doesn’t have a clue. I’m helping her out. Just … just leave it alone, okay?”

  The girl seemed deflated. “Okay, Jane,” she said. “I’ll … back off.”

  “So you do know my name?”

  “You’re Jane Matagov. The district champion figure skater. Everyone knows that.”

  “I wish Mr. Marsh hadn’t announced it.”

  “I’m Susan,” the girl said softly.

  “Okay.” Jane glanced down the deserted hallway. She was late again, and she was making other people late. “Good to know your name,” she said, angry that she now felt sorry for the maddening girl. She threw her a bone. “Could you tell Mr. Matthews that I’m just helping a new student for a minute?”

  “Yeah,” Susan said, and walked away.

  An hour later, Irina entered the cafeteria, sweaty from gym class. Jane was already there. She waved Irina over to her table, and introduced her two companions, Wendy Leary and Barb Jackson, as fellow figure skaters.

  “Got two detentions,” Jane announced.

  “No way. Who dished those out?” asked the ever-­perky Barb.

  “Mr. Marsh and Mr. Matthews. Forgot my science presentation. Again. Also, I’m supposed to make up the math quiz after school. Don’t know how I’m going to explain my lateness to Leonard. Again.”

  “We’ll cover for you.”

  “Again!” they all said together, and laughed.

  Susan swung by their table with a tray, and plunked herself down at the other end. Jane tried to gesture her closer, but Susan had already tucked into her food.

  Barb talked non-­stop: her happy, continuous chatter. Jane glanced at Irina, certain she could not follow the conversation. The girl was withdrawn the same as Susan down the way. Girls certainly could have a hard time relating. Look at me, she thought. Among this crowd of people, who really are my friends? Wendy and Barb were friends with her by necessity. They were forced together in the same program and had the same coach. They were teammates of a sort, but really, they had competed against each other for years until Jane soared ahead. It was hard to be friends with your competition.

  Jane had to face facts: as long as she was a figure skater, she would be a loner. Maybe that’s why she liked playing with Irina and Ivan so much. Hockey players worked together toward a common goal.

  When the principal entered and spoke to some Aboriginal students, Irina excused herself and asked to speak with him. Jane got up to help interpret, a little tense to be around Mr. Marsh after their meeting, but Irina seemed to manage fine on her own.

  “Your snow things, sir … in your … place … may I use … my house is far and I … I must turn these … um … clothes around … so I come back.”

  “You want to change out of that uniform?”

  “Yes. But house is long away by road … If I go by um … field …”

  “Take the snowshoes,” he urged. “Use them until spring.”

  That night, Jane attempted to do homework on the dining room table while Mike watched a Leafs-­Bruins game on television. Jane continually looked up, drawn out of her work, mesmerized by the players’ skills. She stared, studying plays instead of math, discovering things she could try out on Ivan and Irina. Deb was in the kitchen doing the dishes, a rare night off. Jane fiddled with her pencil. The detentions, the math quiz, and a three-­hour figure skating practice had left her depleted of energy. Deb had called the school, furious, and insisted they take into consideration Jane’s demanding practice schedule, but Jane didn’t want special treatment and Mr. Marsh, proud as he was of her, didn’t want to hear it. Deb’s banging about in the kitchen proved she was still angry. She could never let things go.

  Mike stood up and shut off the television. He got ready to go out.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Shoot some pucks around. Where’s my outdoor stick?” He started rummaging in the closet looking for it. Jane stopped him with her lowered voice.

  “I know where it is. It isn’t here.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “I just … I know where it is. I’ll get it for you tomorrow.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “Yes.” Mike stood with his hands on his hips, angry and curious at the same time.

  “When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s in perfect condition. Almost.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Really. Nothing.” Jane looked toward the kitchen. “Let me come wit
h you.”

  “To the pond?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Just take me.”

  “Mom won’t let you.”

  “We won’t ask.”

  “That stick better be in perfect condition, sister. Not a nick.”

  “Not sure I can promise that. But I’ll retape it. Just how you like. You know, with the two lines on either end of the blade, for your classic wrist shot — ”

  “Wha’d you do to it?”

  “Relax. Just … come on. Let me come.”

  Mike snarled at her, but grabbed two ratty sticks anyway.

  “Make it look like you’re carrying one stick,” she pleaded. “Put them together. And here, carry this bag. Give me your skates. I’ll put them in with mine.”

  “Okay. Here.” Mike handed her his skates and adjusted the sticks’ position in his hand. Jane shoved his skates in with her new ones and helped him shoulder the bag Irina had given her.

  “Man, what’s in here?” Mike protested.

  “Let’s go. Bye, Mom! We’re just gonna get some air. We’ll be back by eight-­thirty!”

  “That’s in half an hour! Bed by nine, Jane!”

  “Okay!”

  They snuck out into the cold and crunchy night, beyond the ghostly shadow Deb cast against the kitchen curtains. When they had gone a little distance, Jane glanced back. Her mother had parted the curtains and was watching them tramp across the railroad tracks toward the pond. Toward Dad.

  Snow crystals shone like diamonds in the full moonlight; the tall, Medusa-­like branches of the leafless trees were still. It didn’t matter. As soon as Jane arrived, the voices from her past rushed upon her, clamoured in her head, especially now, with Mike beside her. She started to tie the new hockey skates and heard her father’s voice insisting she hurry up and do it herself. Mike’s eleven-­year-­old voice was goading her … She shook her head.

  “Do you hear Dad when you come here, Mike?”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Where the heck d’ja get those?” he asked, flabbergasted, noticing her skates.

  Jane couldn’t answer. She was concentrating on tying laces without hooks, her father’s voice reminding her how.