In the driveway, when Larva fumbled with his keys, I mentioned to my aunt, “His car’s better than the last one’s.”
“He’s a —” and she cupped her hand over my ear, whispered his surname, like a secret she had to share. I detected a slight slur in her speech.
The name meant nothing to me, but I opened my eyes, said, “Really?”
She winked at me. “That’s called trading up.”
In the back seat, Button squeezed in next to me, her fleshy fingers knotted into mine, cheek against my shoulder. She was so different than I was as a child. She was robust, big boned, stunted, while I was like a stem in darkness, thin, pale, but reaching upwards. Her communication was rudimentary, and she talked like a toddler, knew nothing of words or nuance. Conversely, I trained myself to read when I was only two. By three, I could identify every tree, both common and scientific names. I could label and describe every dip or crevice on the surface of the moon at three and a half. I sketched accurate depictions of the digestive tract, understood the questionable ethics of oil companies. While Button made people smirk with feigned understanding, in my presence, most were uncomfortably amused. My comments made them shift in their seats. My silences made them babble. But Button. So distinct from me. She was born a baby, and practically remained so, whereas I was born a functional adult.
“This one’s a real dud,” I whispered to Button. “Don’t you think?”
“No, no.”
“Caveman. Oooga Booga. Prehistoric dork.”
She giggled. “No, no.”
“Say something mean about him, Button. Say he’s an asshole. Do it.”
“He nice.”
I frowned. “Seriously? Is that as good as you got? Larva-boy.”
“Yub.”
“He gave you a garbage pig. Probably picked it out of the trash.”
“No, no. Id oday if piggy eadded dash.” She grinned, hugged my arm.
I sighed. Button liked everyone she met. Literally everyone. Was she dense? I did not like to think in those terms. No, she was simply so pure and clean, she could not recognize a shit stain even when one was smeared on the sidewalk right before her. Almost as though she were blinded by her own white light.
I had decided some time ago I would be her shadow.
We went for a tedious drive, and then the obligatory ice cream. A place beside the river, where after the spring melt, the water raged violently. I liked to sit on the railing and listen to the current roaring with impatience, thinking how each year, one curious child would ignore all the signs, wander away, and be consumed. Good riddance, I would say. If a kid was that dumb, just as well it was eliminated as soon as possible. Why waste further resources on its growth and development? Last year was a bonus, when two parents jumped in to save their sinking offspring. A “heroic bystander” tried to rescue the kid, too. Four morons gone in an instant. Perfection!
Larva pulled in among a sea of other Sunday drivers, sugared children racing among the vehicles with smudged faces, adults screaming behind them. I declined the offer of a cone, but the asshole purchased a large mocha swirl for Button. “That oughta perk ya right up.” Watching her consume an oversized coffee product made me furious, but I clenched my jaw, said nothing. Balancing Button on the damaged guardrail, I swabbed her mouth, and took consolation in the knowledge that she would surely retch in Uncle Larva’s fancy car as we made our way home. I estimated three minutes of driving before she bent at the waist. I would kick away the rubber mat so the curdled milk and bile would soak the carpet beneath.
[12]
Warren counted them. Eleven adults. Two children. Three cars stopped, plus another creeping along the road. He could not understand why they were there. Staring at his bungalow, pointing at trees, talking amongst themselves. What did they expect to see?
When he went out the front door, a woman approached him. Her jacket was undone, no scarf, and he glanced at her pale neck. He considered she must be cold, and as though reading his thoughts, she lifted her hand, rubbed her throat. “Good morning, sir. You the homeowner?”
“No, no. Just renting.” He tried to smile. To be polite.
“Just a couple of questions. I’m doing a piece for —”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as he nudged past her.
He had not anticipated a reporter might want to talk to him, and his heart began to flutter. “I do want to help.” He really did. “But I’m running late.”
“This afternoon perhaps?”
He slid into his car, and slowly began to back out. People were standing on the sidewalk and no one moved. Rolling down his window, he called to them, “Please. Excuse me. I need to leave. I — I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
They parted then, and as he slowly rolled into the road, he saw his neighbour, Mr. Wilkes. The man who lived opposite him, who sat in a lawn chair inside his open garage, and drank beer pulled from a box. Wilkes pressed his bearded face toward the driver’s window. Eyes so wide, Warren could see the bloodshot whites all around his irises. “You’re not so smart,” he said. “You’re not so smart as you think.”
Warren’s heart did not stop clanging until he stepped inside his classroom. People were upset, confused, but there was nothing more he could do to help. He had told the detective everything. Mostly everything. He had omitted nothing he determined to be important. Like the fact that Amanda had come to his house several times. Or that he thought she was depressed over her father’s abandonment. Or that he saw her outside moments after he had woken, and had done nothing. Warren had not known she was dead. The thought never entered his mind.
He glanced around his classroom. Something had changed. It only took him a moment to identify that her desk had been removed. Almost imperceptibly, thirty
students had become twenty-nine. Four neat rows of six, one row of five.
Laying his leather bag on his desk, he slid out the chair. Nothing was there. No glue or puddle of ink, or long hygiene product with the adhesive side exposed. His chair was untouched, save the cartoon image someone had carved into the wooden seat — a penis, as thick as a man’s arm, with tennis ball–sized testicles. In September, he had to switch chairs with a student, Evie, if he was remembering correctly, as she was too embarrassed to sit down. Teenagers are idiots, he thought at the time, as the class went wild, laughing and groaning, Adrian Byrd yelling, “Can you take it all, Mr. Botts? Yee-ouch!” Now, though, as Warren stared at the genital art, that level of stupidity seemed innocent. Welcome, almost. Maybe that was normal. Hanging from a rope was not.
Warren eased into his chair, and tucked his knees underneath his desk. This morning, his room seemed quiet and calm, and this made him uncomfortable. He reorganized his papers, his pencils, opened and closed his drawers, ran his hands over the scarred desktop. Then he picked up one of the glass-encased insects that decorated his desk, a centipede, and he began counting the legs. Each time his eyes lost focus, he started again. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thir —
“You’re here.”
He looked up, saw Principal Fairley leaning against the doorway, wearing another version of beige. There was an unsettling surprise in her voice.
“Yes. I am.” Warren coughed, replaced the insect in the row between the dull brown spider and the stag beetle. Spacing as exact as his eye could manage.
“I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t — I didn’t know if you would.”
“Come to work?”
“I mean. We have never dealt with such a situation, Dr. Botts. I doubt many principals have.” She entered the classroom, stood beside him, then pulled on the tongue of her belt. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m okay.” His stomach gurgled, popped. Since he had awoken, his insides had been unsettled, and even now, he could sense bubbles of air jetting along his tubes. The soup. Nora’s homemade soup. It had not agreed with him.
“Right now we need to try
to re-establish normalcy. If possible. The students need to see strength, and we need to keep a semblance of order.”
He saw that her mouth was moving, but could not process what she was saying. How many legs did the centipede have?
“Dr. Botts?”
“Yes, Ms. Fairley?”
“We will see how the day progresses. What the administration says.”
“I’m sorry?”
“But first, I’m going to address the class.” Another tug on the tongue. “If that’s okay with you.”
He nodded. His stomach ached, and he wanted to leave the room. Instead, he gazed out the window as a noisy cluster of students piled in. A single overgrown branch pressed against the glass of the nearest window, and with each gust of wind, it emitted a scraping moan. He imagined Amanda. Had she made a similar sound? Or was that impossible? Was her last breath still trapped in her lungs? The clouds were low and grey, a black line on the horizon. Though he tried, he could detect no patterns there.
Last night, after Nora had left, his phone rang. He had picked it up, but said nothing.
“Warren? Are you there?” A voice as scratchy as cheap wool. “It’s Sarie.”
“Sarie?” His mother’s only friend. While Warren had rarely spoken to his mother since leaving home at eighteen, he received calls from this woman at least four times a year.
“Do you have a minute? We need to talk.”
The way she said we need to talk, he knew bad things were waiting in her mouth. About to emerge. Warren was not ready, not prepared. With Amanda, there was too much already pressing out against his bones.
In a panic, he said, “Um, Sarie? Something’s burning. I have to go to the washroom. The doorbell. I’ll — I’ll call you right back.” Slipping the phone into the cradle, he unclenched his fingers and watched it drop.
Though he stared at the phone for the next hour, he did not call her back. And when it rang again, he let his machine pick it up after four rings. “Goddammit, Warren. Call me back this instant. This is . . .”
Ms. Fairley waited until everyone was seated and lifted her palms toward the classroom. “We are all deeply saddened by the loss of Amanda. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we will miss her. She was a brilliant student, an engaging and creative person, and a well-loved leader among her peers. This was a tragic accident.”
Someone snorted. Another said, “Is it true she hung herself up in Mr. Botts’s backyard?”
Ms. Fairley raised her hands again. “We will have grief counsellors on hand this afternoon and all day tomorrow to answer any of your questions. We are here to support each and every one of you.” A nod toward Warren. “In the meantime, your teacher will press on with your lessons. Thank you.”
Then she leaned close to Warren, whispered, “As I said, we will see how the day progresses. I can’t offer you more than that.” Warren opened his mouth, but said nothing.
He nodded at Ms. Fairley as she closed the classroom door. Looking around the room, he noticed that seven students were missing. The empty desks made the shape of a crescent moon. “Yes. Let’s get started.”
“Mr. Botts?”
“Not now.”
“But, Mr. Botts.”
“I said let’s get started.”
“But, sir!”
“We need to do as Ms. Fairley instructed. Act like today is no different.” He counted the hair colours, blond, brown, black. Identified a gradient. Maybe he would rearrange them according to tone. “Look at it this way. That one of your classmates is out sick. Pretend. Close your eyes, take a breath, and pretend.”
“But she’s not sick.” Dennis Cleary. Overweight, perpetually shiny. Always interrupting. Warren bit his lip. But it’s a way, isn’t it? he wanted to tell them. It is a way to cope. No better or worse than any other way. “That’s just dumb, Mr. Botts.”
Libby, who sat in front of Dennis, turned in her seat, elbow balanced on his desk. “Just leave him alone, Cleary!”
Thank you, Libby. Standing up for him. Seems Nora had taught her well.
He took a small piece of green chalk from his shirt pocket, drew a tiny dot on the board. “Can you imagine dedicating a good portion of your life to that?”
“What is it?”
“A pea. A tiny green pea.”
“Don’t look like no green pea to me, Mr. Botts. Looks like a green spot on the board.”
“I think he wants us to pretend.”
“Yeah. That’s one sick pea.” Snickering.
“I hate peas. Poverty in a can.” Dennis.
Libby turned again. “What did I say, Cleary?”
“Um. Frozen ones aren’t so bad,” he mumbled.
“Okay, okay.” Warren wiped away the dot with his fist. “Let’s move on. I wanted to talk to you about a man named Gregor Mendel. He was a friar, a botanist, and the father of modern genetics. Our genes. Little tiny bits inside nearly every cell in our body that determine your traits. Like a set of instructions from your parents. We all look like our parents, right?”
“Not Adrian Byrd,” someone shouted out. “He looks like a hammerhead shark.”
“Yeah, hammerhead that smashed through a windshield.”
Laughter among the students, and Warren squeezed the chalk in his fist. It cracked into three pieces, and he rolled them around in his palm. He was amazed at how easily some of them could be distracted from the missing desk. And the other empty desks. Adrian’s, and his flat stitched face, included.
“Does anyone know why? Why are we blessed, or cursed, with those looks, those traits?”
“Genetics.”
“Yes.”
“Genes.”
“Exactly. Smart bunch, today. Can you tell me what a gene is?”
Staring.
“Evie?”
Her head was down, but she gradually lifted it.
“I know you know the answer, Evie.”
She sighed, straightened her shoulders. “They are segments of DNA found in every cell in our bodies except mature red blood cells, and they tell the body how to make proteins, which are substances that build or regulate everything. Genes are always paired, and we have about twenty thousand of them.”
Twenty thousand. If Warren could pause, skip-count to that number by fives, he would able to relax. To breathe.
“Thank you, Evie. Thank you. That was textbook. More than we need for right now, but excellent.”
He turned back to the chalkboard, and drew an outline of a cell, and then a double helix. That was the first time since early October that Evie had spoken in class. At the beginning of the year her hand was constantly waving in the air, but within weeks, she shut down. Every morning, she slid into her seat, and did not look at anyone. With her skinny limbs, overly stuffed trunk, and strange gait, she reminded Warren of a small squirrel. When she walked, he imagined that her back end was weighed down with an impressively fluffy tail.
Out of all his students, Amanda Fuller included, Evie was the only one who had a gift. He recognized her talent, coupled with her vulnerability. With the right guidance, she had the potential to achieve something amazing, but Warren sensed secondary school would destroy her. Libby, Nora’s daughter, was kind to her at least, and Warren was grateful for that.
Drawing completed, Warren took several steps toward the row of windows. “Does anyone know what this —” but he did not finish his statement. In the parking lot below, he noticed several cars that had not been there before. Two men and two women, all in navy overcoats, were bent against the wind, rushing into the school. He knew they were members of the school board. There to meet with Ms. Fairley, and talk about Amanda. Talk about him.
[13]
I sat down on the plastic-coated couch, stared at the posters stuck to the plaster walls. A sharp orange bob or brown baby ringlets. A mess of feathery hair in blown-out wa
ves. I could not see her, but I knew my sister was wiggling and rocking on the foam riser placed on the barber’s seat. It was obvious from the hairdresser’s complaints. “Stop moving. Stop spinning the chair.” “Do you ever keep still?” Then, “Honestly, I wish I could just tape this one down!” Next, “Dammit, did someone shove speed down your throat, kid?” “Are you that incapable of listening?” “Don’t touch! These are scissors, you know! Dan. Ger. Ous!” Finally, “Jesus! Look what you made me do!”
Hearing the lady’s drivel, I was growing increasingly aggravated. Obviously she had missed the beauty school sessions covering the basic concept of client versus service provider. I stood up, paced around the waiting area, slipped two bottles of styling products, a boar-bristle hairbrush, and a nail care kit into my backpack. After treating a customer that way, the woman deserved to lose some of her merchandise.
When Button skipped around the dividing wall, I scowled. The blond bimbo, following close behind, announced, “That’s the best I could do.” She punched the numbers on her cash register. Button’s white-blond hair was uneven; her bangs cropped too close, one tuft sticking straight out like an angry horn. “Really?” I replied. “Yeah, really.” A snarl. She was chewing gum, cracked it. “Just tell your mom to let the kid grow it out. I can’t give her a style when she don’t stay still. What’s the point in wasting your money?” No point, but still, the lazy bitch had little difficulty scraping every bill and coin from my outstretched palm. Leaving my pockets empty.
Outside, I whispered to Button, “You just met a real witch.”
She giggled, said, “No, no. She weyahed yeddow. Widches don weyah yeddow.”
“Well then, a bitch.”
“Oo, oo, bad woud, bad woud.”
“Look what she did to your head.”
The Substitute Page 6
