by Bera, Ilia
“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.
“We can rise and fall like empires, flow in and out like the tide.”
—NEIL PEART, FORCE TEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
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.
Andrew hurried to keep up with the angry young dark-skinned girl. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is everything okay between you and Kane?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, Andrew.”
“Okay—Okay. But if you ever want to get anything off of your chest—I’m all ears. I’ve been told that I could be a therapist.”
Brittany kept walking across the campus, with Andrew sticking next to her.
“In high school—everyone always came to me with their relationship issues—not that you and Kane are in a relationship—or were—or—you know what I mean. It’s cool if you are. He seems cool.”
Brittany stopped and sighed. “Andrew—I like you. I want you to know that.”
“You do? Like—What do you mean?” Andrew asked.
“I mean, you seem like a nice person, and that’s refreshing. But I feel like right now isn’t the best time to talk to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just kind of worked up. When I’m worked up, I sometimes say things that I don’t really mean, and I scare people away.”
“I can take it—really. I handle criticism very well.”
“I don’t mean about you, Andrew.”
“Then what do you mean?” Andrew asked. “Just get it off of your chest—You’ll feel better.” More than anything in world, Andrew wanted to hear some confirmation that Brittany and Kane weren’t an item.
Brittany sighed. “I just wish that fat bastard was dead,” Brittany said, surrendering to the temptation to let her emotions out.
“Mr. Fenner?”
“He’s such a lousy prick. I wish a fucking meteor would just smash through his pathetic skull.”
“That’s—That’s something…”
“I’m tired of being treated like some spoiled little twat. I’m sick of people thinking that the world’s been handed to me on a silver platter because of who my parents are—because of the way that I look. I’m just tired of it.”
“The way you look?” Andrew asked.
“They say, ‘Look at that girl, getting her hair done every week, and spending hours on her makeup! It must be nice to have no problems in life like that.’ I’m sick of it—I haven’t gotten my hair done in ten years. I’ve been doing it myself since I was eleven. And so what—I spend a lot of time trying to look good. When I don’t, people walk into me on the God damned street; I’m so invisible.
“And then the moment I don’t do my hair, or my makeup, everyone thinks that I’ve just given up on life. They look at me like I have cancer or something. Why won’t someone just tell me—is it better to look like some stripper-diva, or should I walk around looking like some zombie-ghost?”
“Zombie-ghost?” Andrew asked, confused.
“Look at me.”
“I’m confused,” Andrew said.
“About what, Andrew?” Brittany said, frustrated.
“I don’t get what you mean by ‘zombie-ghost’.”
“Let’s just say that I’m less than desirable without all of my makeup and my hair products.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re beautiful.”
Brittany looked up at Andrew. “Andrew, c’mon...”
“You’re gorgeous. You don’t need any makeup or any hair whatevers.”
Brittany stared into Andrew’s eyes for a moment. She sighed. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Andrew. It’s sweet. But I can live with being below average. I can’t live with pity.”
“Pity? I’m not trying to boost your ego here, Brittany. You’re a beautiful girl.”
“Drop it, already.”
“No. I won’t, okay? Whatever happened in your life that made you think that you were inadequate is unfortunate. I don’t know how that notion got into your head. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, and I’m not going to argue it anymore.”
Brittany blushed. Andrew spoke with conviction—Brittany was actually starting to believe what he was saying was true. “Don’t you have some party to get to?” Brittany asked.
“Yeah—I thought I’d wait for everyone else before I went.”
“Where are they?” Brittany asked.
“Everyone had other plans, I guess.”
Brittany looked into Andrew’s eyes for a moment.
“Did you still want to go?” Andrew asked.
The university door opened, and Wade emerged from inside. Without noticing Brittany and Andrew, he began his journey home. Brittany watched him over Andrew’s shoulder.
Wade lit a cigarette and began to smoke—something he only did when he was especially stressed out.
“I heard they got a couple of kegs,” Andrew said.
“Sorry—I just think I’m going to call it a night,” Brittany said as she watched Wade walking away.
“Can I walk you home?” Andrew asked.
“I actually need to run a few errands first,” Brittany lied.
“Oh—All right. Just stay safe—okay?”
“Okay, Andrew. Thanks for the pep talk,” Brittany said with a smile, keeping Wade in her peripheral vision.
“And if you feel like venting—getting anything else off of your chest, just give me a ring.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Can I put my number in your phone, so you have it?” Andrew asked.
Brittany felt around for her phone. “I don’t have it on me. Give me yours.”
Andrew handed Brittany his phone. She began to put in her number.
“Just text me, and I’ll have your number.”
Andrew smiled. He meant every word he said to Brittany—she truly was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of girls in a lot of different countries.
“Have fun at your party,” Brittany said. She started to walk away, following Wade’s tracks.
“See you later,” Andrew said.
Andrew watched with a blushing smile on his face as his crush walked into the distance. He stuffed his cold hands into his pockets.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
BAD BLOOD
As every second ticked by, the air became noticeably colder.
“You shouldn’t stand out here for too long. You’ll get sick,” a familiar voice called out from behind Andrew.
Andrew turned around.
Tarun was standing with his hands buried in his coat pockets about twenty feet away from Andrew.
It wasn’t the first time they’d ran into one another since they met in India. There had been a number of run-ins, all of which ended on a sour note.
When Andrew’s parents made their property trade with Vish, they weren’t totally honest about their end of the bargain. Sure—they pulled some strings to get them Landing Papers, and they didn’t technically do anything illegal—but they did knowingly take advantage of the po
or Indian family.
Vish wanted to take his son to a big city, where there was a good university, and they could live out the “American Dream”. Andrew’s parents told him that Snowbrooke was “a relatively big place” and had “a relatively great university”. Snowbrooke was a relatively big place—relative to a shoebox. And the university was great, relative to the other universities that were within four hundred miles.
Many generations of the Mumbar family history was in Vish’s hotel. It was a massive sacrifice to let it go—but he felt it was the right choice for his son, and the future of his family. He was leaving under the impression that he was going to a beautiful new building in a beautiful new city. Andrew’s father showed Vish pictures of Snowbrooke in the summertime—a season that was shorter than a month. He showed Vish pictures of the building’s original listing—from 1972. Vish didn’t realize that he was agreeing to that property, plus forty years of neglect and decay.
So naturally, after their first Snowbrooke winter, with broken windows, faulty plumbing, mould-covered walls and a sporadic heating system, Vish and Tarun were resentful. They’d been swindled. They gave up their priceless family history and their beautiful hotel for a rotting shack that wasn’t worth a dime.
Tarun could forgive ignorance, but he couldn’t forgive narcissism. As far as he was concerned, Andrew belonged to a family of sociopaths—the kind of people who tore down communities to build shopping centres—the kind of people who set up factories in third world countries to take advantage of legalized slavery—the kind of people who silently bombed small villages in Africa and swept the evidence under the rug, because it made a good place to set up diamond mines.
“What?” Andrew asked.
“You’re just standing there. You should keep moving, or your joints will freeze.”
“Right,” Andrew said.
“You know—In the two years I’ve lived here, I’ve never really walked around this campus before. Hopefully I’ll get to come here one day,” Tarun said, looking around the dark, snowy campus.
