I wonder in years from now, when I have a licence to drive a car, motorcycle or some kind of futuristic hoverboard, if I'll look back on this day without understanding how I ever rode a bicycle again. Years of riding the arteries of downtown have taught me to expect the unexpected, but today I couldn't even expect that.
The commute to Highview Collegiate, my school, is hardly four kilometres. With the help of traffic lights, I could be there in fifteen minutes without losing a breath. I'd set off on Davenport, going at a steady cruising speed, and was approaching Christie Street. The light was green for me so I continued through, except a light-blue school bus in front of me turned right suddenly without signalling. I squeezed my brakes hard but could not slow down enough, so on instinct I leapt off my bike and ungracefully onto the curb of the sidewalk. My bike crashed into the school bus, bounced off the back bumper, and was hit by the silver car behind me, also turning right. The bike went down, was driven over, and then was stuck beneath the silver car. Sparks sprayed, the silver car made a dreadful screech and halt in the middle of the intersection, while the light blue school bus drove off down Christie without a slightest concern.
The intersection was completely shut down. Police cars had to navigate through a swarm of traffic that could not escape the mayhem. A special tow truck from Vaughan was called in, two ambulances parked diagonally and stayed though there were no injuries, and I had to remain there the whole time as a witness to the incident. Once the business was finally cleared up, it was one-thirty and I had no bicycle.
Luckily, and I was due some luck, the police gave me a ride to school. As I stepped out of the backseat, Mal Larson called out to be from the front steps of HVC:
'Hey Steck! Nice wheels!'
'Yeah, yeah.' I said as I approached him. 'Shouldn't you be in class?'
Mal grinned from behind the cigarette dangling from his lips. One hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, the other hand leaning on the stair-rail effortlessly.
'Ah, it's first day. You never learn anything on first day.'
'Except where your locker is...' I grumbled.
'Yo Steck, wasn't your locker was next to mine last year?' asked Mal.
'How should I know? It's not like you were ever there.'
'Ha! So true.'
With no idea where my locker, classes, or even who my teachers were, I knew my only choice was an uncomfortable, shaming trip to the office. Now sure, my attendance record had a few blemishes from over the years, but this was an extraordinary circumstance. Once I explained myself, I was sure they would understand.
The doors to the office creaked open from my nudge, and there sitting behind the reception desk, like she had been for the past thirty years, was Phoebe. Despite her greying hair, the occasional wrinkle on her face and the thick frames atop her nose, she was a woman of spirit younger than the thousands of kids she had watched mature into adults. She spotted me as I tried to inconspicuously close the door, and actually laughed out loud.
'Getting a head start on the lateness record, Stecky?' she grinned.
Phoebe liked to call me Stecky. I never corrected her, and she seemed to like me even more for it.
'What is that record, anyway?' I asked.
'Peter Wychwood, 1993. I think. Maybe 1992. The memory doesn't work as well when you're my age.'
I didn't doubt that this "Peter Wychwood" was the record holder. I'm certain if I asked, Phoebe could tell me how many times I'd been late without even looking.
'Hawker isn't in, is she?'
'Mrs. Hawker.' corrected Phoebe. 'No, she's not in. Ms. Boller is in her office, though.'
'Thanks.' I said. 'Say Phoebe, I don't suppose you'd have a copy of my timetable, would you?'
'Principal's office.' she answered, smiling. 'Nice try, though.'
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I head to the door marked: "Principal's Office. M. Boller" written in bold, black letters. The door was slightly ajar, so I knocked and let myself in.
'Steckland.' said Ms. Boller, her eyes focused on some papers on her desk. 'What can I do for you?'
Principal Boller is not at all like that classic image of a principal we all have, a sort of stuffy, drab creature always dressed in grey, glasses, or balding. She is filled with a type of frantic energy showing both an incredible focus and a crippling fear of losing control. She is perpetually pale, naturally blond, with sharp blue eyes capable of generous compassion or bitter punishment. She speaks a great deal, but comes off awkward and unnatural around other people. Ms. Boller also favours a colour scheme, fashion-wise, and this was a particularly purple day.
'Well you see, Ms. Boller...' I said, those blue eyes looking up to pierce me, '...I never got a copy of my timetable.'
'Interesting.' She said simply. 'And why is that?'
I gulped and explained my story. At least I tried to, but Ms. Boller interrupted me halfway through.
'Steckland, what really happened?'
This caught me off-guard. Perhaps I had embellished the tale a bit, what with the exploding car and the heroic rescue of a baby girl. Still, I insisted what I said was the truth. She sighed, in a very defeated way, and leaned forward towards me.
'I have your timetable right here, in this pile.' She suggested, with her eyes, to a pile of papers on a shelf behind her. 'There are a lot of students in this pile, boys and girls, who aren't going to do anything with this piece of paper. To them it's meaningless, a brochure on skipping classes. So why are you different?'
This question put me on the spotlight, and the brightness of it burned. I said the quickest thing that popped in my head, just so the darkness would come again.
'Because I came here today to get it. Obviously those people haven't yet.'
She stared at me for a long uncomfortable moment, one that felt like an hour but was probably five seconds. She watched my eyes for the slightest fluctuation, scanned my features for any hint of deceit, studied my fingers for the smallest anxiety. She reached into the pipe of papers, pulled out my timetable, and handed it to me.
'That will be all, Steckland?' asked she.
I nodded, took my timetable and left Ms. Boller's office promptly. Through the corner of my eye I saw her drowning again in her ocean of work, her head down, obsessing over the tiniest things out of her control.
(ii) -- A Misfortune On Davenport Road
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