felt, or dreamed —the coach carrying Heather Langham into the Thurman house in the
middle of the night, I walked past Sarah's place without stopping. The world
that she and I inhabited together— the hand-holding walks, the drives out to
Harmony, the thrilled admissions of love beyond the football field's
endzone—had been soiled by the speculations of the night before. Not
irrevocably. Not yet. There was, on that February Wednesday, still a chance for
certain courses to be avoided.
But
they wouldn't be. Even as I drifted by Sarah's house and realized she wasn't walking
next to me only after I stepped out onto the playing field's 40-yard line, I
could tell there would be choices coming my way. What they would involve I
couldn't guess. All that was clear was that Sarah would have to be shielded
from their outcomes.
We
had opened our minds to their darkest possibilities. There was no going back
from that. But such liberties came with obligations. Like the walls of the
Thurman house, we would have to try to keep the darkness inside.
Grimshaw
Collegiate sits atop the highest hill within the town's limits, which isn't
saying much as hills go. A pocked mound of stone and thistles just steep enough
for toboggans to reach a speed that might coax a whoop out of six-year-olds.
Still, in a town free of topographic features worth mentioning, the cubist mess
of the school building—brick gym from the 1890s, colour- panelled '60s wing of
classrooms sticking out the rear, the cinder-block science department added on
the cheap—appeared with enhanced importance on its piebald throne, looking down
over the mud playing field, the river gurgling next to it, the parking lot
surrounded by trees that provided shade for the small crimes entertained within
students' cars.
One
offence we frequently committed was a "hot box" before morning
attendance. This involved me, Ben and Randy cramming ourselves into the
two-door Ford that Carl's dad left behind, rolling the windows up and sharing a
joint Randy would produce from the baggie he kept hidden in the lining of his Sorels.
With the four of us inhaling and passing and coughing, the cabin of Carl's
sedan soon became thick with smoke, the air moist and opaque as a sauna. A hot
box offered the most efficient use of a single joint, a technique that
"seals in all the grassy goodness," as Randy said in his Price Is
Right voice. When we were done, we would open the doors and stand around in
an unsteady circle, watching the plumes escape the car's confines, rise through
the pine boughs and into the sky above like a signal to another, faraway tribe.
So
while I know what Randy has in mind when he waves me over and makes a toking
gesture obvious enough to show he doesn't really care who knows, there's
something subdued in his expression, worried quarter moons of darkness under his
eyes that tell me there's more going on in Carl's Ford than a bunch of guys
getting high before chemistry.
"We're
having a meeting," Randy says as we make our way through the rows of cars.
"Ben has something he wants to say."
"Is
this more bullshit about what he said he saw?"
"He
wants us all together first."
"But
you've guessed."
Randy
pauses at the car, his fingers slipping under the passenger-side door handle.
"I've just got a feeling I'd rather be stoned when I hear it, that's
all," he says.
We
pile in. Carl behind the wheel, Ben hugging the glovebox to let me and Randy
slip into the back.
"Ready?"
Randy asks.
"Ready,"
Carl answers, clicking the power window buttons, making sure we're sealed in.
As
Randy pulls the baggie out of his boot, Ben shifts around in the front seat,
taking each of us in, one at a time. A kind of silent roll call that would be
funny if attempted by anyone else. But laughing is out of the question. It
intensifies the one sound to concentrate on: Randy, who
middle of the night, I walked past Sarah's place without stopping. The world
that she and I inhabited together— the hand-holding walks, the drives out to
Harmony, the thrilled admissions of love beyond the football field's
endzone—had been soiled by the speculations of the night before. Not
irrevocably. Not yet. There was, on that February Wednesday, still a chance for
certain courses to be avoided.
But
they wouldn't be. Even as I drifted by Sarah's house and realized she wasn't walking
next to me only after I stepped out onto the playing field's 40-yard line, I
could tell there would be choices coming my way. What they would involve I
couldn't guess. All that was clear was that Sarah would have to be shielded
from their outcomes.
We
had opened our minds to their darkest possibilities. There was no going back
from that. But such liberties came with obligations. Like the walls of the
Thurman house, we would have to try to keep the darkness inside.
Grimshaw
Collegiate sits atop the highest hill within the town's limits, which isn't
saying much as hills go. A pocked mound of stone and thistles just steep enough
for toboggans to reach a speed that might coax a whoop out of six-year-olds.
Still, in a town free of topographic features worth mentioning, the cubist mess
of the school building—brick gym from the 1890s, colour- panelled '60s wing of
classrooms sticking out the rear, the cinder-block science department added on
the cheap—appeared with enhanced importance on its piebald throne, looking down
over the mud playing field, the river gurgling next to it, the parking lot
surrounded by trees that provided shade for the small crimes entertained within
students' cars.
One
offence we frequently committed was a "hot box" before morning
attendance. This involved me, Ben and Randy cramming ourselves into the
two-door Ford that Carl's dad left behind, rolling the windows up and sharing a
joint Randy would produce from the baggie he kept hidden in the lining of his Sorels.
With the four of us inhaling and passing and coughing, the cabin of Carl's
sedan soon became thick with smoke, the air moist and opaque as a sauna. A hot
box offered the most efficient use of a single joint, a technique that
"seals in all the grassy goodness," as Randy said in his Price Is
Right voice. When we were done, we would open the doors and stand around in
an unsteady circle, watching the plumes escape the car's confines, rise through
the pine boughs and into the sky above like a signal to another, faraway tribe.
So
while I know what Randy has in mind when he waves me over and makes a toking
gesture obvious enough to show he doesn't really care who knows, there's
something subdued in his expression, worried quarter moons of darkness under his
eyes that tell me there's more going on in Carl's Ford than a bunch of guys
getting high before chemistry.
"We're
having a meeting," Randy says as we make our way through the rows of cars.
"Ben has something he wants to say."
"Is
this more bullshit about what he said he saw?"
"He
wants us all together first."
"But
you've guessed."
Randy
pauses at the car, his fingers slipping under the passenger-side door handle.
"I've just got a feeling I'd rather be stoned when I hear it, that's
all," he says.
We
pile in. Carl behind the wheel, Ben hugging the glovebox to let me and Randy
slip into the back.
"Ready?"
Randy asks.
"Ready,"
Carl answers, clicking the power window buttons, making sure we're sealed in.
As
Randy pulls the baggie out of his boot, Ben shifts around in the front seat,
taking each of us in, one at a time. A kind of silent roll call that would be
funny if attempted by anyone else. But laughing is out of the question. It
intensifies the one sound to concentrate on: Randy, who
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