Last Dance. David Russell W.

somehow making it sound as friendly as “good morning” might among adults. “What did you tell him?”

      There was no holding back any more. “I told him I recognized it was his decision to make, and I quietly left his office.” Sara’s playful incredulity shifted to a flash of anger, and she seemed ready to let loose a pile of expletives — a skill she paradoxically practiced with as much acumen as her “A” essay writing abilities — when the sinister smile crept back into her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

      “Oh, I get it. Nice one.”

      I returned the smile. “Thank you.”

      “You’re pretty crafty.”

      “I have my moments.” I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was willing to bask in her adulation a moment or two.

      “Everything’s about a teaching opportunity for you. Once a teacher, always a teacher.”

      “Occupational hazard.”

      She shook her head in a gently scolding fashion without losing the good humour I was certain would have faded long before now. “Fine then. I’m up to it.”

      “I figured you would be.” I wasn’t sure I liked the direction this conversation was taking. By now it was becoming clear that I might well have unleashed student anarchy on the poor befuddled vice-principal, and while I didn’t particularly feel sorry for him — I still considered him an ass despite his defeating me — I knew this would only serve to make my life more difficult. As Sara turned to leave, she glanced slyly over her shoulder in my direction.

      “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

      “Yeah. You bet.”

      “We’ll be ready. You just need to let us know how we do this.” I couldn’t hold out any longer.

      “How we do what?” I asked to her back.

      She turned, smiling. “How we use law class to tackle the school’s discriminatory policies about Tim and grad.” With that she was gone.

      “Shit,” I said to the empty desks.

      The rest of the day passed in a haze, which must be what it feels like for many of my students on any given day. It’s hard to imagine that adolescents and teenagers wouldn’t be fascinated with the wonderful world of Canadian history, law, and literature, but somehow there it was. My head was not in the game as I pondered the following day’s law class, in which I was expected to lead my students in a coup. The more I thought of ways to disengage them, the angrier I got at Bill Owen, not just for having put me in this position but because I knew the kids were right. The school had no business trying to legislate the gender preferences of any of its students. Shortly after the end of the day bell, I had packed up my bag and was skulking toward the exit when the student at the centre of Sara’s furor appeared in front of me.

      “Mr. Patrick,” Tim Morgan began as he stepped in front of the emergency exit that was the conduit to my freedom — or at least avoidance.

      “Hi, Tim,” I said. He was standing right in front of the door.

      “Mr. Patrick,” he replied glumly, “can I talk to you for a minute?” I couldn’t see any easy way to avoid the inevitable, so I sighed and motioned for him to carry on. “I know that Sara came and talked to you this morning. She said our law class was going to take on the vice-principal.” Talking with teenagers is much like playing that old kid’s game “telephone,” in which a message is passed around people sitting in a circle to see if the content of the message is anywhere near the same when it reaches its originator. Searching my memory of my conversation with Sara, I could not think of any way I had even hinted — let alone stated — that we would be using this elective course as a means to pick a fight with my boss, but somehow that was the message that had been received. Of course, I couldn’t confirm Tim’s question without sinking even deeper into the mire of employment uncertainty.

      “That’s right,” I told him.

      “Look, I appreciate you taking an interest and everything, but really, I don’t want you to get into any more trouble.”

      “Any more trouble?”

      “I think you know what I mean.” I did. My employers had scarcely forgiven me for my role in defending a colleague who had been accused of inappropriate conduct with a student. Both he and the student had ended up dead, and my academic career had nearly died with them. Of course, so had I. “Mr. Patrick. You’re new here. The students like you, but I’m not so sure you’ve made the best impression on the principal and vice-principals. They’d be looking for any excuse to get rid of you. I’ll survive without bringing Van to the dance.”

      “Look. Don’t worry about me. I don’t think you should just roll over with your boyfriend here.” I honestly hadn’t meant to introduce such obvious double entendre, but my juvenile tendencies must have been playing havoc with my subconscious. Tim, unfortunately, was one of my brighter students, and there was no way the comment would have gotten by him. He smiled instead of taking offence.

      “Oh my god,” he laughed.

      “I just meant that …”

      “I know what you meant,” he interrupted, still trying to stifle laughter. He held open the door to the exit stairway for me, and we passed into the relative privacy of the echo chamber that was the stairwell. As the door clanked shut behind us, he stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face me. “Seriously, though. I want you to know how much this means to me.”

      “Tim, all I’ve said we’d do is look into it.”

      “No, I mean your attitude … your … uhm … acceptance. Not everyone is as accepting. My dad hasn’t talked to me in months. It’s good to know that someone cares.” It didn’t feel like I could say nothing any longer, so I reached into the depths of my experience of watching sappy moments in television sitcoms and responded.

      “I do care, Tim.” As soon as I said it, a sudden panic flash overtook me, and I worried that Tim might actually hug me, always a risky act when it involves a student.

      “Man, I think we just had a moment.”

      “I’m going home,” I told him, walking past him and beginning my descent of the stairs.

      “Okay, seriously though,” he continued, following along behind me, “what options do we have?”

      “Not a whole hell of a lot,” I admitted. “I think that the best thing we can do is open up a conversation with the powers that be and see first of all if we can’t negotiate our way to an understanding both parties can be satisfied with.”

      “Wow.”

      “What?”

      “Attorney-speak. Why don’t you just talk in Latin?”

      “Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.” We opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, turned right, and continued down the hallway towards the exit. “Tim, before we go much further, I think it’s important that you do consider something very carefully.”

      “What’s that?”

      “The larger a brouhaha we make out of this, the less discretion about your, uhm, relationship we’re going to be able to keep. Do you know what I mean?”

      “Not entirely.”

      “I just mean that, not everyone is as tolerant as your immediate friends. Not all teenagers are known for their empathy and kind words.”

      “Oh. Now I see.”

      “I don’t want to get too personal here or anything, but do you think people in the school — I mean, beyond your close friends — know that you’re gay?” I turned to look at Tim, but he had stopped walking a few paces behind me. He was staring silently, ahead and to the left, his teeth clenched and the colour draining from his face. I turned back to see what had caught his attention.