Last Dance. David Russell W.

weeks away.

      “That’s it?” Sara asked as we turned away from the counter.

      “That’s it.”

      “What happens now?” Nathan asked with his usual unrestrained enthusiasm. It made me want to “shhhh” him.

      “We wait. Once the papers have been served on the school’s administration, they’ll have a shortened period to make a defense claim. Following that, we try to find resolution, or we end up in front of a judge.”

      “Shit, this is unreal!” Nathan exclaimed. “When will that happen?”

      “Just as soon as we hire a process server to deliver the papers.”

      “Can’t you just deliver it to the school?” Nathan demanded.

      “I can, but I think I’m going to be in enough shit, if you pardon the expression, when Mr. Owen realizes what’s going on. Having me serve notice on my employers probably won’t help matters much.” Tim had nearly flinched when I noted the predicament I was putting myself into, and I wanted to assure him that it would be okay. Of course, I didn’t really know that it would be, but adults lie about Santa Claus too. “But it’ll be fine. We’re only doing what’s right here, and there’s nothing they can do to any of us.”

      “Are you sure?” Tim asked.

      “Absolutely.” There’s no Easter Bunny either.

      “In that case, let’s save our money,” Sara blurted out as she reached forward and snatched the statement of claim from my hands. “I’ll do it.”

      “Sara,” I told her, “this really isn’t necessary.”

      “Are you kidding me? I’m looking forward to this.” With that she headed through the automatic doors into the bright spring sunshine, conversation ended.

      “Man, she can be pushy. It makes her kinda hot, don’t you think?” Nathan asked, elbowing me conspiratorially. Tim answered before I could protest the direction of the conversation.

      “Yeah. If I wasn’t gay, I’d be camped out on her doorstep.” He feigned his best lisp. “Hey, Mr. Patrick. You could stand to be a bit more pushy, you know.” Both Tim and Nathan headed out the door after their friend. I could see but thankfully not hear Nathan as his head tilted back and he roared with laughter.

      I run several kilometres most days through my Kitsilano neighbourhood, enjoying the quiet of the pre-rush hour west side of the sleeping city. That’s my spin on it. For years I had suffered a chronic inability to sleep like a normal person, that is, more than about two or three hours at a stretch. Running was one of the many activities that had been prescribed by various specialists, quacks, and well-meaning friends to help me get some sleep and subtract several of the years my insomnia had added to my appearance. Running killed the hours between waking and working and kept me in terrific shape. That was my spin on it. My mother, my ex-wife, and my best friend all agreed I was too skinny. There’s no pleasing some people.

      Still, even the muggy morning air couldn’t erase the simple pleasure I received every morning as I pounded the pathway from the westernmost limits of Spanish Banks down to Jericho and saw the city across English Bay, resting, though never really sleeping. The few fellow runners were up and about at this ungodly hour didn’t seem surprised by the smile that involuntarily crossed my lips at the end of each early morning run as I rounded the corner at MacDonald and began the final stretch towards home, down Cornwall Avenue. My pace had been strong, and I was tempted to add another three-mile loop circuit to my run for the extra endorphin kick, but I recognized I was just avoiding facing the administrative music that would surely be blaring when I arrived at school.

      I dwelt as long as possible in the shower, hoping the hot water would compensate for my usual lack of sleep, knowing it never had before. I flipped on the television to one of the city’s morning news programs to keep me company while I got dressed. I had gotten as far as boxer briefs and shirt and was debating which tie I should wear when I noticed a familiar voice coming from the television. It took a few seconds to place it, but once I did, my heart skipped a beat.

      Racing into the living room, knocking my uncovered right knee into the doorjamb and letting loose with an expletive, I stared with disbelief at the television screen. On the lower right hand side of the screen was the back of a reporter’s head, while in the centre of the frame, complete with CityTV microphone prominently placed in front of her, was none other than Sara.

      She was busy explaining to the reporter, who I noted was broadcasting live in front of my place of employment, that as soon as the school’s administration arrived she would be serving the vice-principal with a lawsuit brought by her law class and — wait for it — her law teacher, Mr. Winston Patrick, in support of the civil rights denied one of the school’s students. The fact that she was incredibly articulate for an eighteen-year-old in discussing the Charter issues at stake should have pleased me, but it only added to the dull, thumping pain growing in my chest. The phone rang, convincing me I wasn’t dreaming, and I picked it up to hear Andrea. She was doing her best, I could tell, to keep the laughter out of her voice, but it was there right alongside the “I told you so” she was also masking.

      “Are you seeing this?” she asked.

      “Holy shit. I can’t believe she’s on the news.”

      “How the hell do kids know how to arrange press conferences? Did you teach them that?”

      “I don’t even know how to do that.”

      “Oh, that’s right,” she said dryly. “They usually find you. What are you gonna do?”

      “Call in sick?”

      “Chicken.”

      “There’s no shame in cowardice.”

      “Yes there is. Do you need any help?”

      “Are you planning to arrange an armed escort for me as I sign in at the office?”

      “I could loan you a Kevlar vest.”

      “Wouldn’t go with what I’m wearing today.”

      I could hear Andrea’s sigh travel the nine blocks between her apartment and mine. “I guess you’re going to need drinks after work.”

      “Oh yeah.”

      “My tour ends at five. I’ll pick you up at your place. You’re not going to want to be driving.”

      “You got that right.”

      “Jesus Suffering H. Christ!” Bill Owen was apparently aware of the press conference that had transpired in front of the school.

      “Good morning,” I replied dryly. I had arrived as the television news truck was pulling away from the no-parking zone its driver had been choosing to ignore. I also knew that by the end of the day, the rest of the TV and radio stations and print media would have left messages at the school, ensuring not only the wrath of my immediate supervisors but also of the school’s secretarial staff, which, from a practical standpoint, was worse.

      “What in the hell have you done?” I sensed Bill did not want to discuss the educational merits of having my law students attempt to correct a wrong. First thing in the morning, I’m on my game. Nothing gets by me.

      “Technically, I didn’t really do much except give my students a ride to the courthouse to file papers.”

      “And invited the media to use guerrilla journalism to attack me as I arrived at school.”

      “I must have missed that part of the broadcast while I was in my car.”

      “It wasn’t pretty.”

      “I can imagine.” Right away I knew I had said the wrong thing; that’s how perceptive I can be.

      “Patrick! I am in no mood for any of your smart-assed comments. You had no right inviting the press to the school. The district has protocols for things like that.”