CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 05 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
Monday, West was somewhat aware of his surroundings when he
pushed his way through the gym doors that connected the school to the student
parking lot. He walked along the hall, smiling and nodding to a few familiar
faces that did the same back towards him; he was a bit early, but then most
mornings were spent in the gym playing basketball, killing time till the first
bell.
Brad was sitting on the scorekeeper's chair, Mel lounging on
the table beside him. She looked bored, rolling a sucker around in her mouth
suggestively as she played eyes with a couple of the boys out on the court,
naturally causing as much of a distraction as she could.
West wandered over to lean on the wall beside Brad, giving a
simple jerk of his head to indicate to a junior that he was in his way. The
junior shrugged and moved aside to let West take his spot.
"Hey," West greeted, shifting a bit to get comfortable
leaning on the porous brick wall.
Brad glanced back and grinned. "You missed one hell of
a night, Saturday," he said simply. "Tried to call you at home,
but your mom said you were out."
West nodded, "I hit the town."
"Big date?" Brad asked with a smirk.
"Nah," West replied. "Just felt like being out
by myself, you know, lone wolf and the like."
Brad laughed, "You should have stopped by, we missed you."
"What, all the girls you have hanging off you weren't enough,
you wanted me to look at as well?" West grinned shaking his head at the
absurd thought.
"Hey, it's not my fault you're my bitch," Brad laughed.
"Here, see this?" he nodded over to where Robbie and Jessie were
going for a little one on one around the far basket. Robbie was mopping the
floor with his teammate, like he had something to prove. It wasn't a friendly
game, there were issues being resolved out there, where it counted, on the
hardwood.
"What's that about?" West asked stepping forward.
"Lover's spat," Mel observed from her lounging.
Brad glanced at her, rolling his trademark golden brown eyes
as he sniffed, "Yeah, but who's pitching and who's catching?" He
chuckled, "Nah, it's got something to do with what Jessie was saying
Friday night."
"Maybe we should just leave them be?" West suggested,
looking down.
Brad set his square jaw as he looked up at West, "You serious?"
West shook his head, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it
into Brad's lap as he walked out onto the floor, crossing to the pair that
were battling, lost in their own duel. They didn't even see him coming till
he was up with them, and had intercepted a shot.
"Two on one," he said. It wasn't a request; Storm
didn't make requests to ball players.
Robbie drew up short, his face darkening, as he threw a glare
over to Jessie. Jessie for his part looked relieved that someone had stepped
in. That told West volumes about what was going on; he bounced the ball once
on the hardwood and passed it to Robbie.
Robbie bounced it and thrust it back, indicating they had started.
West smirked, bouncing the ball and hopping up to take a perfect
three-point shot; it swished through the net and Jessie caught it.
"Come on, then," he said, switching positions with
the two basketball players. Jessie tossed him the ball, and he passed it back,
and Jessie made to dribble in for a clear shot, hopping up to take a shot
as West stepped in and tipped the ball away from the net.
Robbie glared as he intercepted the ball and came in for his
shot, again West effortlessly intercepted the ball, bouncing out to the line
and turning, shaking his head as he took another long shot, sinking it.
It wasn't that they were bad at basketball but West had been
playing it since he had been old enough to dribble a ball. The only reason
he wasn't on the basketball team was the (delete) status that came with wearing
the crossed hockey sticks on his green jacket. Add that to the fact that Robbie
and Jessie were supposed to be playing together as a team, and couldn't even
look at each other.
West let his score climb a bit, before he caught the ball again,
bouncing it a couple of times, looking at the pair of them and shaking his
head. "Figures," he said after a bit, and tossed the ball back to
Jessie, turning his back and walking back over to where Brad was sitting,
obviously impressed.
"Didn't know you could shoot hoop," Brad commented.
"Gotta remind them who's on top and why," West said
with a distinctive smirk as he took back his jacket and shrugged it on.
"Show off," Mel quipped, getting up herself. "Smells
too much like testosterone in here, I'm going to go to class."
West rolled his eyes, "Yeah right, you're on your way downstairs
to go smoke."
She shrugged at him. "Going to stop me?" she asked
playfully.
"Nah," West replied, "I don't give a shit you
want to pollute your lungs. I gotta jet anyway." He gestured to the doors,
"I have to go get my shit and get to class."
"Keener," Brad accused with a grin.
West ignored him, heading out through the far doors, passing
by coach's office. The door was open as usual, and West glanced just in time
to catch Coach Highmore arguing with Coach Thorburn. The two men often fought;
they had two very contrasting ways of doing things, but when they worked for
the team nobody could stop them.
West paused, knowing it was wrong to eavesdrop, but when Highmore
had said something about testing, that had stopped him cold.
"I'm not doing that to my boys!" Thorburn was saying.
"That's not our call," Highmore replied calmly. "There
have been accusations flying, and the league wants them stopped."
"It's bullshit." Thorburn, always emotional, and very
opinionated was getting annoyed, "It's the other teams, they know they
can't beat us on the ice so they're trying to fuck us off it."
"So," Highmore said, keeping his tone even, pacing
across the doorway, "we don't give them an excuse; if we stand up and
show we're not afraid to do this, the accusations stop." Highmore stopped
in the doorway, the young coach glancing across to where West was standing
in the hallway; those blue eyes glittered under his glasses as he searched
West's face to figure out how long the young centre had been standing there.
West couldn't meet those eyes; he flushed at being caught and
Highmore shook his head with a smile as he closed the door calmly, cutting
off the rest of the conversation.
Drug testing, that was something they did in the big leagues,
not the Ontario High School League. West shook his head as he set off down
the connecting corridor out into the main school, passing the guidance centre
and the Phys. Ed classrooms. It had Coach Thorburn annoyed, which worried
West. It was the kind of accusation that got parents involved. But Coach Highmore
had a point, as he often did in that calm rational manner the assistant coach
always brought to the table. The only way to stop the accusations was to prove
they weren't valid.
West shook his head as he came through into the lobby, heading
for the upper stairs and his locker, catching sight of Mister Greenwood as
the English teacher was opening up the auditorium he always used as a classroom.
Greenwood glanced at the young hockey player still on his way to get his books,
as he looked meaningfully at his watch.
West grinned, the teacher had a point; if he kept his current
pace he was going to be late for class. He started to run, ducking past a
couple of surprised freshmen moving out of the way of the rushing senior.
He made it to Greenwood's class on the buzzer, taking his seat
near the middle of the class next to Jenny-Lynn; she always saved him a seat
next to her, and had her notes open for him to share with her.
He shifted to get comfortable, flipping open his Shakespeare
and trying to find the appropriate chapter. Greenwood was standing at the
front of the room, his suit jacket tossed aside, wearing simply his black
waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves that gave the old man a relaxed air,
like he worked for a living and loved it.
"Good morning, class," he rumbled, a soft spoken voice
with an edge of steel. No one suspected him of being a pushover; he was one
of those men who held control of his class by sheer weight of personality,
and it was that which made his class the most sought over in the school.
"The Merchant of Venice is considered one of Shakespeare's
problem comedies, in part due to its anti-Semitism," Greenwood stated,
resting an arm on his podium. "Now you've all read the play, we've discussed
it at length, I want to know what you think."
West chewed his lip and stuck up his hand. "Hypocrisy,"
he said with a shrug. "All the way through the play Antonio and his friends
are begging Shylock for mercy, yet right at the end when they have the upper
hand, they show none."
"That's right," Greenwood stated. "If it is a
play supposedly showing the benefits of Christian ethics over evil, why then
is revenge so prevalent in the closing acts?"
"What about the fact that Shylock showed none, and so shouldn't
be shown any in return?" Jenny-Lynn asked.
"That argument can be made," Greenwood said as the
auditorium doors opened to let Brad in. "Nice of you to join us, Mister
Lapointe," he said, giving the team captain a severe look.
"Sorry sir," Brad said turning his back on the teacher
as he walked up towards the back, smirking his usual defiant smirk.
Greenwood gave a wolfish smile, "Well now, I have a perfect
chance to demonstrate Shakespearian ethics. Mister Lapointe, according to
the Merchant of Venice, what should I do with you?"
"Huh?" Brad asked, turning.
"Come now, Mister Lapointe, you read the play, how should
I punish you?" Greenwood came down off the stage and began walking up
the opposite aisle till he was level with where Brad was standing. Everyone
turned to face the enigmatic English teacher.
"I..." Brad stammered.
""The quality of mercy is not strain'd," Greenwood
quoted. "It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath."
He gestured, "It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that
takes."
"R-right..." Brad said blankly. "So can I sit
down, then?"
"Ah," Greenwood said with a smile, "Therein lies
the lesson the play teaches, that though mercy and justice are juxtaposed
with a divine quality..." He looked about, "Yes, that's God for
all you out there wondering if I can actually get away with speaking about
God in a classroom, and I am just pointing out that is what Shakespeare is
saying." He turned back to Brad, "But in fact justice isn't synonymous
with mercy; in fact, justice in its purest form is above such a thing as mercy.
So to answer your question, Mister Lapointe, no you may not sit down, in fact
you should remain standing until the end of class."
Brad blinked and shifted uneasily, "But sir..."
"No buts," Greenwood said coming back down to the
front. "This is a lesson about justice as seen through the eyes of Shakespeare,
who it appears believes mercy to be secondary to the letter of the law."
"Excuse me sir," West said putting his arm up again,
"But if we are to follow the eye for an eye suggestion put forth in the
text, shouldn't Brad have to only remain standing for an equal amount of time
he was late?"
"The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall
go hard, but I will better the instruction," Greenwood fired back at
West.
West knew he had been singled out, and he glanced back at Brad,
knowing that he would have to fight for this one. He stood and tapped the
play book in his hand, "My deeds upon my head! I crave the law."
"He is well paid that is well satisfied," Greenwood
gestured to Brad.
"Ahh," West said as Jenny-Lynn turned pages. At a
look from Greenwood she stopped, and West folded his arms, trying to remember
how the passage went from memory, "The man that hath no music in himself,
nor is not moved with the concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems
and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections
dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted."
"That is an unusual counter, Mister Harding," Greenwood
replied. "What made you choose that one?"
West shrugged, "I... it made sense to show you that trust
is earned by deeds, and to have faith in you, we need to know you are fair."
Greenwood waggled his hand, "That is a weak interpretation,
but I can see what you are saying, Mister Harding, that I am defined by my
deeds. Very well then, Mister Lapointe, you may sit in," he glanced at
his watch, "four minutes, and you owe Mister Harding for your defence."
"Thanks West," Brad replied with a grin.
West sat back down thankfully, as Jenny-Lynn nodded to him,
"Nice."
*** Coach Highmore caught up with him at the start of lunch.
West had just grabbed his packed lunch from his locker, when he caught sight
of the assistant coach loping through the halls heading in his general direction.
Highmore was technically still at university; he was there helping
Coach Thorburn keep his players in top form as part of his university program
and taking the time to prepare for the play off-season that was in full swing.
It counted towards Highmore's university credits, and West smirked knowing
there were a lot of high school girls that were very thankful for the young,
handsome coach patrolling the halls more regularly. There were a few that
had his name drawn in hearts on the cover of their notebooks, and were even
now staring at him wistfully as he ambled by.
"West," he called, catching West as he closed his
locker.
"Coach," West replied, knowing full well what it had
to do with, "I'm sorry about this morning."
"I know," Highmore replied gesturing for West to walk
with him, "I just wanted to know if you told anyone what you overheard."
There were no questions about what he had heard; Highmore just
assumed that West had heard it all, and approached it like that. It was something
about the way Highmore dealt with everything, no word games, just straight
up and out front where it all belonged.
"I haven't said anything," West replied truthfully.
Highmore was gauging his response, those piercing blue eyes
studying West trying to figure out if he was being honest. After a moment
he simply nodded, "Good, we haven't decided yet, and I'd rather rumours
not get about before we do."
"Understood, coach," West nodded, and paused, curiosity
getting the better of him, "Do you know Devon Ahnka?"
Highmore's head turned slowly, an eyebrow climbing as he ran
a hand through the blond hair that always settled on either side of his forehead.
It was a considering glance, one that said , yes he did know who it was, and
what West's knowing the name meant.
West realized that he'd made a mistake and opened his mouth
to say something, anything, to backpedal, but he didn't know what to say.
A single name had given the game away.
Highmore glanced back up the stairwell they were walking down,
knowing they were alone at this end of the school. "He's a friend,"
Highmore replied calmly, his tones even and his words chosen with deliberate
care. "Do I want to know how you know Devon?"
West's jaw worked as he continued to try to think of something
to say, take back what had just slipped out by accident. "I-."
Highmore stopped in the stairwell and leaned back against the
banister, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his shirt pocket as
the man surveyed one of his players carefully, reading every expression warring
across the young man's face.
"My personal life is exactly that," Highmore said,
"and I respect yours the same way. If you ever need to talk, my office
door is open." He turned to go and stopped a few steps further down,
looking back up at West, "But let's try to keep it that way, okay?"
West nodded, watching as Coach Highmore disappeared through
the lower door, as he sat down on the step and stared thoughtfully at the
step in front of him. What did that mean? Did Coach Highmore, the guy girls
throughout the school viewed as a heartthrob, just admit to being gay? Either
way, he certainly knew West was...
"Hey Peter," Coach Highmore's voice came from the
hall by the stairwell.
"Hey Andy," Peter shot over his shoulder as the young
Canadian wannabe surfer boy/artist pushed through the doors and blinked as
he realized West was sitting on the stairs. "Oh, it's you."
West glanced up, and frowned at Peter, "You call Coach
Highmore by his first name?"
Peter shrugged, "We're close."
West shut his eyes and tried to clear his head. "You and
Coach Highmore?" he asked, opening them in surprise.
Peter gaped at him. "What?" the young artist choked.
West opened his eyes, confusion written all over his face, and
Peter stared at him incredulously. "No!" Peter said shaking his
head, "He's just a friend." He shook his head, "What is it
with you? You just don't give up, do you?"
West sighed and looked levelly down at Peter below him, "I
feel like my entire world has just turned upside down, okay? And I know you
don't give a shit, but I'm not as experienced with all of this as you are."
Peter emitted a short, bitter laugh as he walked away. "You're
just crazy," he fired over his shoulder as he shook his head.
West sat there a little while rubbing his head. He seemed remarkably
adept at alienating every gay man he met-Devon seemed nice but he wasn't exactly
comfortable talking to him yet, Peter hated him, and Coach Highmore had not
so subtly told him not to pry.
"Great," he murmured to himself getting up at last,
"just fucking great."
