Only in the Movies (15 page)

Panofsky swept into the room and took his seat behind his desk, hands fluttering to a file that he didn’t open. He looked at us the way a kindergarten teacher would regard a bunch of kids caught with their pockets full of stolen candies. He wasn’t Call-Me-Saul today; he was Mr. Panofsky.

“Well,” he began.

Alba dropped her head. She was embarrassed. She knew she had no excuse for what had gone on. Chad seemed as if he was going to try to bluster his way through. Good luck, Petruchio, I thought.

“Well,” Panofsky said again. “This is going to be difficult.” He cleared his throat. “I think it would be best to keep it short and bitter.” He smiled at his lame play on words.

“Grady and Halliday, A+. You’ve received your composition grade from Mr. Lewis already. Your performance was very accomplished and, ahem, professional.”

To their credit, Instant and Daneale showed no smiles or exhilaration. They knew what was about to happen.

“O’Riada, a first-class job,” Panofsky pushed ahead. “You get no grade, as you’re aware, because your major project is in the creative writing field, supervised by Mrs. Cleaver, and you’ve already received your evaluation. But I thought you’d like to know.”

Panofsky fixed his eyes on us three remaining victims. “We here at York gear our programs to reflect as much as
possible the real world of music, writing, the visual arts, theatre and drama. That is why, of all the aspects of a performance that can be, and are, evaluated, we place a premium on professionalism. Benedetti, Bromley and Blanchard receive a failing grade. The reason, you will not be surprised to hear, is that you, Alba and Chad, as well prepared as you were and as skilful at your chosen trade as we know you to be, put on a display that embarrassed the entire staff. Certainly the audience enjoyed your … performance, including”—he nodded at Alba—“the profanity, but they were largely unaware of what was really happening. An actor simply cannot allow his or her personal life to intrude on a performance in such a way.

“You, Jake, were stage manager, and by definition responsible for everything once the theatre doors opened. It may seem unfair to you. After all, how did you know that your two actors would choose to have a quarrel onstage in the middle of a public performance?”

Exactly, I thought. What could I have done once Chad and Alba had launched themselves at each other like underweight Sumo wrestlers? I was just along for the ride at that point.

“But in the real world outside of school,” the drama teacher continued, “such goings-on would destroy a production, ruining careers and losing money for producers—and the stage manager would be held responsible.

“As professionals, all three of you failed, hence your mark of F.”

As Panofsky was talking, Chad had grown more and more agitated and impatient to get a word in. When the teacher finished, Chad spoke.

“Can I just say something? This is all Alba’s—”

“No, young man, you may not say something,” Panofsky shot back. “The matter is closed. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

And with that, he rose and left the room.

As soon as the classroom door closed, Chad let out a string of curses, along with a couple of remarks about Panofsky’s ancestry. Alba kept silent, her face still pink with embarrassment and probably guilt.

Vanni turned to me. “Why didn’t you speak up?”

I didn’t answer her. Slowly, we all filtered from the room. Vanni headed off for her next class. I walked out of the school, numb with the certainty that Panofsky had just snatched my dream of writing for the movies from my hands.

I
T WAS
C
HAD WHO
, without knowing it, put an interesting idea into my head.

The next morning, Tuesday, I pushed through the normal uproar of the halls toward Locheed’s room. I came around the corner in time to see Chad and the drama teacher at the staff-room door. Even from a distance it was obvious that they were not exchanging pleasant remarks about the weather. Chad’s face was mottled with anger, and he leaned over the teacher, talking hard and fast. Panofsky stood his ground, one bony hand on the doorknob, his torso arched back a little as he shook his head again and again. I stopped and waited. Finally, Chad turned away, snarled, “I’m going to appeal!” and stomped off down the corridor.

Panofsky’s evaluation of Chad, Alba and me had been gnawing away at me without let-up. People were always complaining, That’s not fair! I heard it every day, like a
theme in the background, a childish whine that got on my nerves. I had never begged a teacher for a better mark and never would, even if I thought the teacher was wrong. So when Panofsky had rapped his gavel and delivered the judgment he and Pelletier and the other evaluators had come up with, I had kept my thoughts behind my eyes and my words behind my teeth, even though I thought it was completely illogical to give me the same mark as the lovers who had duked it out onstage while I watched helplessly.

I had forgotten about York’s appeals policy until I overheard Chad threatening to use it. On any major evaluation a student could go over the teacher’s head and appeal the grade. You had to petition in writing, stating your intention and formally requesting a hearing, so I persuaded myself it wasn’t the same as whining.

I wrote out my submission that night, and both my parents signed it.

“Good for you, son,” my father commented. “It wasn’t fair, what they did,” Mom added.

On Friday I presented myself at 7:30 a.m. in the main office, where Mrs. Zhou sat behind her desk reading the newspaper while she sipped coffee and glued on a new set of fingernails—candy-floss pink this time. She had powdered sugar down the front of her blue blouse but didn’t seem to notice.

“Morning, Jake,” she said, looking up from the paper.

“Hi, Mrs. Zhou. I have an appointment with Ms. Pelletier.”

“They’re waiting for you in the boardroom. Ever had the pleasure?”

The boardroom? They? “Er, no,” I replied.

“Across the hall, up the stairs. Pay no attention to the sign on the wall. The boardroom’s across from the head of the stairs.”

My stomach performed an outside loop. The inside of my mouth dried up. I had assumed my hearing would be a little chat with the principal in her office. Why the boardroom?

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Good luck, Jake,” I heard from behind me.

The staircase and bannisters were made of polished oak, and the treads creaked as I started up. On the wall of the first landing a sign warned, Out of Bounds to Students. I climbed on, past dark portraits of stuffy-looking men and one woman, my nerve leaking away with every step.

The upper floor was quiet except for the ominous tick-tock of a grandfather clock somewhere down the carpeted hallway. The door opposite the stairs bore a brass plaque: Boardroom.

I cleared my throat, took a deep breath and knocked.

“Enter.” Pelletier’s voice. I turned the big brass knob, pushed the door and went in.

I
SHOOK MY HEAD CLEAR
of those unwelcome images and walked into a room carpeted in royal blue and flooded with light coming in the high windows along the far wall. The space was dominated by a long walnut table shaped like a coffin. Grouped around the wider end on high-backed chairs were Ms. Pelletier, Call-Me-Saul—who, judging by the grim set to his face, would be Mr. Panofsky again today—and Mr. Locheed. There was a writing tablet and a school pen before each of them. Pelletier gestured to the single chair at the narrower end of the table.

I knew enough about theatre to see that the whole setup—the quiet authority of the boardroom, the formality of the teachers, the three-against-one arrangement—was designed to intimidate me. But for some reason it had the opposite effect. I had nothing to lose now. If this was an exercise, if they’d already made up their minds, I was sunk.
A low graduating average meant no film school. I’d walk out of York at the end of June with my diploma, toss the scroll into the back of Dad’s van, strap on my nail bag and be “and son” for the rest of my life.

If, on the other hand, they intended to be fair, to give me an open-minded hearing, why the show? I had thought I got along, more or less, with all three of the adults sitting like grumpy Supreme Court judges at the opposite end of the table—even Locheed. Now, no matter what they might say, they were lined up against me, and they had fallen back on the old strategy of authority figures.

Okay, I thought, you three follow your script; I’ll read from mine.

I took the chair Pelletier had indicated and casually leaned forward to rest my arms on the table. It was difficult, but I looked each of them in the eye, taking my time, as if
I
was interviewing
them
. The long table top, I told myself, was a bowling lane, and they were the pins.

Pelletier cleared her throat. “Good morning, Jake.”

“Pardon?” I replied, my hand at my ear. I had heard her well enough.

The principal frowned and raised her voice as she repeated the greeting, then went on. “Are you ready—”

“It’s too bad we don’t have microphones,” I interrupted.

The Vulture flinched. Panofsky looked at Pelletier, who turned up the wattage on her frown. “I don’t under—”

“You know, like in those government inquiries and hearings you see on TV. Or at City Council meetings. My class went to City Hall when I was in grade six. Or was it seven? Anyway, all the councillors used mikes, and they were sitting closer together than we are here. Maybe they needed them
because they recorded their sessions. You’re not recording this, are you?”

“No, Jake, we are not,” she huffed. “I’m sure we can proceed without amplification. Mr. Panofsky,” she said, nodding to him, “if you will.”

The drama teacher hemmed a couple of times and trapped his fluttering hands by linking his fingers together on top of his writing tablet. “Jake, this is the formal hearing for your appeal. The panel’s decision will be final, with no further avenues to pursue. Is that clear?”

“Could you repeat the last part?”

Panofsky made a quick glance at the ceiling. “What part?”

“Everything after ‘Jake.’”

He exhaled loudly through his nose, then repeated his statement word for word.

“Got it,” I said.

“Very well,” he replied. “You may now enter your defence.”

I let a moment pass. “Sorry?”

Pelletier intervened firmly. “Jake, you know very well you heard Mr. Panofsky. Now stop—”

“Yeah, I heard him. But there seems to be a misunderstanding.”

Slowly, Locheed’s eye lids rolled down, then retracted. He fixed me with the Vulture gaze. Panofsky looked at the principal, who said tiredly, “Explain.”

“I’m not here to defend myself.”

“Then what—”

“I was stage manager.”

“Yes …”

“I’m speaking on behalf of the entire production—director, actors, stage crew, musicians …”