Waiting For Sarah (4 page)

Witches and goblins and ghosts took over the neighborhood.

Lunch-time in the noisy cafeteria. He ignored the kids around him and read his book. Robbie was late.

“Can I get you anything?”

He looked up. It was the big lunk who had helped Robbie manhandle his chair into the school in September — what was his name, Bill Packard? He was new at Carleton; that was all Robbie had said about him. No, not Bill — Ben. That was it — Ben Packard.

“No,” Mike growled.

“I'm on my way to the pop machine. Thought you might need a Coke or something.”

“I said no.”

Packard smiled. “It's my treat.”

Mike swiveled his chair so that his back was to the boy. Idiot; couldn't he understand plain English? Couldn't he see he was busy reading? He went back to his book.

“Please yourself,” said Packard, shrugging and walking away.

After he had eaten his lunch there was still no sign of Robbie, so he aimed his wheelchair towards the
exit, skillfully avoiding kids, chairs and table edges. As he reached the door his way was blocked by a girl with glasses. Margaret Cowley.

“Mike Scott!” she yelled. “The very man I'm looking for.”

Scowling, he tried to swerve around and past her, but she danced backwards and blocked his way once more.

“Mike! Stop! This is
important
!”

He hated it when people came too close to his chair and leaned down and bellowed at him, like just because he had no legs he was, what — deaf and stupid? Margaret Cowley's loud voice made him back away.

But she followed. “It's the millennium, Mike. It's also Carleton's fiftieth ... ”

He backed off some more. And just in case she hadn't got the message he growled, “Get out of my face.”

That did it: she stood still but continued talking. “... Carleton's fiftieth anniversary this year, Mike, as you already know, I'm sure.”

He said nothing, the scowl still on his face. The scowl was one he had practiced in the mirror. It was ugly. It was meant to keep people away.

But not Cowley. “So we're putting out a special millennium golden jubilee edition of the school yearbook. I'm editor-in-chief. The alumni association and student council are shelling out extra funding.” She flashed him a bright, triumphant smile.

He glared at her.

“I know you said you're not interested in the
yearbook committee, but we need your help, Mike; the alumni association needs your help, the student council needs your help, Carleton High needs your help, and ... ” She fixed him with a bright owlish stare. “... I need your help.”

“I'm busy.”

“But history is your thing. You're good at it. You get As off old Dorfman, which is the same as winning gold medals at the Olymp — ”

“Not any more, I don't.”

“Well you used to. Anyway,
we
, the committee want you — you were top choice — to write a history of Carleton High for us. For the yearbook. For posterity. For the millennium!”

He started to move away, but she followed him.

“We need you, Mike. It needn't be long. A few thousand words. With pictures if you can find any. Your name will be on it, of course: Mike Scott, author. What do you say?”

Cowley's voice was loud even for the noisy cafeteria. He swiveled his chair away, turning his back on her, starting to flee, but in his haste bumped the table ahead of him. A pop bottle crashed to the floor. He didn't apologize. His lunch bag, empty except for a banana peel, slipped off his lap onto the floor. He ignored it, trying to extricate his chair and escape from Margaret Cowley. Cowley picked up Mike's lunch bag. Then she picked up the boy's bottle, still in one piece, replaced it on the table and handed Mike his brown paper lunch bag. “What do you say, Mike? Will you help us out?”

“No.” He started towards the exit once again.

She danced ahead and blocked his way. “I can try and get you out of Dorfman's class for as long as it takes to do the job.” Her earnest face took on a smug look with this demonstration of her power and importance.

He stopped. Getting out of Dorfman's history class was about as easy as breaking out of Alcatraz.

Cowley almost fell over the wheelchair when it stopped so suddenly. But she could see him hesitate, and pounced. “Agree to work on Carleton's history, Mike, and I'll do my best to spring you from Dorfman's class. What do you say?”

He didn't really need to consider the question. It would be trading seventy-five minutes of boredom for hanging out in the library every day. He would never admit it to Cowley, but he used to enjoy poring over old magazines and newspapers and files and pictures — the real stuff of history, not mind-numbing pages of notes from an overhead. He suddenly felt enthusiastic about Carleton's golden jubilee, but pretended to consider the question, frowning and rubbing his chin, not wanting Cowley to see how pleased he was or to think she was doing him any favors. “Hmm,” he mumbled. He glanced around. Most of the kids, lunches finished, had wandered out into the late November fog. He could see over Cowley's shoulder that Robbie was coming their way, carrying a bag of French fries. If Mike were a painter, which he was not, and he had the job of painting a portrait of Robbie, it would show him nursing a bag of fries close to his more-than-plump middle while he pushed a fistful into his round, happy face.

He returned his scowl to Cowley's hopeful face.

“Well, Mike?” she said. “Will you go along with the project? For the school?”

“Okay,” he said flatly. “I'll do it. But only if you get me out of Dorfman's class.”

She smiled.

“For the rest of the semester.”

Her smile disappeared. “I'm not so sure ...”

“I also want a guaranteed pass for his cruddy course.”

“Oh!” Her face fell. “That might be stretching things a bit.”

“Them's the conditions.”

“I don't think he'll go for it. But I'll try. If I try really hard for the pass and I don't get it, but I
do
get the time-out, will you do it for me anyway?”

“No.”

He didn't care that much about passing Dorfman's stupid course, or about any of his other courses either, but he knew he had a few class marks, enough when combined with provincial exam marks, to get him through. That should satisfy his aunt.

Cowley was still babbling. “... I've already talked to Miss Pringle — she's the yearbook sponsor again this year — and she's arranging for the library archives to be opened up for whoever takes the job. I told her it'd probably be you.”

He stared into the glint of her glasses. “I didn't know we had archives at Carleton.”

Robbie parked himself on the table top next to Mike, stuffing fries into his smile.

Cowley pulled out a chair from under the table
and sat down. Now she and Mike were on the same level. “It's a little room off the library,” she said. “Nobody ever goes in. It's kept locked. The key is in Pringle's office on a hook behind the door. She let me take a quick look inside.” She pulled a face. “It's a bit of a mess, but you'd be left alone in there. Be your own boss; no Dorfman, no overhead notes ...”

Mike, already enjoying the picture of himself up to his ears in old historical documents and photographs, let her ramble on; he was only half listening, thinking how he would do almost anything to be away from his history teacher: the man depressed him.

His attention returned to Cowley.

“... she could help you sort out the chaos a bit, help you find stuff ...”

“Who?”

“The
girl
.”

“What girl?”

Cowley gave a sigh. “The eighth grade kid from the yearbook committee I just finished telling you about. As I said, we've got plenty of eager beavers on the committee this year. Do you want a girl?”

Robbie butted in. “I want her. Especially if she's cute.”

Cowley glared at him. “You should watch that waistline, Robbie. It's already bigger than your IQ.”

Robbie blinked.

“You're a cow, Cowley,” Mike growled. “And you're not exactly anorexic yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Cowley, unruffled. “What about the girl?”

“I prefer to work alone.” He didn't need a girl, didn't need anyone. It would be good to be alone in Carleton's archives, looking through old yearbooks.

“What was all that about, man?” asked Robbie when Margaret Cowley had gone.

Mike explained.

“Sounds as bad as Dorfman's class to me, though come to think of it, maybe you could catch up on your sleep. Want some fries? Where are the archives anyway?”

Mike declined the out-thrust bag with a shake of his head. “There's a small locked room, back of the library. Cowley says nobody ever goes in there, not even Pringle. Think of all those old school newspapers stashed away, and yearbooks and photos and who-knows-what-else.”

“Cobwebs maybe,” said Robbie. “And ghosts.” He laughed.

Mike noticed his friend's laugh was a bit strained. Cowley's insult had hit home. He knew Robbie was sensitive about his weight. Some of the other kids made fun of him behind his back, calling him names. Overweight people (people of weight?) were discriminated against as much as “people of color.” Robbie was also sensitive about his low grades. There were only two things Robbie didn't like: exercise and schoolwork. It wasn't that he was lazy or dumb or anything; he had a sharp intelligence and a terrific memory, especially for anything to do with the movies, even the old ones that went way back to before he was born, back even to when films had no sound.
But that was all he ever read: books about movies and the history of movies, famous directors, film star biographies — certainly not school texts.

Mike gave Robbie's knee an understanding slap. “Take no notice of Cowley. She doesn't have your great personality, Robbie. Forget her.”

Robbie's big face broke into a happy smile. He offered his bag again. “One left. Just for you.”

“Thanks.”

Robbie bounced up, grasped the handles of the wheelchair and whirled Mike expertly through the hallways and out into Vancouver's fog and damp.

The archives room was small and smelled musty.

Today was Thursday. Margaret Cowley had been quick getting to his history teacher. She hadn't managed to extract a promise of a pass for the course, but Dorfman seemed willing to help the yearbook committee — or to seize the opportunity of ridding him­self of Mike's disturbing presence in his classroom.

He summoned Mike to appear before him after school. The classroom was empty and the overworked overhead projector was off, though its cooling fan still whirred furiously. “If you produce a substantial history of Carleton High, Scott,” he said — pale eyes staring from behind thick lenses — “then a pass will be considered. Produce a masterpiece,” — wet lips widening in a sarcastic grin — “and earn an A. Do you understand?”

Mike nodded. What a jerk.

“I expect you to demonstrate how well you can work with primary source materials — newspapers and yearbooks mainly — and whatever else your research skills might provide. Remember, you have already
missed a year of school, so you will need to work extremely hard if you hope to pass the course.”

Moron.

Come to think of it, Mike hated all the teachers. And the students. And he hated Carleton High, and didn't give a damn for their stupid golden jubilee fiftieth anniversary, or whatever Cowley said it was.

Which was why working alone in the archives during the history period appealed to him so much; he would be away from Dorfman and the other kids; he wouldn't have to put up with their sidelong looks, their smiles of sympathy; he wanted nothing to do with any of them.

He surveyed the archives room. A single, bare electric bulb hung from a cobwebbed cord in the center of the ceiling. High up on the end wall opposite the door a small window grudgingly allowed the morning sun to elbow its way through a filter of grime and cobwebs. Under the window there was a wash basin, its taps corroded and green. A rectangular table stood in the middle of the room underneath the light, its wooden top heaped with bundles of dusty papers. A plain wooden chair and stool completed the furniture. The rest of the room consisted of shelving, eight feet high on all four walls, each shelf crammed full with file boxes, school yearbooks and untidy bundles of
Clarions
representing fifty years of Carleton's journalism classes.

He started by clearing the table of its junk, heaping papers and boxes on the floor against a bank of shelves, planning to examine it all later after he'd made a work station for himself. The room needed
a thorough vacuuming. With hands and forearms he swept the dust off the table top, revealing dark mahogany scarred with old initials. He ran his fingers over the carved initials, wondering about their owners, who they were and what had become of them. Then he sat back in his wheelchair, shirt and cut-off jeans — ends sewn thigh length so nobody had to see his white, mutilated knees — already covered in dust, hands on the tabletop. This would be his workbench, his center of operations. History was about to be made here. He was Mike Scott, Lord of the Files, King of the Archives, supreme ruler of all he surveyed.

Raising himself up on the arms of his wheelchair to gain a better view of the higher shelves, he reckoned there were about fifty bundles of
Clarion
newspapers, each tied around the middle with twine. Probably one bundle for each year. Many of the bundles had burst open, so that clumps of separated newspapers lay scattered untidily about the floor.

The yearbooks hadn't been organized, at least he couldn't see anywhere a neat row of forty-nine editions, each one a different color. Instead, there were yearbooks everywhere, in various dusty colors — green, blue, even pink — many of them duplicate copies: piled on the floor, crammed in between newspaper bundles, stacked under and over and around file boxes, or lying where they had fallen onto the floor with the fugitive newspapers.