Last Dance. David Russell W.Читать онлайн книгу.

      Dedication

      To Barbara, whose support of and belief in me keeps me going.

      And Ainsley, who brings us both such happiness.

      Acknowledgements

      Acknowledgements

      It takes a village to produce a book — at least a good one. Lots of eyes went into making Last Dance a better book. My dad, Les Mushens, got the first crack and made pages upon pages of suggestions for improvement. Likewise, fellow Canadian author Lou Allin (www.louallin.com) graciously reviewed the manuscript and offered many helpful suggestions. Kim Culbert (www.kimculbert.com) not only has a keen eye behind the camera — she shot the author photo — but also for the written word. A.j. Devlin (www.storminforms.com) gave invaluable advice. Allister Thompson, my editor at Dundurn Press, worked incredibly hard to improve the flow of the story while maintaining its integrity. Numerous others gave suggestions and input as well. Thank you to all.

      Thank you to Sylvia McConnell who took the first leap of faith with my novels.

      Chianti Cafe — you’re still missed.

      While most of the locations in this novel are real, Sir John A. Macdonald Secondary is fictional, as are all the characters contained therein.

      David Russell can be visited at davidrussell.ca.

      Chapter One

      “This sucks.”

      This is the reason why I got into the teaching profession: the stimulating intellectual debates one engages in with one’s students. Not having the energy to concoct a better comeback, I responded with “Yeah.”

      “It’s not fair,” he continued, and his voice took on a tone that registered him in the category of big fat whiner.

      “Life’s not fair,” I responded. “If it were, would I be a teacher?” I’d used that line many times, but it usually stopped the kids from carrying the “life-ain’t-fair” debate any further.

      “It isn’t always about you, Mr. Patrick.” Ouch. That one hit close to home. “This assignment is way too long. Six pages? That’s insane.”

      I sighed with as little disdain as I could muster. I’m sure it was not very convincing. “Perhaps so,” I countered lamely. “But look at the bright side.”

      “Which is?” Mercifully, the bell rang.

      “Class is over.” I smiled, turned, and walked away. I was heading into last period at the end of a long day at the end of a long week, and I was frankly in no mood to argue with a sixteen-year-old. Not only that, but I was about to introduce a major research project to the law class. Theirs was ten pages. I’m a glutton for punishment.

      Law was the class for which I was theoretically most qualified, given my relatively recent swapping of courtroom for classroom. Some people, principally my mother and my ex-wife, thought I was crazy for trading a promising career defending society’s lower masses for teaching, well, many in society’s lower masses. Nearing the end of my first year of teaching, I was beginning to believe they may have been right — not that I would ever admit that. I might not have been one hell of a lawyer, but I’m not certain I became one hell of a teacher either.

      The class interrupted my melancholy, seeming insistent that I teach them something. That all changed when I gave them their final term paper assignment for the year. With only six weeks left until summer, the pressure was really beginning to mount for these senior students, particularly those who planned to go on to university in the fall. Those students are generally in the minority. In this school, those students were in the minority of the minority. Still, I might not be able to make lawyers out of them, but I ought to at least be able to help them beat a minor possession rap. But even for those students not planning a post-secondary life of advanced academia, the end of the school year, I was quickly learning, was a panicked time for just about everyone.

      There was only about ten minutes left in the class when an impromptu conversation broke out among the students closest to the window. Strangely, this was the smartest section of the room, perhaps due in part to its proximity to Vancouver’s limited sunlight. The conversation was beginning to get animated — which meant the word “fuck” had been used — so I thought I should get involved. Approaching the small but agitated group as calmly as possible and utilizing my best Martin Lawrence coolness, I said, “Whassup?”

      The assembly of annoyed teenagers paused in their vitriol and looked at me with obvious surprise. They clearly had not even noticed my approach. Some days I’m so redundant.

      “Whassup?” Sara Kolinsky said. Sara was one of the few students in my two different law classes I believed actually might have a law career in her future. At some point during the school year, she had dropped the “h” from the end of her first name in what I thought was a transparent attempt at hipness. Her tone told me she thought my obvious attempt at hipness was obviously not hip at all.

      “What are we all riled up about?” I tried again.

      Tim Morgan lowered his head in such clear avoidance, it was hard to not smile. “Nothing,” he said.

      “’Kay,” I replied with nonchalance that even they must have seen as cool. I turned to walk away, convinced I had defused whatever conflict was brewing, with the added bonus that I didn’t have to get involved at all. I might yet turn out to be good at this teaching thing.

      “It’s not nothing,” Sara objected. Damn.

      Tim tried unsuccessfully to thwart further conversation. “Sara, never mind.” Sara, I had learned in the nearly ten months I had known her, was not the type to let sleeping dogs lie. A hybrid of Marcia Clark and Barbara Walters, she thrived on “further conversation.”

      “Okay.” I tried once again to extricate myself from their conversation. With a glance at the clock at the front of the room, I silently counted off the few remaining minutes of the class.

      “No, really, Mr. Patrick. I’d like to hear your opinion on this.” Lissa was one of Sara’s close friends. I could not understand why her name was spelled with two “s’s”, despite being pronounced the same as “Lisa.” I hadn’t thought of a polite way to ask. I sighed, leaned on an empty desk, and assumed my “I’m listening” pose.

      Tim was fidgety. “No, really. It’s okay.” An uncomfortable moment passed between the four students.

      “Grad’s coming up,” Sara began. “If we want to bring someone as a date who doesn’t go to the school, we have to fill out a form that Mr. Owen has to sign.” Bill Owen was one of Sir John A. Macdonald Secondary’s vice-principals.

      Nathan Donaldson stepped in. An outrageously rambunctious kid, he was uncharacteristically quiet. “Tim’s application to bring a date was turned down.”

      “You guys,” Tim began to protest.

      “It’s okay,” Sara stopped him. “Patrick’s cool.” Told ya. I smiled slightly. It was probably dangerous territory to enter: the students were essentially going to ask me to defend or criticize my supervisor’s decision. My cool status might well depend on my answer. Also my teaching position, since my contract was up for renewal in just a few weeks.

      “Did he say why?” I asked.

      Tim looked uneasily at me. “He said it wouldn’t be appropriate. Some people might get upset.”

      “Why would your date upset people?”

      “Isn’t it obvious?” Nathan demanded, his voice rising enough to cover the din of the rest of the class, who had by now given up on their assignment and were beginning to pack up. Nathan made a noise that sounded like “tsk,” throwing his arms in the