Students crowded the halls like cholesterol. Chris pushed past them, a single cell staring at his leather shoes, his lower lip sticking way out, just as it always did when he was upset with a “school incident.” Maybe he got eighty-eight instead of ninety on an English test; maybe he missed one question on a math quiz. It didn’t take much. Chris had nerves of elastic, but last year they’d almost snapped. Now we were in Grade Twelve and everything “counted,” so I wondered if he would spontaneously combust if he didn’t maintain his ninety-something average.

However, grades probably weren’t on his “Top Ten Reasons to Angst” list. This morning, teachers gave out letters to their budding Einsteins, inviting the top students to an awards ceremony honoring Toronto’s best and brightest. The past two times, Chris had acted like he had won the lottery, jumping and waving his letters as if they were thousand dollar bills. But this time Chris let out a poverty-stricken sigh as he approached our lockers.

I pushed my blonde ponytail aside as I slung a backpack over my shoulder and asked, “Okay, so how many?” In Grade Nine he’d gotten three awards and in Grade Ten, four. Maybe Chris was upset he didn’t get five in Grade Eleven, breaking his cycle.

Chris rattled off the list. “Biology, chemistry, physics.”

“The Big Three. And?”

“Math.”

“That’s a no-brainer. How could you not get an award for a ninety-nine?”

“Oh, and accounting.”

“Yeah, how could you forget that one?” There were only five minutes between classes, so I decided to get to the point. “It sounds like you cleaned up again, so what’s eating you?”

 “Poetry.”

“Are you serious? You’re the next Einstein, so why do you care about poetry?”

“I don’t want to be the next Einstein, I want to be the next Shakespeare!” He slammed his locker shut and grumbled, “The poetry contest is a sham. Guess who won the grand prize?”

“Me,” I said. Then, I laughed at the way he rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Be serious!” Chris cried.

Tristan ran up to me, his curly dark hair wild and uncombed, wearing the same Metallica T-shirt as yesterday and a green hoodie that had a ketchup stain from two days ago. The knees of his jeans were faded and beaten from repeatedly slamming into the pavement while practicing his skateboard moves. Blue eyes framed with long eyelashes went as large as a five-year-old’s as he begged, “Hey Astra, give me five bucks?”

I took the money from my black jeans and gave it to him. “Get me a muffin. Chocolate chip.”

He shouted thanks over his shoulder and tore down the hall to the cafeteria.

“He won’t make it to class in time.” Chris said, hoisting his leather briefcase. “And neither will we if we don’t get moving.”

We walked through the thinning crowd past three girls who huddled in football formation debating whether or not to skip.

When we rounded the corner, Chris pursed his lips, then said, “That guy never stops eating. Maybe he should write a poem about his appetite and win next year’s grand prize, too.”

“Get out! Tristan won the poetry contest?” My laughter roared down the hall. Teachers shut their classroom doors. A minute later my lungs burned, but I managed to choke out, “Tristan Gunner, the next Shakespeare. Who would’ve thought?”

“No wonder you’re laughing. The poetry contest is a joke.” The bell rang, leaving no more time for talk. Chris ducked into his English class.

My class was right next to his, so I wasn’t that late. When I went through the painted door, the knots in my shoulders loosened. Instead of rows on white facing a wall of black, the drama room had no desks on its caramel carpet. Instead, spotlights shone down sunshine pockets, and a stage lined the far wall blanketed by a velvet curtain that constantly shed purple fluff.

I waited for Tristan as other students rehearsed. While reading my lines, the words began to blur. Leonardo DiCaprio’s face rose from the page, “But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”

Tristan’s image overlaid Leonardo’s. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

 I laughed as Romeo sneaked into class. He tossed me a muffin and dove into his rib sandwich. His Period One teacher, Mr. Reynolds, had a strict “nNo food and drink” policy. The drama teacher, Mr. Pantazopolous, was more laid back.

“What’s so funny?” Tristan mumbled around a mouthful of bread and meat.

“Tristan Gunner, the next Shakespeare.”

He stopped chewing, a sign that he was either thinking or upset.

“Chris is really ticked that you won the poetry contest.” I shook my head. “That guy! He wins five awards in math and science, but he’s crying because he’s not a poet.”

“I don’t care about that stupid award.”

“Why? It’s the first time you’ve ever won anything. You’re one up on me now.”

Tristan put down the sandwich.

This must be serious. He wasn’t the kind of guy to talk about his feelings, so I had to take the subtle approach. “What’s your poem about, anyway?”

“Nothing.” He stuffed the sandwich in his mouth and after swallowing, he groaned. “They’re going to hand out that stupid poem to everyone on awards night. Aw, that stupid contest.”

I kept fishing. It was annoying sometimes, having to play these games, but if I asked him a direct question, he’d either shut down completely or make one of his goofy jokes. So I asked, “Mrs. Owala had your permission to enter it, right?” Mrs. Owala was Tristan’s Grade Eleven English teacher last year. She’d taught me Grade Ten the year before. She was tough, but always fair.

Tristan moaned. “Yeah, but I never thought it would win.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t stress over it.”

Tristan smiled his lopsided grin, but it faded as he mumbled, “Stupid contest.”

We’d been friends since we were four. Few things ever bothered Tristan, but he was as wound up as Chris about this award.

Offering him the top of my muffin, I tried again. “So, what’s the poem about?”

Silently, he stuffed the muffin in his mouth.

“Don’t worry. No one’s going to laugh, and if they do, you’re the one laughing, because you won, right?”

“I guess.” He shrugged, but didn’t look at me. He was eyeing the rest of my muffin. I handed it to him. Tristan rarelyalmost never had anything to eat. As far as I knew, he never had.

***

Four days later, on Saturday afternoon, our kitchen was packed with fruit salad, bean salad, green salad, deviled eggs, sandwiches, cold cuts, cheese trays, shrimp rings, coleslaw, buns and bread. The feast migrated to the yard where Dad lined up tables like a feeding trough. Smoke rose from the grill as grease spittled and spattered on lava-hot coals. Bottles and cans floated like glaciers in a cooler’s arctic waters. Six patio tables colonized the back yard; guests gathered under the green and white umbrellas, chatting and laughing as they hid from the mid-September sun.

Today, Mom turned forty-three. Her co-workers filled the yard, and of course, my best friends and their families were also there. Gavin’s father and Chris’s parents sat together while Gavin and Chris helped Dad grill enough food for thirty. Inside, Tristan helped Mom unpack the desserts. Mom hadn’t left the kitchen since Grandma arrived.

While I prepared the table for the oncoming sugar rush, Mr. Kingsley’s voice cracked through the wall of noise. Chris’s dad looked like an older clone of his son, wearing a white dress shirt and black pants with a sharp crease down each leg, sandy blond hair, deep blue eyes, and lips that pursed whenever he was thinking or upset. At the moment, those lips curled over perfect teeth as he spoke to Gavin’s dad. “I heard your son won the Grade Eleven Business Award.”

Mr. Bishop was over six feet tall, and although dark muscles bulged under a blue dress shirt, his body had a grace, an ease of movement that marked him as a former athlete. When he was young he’d played professionally and now coached football at our school. His eyes shone like twin suns like whenever he spoke about Gavin. “That’s right. He got the highest mark in entrepreneurship. He’s been working really hard, and if he keeps going, he’ll get a scholarship to a school in the States.”

Chris’s mom perked up, just as she always did when discussing her son’s future. She was petite with short dark curls highlighted by a mauve silk blouse and gold earrings. “With Chris’s grades, he’ll have no problem getting a full scholarship to U of T.” Ever since I met Chris in Grade Nine, his parents planned for him to go to the University of Toronto, one of the oldest and best schools in Canada. The competition was fierce; they only admitted future Einsteins. Chris, of course, was a shoo-in at the U of T.

“Or Harvard.” Mr. Kingsley’s lips pursed into a thin line as stared off into the distance. “Maybe Yale. They’re known for their science programs, and since Chris received five awards in math and science, that’s the way he should go.”

“Astra, honey! I made it!” Her voice blasting through the yard, Tristan’s mom burst through the gate wearing a flamingo pink Florida shirt, white capris and three-inch strappy sandals that wobbled as she strutted along the stone path. Over the years, her hair had been every color and every style, and today she had shoulder-length frizzy blonde curls that shone with copper highlights. She hugged me in welcome, smelling of cologne, breath mints and beer. With a wave and a smile, she joined the other parents.

“Hello, Barb.” Mr. Kingsley’s lips pursed and he asked, “Where’s Tony?”

My stomach did flip-flops. Over the years, Tristan’s mom had dated the good, the bad, and the ugly. She was with one guy, Paul, for almost two years, back when Tristan and I were in junior high. He had his own company—a marketing firm—and he’d given Tristan his first skateboard. But one day, Paul just wasn’t around anymore. I never asked why, and Tristan never told me. Since then, Ms. Gunner had had a chain of boyfriends, each link eventually broken; each time, I never asked why.

Ms. Gunner’s smile dropped, but she caught it before it hit the ground. An elastic smile stretched over her teeth as she said, “Oh, Tony’s around.”

“It’s too bad he couldn’t make it,” Mr. Kingsley said. “I guess it must be hard, working shifts. Where does he work again?”

Fingers shook as Ms. Gunner lit a cigarette. Clutching it in red lips, she spoke around the butt. “Pickering. The nuclear plant.” She turned her head away and blew a stream of blue into the air, but a crosswind pushed it back to the table.

Mrs. Kingsley choked and coughed. Ms. Gunner swiped at the offending fumes. “Sorry, sorry.”

After a sip of ginger ale, Mrs. Kingsley’s dark eyes set on Tristan’s mom and she said, “If you had any idea what smoking does to you, dear, you’d quit in an instant. Just the other day, I showed my students pictures of healthy and unhealthy lungs. The kids were disgusted at the black mess caused by smoking.”

Ms. Gunner stamped out the cigarette with a shaking hand and called over to me, “Astra, bring me a beer, okay sweetheart?”

I handed her a bottle, hoping Mrs. Kingsley hadn’t taught a lesson on drinking.

“So, Barb, what are you doing with yourself lately?” Mr. Kingsley asked. “Where are you working?”

My stomach twisted again. What was with all the questions? Normally, Ms. Gunner couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Mr. Kingsley did his Alpha Male thing, going on about how much he’d made on his latest venture, or how Chris had gotten a perfect score on a physics test. Chris was the most valuable stock in his portfolio. Then Mrs. Kingsley would talk about how Chris was being held back because he wasn’t “stimulated enough.” She’d finish by groaning that the school didn’t have a gifted program like it did when she’d gone there, and as a footnote she’d add that she’d graduated two years ahead of her peers. Mrs. Kingsley taught science at our school where she stimulated the minds of future Einsteins like her son.

Ms. Gunner gulped a large swig of her beer. “I’m still at the Quickie Mart.”

“Really? It must be so hard raising a son with what you make there.” Mrs. Kingsley took another sip of ginger ale. “What are Tristan’s plans for next year? Is he going to apply to York or U of T?” She gasped. “I’m sorry, dear. I forgot that Tristan will be going to college, won’t he?”  

Just like all schools in the province, our school separated students into three categories:—those going to university, those going to community college, and those going straight to work after graduation. The kids bound for university took courses at an academic level, and the college kids took applied classes. Tristan had been in applied since Grade Nine, which made some people treat him like he was okay for a juice or sauce, but not suitable for display with the other shiny red apples.

“Well, I guess it’s not such a bad option. College tuition is quite a bit cheaper than university. At $6,000 per year, that’s a pretty hefty price for someone who works at the Quickie Mart,” Chris’s dad said.

Mrs. Kingsley opened her mouth, but Mr. Bishop blocked her offense. “Barb, congratulations on Tristan’s award. Gavin told me he won the grand prize in the poetry contest.”

“Award?” Ms. Gunner called over to Tristan, who arranged desserts on the picnic table. “Honey, you never told me nothin’ about an award!”

Tristan looked as if he were staring down the barrel of a rifle.

She laughed, took another swig of beer and said, “That kid! He never tells me nothin’.” Nevertheless, Tristan’s mom radiated pride while Chris’s parents sat in sullen silence, two dwarf stars in the Gunner galaxy.

***

Sunset sprayed the sky gold and crimson. In the kitchen, I watched the clouds shift from silver to salmon while wrapping up leftovers, pondering the meaning of life.

Chris had already found his answer: I whine, therefore I am. He came in and sneered, “So where’s the poet?”

I decided not to shove a piece of cake in his face. Grandma already had given her daughter Humiliation for her birthday, and Mom didn’t need Degradation by having to apologize to Chris’s parents. So I swallowed it, trying not to choke as I told him, “He’s in the living room with Gavin playing Guitar Hero.” I hoped Chris would drop the attitude and join them.

“The next Shakespeare is playing Guitar Hero,” he said with acid sarcasm. His lips pursed.

I put the cake in the fridge, avoiding temptation.

He tapped his foot on the tiles, like he always did when broaching a sensitive topic. “I’m going to speak to Mrs. Owala about the contest.”

Surprise, surprise. Chris always cried to his teachers whenever he felt cheated out of a grade.

“Can you do that with contests?” I asked.

“I just want her to take another look at my poem. I can’t believe it didn’t even win second or third. Here, tell me what you think.” He thrust a paper into my hand and loomed over me as I read:

                                    “Our Love”

                                    Shining like the sun so bright,
                                    we both know it must be right.

                                    The flames of our love so pure,
                                    when you smile I know for sure.

                                    This fire that we light,
                                    our love is such a beautiful sight.

                                    Promise you'll love me no matter what I do,
                                    and I will promise to only love you.

Laughter sparked in the pit of my stomach, but I squelched it. Chris was obsessed with his girlfriend Valerie, who had straw blonde hair with dark brown roots, bottled bronze skin and inch-long painted nails that fell off whenever she held a pen too long. Chris always gave her his notes, an offering to his love goddess. Although tempting, laughing at this lovesick homage would be blasphemous. So I decided not to drop the bomb on our friendship.

“Well, what do you think?”

But Chris had lit the fuse.      

Too short, it sizzled, and I needed to act quickly. All I could think to say was, “Uhm, it’s a love poem.”

“Yeah. I only had to think of Valerie and the words just flowed from my pen. What else did you notice?”

I tossed the bomb out the window. “Aw, you know I’m no literary critic. I didn’t even hand in the poetry assignment last year.”

Chris caught the bomb and threw it back. “Look, here’s a metaphor, and here’s a simile. Every line rhymes, and it expresses the depths of my emotions, just like a good poem should.”

“Yeah, it does all that.” Seconds ticked away. I thought of bolting.

Three, two, one…

“Look, Astra, if you’ve got something to say to me, just say it.”

Blam! The kitchen became Ground Zero. “Well, it has metaphors and similes and all that, but it’s not saying anything different or deep. It has a perfect body, but no soul.”         

Just like the girl who inspired it.

The afterthought set off a second explosion. I squeezed my mouth shut, but the giggly shockwaves racked my entire body until tears formed in the corners of my eyes.

Chris looked as if I had blasted off one of his legs and sprayed shrapnel into the wound. He snatched back the paper and snarled, “I didn’t expect you to understand it.”

Ferdinand fell. Hitler marched into Poland. “You asked my opinion.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think. This poem has got to be a thousand times better than his. He can barely write a paragraph, and they give him the grand prize for poetry? What a sham!”

“What makes you think yours is better?”

“Come on, he doesn’t know a comma from a semicolon. How could anything he writes be better than what I write?”

“Because you’re so much smarter than him, right?”

“It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure that out.”

Our stainless steel fridge reflected a mushroom cloud as I went nuclear. “Look, Chris. Everyone knows you’re smart—the teachers, the parents, the students—I mean, you got five awards! So why does it bother you so much that Tristan won that contest? Lots of people, like Gavin, also won something, but it drives you crazy that Tristan’s going to be backstage with you on awards night. You know what the real problem is? You think because you’re smarter than Tristan that you’re better than him!”

Chris erected a cardboard shield to the blast; Einstein stammered, “I…didn’t…”

“You know what? Tristan might not live in a big house, he might not get over sixty in science, and he won’t ever go to university, but you’re no better than him. The reason why you’re so bitter about that award is because someone ‘beneath’ you is taking something you want. Well, too bad! Maybe the world decided to share a little for once. So stop being such a snob and get over it!”

“It’s easy for you to say that! You’ll never understand what it’s like to be me! Your parents love you no matter how stupid you are!”

With that, Einstein marched to the yard and cried for Mommy and Daddy to take him home.

***

On awards night, students and parents filed into the auditorium as volunteers handed out programs. Just like a movie theatre, the assembly hall had sloping rows of self-folding chairs. At the front, spotlights danced off a red velvet curtain.

I wished that I was at the movies instead of being forced to watch tonight’s main feature: Chris Kingsley, the biggest baby in Toronto, getting five new awards to decorate his crib. At least there were other attractions that made it worth sitting through the show.

After Mom finally chose a seat, I settled between her and Dad and flipped through the brochure, looking for the winning poetry and short stories, which I found at the back. Under the dim light, I read Tristan’s poem.

                                    “Broken Wing”

                                    You try to find food for me to eat,

                                    But, it’s hard to hunt with a broken wing.

                                    You try to fix our nest with paper and string,

                                    But, the wind blows cold through the holes.

                                    Your warmth keeps me alive, Mom.

                                    But, with your broken wing, how can you teach me to fly?

                                    Someday, though, I will leave this nest,

                                    And I will fly.

After the ceremony, I looked for Tristan backstage. I found Chris already there, holding out his hand. “Congratulations, Tristan. You deserved that award.”

Tristan smiled his lopsided grin and shook Chris’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Tristan!” Ms. Gunner appeared, black circles oozing under red-rimmed eyes.

Chris stepped back to stand with me behind the curtain.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” Ms. Gunner said to Tristan. “I guess I was always thinkin’ of me and my miserable life, and I never thought of what I was doin’ to you.”

Tristan scanned the area, searching for an exit.

She squeezed his shoulder. “But I’m gonna change. I’m gonna do it for you, honey, because you’re the one good thing that I’ve ever done.”

Tristan stopped searching. He looked at his mom and smiled.

Chris faced me, his lower lip sticking way out as he looked at his leather shoes and mumbled, “Sorry. You may not be good at school, but you’re not stupid.” He cast a sidelong glance at Tristan and his mom. “Not at all.”

I signed the peace treaty. “And I guess you’re not such a snob after all.”

Chris’s parents appeared, looming in his shadow.

Ms. Gunner called over to us, “Hey, you kids wanna go for an ice cream?”

Before Chris could answer, Mrs. Kingsley said, “Chris, we’d better get going.” She tugged her puppet’s string.

“I want an ice cream.” This time her son didn’t dance.

His father pursed his lips so tight, they squeaked across his teeth. “It’s a school night.”

“Yeah, I know. My homework’s done—it’s done up to next Friday. I just won five awards, so I’m going out with my friends to celebrate.” He turned away from his parents and joined the three of us.

His parents stared in dumbfounded silence as their son left them behind.

“And don’t worry about me, Mom, Dad. I’ll find my own way home,” he told them over his shoulder.

He walked beside Tristan, looking straight ahead, his mouth relaxed in a smile.

Einstein might not be the next Shakespeare, but he would no longer be a character in another person’s play. From this point on, Chris would write his own role, one that didn’t involve meltdowns or spontaneous combustion.

And Toronto’s best and brightest signed the peace treaty over bowls of rocky road.

Originally published by Etopia Press