Chill Page 2

  Mr. Sfinkter spun around, opening his mouth. There was a knock on the door.

  The anger disappeared immediately and a wide smile crossed his face as he walked over to answer the door.

  “Ms. Surette,” he said, pouring on the false charm. “What a lovely surprise.”

  At the sound of her name, Chill looked up from his drawing. He had not heard or noticed anything that had gone on in the class to this point.

  “And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mr. Sfinkter asked.

  “Chill forgot his bag,” she said, holding up a knapsack.

  “Chill?” he said and looked to the class.

  “Chill?” he repeated with cheerful authority.

  Chill raised his hand, identifying himself.

  “Come and get your things.”

  Chill moved to get up.

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring it to him,” Ms. Surette said.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Sfinkter said, making a wide sweeping “come in” motion with his arm.

  Ms. Surette smiled at his gentlemanly behavior.

  Chill rose to take the bag from her.

  “Thank you, Ms. Surette,” Chill said.

  “Let’s try and not make a habit of it this semester, okay?” she said with a smile.

  “I’ll try,” Chill said.

  “That’s all I can ask,” she said and exited, thanking Mr. Sfinkter as he bowed to her and closed the door.

  He made his way back to his desk, where he opened up his class list and ran his finger down it until finding Chill’s name.

  “Mr. Holinground, is it?”

  “Yes,” Chill replied.

  “Should I expect you to be the cause of many interruptions?”

  “No,” Chill said.

  “Good,” he said. “And if you leave your bag in here, you may find yourself rummaging through the garbage bin to get it. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mr....” and then Chill looked to the board, “Sfinkter.”

  Chill didn’t pronounce the I as in I warned you, but the I as in if you show me respect, you’ll get it in return.

  “Sf Inkter!” the teacher yelled. “Or sir to you and everyone else for that matter! Since you all seem to have problems with the language, we’ll use the small words!”

  He was turning red, a red that, with his outfit, made him look like a demented clown. But after the narrow escape last time, no one snorted or giggled.

  “Yes, sir,” Chill quickly said, calming Mr. Sfinkter ever so slightly.

  “For the rest of this class, I want all of you to write me a page on what you expect to do with your lives. That way, I can assess your English skills as well as your grip on reality. Now get to it!”

  Chill took his binder out of his bag and went right to work with the teacher staring at him. As soon as he looked away, I saw a little smile cross Chill’s face. I knew that this was only the beginning.

  Chapter Four

  The rest of the class was uneventful. Everyone worked quietly, trying to focus on their writing. I am sure we were all wondering what tortures lay ahead. I took a little solace in the subtle burn that Chill managed to lay on the teacher. It was things like that which made Chill popular with guys—his ability to get under a bad teacher’s skin without ever taking it to a level to get in any real trouble. That and the story from elementary school where he broke the kid’s leg in six places and fractured his ribs.

  He wasn’t popular like “going to all the parties” popular or captain of the soccer team popular. It was more of an “allowed to do what he wanted without a lot of ridicule from fellow students” popular. He got a lot of respect.

  Chill knew he had that respect, and he gave that same respect to everyone. He wasn’t a part of any clique; he talked to jocks and computer geeks alike. But I was his only close friend.

  Girls liked Chill’s confidence, but Chill was only interested in one girl—Sara Langdon.

  Sara was awkward, clumsy even, but I think that was mainly because she always had her arms filled with books. She held the books tight against her chest and had an overloaded backpack over her shoulder.

  She carried it all with her so that she could avoid her locker and hide out in the cafeteria or library. Her method of serving time in high school (and everyone needs some method) was to make herself invisible. And she was to everyone but Chill.

  She was cute enough, in a plain, glasses wearing, bookworm kind of way, but I didn’t see the attraction.

  After completing my assignment, I looked over at Chill. He was watching Sara, who sat at the back in the seat closest to the door. I hadn’t noticed her being there before that.

  When the bell rang, Mr. Sfinkter told everyone to hand in their assignments.

  I took Chill’s up with me.

  “You didn’t say they were due at the end of class,” Mac said.

  “I’m saying it now.”

  “But, I’m not finished.”

  “Then you’ll be starting the semester with an F.”

  “I can give you what I’ve got,” Mac said.

  “If it isn’t finished, I don’t want it.”

  “But...”

  “But,” Mr. Sfinkter mocked. “May I remind you that you are already on probation? I don’t like to be pushed.”

  Then I heard the books fall. I didn’t have to look to know they were Sara’s. I also didn’t have to look to know that Chill would already be there to help her pick them up.

  Mr. Sfinkter did need to look. He sighed loudly and shook his head disapprovingly. Then he returned to the book he’d been reading all class.

  Chapter Five

  The afternoon was uneventful, filled with A-type teachers. Chill and I were in different classes. We met up after school and went to his place. We always went to Chill’s because his mother worked evenings and wasn’t home till 7:30.

  Chill’s mom, Orchid, worked as an anchor at the local television station doing the local news. She was a very driven woman, strong, from her long flowing brown hair to her perfect ankles...Ahhh.

  Anyway, she’d read a lot of self-help books and had quotes hanging up all over the house like “See it, be it,” “Believe and be,” “Fear nothing,” that type of thing. She’d post them, she’d read them, she’d follow them.

  A few years ago, she had noticed that the local station didn’t have a Crime Stoppers segment. She got a camera and got her husband at the time, Bill (a fool of a man for letting such a rare and precious flower go), to shoot re-enactments using local “actors.” She announced the segments and starred in them a couple of times.

  She was such a good actor that once people even called the police on her, thinking that the footage they saw was the actual crime. The police picked her up and took her to the station. It took a few hours to sort out, although, personally, I think the police just wanted an excuse to spend some time with her—and who could blame them?

  The station soon took her on doing other reports, but they didn’t hire her husband, and I think it was his jealously that brought about the end of the marriage.

  She was sent out once to report on a local fire, but, always wanting to look her best, she stopped by her house to get a change of clothes. The way I heard it (as told by my mother to her friend while I happened to be crouched down just outside the kitchen door) was that when she arrived, she saw a car in the driveway that belonged to one of the “actresses” they had worked with in the re-enactments.

  Orchid invited the cameraman to come inside. She made sure he was rolling when they entered the bedroom.

  Orchid then proceeded to grab her change of clothing and take out a suitcase for Bill, telling him, “If you have your stuff out of here by the time I get home, I might let you keep some of it.”

  Then she went back to work and got the story. I think she may have even won an award for her coverage, but I can’t be sure on that bit.

  Chill still sees his dad every other weekend when his father makes the time, and Orchid tries to make sure t
hat he does. “A boy needs a father,” she says.

  Orchid was a great mom, always encouraging and looking out for Chill—not that Chill needed any looking out for. That was why she didn’t reveal her true feelings for me. I was sure that, when we went off to university, Chill would be old enough to handle it and she’d finally take me aside and confess her undying love. I was willing to wait.

  Orchid went on to become a full-time news anchor at the station and selected any “field reports” she wanted to do, if she wanted to do any at all. We’d watch her every night—my day revolved around it. It was the only time I could freely enjoy her...everything. If Chill caught me enjoying when she was home, I’d get a very swift slap to the back of the head.

  “What was that for?” I would ask.

  He would only glare at me in return, not being able to say, “Stop checking out my mom,” because to say it meant he was admitting his mom was worth checking out, and no guy wants to admit that.

  She arrived home at 7:30, on the nose, every night.

  “Hello, Ms. Holinground,” I said with a welcoming grin.

  “Hello, Sean,” she said. She turned to hang her coat in the hall closet, unable to bear looking at me for fear of revealing her desire.

  Whack!

  “What was that for?”

  Chill glared.

  While most guys had an irrational fear of blindness from impure thoughts and deeds, I had a very real risk of concussion or severe brain damage. It didn’t stop me, though, or even discourage me.

  “How was your first day back at school?” Chill’s mom asked.

  “Fine,” Chill told her.

  “Our English teacher’s a real jerk!” I said.

  “Now why do you say that?” she inquired.

  “Just is,” I said, but then went on to elaborate on what had happened.

  “Maybe you just need to give him a chance.”

  This was Orchid’s one imperfection. She, like all adults, always took the side of the other adults, thinking that, as a teenager, I was prone to exaggeration.

  “How was your day?” Chill asked her.

  “Good,” she replied. “They were asking about you at the station.”

  After his parents separated, Chill spent a lot of time at the station with his mom. He got to do all kinds of cool stuff like learn how to operate a camera, hang with local newspeople—who were celebrities in our little town. He even got to take a cpr course when the station paid for it. He never told me who he got to do mouth-to-mouth on, though—I imagine it was the woman who does the weather. If Orchid wasn’t available to me, that’s who I’d have gone for.

  They also showed him how to put the composite sketches on video and would sometimes let him load them up for the “If you’ve seen this man” bit at the end of the Crime Stoppers segment that Orchid still introduced.

  “You should come down to the station after school and say hello,” Orchid suggested.

  Chill just shrugged.

  “I’ll come down, Ms. Holinground,” I volunteered. Orchid opened the fridge and reached for something on the bottom shelf.

  Whack!

  “What?” I asked, rubbing my head and looking at Chill. Chill glared back.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting home?” Orchid asked teasingly.

  “My parents don’t mind,” I told her, to continue our banter.

  “All the same, I think they’d like to see you,” she said.

  She does this all the time. When she thinks she can no longer contain herself in my presence, she casually asks me to leave. I show mercy.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said, grabbing my bag. “Oh, yeah!” I added. “Chill’s going to be doing the school mural!”

  “Really?” she said. “That’s great!”

  “It’s not a big deal, Mom,” Chill said. “It’s not even for sure.”

  “He’ll be doing it, for sure,” I confirmed.

  “And when it’s unveiled, I’ll be there with a camera crew,” she said. “It’ll be the story of the year!”

  Little did she know. Little did any of us know.

  She kissed Chill on the cheek and gave him a big hug.

  “I’m very proud of you,” she said.

  “Are you proud of me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  I leaned in for my kiss.

  “Go home,” she said.

  So coy.

  Chapter Six

  In art class the next morning, Chill already had a sketch of the proposed mural to show Ms. Surette. It had the school in the background. In the foreground were the faces of people like Pierre Trudeau, Wayne Gretzky, Albert Einstein, Shania Twain, Pablo Picasso, Mike Myers, Margaret Atwood, Alanis Morrisette...

  “A mix of popular icons to inspire and encourage,” as Ms. Surette put it. “I like it.”

  “And the quote?” she asked. “‘The future is bright if you’re not afraid of the light’—where’s that from?”

  “Sean,” Chill quickly informed her.

  I’d been inspired by Ms. Holinground and her many quotes.

  “It’s excellent,” she told me. “I suppose you’ll have to help with the mural too, then?” she said, more telling than asking. “I’ll be making my decision at the end of the week. But it’s safe to say that you have a very good chance.”

  “There won’t be anything better,” I told her.

  “There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, Sean,” she said. “Best to stay well on one side of it.”

  Chill smiled. He had heard various people say the same thing before. He always found it funny. I didn’t see the humor. It wasn’t confidence or arrogance. It was pride in my friend’s work. Since Chill never took much pride in it, always thinking he could have done better, I felt I had to make up for it.

  “Anyone can do it,” Chill said. “Most people just don’t.”

  I didn’t believe it. I knew I couldn’t. Or I thought I couldn’t. Maybe if I’d worked as hard as Chill—always sketching or reading about other artists, always working on something—maybe if I did that, then I could.

  Chill even had a signature that he used just for his art, which was a work of art on its own, an unreadable symbol of original design. Maybe if I worked as hard at my writing as he did at his drawing...maybe it’s just easier to think...

  “Some people are just naturally good at things and others aren’t,” I said to Chill.

  But in the back of my head I could hear Orchid saying, If you put your mind to something, you can get it done, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different!

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Sfinkter arrived in class just as the bell rang. He dropped his books on the desk and looked around at the class.

  “Your essays were enlightening,” he said. “Mr. Holinground?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chill.

  “You want to be an artist, do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how do you expect to support yourself?” asked Mr. Sfinkter.

  “With my art, sir.”

  “You think that much of yourself, do you?”

  “No, sir. But if I keep working at it...”

  “Once that teenage ego of yours dies away, you’ll realize that drawing is a hobby, not a career. Now would be a good time to start thinking about that.”

  “I’ll take that under consideration, sir,” Chill said while dismissing it.

  “Well you can start by putting your doodling away and paying attention in this class.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chill said, folding up his pad.

  “I’d best not see that sketchpad again,” he said, staring at Chill before he continued, “And Sean Fitzsimmons.” I found myself immediately crossing my arms and legs. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you show up at school only to realize that all you have on is your underwear.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, hoping someone would appear with a blanket for me to hide under.

  “You dream of writing.”

 
; “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, perhaps you should spend less time dreaming and more time learning how to spell,” Mr. Sfinkter said.

  “Sorry, sir, my pen’s spellchecker wasn’t working.”

  I got a chuckle from the class, those brave enough anyway, but not from Mr. Sfinkter.

  “And a smart mouth isn’t going to get you far either!” he said angrily. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “If you want to be a writer, I would advise a teachers’ college so that you’ll have a job that pays while you write. It’s very difficult to make a living writing, and I should know. I have three books published myself.”

  “Really, sir?” I asked with genuine interest.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “I have three works of non-fiction published, all about things that have happened to me in my life or to people I find worthy of my time and interest. Currently I am working on a fourth about all the authors and publishers that I have met, being in the business. I’ve had dinner with...”

  And as he talked, the floor became littered with the names he was dropping. Some I knew, many I didn’t. It was obvious by the way he spoke that I should be impressed. I tried my hardest to show that I was.

  “You know, Mr. Fitzsimmons, if you are truly interested in becoming a writer, then you must write a book. Non-fiction is, of course, better, but that is best left to the more mature writers like myself.

  “If you wish to show me that you’re serious, then you must complete a work of at least one hundred pages, double spaced, twelve-point font. Spelling and grammar being, of course, the most important thing in those pages. If you do this, I will give it to one of my many publisher friends, who would be more than happy to do any favor I ask. In fact, if I think it’s good enough, they’ll publish it on my say-so alone.”

  “Really?”

  “I do hope your writing is less repetitive than your speaking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  “You’ll give it to a publisher?” I said, unable to believe that such a thing could happen. I wanted to be a writer, but I thought it far out of my reach. And if Chill didn’t have the talent to be an artist, I certainly didn’t have what it took to be a writer.