Jeanette clasps her hands together in her lap, possibly to stop herself from throwing something at him. “Martial arts teaches students discipline and respect for their own and other people’s bodies. I’ve already got somewhere to do it, up at Adri Ovich’s kennels, just let me ask the students if they’re interested, and—”
The headmaster polishes his glasses more thoroughly than necessary. “I’m sorry, Jeanette. The parents would go mad. They’d see it as you teaching their children to be violent. We can’t afford any more controversy.”
He stands up to indicate that it’s time for Jeanette to leave his office, but the moment he opens the door a hand very nearly hits him in the face. The man standing outside was just about to knock on the door.
“I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a very long year,” the headmaster mutters.
Jeanette is standing behind him, unable to conceal her curiosity. “Hi!” she says.
The man in the doorway smiles. “I’m . . . I’m starting work here today?” he says.
“Yes! Our new philosophy and history teacher!” the headmaster exclaims, grabbing some sheets of paper from a shelf before adding “And maths and science and . . . French? Do you speak French?”
The male teacher in the doorway looks as though he’s about to protest, but Jeanette gestures with a smile that he should go along with it. The headmaster heaves a pile of books and papers into his arms. “Best get going, then! Your schedule’s on top there!”
The teacher thanks him and sets off along the corridor. The headmaster watches him go and sighs, “Freshly qualified. I know I should be happy that he’s come here of his own volition, but dear Lord, Jeanette? How old do you think he is?”
“Twenty-five? Twenty-six?” Jeanette guesses.
“And you saw the way he looks.”
“I didn’t notice a thing,” Jeanette deadpans.
“The school is raging with hormones, and we employ a teacher who looks like he’s in a bloody boy band! We’ll have to lock up half the female students,” the headmaster mutters.
Jeanette coughs under her breath. “And probably some of the female teachers, too.”
“What?” the headmaster says.
“What?” Jeanette repeats innocently.
“Did you say something?”
“No! I’ve got a class now!”
The headmaster mutters unhappily, “You can put up one poster about your martial arts training. One poster, Jeanette!”
Jeanette nods and goes out into the corridor. She pins up four posters and watches the new teacher’s hips as she heads after him along the corridor.
* * *
The new teacher is standing in the classroom writing on the board as the students tumble into the room in little clusters. When the bell rings, it can barely be heard over the scrape of chairs and the sound of backpacks being dropped on the floor, as well as the enthusiastic chatter about everything that’s happened during the summer and the fight that just broke out in the corridor.
Benji comes in last of all, and hardly anyone notices him. His hair is still a mess, his denim shirt is half tucked in, as if he’d just pulled on his pants in a darkened room. He looks the way he did when he got out of the bed in a cabin in a campsite between Beartown and Hed not long ago, on the night that was full of Nietzsche and cold beer and warm hands.
All the other students in the room are too preoccupied with one another and themselves to see the new teacher turn toward the door and lose his breath. Benji’s not an easy young man to surprise, but he stops, his chest pounding with shock.
* * *
The teacher is wearing the same blue polo shirt as he was that night.
20
Shaving Cream in Your Shoes
It’s hard to care about people. Exhausting, in fact, because empathy is a complicated thing. It requires us to accept that everyone else’s lives are also going on the whole time. We have no pause button for when everything gets too much for us to deal with, but then neither does anyone else.
* * *
When the class is over, the students rush out of the classroom as if it were on fire, as usual. Benji seems to be last by accident; he’s good at giving the impression of nonchalance. The teacher is sweating with nerves, the collar of his blue polo shirt flecked with moisture.
“I . . . I didn’t know you were still at school, Benjamin. If I’d known . . . I thought you were older. It was a . . . a mistake! I could lose my job, we shouldn’t have slept together . . . I don’t make a habit . . . you were just . . . just . . .”
Benji steps closer to him. The teacher’s hands are shaking. “Just a mistake. I was just a mistake,” Benji says, finishing his sentence for him.
The teacher nods helplessly with his eyes closed. Benji stares at his lips for a few moments. When the teacher opens his eyes again, Benji is already gone.
* * *
Bobo goes straight home after school as usual, throws his backpack into his room, gets changed, and goes out to help his dad, Hog, in the workshop. Just as he always does. But today Hog rather than Bobo is the one keeping an eye on the clock.
“That’s enough, Bobo. Get going!” Hog says when it’s time.
Bobo nods, relieved, and shrugs off his overalls. Hog notes that they’re getting to be too small for him. While Bobo fetches his hockey gear Hog hesitates for a long time before saying anything, possibly because he doesn’t want his son to see how full of anticipation he is. Fathers’ hopes can so easily suffocate their sons. But in the end he can’t help asking, “Nervous?”
It’s a stupid question, Bobo’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat between two rocking chairs. This is his first training session with the A-team, he’s eighteen years old, and hockey has a definitive way of letting children know when they’ve grown up. The son shakes his head, but his eyes are nodding. His dad grins. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Do your best. And wear a pair of shoes you don’t like.”
Bobo opens his mouth to make the noise he’s made ever since he was little when he doesn’t understand something: “Huh?”
“The older A-team players will fill your shoes with shaving cream while you’re in the shower. They’ll make life hell to start with, but you just have to accept that. Remember, it’s a sign that they respect you. It’s when they’re not messing with you that you need to be worried, because that means they know you’re on your way out of the team.”
Bobo nods. Hog looks as though he’s about to pat him on the shoulder but reaches for a tool from the bench behind him instead. Bobo turns to go change his shoes, but Hog clears his throat, “Thanks for your help today.”
Bobo doesn’t know what to say. He helps his dad in the workshop every day, but his dad never thanks him. But today he goes on: “I wish your life could be less complicated. That you only had to worry about school and hockey and girls and whatever your friends worry about. I know it’s been tough, having to help in the workshop, and now all this business with your mom not . . .”
He tails off. Bobo doesn’t finish the sentence. He just says, “No problem, Dad.”
“I’m so damn proud of you,” Hog says, looking down under the hood of a Ford.
Bobo goes and gets an old pair of shoes.
* * *
Amat is the smallest guy in the locker room. He’s doing his best to make himself even smaller; he can feel the way the older players are looking at him and knows they don’t want him there. Bobo’s sitting beside him, and it’s worse for him because he’s big. The older players, the ones who didn’t find other teams when the club was teetering close to bankruptcy in the summer and are damned if they’re going to lose their places to a gang of juniors now, immediately start to target him. Just little things, someone hitting him with his shoulder, someone accidentally kicking his gear across the floor. As they start to joke about noisily, Bobo desperately tries to make funny comments. It’s obvious that he’s trying too hard to gain acceptance, and for that reason it only makes things worse. Amat tries to nudge him with his elbow to get him to shut up, but Bobo is on a roll. One of the older players grunts, “So we’re getting a female coach now, too? Can’t the GM find some other way to drum up a bit of PR? Are we going to end up as some sort of political gesture?”