Literature relief

The entire family went into Toronto for the Word on the Street yesterday. We took Duncan, too, since it would look good for his English class. Even though it rained on and off all afternoon, there was enough cover between the booths and the trees in Queen's Park to keep us from getting completely soaked. We all split up once we got to the main exhibits. Charles Wallace went with my mother and looked at science magazines, and then waited in line with her when she went to McClelland and Stewart's booth to get her new Margaret Atwood book signed by the remote control pen. (Margaret Atwood was in Scotland, but the book signing was in Toronto. Go figure.) My father got a lot of baseball-related statistics books at ECW Press, and Duncan and I just wandered around. Duncan swore that he saw Michael Patterson dropping bad novel-sized packages into every publisher booth; considering that some of the publishers there were (for instance) architecture book-only publishers, or children's lit only, he might not have much luck.
When we caught up with my mother and brother, Charles Wallace was sulking. He had seen the end result of the Michael Patterson play he'd been involved with this summer. The workshops ended suddenly, with no reason. Charles Wallace just found out that Mirabell had hijacked the script, rewritten it himself, and presented it as a one-man show about madness, with the main character reminiscing about a non-existant childhood and equally non-existant adult success as a writer. I think it was called "A Scream From the Attic."

What difference does it make

Another week of school almost over, and it's not soon enough. Zenobia and I have the same slot at the Learning Resources Centre on Thursdays. The grade 9 and 10 students have been turning up, seeing us, and running, except for Jeremy, who ended up getting math help from Zenobia. She says that at least this is all good training for university, but she's hoping to get into Waterloo anyway.
At dinner we got interrupted by my father's imaginary baseball league calling over and over. It seems my father's fake team is in the playoffs, and the other guys in the league have some problems with what the computer's thrown up for my father's pretend baseball games. "Honestly, you don't know what it's like to throw a perfect game!" he kept saying. Charles Wallace was fairly quiet throughout dinner, and my mother asked him how he was.
"You don't know what it's like to be perfectly miserable!" he said, and left the table.
"Not him, too," my mother sighed.
"I guess it's his teacher. She's been spending a lot of time on one student and letting the rest watch DVDs, or do whatever they want to do, and usually whatever they want to do is to punch Charles Wallace," I said. I had enough to worry about. Usually around the end of every month Duncan gets nervous and preoccupied for some reason. He says he can't explain it very much, except that it seems like someone is about to rearrange his life suddenly. Then, after the month starts, he calms down. His band has had a lot of rehearsals lately, so he's been stuck around Cowboy Eva a lot.

That old catastrophe

Tutoring has more public relations facets than I ever knew. This morning Zenobia, Zapata and I went to the guidance office for our formal tutoring briefing. The computer geeks were there, too. I asked Case, who I knew from history class, what he and the rest of the geeks were there for. "Same as you, I guess. At risk for antisocial behaviour, and strange internet habits." The guidance team came in right then and asked us to sit down.
"Welcome, borderline hostile students. Today R. P. Boire is going to put your misguided research skills and computer expertise to use for the common good. And, to start with, one of our more prominent students, Rebecca McGuire, is in need of a tutor, and in fact expressed that very desire recently in front of one of her fellow students, April Patterson."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"That's classified school board information, young lady. As I said, Miss McGuire needs a tutor, and one of you will be that tutor." We were sitting a bit uncomfortably at that point. Then the guidance head pointed at Case. "You, you in the iPod. Turn that damn thing off, and get over here. You're tutoring Miss McGuire." Case went over to the guidance team and got a binder full of English class notes and Becky McGuire's class schedule. The rest of us were ushered into the library, where we had to sign up for hours at the "Learning Resources Centre" (a table near the leaky radiator). For some reason, only Case had a single student to tutor.

A rush and a push

I hate the helping professions. During my spare period I had to see the guidance counsellor again to start making arrangements for my community service. This year I have to tutor grade 9s and 10s in English. At least I don't have to read stories or pick up trash this time. Charles Wallace wandered over to Tim Hortons while I was there with Duncan. According to Charles Wallace, today his teacher had them watch 3 DVDs and learn basic hunting vocabulary in Ojibway. Since Charles Wallace had asked about the necessity of learning hunting vocabulary for life in the suburbs, he got sent to the principal's office. He's now working on a month-long series of grandparent- and trapline- related excuses for getting out of class. Now that Arne's back, maybe he can do something useful for a change and give Charles Wallace some tips on dealing with educational malpractice.

Let's hear it for the vague blur

Last night at dinner Charles Wallace said, "By the way, my teacher will be away for a non-specified number of days soon because she's been subpoened for a non-specified criminal trial. Can I cut school then?" My parents rolled their eyes. Later the guidance team called the house to ask my parents to monitor my internet use as I was a member of a subculture at risk.
"They said that it's fortunate you have to wear a school uniform, or else they'd really get worried," my father said. It's looking like another year of community service. I finally went back to the therapist, since it was part of the deal my parents worked out so I wouldn't get busted under the Safe Schools Act (although I think the principal's stretching a point a bit by threatening to charge me with creating an intellectually threatening atmosphere for my teachers). The therapist said I had made good work with my online web log, and should carry on. I think my parents are getting a pre-emptive appointment with him for Charles Wallace.