Symptoms of Life

“So Florence, any ideas on the future?” Mrs. Allen, my guidance counselor, asked. She asked this every Monday morning, when I came down for my appointment, and her hands fiddled as usual with her pen and her eyes bore into me, looking for something tangible. I suppose I can’t say every Monday, today is the third Monday I’ve been in school.

“Dunno,” I replied sinking deeper into the leather couch. Encouraging and decorative posters cluttered the walls, staring down at me, telling me to do better, to be better. No one had any ideas on how.

“What’re your interests?” She paused, looking like she wanted to take the comment back, “other than diving and sports.”

“Nothing,” I replied, biting down on the inside of my cheek, “it’s all I’ve ever done.”

Mrs. Allen paused, before pivoting in her chair and picking up a few booklets on post-secondary school, “here’s an interesting program. Perhaps you want to help people like you?”

I coughed down a laugh, I couldn’t even help myself, “biology is not an interest of mine,” my mouth was pursed into a tight line as I continued, “besides I’ve already been accepted to McGill, Laval, the University of Toronto and the University of British Columbia. I think I’m fine.”

Mrs. Allen, shifted uncomfortably in her chair, “yes Miss. Todd, but you were accepted on condition of your diving performance, and,” she sighed, shaking her head sadly from side to side, “you aren’t going to be diving at school anymore.”

I blinked twice, it felt weird. No one had said that out loud to me yet. Not Dr. Todd or the physiotherapist, not even my social worker. No one had had the balls to say that out loud. Not even me.

I could feel my eyes sting as blood rushed into my face colouring it a deep shade of red. My eyes dropped to my lap to the booklets she’d handed over. I hadn’t thought of it like that, that I wouldn’t be going to McGill. I wouldn’t be going to school, and that I didn’t have a future.

Staring at the pamphlet it seemed to be staring me in the face now.

“But maybe,” she sighed, taking a slow sip of water, “it would be a good idea for you to take off a year, and get better,” her earnest smile fell silently as she caught sight of my scowl, “there’s a few online quizzes you could take, they might help you develop a path!”

Her face fell as she watched me, I could feel my entire body crumple under the weight of her words, and her follow-up babbles barely reached my ears.
“Let’s focus on the now,” she tried, “why don’t you get involved? You could volunteer at the Valentine’s Day dance this Saturday, or join a club, or a, uh, non-sports team…”

Wordlessly, I stood from the chair and stumbled out the door as quickly as possible. It’d be lunch soon and everyone would be spilling out of their classrooms, the chatter would erupt and they’d pile into the cafeteria like cattle to the slaughter.

My breath hitched in my throat, and my eyes worked their way wildly for the door. I could walk somewhere come back at the end of the day. Outside it was cold, snowflakes were still falling from the sky, and the roads had all iced over again last night.

“Locker first,” I heaved carrying myself as quickly as possible down the hallway. My fingers stuck on the lock turning and turning the knob before finally pulling the rusted door free.

“Top of the morning to you, Miss Todd,” a bit of a scream came from my mouth, and I turned on my heel, falling into the locker, “oh, sorry,” Mr. Hughes smile faltered as he sauntered over to the urine colour locker wall, “you don’t look so good,” he frowned his eyes searching my face.

“I’m just light headed,” I muttered, yanking my coat out for the cubby and beginning to shove my hands into the sleeves. I glanced shortly at the pile of prescription pills sitting at the surface of my back pack, and shut the locker door as quickly as possible.

“Are you going out with someone?” He asked, eyebrows quirked and watching steadily as I struggled with the winter parka.

“No, by myself,” I sighed, hands trembling over the zipper. I could hear my heart in my ears as I watched him shake his head, and start to pull me out of my coat.

He quietly hung the coat back up in my locker, and shut the door, “come to the music room, I have cold pizza,” he teased, a warm smile grasping his thoughtful face. Slowly, he took my shaking hands in his and leading me down the hall to the elevator.

We stood silently on the mechanical upward climb, listening to the steady hum of the elevator. I worked to steady my breath, timing it with his easy ones. His hand was still grasped tightly around mine, sometimes giving it a tight squeeze, like he knew, but none of the teachers did.

“This way,” he smiled, pulling me towards a short set of downward stairs. He pulled open the door, and the bell rang as we stepped in, “some of the students like to practice at lunch, but they can take today off,” he shrugged, flicking the lock button down, and taking an easy stride towards the staff room.

I made my way slowly to the piano, it wasn’t the fancy one he’d used at the fundraiser dinner; instead, it was old, with darkly stained wood.

“I can’t eat pizza,” I called quietly, spotting him at the fridge, “I’m allergic.”

“Oh, right,” I heard him mumble, “turkey sandwich?” He asked, sticking his head out from the room, I nodded quietly, and turned back to the piano. Crumpled hand written sheet music was scattered around the floor, blotted with pen explosions and emotion.

“Do you play?” he smiled, placing two paper towels of food on top of the piano.

I shook my head, “not even a little.”

He laughed, sitting down, his hands automatically stretching over the keys, before passing me lunch, “I’ve been writing something, would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” I shrugged, taking a bite. I’d expected him to pick up the paper, to use it, but he just started instead. He launched immediately into a deep bass tune and staring at nothing at all. The bench rocked with him, as he went, his right hand sometimes sprinting past me to hit a higher note, but not a minute later he was done.

“That’s it for now, “ he shrugged, grabbing his piece of pizza and taking nearly half of it in his mouth. He started talking about something, something to do with lyrics or an audition, or something. His hands danced lazily over the keys as he talked, in between bites of food, but words were rising in my mouth and eventually I found myself spitting them out.

“I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life,” I said it so quickly, and so loudly that he stopped mid sentence, he looked shocked, and we were quiet for a few minutes, “I have to change my applications for school next year.”

“I thought you were going to dive?” He said, flipping one leg over the piano and turning to face me.

“I can’t anymore, it’s not physically possible,” I winced skirting around the words bloated in my throat, “they really won’t have me, it has to be something else,” my breath and hands shook in unison as we talked, my eyes holding steady on the ground.

There was total quiet for a few moments, until his calloused fingers took hold of my chin and I was brought face to face with him. His eyes were still warm, like melted chocolate, and he smiled, “I think you’re a very passionate person, Florence, and that’s a very big question. You can always change your mind, so just go somewhere you want to be.”

“I,” I frowned my teeth chattering, “I don’t know where that is. Somewhere far, I guess.”

“Well, what’re you good at? Helping people? And don’t say diving, I know there’s other things.”

“God no, I don’t do that,” I laughed a bit, a small breaking on my lips.

“English?” He teased, “what about Math?”

I shrugged, “yeah, I mean math was okay, but biology and chemistry are not my forte.”

“Not all math has bio,” he laughed, and the warning bel.l rang, “you have class.”

“Right,” I frowned, fidgeting with the sleeve of my blazer before sliding off the bench. In a second I was wrapped up in a loose, butt-out hug.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he sighed, his face close to mine, “to set up our first tutoring session,” he grinned, a laugh playing on the end of his sentence.