Chapter 1
“The Sorcerers’ Oracle has arrived.” Principal Crenshaw says to explain his sudden appearance in the school's gymnasium and why he has propped open both doors. The chatter in the cavernous room subsides and he shifts awkwardly and gestures for me to pick up the pace. I take baby steps, steeling myself against the mockery and name-calling that waits inside. My schoolmates are cruel and seeing me here after class is sure to provoke their not-so-hilarious insults.
The gym is where nothing good happens and everything bad happens and it’s my least favourite part of the school. It smells like stale farts and body odor and the air is probably infected with God-knows-how-many different diseases. The last daylight glows the windows above the bleachers. I'll be home before dark.
“Will you demonstrate it?” Mr. Crenshaw doublechecks I have everything required to prove my work. He's a turtle-man with a bald head and the wrinkled skin around his eyes ripples when he blinks. His baby blue suit and striped necktie make him seem more like a Walmart greeter than a high school principal. He’s very Earl Haig, as he likes to say, which means he always tries to find the middle way.
“Yeah. It’s good to go...” I indicate the heavy set piece I’m pulling, a man-sized wooden square. It's a doorframe without the doors and it rides on two skateboard dollies with squeaky wheels. It has a hundred and thirty seven magnets lining its interior and pantyhose fabric rolled above. It's six feet tall and equally wide and barely fits through the doorway to the gym. There's only one piece missing. “As long as you have the projector.”
“It’s already up there,” Mr. Crenshaw nods at the stage and then whistles to call his poodle back to his side, “come on Candy.”
His dog senses the magnets and growls.
“Go on,” I coax her away so I can maneuver more safely.
“He’s looking forward to seeing it,” the old man says and must be referring to Mr. Alder. The drama teacher is on the far side of the room directing his actors. Mr. Crenshaw turns to me and waves his wrinkled hand over my work. “Why are you not more proud of yourself Neil? You’ve done a good job.”
“I just want it to end.”
“You’ll thank me next year.” He hints at the merit badge I can put on my university applications, but as I have told him before, such decorations would only tarnish my bid to enroll in any serious chemistry program. Real scientists don’t waste time on The Arts. I won’t remind him again because there’s a small chance I could be wrong. Candy barks when I pull the frame into the gym.
The hard surfaces, the ceiling and walls echo the enthusiasm everyone has for Rockin' Robin Hood. The musical was written by Mr. Alder, Head of the English Department, who is also the director. The players’ mingle about excitedly, practicing their lines publicly. My stomach churns.
Two girls doing makeup meet and compliment each other’s clothes, but it’s all for show. They’ve had all day to make the same observations and probably shop together anyway, seeking approval on their phones before buying anything.
The boys in this place, my so-called peers, are equally phony. Hoodies and hockey jerseys reign supreme and every dweeb follows some random hero's career because sharing team spirit is always safe, depending on the season. I'm not part of that and don't own any new clothes. I wear vintage tees and black jeans and have my Activision: Chopper Command t-shirt on today, but nobody ever compliments me on my wardrobe.
“Tally Ho!” A red-haired actor on stage makes an elaborate bow and his voice carries through the audio speakers. “Merry maids of Loxley, you sweeten my bitter heart.”
The bandshell is raised off the ground and theatre flats on either side have been given thatch roofs and painted Tudor style to resemble houses in a medieval village. There are bright lights in a pipe grid overhead and more lamps in the wings. In the spotlight, centerstage, our school’s most dynamic student sings and dances amidst cooing maidens.
“Don’t admire me so publicly please.” The red haired boy trills, “for how can I save you from King’s John thieves if I’m stuck in Sherwood Forest hiding among the trees?”
I pull my rig out of the way, off to the side as Mr. Crenshaw heads toward the rehearsal. His poodle remains behind and circles two students painting flats. They both stop working to kneel down and give the little beast some love.
A freckle-faced blond girl named Jennifer Hooten sits on a waist-high pile of crashmats with her back to the wall. She has a pink guitar on her lap and a scratched-up iPhone in her hands. Jennifer is alright. She doesn’t play the others' games. She has dirty running shoes, ripped jeans and an army jacket with Iraqi flags on the shoulders. She must feel the magnets in the rig I’m pulling because she looks up with curiosity in her eyes. Her freckled face strikes me as attractive, and innocent, like a woodland creature with whom I might share my captivity. I stand close enough we could talk, if she wanted, but she just shrugs and returns to her phone.
Claudia Fawcett approaches. She plays Maid Marion and is costumed in a puffy white cotton blouse over a pleated skirt. Claudia is one of my least favourite people because she’s gorgeous and thinks the world owes her something for being present. She has thousands of virtual friends and seventy percent are probably horny older men. I'm relieved when she ignores me entirely but disturbed by how hostile she is being toward Jennifer.
“You recorded me singing?” She points accusingly at Jennifer's iPhone. “I don’t give you permission...”
Jennifer looks scared, like she has been caught doing something wrong. She holds up her device and is about to explain when Peter Dingman comes to her rescue.
“She's your understudy Claudia,” Peter reminds her, "she has the right to record.” Pete is a gangly grade twelve student who’s trying to grow a beard to hide his oily skin. He's the Stage Manager and carries a wooden clipboard under his arm.
“But not to post it.” Claudia says. “She better not.”
“Pff. Don’t flatter yourself.” Peter waves her away, but Claudia doesn’t leave. Instead, she stares at Jennifer’s electric guitar.
“I spoke to Mr. Alder. They’re not gonna use any of your songs. So you don’t need to keep bringing it.”
“You asked him that?” Jennifer is stunned and disappointed.
Peter shakes his head like he can't believe she's being so vengeful.
“Wow. You’re obsessed with her.”
“It’s called quality control.” Claudia raises her middle finger and keeps it hoisted as she walks away. “Keep being a loser, Candle-girl.”
Jennifer pouts and her eyes water. She looks like she's going to cry and Peter bites his bottom lip and clearly wants to console her, but I'm watching so he focuses on me instead.
“Here’s a fresh face,” he says, “what role did you get Beld?” He raises his clipboard to search for my name.
“I’m not in the play,” I tell him. “This is... Principal Crenshaw...”
“Oh. The Sorcerer’s Oracle? Of course.” Peter stands back to appraise the set piece. “Love the magnets. Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see I guess.”
Jennifer looks up at that and smiles.
Monique de Sousa’s voice rings-out above the din as she directs her painters away from the distracting poodle and back to work. The Portuguese girl wears brown and green paint soaked coveralls over her clothes and leads a dozen grade nines constructing what appears to be Sherwood Forest. They’re Arts’ Majors who make my skin crawl, especially Monique the freak, the 16yr old zealot who leads them.
Anyone who doesn’t know better might find Monique attractive. She has a cute face with brown eyes and long black hair, but no self-respecting guy in this place would ever try and get with her. It’d never happen. Her dad is a preacher, or maybe it's her Mom. That’s the only explanation I'll accept for why she’s so absolute-Catholic. Last Wednesday she came to school with wood ash smudged between her eyes and spoke Latin prayers before each class. I don’t mind an honest freak, but I’m convinced she’s a fraud because nobody could be that into God. Not at our age.
“Welcome Neil.” Monique extends her arms as though we’re old friends who’d enjoy a hug. I step back and she takes the hint. She lowers her paint splotched appendages, but her enthusiasm remains. “I’m thankful you’re here. We’re blessed to have you.”
“Yeah. Go Earl Haig. Every son and daughter sings your praise...”
Monique doesn’t recognize my sarcasm and instead she nods and smiles enthusiastically at my pep rally parody.
A piano jangles as the rehearsal recommences. On the far side of the room, under the bright lights, Claudia leads the village maids in a dance number.
“It’s Robin of Loxley and his merry men. They hide in the forest to escape the war.
He steals from the rich and gives to the poor. He punishes tyrants and helps those who are good.
And none can stand before his longbow of wood! Oh Robin Hood, Robin Hood, oh Robin Hood!
The girls continue twirling until a man on the sidelines claps his hands to end their routine. The actors relax and wait for the director to share his feedback. He doesn’t get a chance to say much before Mr. Crenshaw bellies up to the stage and calls him down. I’ve no doubt they’re talking about me and my set piece. The players shuffle about as they wait and many shade their eyes to scan the auditorium and see who’s admiring them. I look away and hide behind The Sorcerer’s Oracle.
My contribution is ancient, an unwieldly square made of a dark wood which everyone says is teak; the beams are eight-inches thick and made even heavier with the magnets.
One hundred and thirty-seven neodymium pucks line the inside perimeter and it seems like a wicked rig because you can sense the field from five feet away. Additionally, there are four electromagnets, sheathed in green plastic, one on each side. When they’re powered-up the sensation feels even stronger. Pull a pin and the sheer fabric that's bundled above will unfurl to fill the opening and make a translucent barrier which is a 6x6 rear-projection screen. The scrim is made of pantyhose which will be stretched taut to make smooth a surface because of the fridge magnets sewn in its sides.
I check to make sure everything's ready because it’d be a shame to overlook some little detail now, so close to the hand-off.
“This is from the Nativity right?” Mico Yarota approaches. “I heard it was haunted,” he says, and I’m stunned. It’s the most he’s spoken to me since we served together as co-ministers in a mock parliament in Grade 10 Civics. Even now, I look around to make sure he’s not talking to someone else.
“Yeah. I heard that too,” I reply, truthfully; I'm not just playing along. My dad told me all the stories of how the wooden square was originally the frame around a stained glass Star of Bethlehem which many believed was possessed by a demon. It had a bad record of pinching fingers and toes and would shuffle about at night on the snow when exhibited during the holidays, turning on its side, a little bit more each night, to face away from the public. But having heard those accounts, I can’t help wonder if there wasn’t a more scientific explanation.
“It injured people twenty years ago,” Mico glares at me like it’s my fault for refurbishing it, as if I had any input in the decision to bring it out of storage. He raises a six inch golden ankh pendant like it’s a protective amulet. The kitsch must be part of his costume as Friar Tuck. More students shuffle closer, drawn-in by the possibility of him being cruel or making some comedy at my expense, which is what drives most people in this place. The handsome red-haired star of the show pushes through the others to make his grand appearance.
“Why should we trust anything you’ve monkeyed?” Allan Mendes challenges me, which is nothing new. He’s been against me since grade nine, despite us being friends in primary school. Of course he got the lead role in this production, playing Robin Hood will come natural to him because it parallels his everyday heroism as our school’s number one heartthrob. We’re the same age but might as well be different species. His father runs a car dealership and his mom is a doctor. He selected Hollywood movie star as his dream vocation on Career Day and it tortures me that he’ll likely succeed. There’s no justice in this world. All the girls get doe-eyed around him and even Jennifer Hooten watches with interest.
Claudia Fawcett returns at the head of her girl-gang and locks arms with Allan before rolling her eyes at me.
“You’re getting special credit for this?” She acts like it’s a scandal. Her minions stand behind her in loose formation.
I ignore them all, because I’m not here to hold a news conference. Principal Crenshaw is returning with Mr. Alder at his side and the grand exhibition is about to begin. Hopefully my work will be deemed adequate and I can leave.
The group follows my eyes and everyone soon shuffles to one side or the other to make room for the inspectors.
