I step off the streetcar on a blustery September morning and start walking. The neighbourhood's new. It has a lot of Chinese restaurants, but it's not the Chinatown we get dinner at on New Year's. I guess there are multiple Chinatowns in Toronto, which makes sense when I think about it: There are like a billion people in China; they deserve more than one enclave per metropolis. I also notice a lot of abandoned storefronts and grimy apartment buildings. I'm not used to a private school setting or anything, but I wonder if the school I'm about to attend is a bit of a dump.
As I approach the building, I notice a shoddy little sign with the school's name on it—Harvest—painted in black, italic letters. It seems like a pretend school. A movie set. I reach for the door handle, expecting it to be locked for some reason, but it opens with a quiet click.
I'm a prick. I'm sick of this shtick.
I feel an uptick of nerves as I walk up the stairs. When I get to the top, my hands feel tingly, like the result of an electric shock.
I walk in and see red brick, disorganized tables, dust swirls, brown couches and board games stacked on bookshelves. Plus, a handful of students. Enough for a small, misshapen, tone-deaf choir. Enough for a pretend high school on a movie set.
I wander into an empty classroom full of blank canvases on easels. There's a mural on the wall that looks like some kind of mosaic. I stare at it, trying to read some of the words.
Self is an illusion
... Cool...
"Hey."
I turn away from the mural, towards the voice.
"Hey," I say back.
(Sick response)
"I'm just returning some things," she says.
Brushing past me, she puts some string and a watercolour paint set on the teacher's desk.
I'm staring at her as she does this. I quickly pivot and walk out of the classroom. I can't quite process what she looks like but... Jesus... she looks sorta' like Jesus... Okay, not really, but...Jesus, y'now? Who is she?
The tingling in my hands returns and is now accompanied by what feels like a high-voltage current running through my body.
(Vaguely pathetic response to a pretty girl)
Deep breath, cowboy. Tough... wise... cowboy.
Need some clarity on the identity I'm aiming for.
Class. Put phone away.
YOU ARE READING
Alternative
Teen FictionTim's public high school experience thus far has been characterized by bad grades and the total absence of a social life; he's listless and needs a change. So, after grade eleven ends, his mom decides to enrol him in a bizarre, little alternative sc...
