The first bell had rung and the teenagers slowly, reluctantly, gave up their freedom and filed into Madden Composite High School. With a little over a month until summer holidays, the upcoming weeks were the most challenging of the year for both students and staff. Exams conflicted with parties at the lake, droning teachers competed with spring fever and the hopes of summer romance. Joan became self-conscious as she followed a group of chattering girls through the double doors. She corrected her posture and added a purposeful spring to her step.
The students all looked so young. Did the farm kids still do a double shift, toiling in the fields at the end of the school day? At their age, Joan had been working full time in Vancouver and studying at night. David, her youngest brother, had paid for all his school clothes from his paper route, and Anthony had worked twenty hours a week washing dishes, covering his own expenses as well as handing a portion to Joan to help cover household costs. She'd made them show her their homework every night before they went to bed. Vi was a distant, frail figure in the shadows of Joan's memory. That first year the slightest reminder of Leo would send their mother into tears. She had loved him so much, despite the trail of ruin he had left. The kids had been left to manage their own lives and to mourn as orphans.
Joan found the glass-walled school office and waited in line to speak with the secretary. She introduced herself as one of the graduating class visiting Madden. Immediately, the young woman offered condolences for the reunion that had become such a fiasco. Others in the office, overhearing the conversation, peered at Joan as though she were a species from another paleontological period.
She listened patiently to the secretary, until it was her turn to speak. “There was a yearbook, a 1979 yearbook, on display in the gym the other day. Is it here? There was such a crowd, I didn't have much of a chance to look at it.” She smiled, hoping her request sounded innocent enough that it didn't raise further questions.
The secretary answered proudly. “We have a copy from each year since 1953, when Madden started issuing yearbooks. I'm not sure it's been returned yet.” Without waiting to hear more, the woman scurried into the principal's office, where a grim-faced man sat ploughing through a pile of paper. He looked at Joan fleetingly through the open door, then nodded to the secretary and dismissed her with a wave. Returning to the main office, she went to a tall cedar bookcase and ran an index finger along the book spines on the uppermost shelf. She frowned then studied the lower shelf, finally selecting a slim volume with navy and gold binding. “Misfiled.” She smiled apologetically, cleared a space at the end of the counter, and placed the book there. “I'm sorry. We're short on office space. Will this do?”
“This is just fine, thank you.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
Joan looked at the coffee pot, a dark layer of brownish oil rising up the sides. It made her think of a badly kept chimney. “I've had way too much already this morning,” she lied. “But thanks anyway.”
She opened the yearbook at random and saw the photos of grade ten students. There was Anthony's photo at the top of the second page. She touched his image and smiled. He'd been so nervous about starting high school, to the point that he'd vomited that morning. Joan sometimes wondered if it had been some sort of premonition. She flipped to the grade twelve section at the end of the book. Roger Rimmer smiled crookedly from the page. His ringlets touched the high collar of his shirt. The details printed beside his picture read:
Favourite saying: Yo, man.
Ambition: Get my picture on the cover of
Rolling Stone.
Likes: The sweetest chick in the county. You know who you
are babe.
Dislikes: Canned peas and wet grass.
Joan figured there had to have been a dozen girls who hoped they were “the sweetest chick”, but wondered who he meant on that particular day.
She continued flipping pages until she reached the sports photos. All the senior teams had been called Rockets, male and female, whether volleyball, basketball, or football. There was Hazel, beaming out from several of the team photographs, her broad grin lighting the page. Even on paper her personality stood out. Joan scoured the photos, searching for the most out-of-focus and poorly framed. Her suspicion was confirmed. Each fuzzy shot was identified by the credit, Marly. When she had seen it the other day, she had thought that this nickname was a misspelled tribute to Bob Marley. With the Wailers, he was at the height of stardom in 1979. His association with ganja had made him a particularly popular idol in Madden. Now, though, Joan had another theory. She flipped to the acknowledgement pages: coaches, special thanks to the grad committee, volunteers for the drama program. She searched until she came to the photo of the school newspaper committee. Slouching in the back corner, draped entirely in black, was Gabe, who had written a weekly column on activism, encouraging youth to question authority and take action for social change. Supervising teachers had scrutinized his rants for signs of sedition before publication. Occasionally, though, he'd snuck in wry analogies, to the delight of students thirsting for dissent. The credits printed above the photo included committee members who had not been present for the group photo. Joan's name was listed as former co-editor, even though she'd only worked on the
Madden Magpie
for a couple of months. Gabe would have insisted she be recognized. She couldn't suppress a smile. Then she found the image she'd been seeking. Posing in cheesecake fashion, with camera slung around her neck, was Marly: Marlena Prychenko. Joan stared for several moments until the secretary asked if there was something wrong. She mutely shook her head and the woman left her alone. As she lifted the book, a slip of faded pink paper fell out from between the pages. It was the original order form for this copy of the yearbook. “ Joan Parker, 12A” was printed in capital letters. Thirty years this book had been waiting for her. She was torn. On the school shelf its job was to represent the collective history of the school, but it was her history too. The book belonged to her. Her parents had paid for it. She left the office with the yearbook under her arm. If nothing else, Vi and the boys would get a kick out of it.
When she arrived at the Stanfields' glamorous house on the hill, Marlena's luxury SUV was gliding into the triple-car garage. There was a gleaming powerboat in one bay and the last was empty. Daphne's champagne-coloured rental car was nowhere in sight. The Stanfields' houseguest must have left for the day, perhaps had already returned to Calgary. The entire street was eerily deserted, inhabitants either away at work or locked securely inside their suburban homes. Clutching the Crown Royal bag, she marched toward the garage. Marlena saw her coming and instinctively pointed the remote at the door. As the garage door was descending, Joan darted toward it and ducked inside, aborting the attempt to lock her out. The powerful combination of exhaust fumes, motor oil, and pine air freshener assaulted her as she planted her feet firmly on the concrete floor.
“So, what's up, Parker?” asked Marlena. She was trying to appear nonchalant but her body was tense.
Joan had caught her off guard and didn't want to lose the upper hand. She shoved the yearbook at the other woman. “Marly?”
Marlena retorted with a sneer. “Like that's news to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were on the committee that tried to boot me off the paper.” Marlena grabbed her gym bag from the front seat and slammed the vehicle door for emphasis. “But I was the one who stuck it out in the end.” Joan's throat tightened. Her greatest regret in leaving Madden High had been abandoning the
Magpie
. Marlena tossed the remote through the open SUV window onto the seat then took a step toward her. Light filtered through a small window high on the wall. “Do you know what's even funnier?” Joan looked at her blankly. “The only reason I joined the school newspaper was because you were on it.”
Joan was stunned. “But you hated me.”
“Oh, don't get me wrong,” Marlena said with a laugh. “I loathed.” The laughter deserted her voice as she continued. “But my daddy didn't. I thought it would impress him. He didn't even notice.”
Then she remembered. At the beginning of grade twelve, Marlena had shown up with a brand-new camera. It had lenses that had the true photographers drooling, and her equipment bag, rich with new leather smell, was more valuable than their cameras. Marlena had decided that she wanted to be one of the photographers. She had expected to jump in to cover the high profile events single-handed, the hockey games, drama productions, and the Halloween dance, but she came with no experience and unbearable attitude.
“You told me that I wasn't good enough,” said Marlena.
The memory fell together like a slowly forming jigsaw puzzle, faint recollections randomly filling the gaps. The student paper had operated out of an oversized storage closet on the second floor of the school, filled with the damp odour of mimeograph ink. The meeting? Yes, she vaguely remembered it.
She'd attended all the school paper meetings without Gabe. All he cared about was his column. At one meeting in the fall of 1978, the rest of the committee had voted to kick Marlena out. Her imperious air made the rest of them mental. Besides, she didn't know the lens from the viewfinder or what it meant to keep a shot in focus. As the others complained bitterly about Marlena's personality, it became clear to Joan that the newspaper, by and large, was just another clique. Although Marlena hadn't been anything but rude to her, Joan objected on principle when the others wanted to exclude her. Everyone should be given a chance, and she convinced the others to give Marlena the benefit of the doubt and time to show that she could improve. Grudgingly, the committee agreed, but on one condition. Joan had to be the messenger. She must tell Marlena that, henceforth, she would be assigned the lowest profile shoots, including the team photos, and would be given the boot if she didn't smarten up.
She couldn't remember how Marlena had dealt with the news because soon after Joan had dropped out of school. She turned to Marlena now.
“Did you take those pictures of me?”
“What pictures? I took a lot of pictures.”
“The ones that were hidden in the speaker.” She didn't take her eyes off Marlena.
Marlena glanced down at the Crown Royal bag, the reality slowly dawning on her. Frightened, she replied, “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Joan just continued to stare. They both knew the truth. Marlena was being defensive in the way that a teenager tries to justify errant actions.
“It'll only be worse if I have to go public with this,” Joan said. “If I have to go to the police.”
“Worse for who?” blurted Marlena, but she immediately seemed to realize that her words were as good as a confession. “You were so drunk,” she said, “lying there like a little slut, half-naked. Everyone at the paper thought I was such a loser but they had no idea what I was capable of. I wasn't the ditz they thought I was. I processed those photos all by myself when nobody was around. I was going to show my dad that you weren't so great.” There were tears flowing now.
“But I never did anything to you,“ said Joan.
“I was mad. And I was pissed on rye and ginger.” Marlena dropped her gaze to the garage floor and added quietly, “Afterwards I realized that my dad would have killed me if he ever found out.”
“So you put the photos in the speaker?” asked Joan.
“Yeah,” said Marlena.
She'd have had ample opportunity. She had hung around rehearsals, flanked by Peg and Candy. Their connection to Rank, especially Roger, had become their own claim to fame.
Marlena looked up. “I never showed them to anybody.”
“Then why did you keep them?”
“I dunno! In case I changed my mind? After a while I forgot about them, at least where I'd put them.” She sneered. “Just be thankful there was no internet back then. You'd be famous.”
Marlena turned and fumbled with her house key in the door, trying to escape. Joan was struck by the irony. She had so easily forgotten the newspaper incident, it meant so little to her â but to Marlena it had been life altering. Probation on the paper had been humiliating to the popular teen. She had become bitter.
Before she could get away, Joan caught her with another question. “What about the grad photo, the one with the rip across it? Were you responsible for that?”
“What photo?”
Joan pulled the photocopy from her purse, unfolded it, and held it out.
Marlena took it gingerly and studied it. Moments passed before she glanced up. “I was pretty, wasn't I?”
Her remark caught Joan off guard, not because it seemed entirely self-centred, but because of her uncertainty. Marlena had always been attractive and seemed so sure of it. A wave of pity swept over Joan. The Marlena of her memory was a thin veneer over the real Marlena, who had been as fragile as a gawking, featherless sparrow.
“Did you rip it?” asked Joan. “Roger's print?”
“It was his?” There was a sorrow in her voice as she scanned the blurred faces. “I've never seen this before. How come I never got one?” She released it reluctantly when Joan reached for it. “Are you trying to pin something on me, Parker?”
“Don't worry,” said Joan as she slid the copy back in her handbag.
“You're trying to get fingerprints or something? You think I'm stupid?”
The heat in the closed garage accentuated the scent of Marlena's flowery skin products. Expensive. European. They blended with the odors of paint, acetone, and motor oil. “No, Marlena. It's just a copy of the original.”
“I was done with him by the time that was taken, you know,” Marlena said. “Daphne never knew that I was sleeping with good ol' Rog at the same time he was hustling her. You think those Pyles were religious? He was the one that was religious. The church of Daphne. He totally worshipped her. I never stood one damn chance.”