Arctic Thunder (6 page)

His feet were heavy in his winter boots, and despite the cold he started to sweat under his toque and parka. He slowed to a walk as he neared the school, noticing other students casually strolling up to the doors. Everything still seemed so much like a dream. No waking up extra early. No walking to the bus stop. No twenty-minute bus ride across town to school. Hat on, parka on, boots on, out the door, hike a block, cross a road at
the
light, take a few more steps, enter school. Welcome to the Outer Limits!

The school didn't look like much. As with every other building he'd seen in Inuvik, it was elevated on piles. There were two distinct parts or buildings joined by a short walkway with doors in the middle. The exterior was clad in aluminum siding that was a combination of faded yellow and tan. Looking quite out of place with the otherwise drab exterior was a bright red trim that ran around the top of the structure. The thought that maybe the builders had run out of tan-and-yellow material as they finished the school occurred to Mike. The part to the right of the walkway had two storeys, and the part to the left had samuel hearne secondary school displayed in big letters across the front.

As Mike approached the front doors, he paid closer attention to the other students, which caused his stomach to lurch. Nobody else was dressed in heavy winter clothing. Ski jackets, snowboarding coats, ball caps or no hats, and running shoes or moccasin-like footwear were apparent everywhere. Mike halted just outside the doors and studied his heavy white winter boots.

“Nice moon boots,” a girl commented as she pushed by and in through the doors.

Any thought Mike had of fleeing home was shattered when a loud buzzer sounded just above the doors in front of him. Other students shoved by, and he realized he was getting more than his share of dirty looks for blocking easy access to both doors. Pulling himself together, he kick-started his legs and waded inside.

Tentatively, Mike edged a few paces into the school, then stopped to get his bearings. The air was overpoweringly warm against his face as he pulled the toque off his head. There was a mixture of smells: warm bodies, sweat, floor wax, musty paper, and a smoky, somewhat pleasant aroma that Mike guessed was caused by the moccasin-like footwear and fur mittens some of the students wore.

“You look a little lost and a little South.”

Mike sensed a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he glimpsed the smiling face of a lady who he figured was one of the teachers. She was tall with closely cropped grey hair — business-looking but not too severe.

“This is my first day,” Mike said.

“Well, follow me.” The teacher motioned, stepping ahead in quick, purposeful fashion without glancing back. “The office is this way. They'll get you all set up and headed to the right homeroom.”

Mike followed, his boots squeaking on the shiny tile floor, which was quite wet in places from the morning traffic of students coming in from the snow. Everything looked pretty much the same as in any school. The halls were narrow and lined with lockers set into the wall. Most of the lockers were tan, but there was the odd red or black one that seemed to have been added as an afterthought. The ceiling was white tile stuff, and the walls were off-white or brown panel in some places. The floor in every direction was brown tile.

After a quick stop in the office where they seemed to be expecting him, one of the staff led him to an orange locker where he thankfully deposited his toque, mitts, heavy parka, and moon boots, replacing the last with the running shoes he'd stored in his backpack.

When he entered his homeroom class, he was relieved to see he was now pretty much dressed the same as everyone else — jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes. A few kids sported the high-top moccasin things he'd seen earlier. He would have to find out what they were because they looked pretty comfortable.

His homeroom teacher, Ms. Delorme, didn't make him stand up but welcomed him and told everyone his name and where he was from. She was a kindly lady with a smile that never seemed to leave her face. Not much taller than Mike, she was plump but not rotund. With greying brown hair and expressive, almost black eyes, she appeared matronly, but there was no doubt she was in charge. Ms. Delorme was one of those teachers who viewed each student as part of her brood and woe to whoever interfered with any of her charges.

She went on to mention who Mike's father was, which made him feel uncomfortable. He couldn't tell whether the heat in his cheeks was from the warmth of the school after being cold outside or from blood surging to the surface from embarrassment. Planting herself at the front of the class, Ms. Delorme breezed through a review of the previous day's English lesson. Not having been part of the prior discussions, Mike slumped in his seat and tried not to be conspicuous as he surveyed the students around him.

It was pretty much a sea of brown faces. There were two or three students who were obviously white, but everyone else was either Inuvialuit or Dene. Some looked a little more his colour, and he guessed they were a mix like him, Métis perhaps or a combination of Inuvialuit and white. His new situation seemed weird, and the irony wasn't lost on him.

St. Albert was pretty “white bread.” There weren't many visible minorities. In fact, all of the guys he knew in school there were white as white could be. Every guy he played lacrosse with was, too. Mike had been the only boy of mixed parentage. But he had never felt out of place. Now he sat in a class brimming with brown kids his own age and some youths exactly the same colour as he was, yet he felt like an alien who didn't belong. Pretty weird.

Mike was sitting by the door and guessed there were about thirty students in total. The class itself was big but much the same as any he'd been in: shiny brown tile floor, off-white walls, a blackboard, the teacher's desk at the front, whiteboards at the sides, geography posters from around the world, and orange, yellow, and blue handmade posters with pictures depicting various Shakespearean and other literary themes.

The desks were rectangular metal ones — smooth shiny top, compartment inside, and four legs. The compartment in this kind of desk always scared the heck out of Mike. You couldn't see all the way to the back and never knew what was or had been in there.

The kid before you might have been a nose-picker, and who knew where he'd wiped or flicked his sticky treasure. There was always gooey, stuck-on gum underneath such desks, too.

“Let's get started, Mike.”

Mike glanced up to see Ms Delorme smiling pleasantly at him.

“While everyone else is reading, move your chair up to my desk and we'll see where you're at. Your marks from St. Albert are quite good, so I don't anticipate you'll have any problem jumping right in with the class.”

Feeling the flush of embarrassment fill his cheeks once more, Mike sheepishly dragged his chair away from his desk and placed it beside Ms. Delorme. He looked back at the rest of the class and saw a few students staring at him before they returned their attention to the books in front of them. How much worse could this get? New kid in town. Dad a cop. New kid in class. New kid sitting with the teacher alone at the front of the class. Wonderful!

Ms. Delorme went through the materials the class had covered to date. Much to Mike's relief it was largely the same stuff he'd been working on in St. Albert. Ms. Delorme was helpful and did her best to make Mike feel at ease, but he started to squirm, imagining the eyes of the other students on the back of his head. It was with welcome relief that he lurched to his feet when the bell rang to end the first period.

Scrambling back to his desk, he gathered his books and almost sprinted to the door, lowering his head and trying not to meet the scrutiny of the other students. Without looking up, he dodged out the door, quickly turned right, and barrelled down the hall. It was too late when he spotted a huge pair of feet planted firmly in front of him. Unable to stop, he ran headlong into what felt like a brick wall. The force of contact popped the books out of his hands, scattering them in every direction as he stumbled backward and landed on his back.

Laughter echoed down the hall. It took a few seconds before Mike was able to push himself onto his elbows. Standing over him was the biggest kid he'd ever seen. Rolling forward onto his hands and knees, Mike got into a crouch and staggered upright into a standing position. The boy towering over him glowered and slowly clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Jeez, I'm sorry,” Mike mumbled. Glancing around, he realized the hall was almost deserted. Everyone seemed to have run for cover with the exception of a couple of students who appeared ready to flee at any moment. Turning back to the boy, Mike had no idea what to do. The kid was close to two metres tall, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. His jet-black hair and dark brown skin accentuated the total blackness of his eyes. He had the hint of a scar on his left cheek that made the tightness of his mouth all the more threatening.

There was no backing down. There were no teachers in the hall, and something told Mike no one else was going to step in. He tensed his body and slowly raised his hands boxing-style, level with his chin.

Mike wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something change in the boy's expression — something small and almost imperceptible, but something nevertheless. The boy shook his head, then without warning ploughed Mike out of the way and moved past. Realizing he'd been holding his breath, Mike exhaled and sagged as the big kid sailed by. Almost afraid to look, he turned, anyway, and watched the big bruiser saunter down the hall. When the kid reached the far end, he stopped. Pausing, he fired a long, hard look at Mike, who shivered as those dark eyes that seemed so full of hate pierced him. Quickly spinning on his heel, the boy drew back and punched the last locker with all his might. The resounding crash made Mike jump as it echoed through the almost empty hall. Then, turning the corner, the huge kid was gone.

The few students who had witnessed the whole affair were still gazing at Mike as if anticipating some sort of mental breakdown or freak-out. Certain he was shaking, Mike squatted and began to gather the books and papers scattered across the tiles. “Jeez, why do they have grade twelves in the same school as us?” he muttered to himself. “I hate 'em!”

“He just turned fourteen and he's in grade nine,” a harsh female voice said directly above him.

Snapping his head up, Mike peered directly into a pair of dark eyes not much different from the ones belonging to the guy who had seemed on the verge ripping his head off. These ones, however, belonged to one of the prettiest, angriest girls he'd ever seen. She had shoulder-length brown hair, full lips, honey-brown skin, and almond-shaped eyes that appeared to spit fire. Mike opened his mouth to say something, but all he could do was move his lips up and down like a fish trying to breathe in shallow water.

The girl shook her head. “You southern kids are so pathetic. You picked the wrong guy to tick off on your first day in Inuvik. Good luck, because he's going to be in some of your classes, and sooner or later he's going to make your life miserable.” She didn't speak the words; she hurled them. Then, with a flip of her hair and without making any attempt to avoid Mike's books, she stomped on the scattered papers and stalked off.

Mike slumped to the floor. Leaning against the closest locker, he tipped the back of his head against the cold metal, closed his eyes, and sighed profoundly. What a nightmare! He didn't know how long he stayed in that position, but part of him wanted to believe that if he shut his eyes long enough, he'd be back in St. Albert when he opened them.

“You're not going to cry, are you?”

Mike heard the voice but didn't open his eyes. He didn't want the next chapter of his nightmare to begin.

“The last guy Gwen Thrasher talked to cried. Of course, she broke his nose right before she talked to him, but he cried. He bawled, actually. No, it was more like sobbing and snuffling. Really pathetic. He was from the South, too. For some reason she really hates guys from the South. You're from the South, aren't you? You look kind of brown to be from the South, but you seem like you're from the South. You're too … I don't know … helpless to be from up north. You're not Dene or Inuvialuit, anyway. What are you? East Indian? Mexican? Some kind of Caribbean, Rastafarian rap guy? Oh, I know! You're some type of Mongolian, Sherpa, South American dude! Maybe Bolivian or Colombian. Your dad's some big drug warlord who had to move to the other end of the world to escape a big drug cartel war and threats on your life.”

Mike couldn't take it anymore. The voice just wouldn't stop. This was a different type of nightmare altogether. He opened his eyes to see who was verbally attacking him. A pair of large brown eyes stared down at him from thick black-rimmed glasses perched on two chubby brown cheeks. The boy likely stood the same height as Mike, but he was twice as big around. He had a bristly shock of closely cropped black hair that accentuated the roundness of his face. When he spoke, his eyes got larger with each word.

“You could be from Fiji. There are dark dudes in Fiji. No, that's not it. You're the descendant of some Aboriginal king from the outback of Australia. ‘Good day, mate! Want to see my 'roo?' I think Australia's pretty much the coolest place in the world. Well, cool not in a temperature way, because Inuvik is one of the coolest places that way. I mean, cool in every other way. Aren't marsupials the coolest animals on the planet? Pouches! How many animals have pouches? They say a baby kangaroo is no bigger than a worm when it's born and it has to crawl to its mother's pouch without falling off with all that hopping and crap. Jeez, that's unreal!”

“Okay!” Mike cried. “Stop! I mean, please stop!” He immediately felt bad when the big boy's face clouded. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's just that I've had a terrible morning, and, well, I can't really even catch my breath to say anything because you're talking so much and so fast.”