My Time as Caz Hazard

Tanya Lloyd Kyi

Orca soundings

Copyright © 2004 Tanya Lloyd Kyi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Kyi, Tanya Lloyd, 1973-
My time as Caz Hazard / Tanya Lloyd Kyi.

(Orca soundings)
ISBN 1-55143-319-2

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8571.Y52T54 2004    jC813'.6    C2004-904722-1

Summary:
When Caz and Amanda's behavior seems to contribute to a classmate's suicide, Caz must take a long hard look at her life.

First published in the United States, 2004

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004110933

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Department of Canadian Heritage's Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

Cover design: Lynn O'Rourke
Cover photography: Christy Robertson

Orca Book Publishers
Box 5626, Stn B.
Victoria,
BC
Canada
V8R 6S4

Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

07 06 05 04 • 5 4 3 2 1

Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper, 100% old growth forest free, processed chlorine free using vegetable, low VOC inks.

For Gordon and Shirley Lloyd

The author would like to thank Krystal Cullum for sharing her expertise in the areas of dyslexia and other learning disabilities.

I punched my so-called boyfriend at the end of grade ten.

Joel played for a junior hockey team, and his big dream was to get drafted and live in New York or Chicago. I thought he had two chances — slim and none — but that's not something you can tell your boyfriend.

Some nights, it seemed like Joel's main purpose was to bash into other players. They were always getting into fake fights,
hauling off their shirts and throwing show-off punches. They pulled their fists back so fast they hardly touched each other.

I went to the games with my friend Mel — mostly for something to do. I would load us up with hot chocolates and popcorn, and Mel would do her best to look like a hockey fan. With her thick brown hair swept back and her metal-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a Hollywood starlet. I could picture her in one of those old black-and-white romance movies. Mel's too smart to be interested in hockey. She went to the games for my sake and watched with a slightly puzzled expression.

Once we saw a player get slammed against the boards near the stands. His head hit the Plexiglas and his eyebrow started bleeding, a little river of red curving down the side of his nose. He looked up and saw these teenyboppers pressed up against the other side of the glass and winked.

Mel made a disgusted sound. “He acts like he's their personal hockey god. And he's proud of that blood. It makes me sick.”

“He is pretty good-looking. Without the blood,” I grinned.

Joel wasn't hard to look at either. He had dark brown hair and wide shoulders and a little dusting of freckles that made him look like a kid when he smiled. We'd been going out for three weeks, so I'd been watching more hockey than usual.

Mel snorted again, still watching the bleeding guy. “The problem is that he knows he's good-looking. Can you believe those girls throwing themselves at him? Puh-leeze. They should receive immediate therapy for bad taste.”

I almost choked on my hot chocolate. “Uh, Mel…have you forgotten that I'm dating a hockey player?”

She looked at me primly, but it was obvious that she had momentarily forgotten. “Maybe it doesn't count when you only date one. Just don't date more than three in a row.”

“You're jealous,” I teased.

“Wait until all of Joel's teeth get knocked out and then see how jealous I am. Next you'll be telling me that dentures are
so
sexy.”

That was Friday night. On Monday morning I was talking to Mel before class and this bimbo from grade nine waltzed up to us. Her hair was teased into cutesy pigtails. She had a posse of two or three other girls standing behind her for moral support.

“I just thought you should know,” she said. I hate it when people think you should know something. It's like when your parents say that something's for your own good. You can tell it's going to be bad.

Bimbo Girl took a deep breath. One of her little friends gave her a push forward. “Joel slept with me last night.”

In the middle of her big sentence, her voice cracked. She turned and fled down the hallway and into the girls' bathroom. One of her friends stayed behind long enough to whisper, “She didn't know about you until afterward.”

Mel tried to calm me down all morning.

“You should talk to him,” she said, reasonably. “I'm sure he has an explanation.”

“Yeah, like explaining that her breasts are bigger than mine.”

Eventually, she gave up on me.

When the lunch bell rang, I went straight to the gym. I knew he'd be hanging out there with his hockey buddies. His back was to me. I walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. Everyone there went silent. They all must have known about Bimbo Girl. Anger swirled in my head until my eyes watered and my throat felt like it was closing.

Joel hardly had time to see me. My arm was already back as he turned around. I hit him smack in the nose. He fell flat on his back, like a tree. I turned around and left before he could say anything.

His friends were already laughing at him.

I got suspended. Who knew? Two seconds, one punch and, voila — two weeks off.

At first it was totally worth it. It was the end of school anyway, so it was like getting an extra couple of weeks of summer vacation. My week of being grounded was over in a flash. (It was supposed to be two weeks, but my parents got lazy and stopped checking on me.) After that I took my sketchbooks and sat in the sunshine at the park almost
every morning, drawing the kids who fed the pigeons, or the elderly couple that came and sat on the same bench every day.

Mel kept me up-to-date on the school gossip. Gossip like the week-long fling and subsequent breakup of Bimbo Girl and Puck Head. News of the split kept me happy for almost a month.

Then, at the end of August, everything fell apart. My old principal told my parents that I might do better in a different environment. That's how they all kept saying it — “different environment” — as if they were changing my pen at the zoo. My new school was Dogwood Senior Secondary in East Vancouver. It was smaller — only four hundred students — and supposed to be more supportive. “Supportive” turned out to mean anal. Before classes started, I had to go in for an entire day of tests. My parents and I were called in for a meeting the week after.

“We're late,” Mom hissed as we swung open the double doors at the front of the school. Mom looked like she might be the
new head of the parents' association. She had her blond hair (courtesy of Clairol) swept into some complicated bun on the top of her head. She's a realtor, and Dad says she scares people into buying houses. It might be true. Someone forgot to tell her that turquoise blue eye shadow went out of style about two decades ago.

“We're only ten minutes late,” my dad said calmly as we filed toward the office. “They can't start without us.”

Within a few minutes we were sitting on tweed chairs in a meeting room. The principal and the woman who gave me my tests — she turned out to be the learning assistance coordinator for the school district — sat together at the end of the table.

Test Lady cleared her throat. “Upon reading Caz's file, we had some concerns about her past performance at school.”

Mom barely let her finish her sentence. “I assure you, the incident with that boy was a one-time occurrence. Caz has already been severely punished at home.” I love how parents think being grounded is a severe punishment. As if watching soap operas and eating popcorn for lunch is somehow painful.

Test Lady waited for my mom to finish. “The violence is only one of our concerns. Some of the tests Caz wrote earlier this week show that she has a mild learning disability.”

“She certainly does not,” my mom said. Dad was silent.

“It's called dyslexia,” Test Lady continued, as if Mom hadn't spoken. “I'm sure you've heard of it. Dyslexia is a congenital and developmental condition, with genetic and environmental causes.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I could tell that Mom didn't understand her either. “That's ridiculous,” she said.

“Symptoms include poor reading, writing and spelling skills,” Test Lady said, “as well as some problems with mathematics.”

That's where Mom walked out. She stood up with a huff and left the room. I looked at Dad to see if I should follow. He didn't move, so I stayed. After a minute he turned
to look at me. “Do you think that you might have this?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “I suck at English. Does that count?”

Test Lady nodded. “It does indeed. Mr. Hallard, Caz's dyslexia is not severe. What we would like to suggest is that you place her in our remedial reading program. She'll spend part of each morning with a small group of other students and receive personal attention from our learning assistance teacher. For the remainder of the day, she can take regular classes.”

Dad agreed to everything, like he always does, and I tuned out. Was dyslexia curable? I didn't want to ask.

When we got outside, Mom was in a fury. “I can't believe you stayed and let that woman talk to you like that,” she shouted as soon as Dad climbed into the car.

“She's only trying to help,” Dad said.

Mom echoed him in a high voice. “She's only trying to help. Well, Ms. Goody Two-Shoes can stuff it. Caz isn't stupid. I hope you told her that!”

“I told her that we would do whatever it takes to help Caz improve,” Dad said. I thought that was nice of him, although I saw no real hope of improving.

“You are so immensely spineless,” Mom snarled. At Dad, not me. “They probably thought ‘sucker' the minute they saw you. They can put your daughter into whatever retard class they want, and you say nothing.”

I sank into the backseat upholstery and pretended I wasn't there.

“No one's calling Caz a retard,” Dad said.

“No one says retard anymore,” I told them. That was a mistake. It gave them an excuse to stop yelling at each other. They both glared at me instead.

When we got home I went straight to the phone to call Mel and tell her how horrible Mom had been. Then I realized that I'd have to explain about the remedial reading class. Halfway through dialing, I hung up.

On the first day of school at Dogwood, I wore a burgundy skirt with my high black boots. A bit sleazy, I guess, but I wanted to make an impression. And I succeeded. I wasn't even in the hallway for two minutes before this guy with curly black hair and huge brown eyes separated himself from his friends. I could tell he was the type who stopped conversation at a party just by entering the room.

“New kid?” he asked. I told him I'd just transferred.

“I'm Brad. I'll show you around.”

“You could show me to my first class,” I told him, giving him my best flirty look. I reached in my bag for the schedule the principal had given me. I found it, already crumpled. “It's 112.”

“Sure,” he said, “112.” Then all of a sudden he stopped talking. His eyes looked like they were scanning the hallway for an escape route. Was it my imagination? Had I developed a giant zit on my forehead in record time?