To qualify for a high school diploma, it was mandatory to complete a semester of Career and Life Management (CALM). The curriculum was an array of topics including mental health, skill building in interpersonal relationships, career goals, and instruction on the proper way to fill out tax forms.
CALM wasn’t taken very seriously. Most days I dozed off during the films or whizzed through worksheets quickly so I could read a novel under my desk. Our CALM teacher, Dr. Morgan, seemed especially hapless when standing slumped at the front of the classroom. The fine hairs left on the top of his head were swept across his perspiring scalp. His sweaters were pilling and his corduroys—the same kind worn by most, if not all, of my male teachers—were rubbed white at the knees and below the sagging pockets on his backside. He was soft-spoken, but firm. A doctor of what? I don’t think he ever said.
The sexual education curriculum came halfway through the semester, once routines and decorum had been established. Perhaps to jolt us from our boredom, we were invited to welcome with enthusiastic applause a sexual education speaker from the Calgary Birth Control Association. Dr. Morgan briefly introduced a woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She had a voice that failed to quiet the murmur of conversation in the back of the room as she drew white chalk across the blackboard, outlining the day’s topic, STDs. She dropped the chalk on the rail below the board and smacked the white dust from her hands.
“So!” she said, smiling brightly at us. “Let’s talk about sexually transmitted diseases!”
“Can’t get AIDS unless you’re a fag,” Troy shouted between his hands from the back of the room. Troy was one of those boys who bullied everyone, including his friends, but especially teachers. His good looks and charisma made it seem like he was doing you a favor. He was used to being looked at and took every opportunity to spin the heads of the class in his direction.
The guest instructor’s neck stiffened, and she turned toward Dr. Morgan, who had taken a seat on a chair in the far corner of the room near his desk.
“Troy. Knock it off,” he said, still looking down at his notes.
Recalibrating, our guest began to speak again. She was interrupted a second time.
“Seriously, why the fuck do we need to learn about this shit?” Troy said. “Nobody in here is a fucking faggot.” I turned to look at him. His mouth was stretched into a lazy grin, his eyes nearly closed.
“Dr. Morgan!” I called loudly from my seat. Other students turned to stare at me, as if I were the disrupter.
“Troy, enough,” Dr. Morgan said, with some force.
“It’s true, though,” Troy said.
I turned around and yelled, “Shut up, Troy!”
“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want.” His smile curled. “Fags get AIDS.” He shrugged as if he were only stating a fact.
“Troy!” Dr. Morgan yelled, and then stood, tapping his clipboard nervously against his thigh. I heard coughs of laughter from the boys in the back row.
“Are you going to let him say these things?” I stood up from my seat; I felt the light-headed rush you get before you throw a punch.
“Let’s just everyone calm down,” Dr. Morgan said.
“Yes, calm down,” Troy said. He was slouched in his chair, his eyes locked on me.
“What if someone in this class is gay?” The dangerous sound of my voice silenced the room. With tears blurring my sight, I picked up my chair and hurled it over my classmates’ heads at Troy’s desk. The legs smashed the laminate of his desktop, bounced, and then crashed into another desk. The sound was spectacularly metallic. And loud. Troy’s hands jerked up across his face and he let out, “What the fuck!” as he stumbled from his seat, toppling his chair.
I grabbed my backpack and rushed to the door. In the hallway outside the classroom, I started to run. I didn’t know where I was going until I arrived at the Pit. When I burst through the door, Mr. Russel was sitting in his small office, working. I collapsed in the plastic chair next to his desk. Through heaving sobs that gathered and broke in my chest, I explained what had happened.
“He said that only fags get AIDS,” I cried. “And Dr. Morgan let him say it!” I cried into my hands. “He’s fucking pathetic.”
Mr. Russel’s face drained of color. Then, over the loudspeaker came an announcement: my full name, repeated twice, and a request to make my way to the principal’s office.
“Please, don’t make me go up there.”
Mr. Russel placed his hand flat on his cheek and another on his hip. Breathing out of his nose in one big huff, he said, “I have to tell them that you’re here.”
I nodded, and he lifted the telephone on his desk. “Yes, this is Mr. Russel. Ms. Quin is with me.”
He hung up and turned back to me. “Dr. Morgan is in the main office and he’d like to speak to you.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “You’re not in trouble.”
When Mr. Russel and I walked through the doors of the main office, I felt self-conscious about how swollen and red my face was. I avoided the eyes of the secretary and followed Mr. Russel into a small room. Dr. Morgan was standing with another male staff member I didn’t recognize. Mr. Russel closed the door behind us, and I began to cry.
“I … didn’t mean to throw the chair.”
Dr. Morgan lifted his hands. “Troy’s been removed from the class.” He paused. “And I’m so sorry. He shouldn’t have said those things.”
“But you let him. You let him!” I said.
He looked grim, his jaw pulsing. His next words came out hoarse, as if he, too, might cry. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
I fell into sobs then. “I don’t want to be in your class anymore.”
“I think we should go back downstairs. It’s enough,” Mr. Russel said softly.
“Troy is not welcome in the classroom, but you are,” said Dr. Morgan.
“I’m not coming back.”
The male staff member standing with Dr. Morgan finally spoke, opening his eyes wide like an idea had just then popped into his head.
“Do you want to finish the year in the library?” He turned to Dr. Morgan. “I imagine you could give assignments and she could do them independent of the class?”
Dr. Morgan’s chin dipped to his chest. He sighed. “Of course, that would be fine.”
I was hiccuping, and my sleeve was damp from wiping snot and tears from my face. My head felt scooped out and hollow. “Okay,” I agreed.
We left the office, and I followed Mr. Russel through the student center and down to the Pit. He left me on a couch, where for the rest of the hour I pretended to organize the contents of my backpack. When the bell rang, I stood and thanked Mr. Russel. I found that I couldn’t quite meet his eyes. I wanted to tell him that I knew he was gay, and that I probably was, too. But I couldn’t. So I turned and walked out the door and back upstairs to my next class.